End of the Game

Author: Atenae
Translated by: J.H. Watson

Description:

Yet, how can we tie up plot threads broken in the first season finale?
What happened to Yakov Shtolman that ill-fated night in the hotel?
What will Anna do to find her beloved?
What will Korobeynikov choose, love or friendship?

Dedication:

To the creators of amazing Anna the Detective TV series, actors who put their whole souls into their characters, and to those who still love and wait for them.

Author's notes:

The detective novelist’s soul cries out. Too much is unsaid. Here I am starting my own investigation of the finale events. I hope it is going to work out.

The Christmas Eve. Police routine

The Christmas Eve began with the investigation of a drunken brawl in a tavern. Nothing complicated. Shtolman had long ignored such cases, throwing out all the same “Anton Andreyevich, sort it out!” And Anton sorted it out - to the fullest extent permitted by the police procedure. Fortunately, more was not required here: Question the witnesses, listen to the tamed rowdies contritely whining with broken noses, "It's not my fault, sir! It's the devil's work!" Hold them at the station until they sober up, and then a little longer, for intimidation and a lesson in advance. Everything is as always. Nothing new.

His chief always kept all the new, tricky and especially tasty cases for himself, however, allowing Anton Andreyevich to study and be on hand. But only until Anna Viktorovna showed up. And Anna Viktorovna showed up wherever it was interesting, and sometimes even dangerous. He wanted to hold her on from all that, to protect her, as it was at the very beginning, when their cooperation was just beginning. Then Shtolman did not show any particular interest in Miss Mironova, but Anton Andreyevich could freely walk her home, accompany her to crime scenes in search of spirits of the murdered, and discuss cases. It was good then. But for some time now, as soon as Anna Viktorovna showed up, the detective chief's smooth friendliness towards his subordinate ended immediately. Shtolman turned into a chained dog whose favorite bone was taken away, and growled in approximately the same way, “Take care of business!” And, apparently, he sincerely believed that such change in his mood was not noticeable or understandable to anyone.

Now that Anton was left alone in the household, he remembered this even without annoyance, but with quiet sadness and hidden pain in his heart. Because Anna Viktorovna was here, sublime, and terribly distant in her lonely sadness. And all that was left of Shtolman was his orphaned table with a long-abandoned card block and an empty cognac bottle in the top drawer, a paper knife and a bunch of master keys. Uvakov had turned everything in the office upside down during the search, but after his departure Korobeynikov put it in order, as it had been. And yet it was empty. Did he exist, Anton’s beloved Master, or were those eighteen months just a fantasy?

Only work could distract him from unnecessary thoughts. What is a holiday for good people, is a hot day for a policeman. But Korobeynikov, even in his usual work, felt as if he, a one-year-old boy, had been released onto thin ice, but he still could not walk properly, and his butt was bare; everyone could see it and point at him, whispering behind his back. Even if it only seemed that way to him, it did seem that way! And what should he do with this feeling?

And, on the top of all that, to finish him off completely, a rare guest showed up at the station –Yermolay the forester. He stamped noisily at the threshold shaking off the snow and adjusting his gun in the stand for walking sticks, pulled off his shaggy papakha hat, which he always wore in winter and summer, glanced at Anton Andreyevich with a sullen look from under his brows, and briefly said in a hoarse bass, “I wish I’d get Shtolman!”

Korobeynikov sighed deeply, but pulled himself together, answered sedately, without crowing, although his throat caught for a moment: “You live too far away, Yermolay Alekseyevich. Haven't you heard our news?”
“What news? What are you talking about, boy?”

Yermolay traditionally paid no deference to law-and-order guys, and considered Korobeynikov a fledgling. He had deep respect only for Yakov Platonych who uncovered his self-incrimination in no time and, in addition, discerned the military past of the demoted lieutenant, and reasons for his misanthropic present.

“Yakov Platonych is gone. Went missing.”
“What do you mean – missing? What are you babbling about?”
“Five days ago. Spent the night at the hotel and then disappeared from there. And there was blood everywhere. A lot of blood.”

He had only to say this so briefly, without details, and the inevitability of misfortune rose to its full height, eclipsing the shaky hope given by Anna Viktorovna and based on something unclear. Actually, it’s clear, of course. When did a loving heart ever become reconciled to such a loss? But for all that...

