Crime Spells

I felt other seeping through my mind, trickling in like cold mountain stream working its way under and around and through stones. I tried to fight it, but it was in me and I just couldn’t-

And then I was with Charlene, my hand combing through her thick blonde mane, my mouth on hers, tasting salt and vodka and bitter European tobacco, urgently pulling off her blouse, my hands on her breasts, astringent smell of sex, her body slick with sweat, moving together, together, together until-

Suddenly a flash of somewhere else: silver bright moonlight on snow, a crooked path leading down to darkness, darkness beneath a stone bridge. Something there-a, a crucifix-bone white in the moon’s pale light, and then-

And then Charlene’s body is moving under me, rocking with an ancient rhythm that is its own kind of magic, and my mind is lost to my need and-

I came out of the trance, trembling, soaked with sweat, my breath harsh and ragged in my ears.

“Well,” said Zhang. “It seems you had a better evening than I did last night.”

“Is dangerous,” I rasped. “To use mind sifter. Sometimes.” I paused to breathe. “There is damage.”

“It is more dangerous to cross me, Valeri. A fact I trust you will share with Georgi Dorbayeva at your earliest possible opportunity.”

And then I was standing in the store again, so stu

I fled into the winter cold. Head down, hands thrust into the pockets of my overcoat, scurrying up Federal Street. The sky was overcast, lending the berms of snow between sidewalk and street its gray color. The wind came up, picking up the chill off the lake. I huddled into my overcoat, but it didn’t do any good. The cold knifed right through thin shell of warmth.

At least my feet were warm, thanks to my new boots-brown leather lined with lamb’s wool.

We Russians know how to deal with the cold.

Not to mention Chinese.

Despite the cold, the street was filled with people going about their business. I passed multitiered temple, with three green tile roofs, the last topped with a scarlet and gold spire. I passed a bakery just as woman stepped out and was tempted by smell of ginger and warm bread. A dragon fashioned from golden light danced and capered over fireworks store. Well, the new year was coming up.

As I walked, an uncomfortable picture started to form.

First, mind sifter. Zhang had taken big risk using one on me. If the sifter had broken the mind of an apparatchik of Russian chieftain during a neutral meeting, he would’ve set off war. And war between Krasny Mafiya and Black Dragons would be brutal and dangerous.

So. Zhang had to be after something worth the risk. He wanted to know who hit him, yes, but there was something more important.

He wanted his heroin.

Only thing it could be. Forty-seven kilos of heroin was street value of 32 million dollars, American.

But we didn’t take it, yes? After all, Zhang let me go.

Something kept returning to me: the image that interrupted my memory of Charlene’s fierce lovemaking. Secluded bridge at night. Christian cross.

Surely Zhang had seen it, too.

Which meant he only let me go so his men could follow me right to the stolen drugs.

I had claimed we didn’t steal Chinese heroin. Zhang believed we did and thought Georgi was using it as opportunity to rid himself of a dangerous rival.

Me.

But there was third possibility.

What if Georgi had ordered me to steal Chinese heroin and then covered up my true memory with false one