Yermolay grabbed his graying beard in his fist, genuinely lamenting:
“Oh, my! How could this be?”
“Just like that,” Korobeynikov said gravely, surprised at himself that it sounded calm.
“Were you looking for him?”
“Of course! The whole city was turned upside down. In the warehouses where the beggars hang out, a detective was found… dead. And no news from Shtolman.”
“Well, maybe he'll still turn up?” the forester shook his disheveled head. “He's not a man to get lost in vain.”
“Maybe,” Korobeynikov answered flatly.

He kept silent about Anna Viktorovna's vision. The vision said that Shtolman was wounded, and seriously wounded. How could he have been without help for five days? Did he survive? The chief detective had not made any special friends with anyone in the city in a year and a half, except for Anton Andreyevich himself, Anna Viktorovna, Doctor Miltz, and that same Yermolay. And none of those listed knew about the missing man’s fate.

The forester shook his head again, believing and not believing at the same time.
“Are you supposed to be in charge?”
“I think so. So, what did you want, Yermolay Alekseyevich?”
“Well, since you are in charge now, it's up to you to decide. There's a massacre here in the area.”
“A massacre?”
“In the Mikhailovsky estate, where the Englishman lived. There are four dead men in a secret bunker. And four more buried in a snowdrift in the woods a bit further away.”

Anton was stunned by this news. This was the first time he had heard about the Englishman at the Mikhailovskoye estate, but he guessed that the huntsman had asked Shtolman for a reason. Yakov Platonych certainly was in the know and would have immediately seen what this news meant. But Yakov Platonych was not here, and it was up to him, Korobeynikov, to figure it out. Eight dead men. Mother shit!

* * *

They left for the crime scene immediately: Korobeynikov, Yermolay and Aleksandr Frantsevich in the police squad, four policemen in a cab, and two more with a cart to take the dead to the morgue. They had never had to transport so many corpses before.

The estate stood empty, wind played with the unlocked door, draft carried papers scattered throughout the house. Korobeynikov ordered Ulyashin to collect them all conscientiously, although he suspected that, since they had been abandoned, he would not find anything particularly valuable there. But Yakov Platonovich taught him not to miss even the slightest detail, so he was not going to miss any.

The bunker the forester had spoken of was found at the back of the estate, closer to the forest, and the smell coming from there left no doubt as to its contents. In a concrete room that resembled a ruined chemical laboratory, two shot soldiers lay side by side. They must have been shot somewhere else and then dragged here to hide them. Blood was found in the snow at the estate entrance. That was where it all happened, then.

In another room, separated by a thick door made of armored steel with a round glass window, everything looked much more interesting, instantly recalling the satanic ritual interrupted by Shtolman at Razyezzhaya Street, 5 at the beginning of the last week. Anton Andreyevich still shuddered remembering that night and his run through the abandoned house in search of his suddenly disappeared chief. In the living room covered with a thick layer of dust and trampled by footprints of many people lay a bloodless corpse with his throat slit, but head bandaged. His blood, collected in a large silver bowl, splashed and flooded the entire floor near a large damask chair like a royal throne, the only furniture left in the ritual hall illuminated by dying tall medieval chandeliers. Another corpse, a well-dressed young gentleman in a black cloak with a scarlet lining, lay shot by someone at the basement door. And in the basement itself, barricaded from the inside with an old wardrobe, Yakov Platonovich and Anna Viktorovna were found - tied back to back, but alive and unharmed.

Shtolman ordered a search for the man who was in charge of this Black Sabbath, but that night he was not found, and then they gave up looking at all, stunned by the misfortunes that had befallen them: Murder of the Prince, Uvakov’s arrival, accusation against Shtolman, and everything that happened thereafter.

It must be assumed that the missing Master of the Lucifer Order was now lying at Anton’s feet: Gloomy, thin, bearded, and stripped to the waist. It seemed that he was performing some kind of ritual here too. A pentagram had been drawn in blood on the bunker floor, with a woman's body sprawled in the center. The woman's throat had been cut as well. But with the Master himself, things were not so simple. A bullet had pierced his stomach, but someone had still tried to save him, bandaging the wound with scraps of a lady's petticoat. Since the deceased woman’s skirts were intact, it turned out that there had been another lady in the bunker at the time of the murder. And Anton Andreyevich believed that he knew which one. On the improvised bed in the corner, a strikingly familiar squirrel muff was found. Korobeynikov had often picked it up in his office when Anna Viktorovna, bursting in with news, threw her muff, gloves and reticule in all directions. Doctor Milz also noticed that lady's thing, but did not say a word when Korobeynikov hastily picked it up and hid it under his coat. Just as a matter of interest, what Shtolman would say?

If the muff belonged to the one Anton thought of, then the bullet that killed the Master was most likely fired from the revolver that had spent a year and a half in his own pocket, and then politely but firmly pressed against his chin on the night of Shtolman’s dashing escape from custody. The doctor would extract the bullet later, but for now, Anton Andreyevich was painfully wondering whether he should hide this evidence as well.

The sudden arrival of the head of His Imperial Majesty’s security service from St. Petersburg exempted from arrest all those seized by Uvakov, but the warrant of Shtolman’s arrest, either in haste or through forgetfulness, had been never cancelled. Should Anton be lucky enough to find his missing chief, he would have to put Yakov Platonovich in the very cage from which, with his silent consent, Shtolman escaped on the eve of his final disappearance.

So, what was to do now? Follow the popular wisdom "Every law has a loophole"? Would Yakov Platonovich himself have acted like that? Yakov Platonovich, who always got genuinely furious at the slightest hint of police corruption. Not that he himself was holy: He agreed to release the poisoner hairdresser in exchange for an antidote for Anna Viktorovna. And then, he covered up Lieutenant Shumsky who shot the hairdresser, having declared the case unsolved. Anton Andreyevich himself considered that case more than transparent, but his chief decided not to give it a go. With all his principles.

But this was because of Anna Viktorovna. It was noted that only two topics were guaranteed to make the cold-blooded Shtolman lose his temper: Stains on the police reputation, and a conversation about Anna Viktorovna with spirits. About Anna Viktorovna without spirits - please, as much as you like! And when she herself appeared, he jumped up from his seat as if lifted by a spring, a silly and happy smile blossomed on his face, and his hand reached out to straighten his perfect left cuff. Anton Andreyevich might have laughed at such obvious manifestations of painstakingly concealed feelings, if he had not suspected that something similar could be said about him. How it looked, Yakov Platonovich knew better than anyone, but he never talked about it. And he, Anton Andreyevich, would not do so either. The fearless investigator in the role of a lover was timid and shy. But this was Anna Viktorovna, and it could not be any other way with her. The entire police division adored her, from the policemen to the police chief.

Anna Viktorovna could tell about everything that happened in the bunker without the help of spirits. Korobeynikov was almost certain of that. And he was even glad that he had found a worthy reason to visit the Mironovs' house. For now, he had to examine the crime scene completely.

“What do we have here, Alexander Frantsevich?”
Doctor Milz rose heavily from his knees, finishing his examination, and could not resist covering his nose with a handkerchief.
“Judging by the condition of the bodies, they were killed five or six days ago. More precisely, I can't say for now.”
Anton nodded, agreeing in his mind. The dates matched.

While the policemen carried the dead from the bunker into the cart, the gamekeeper led Korobeynikov into the forest where he found the rest of the bodies. But first, they stopped to read the tracks on the road. It looked like the cart, which was coming from the estate, had been surrounded and fired upon in the forest. Three bodies were being dragged from the road to the ravine on the firm snow crust. Traces of blood were clearly visible - fortunately, there had been no snowfall for several days. It seemed that one of the besieged had jumped off the cart at the last moment and tried to escape on foot, but got stuck in a snowdrift. That's where the bullet caught up with him. Tracks of the fourth dead man were found behind a tree about five steps away. His blood melted the snow and froze, mixing with splinters flying from the bullet-riddled tree trunk. Judging by the disposition, the fourth person shot was one of the attackers. The bodies in the ravine had been eaten by crows and wolves. As Dr. Miltz suggested, they probably died the same night as those in the bunker. There was no reason to disagree with him. The tracks of one man led from the ravine to the estate. Who was that man? The Master? Or someone else?

As expected, two of the dead men were soldiers from the garrison. The third one, very young, with a hole in his forehead, was dressed in a long-skirted black cape with a scarlet lining, like the one in which Shtolman appeared on Razyezzhaya Street. The fourth was a middle-aged and flabby man, with a large bald spot barely framed by reddish hair, and glasses that miraculously did not fall off his nose when the body was dragged to the ravine.

“The Englishman,” Yermolay said briefly. “He was guarded by soldiers. And someone surrounded and shot at them, that means.”
“Adepts,” Korobeynikov recalled the word that Anna Viktorovna used to call the crazy followers of the Master.
“These ones, or what?” the forester pushed the black-cloaked dead man with his boot.
“Yes. The followers of Lucifer. Where did such a horror come from to our Zatonsk?”

However, a lot of strange things had appeared in Zatonsk lately. Anton's head was spinning from questions. And which of these questions could Anna Viktorovna answer? He should ask her himself.

Отредактировано J.H.Watson (Сегодня 01:15)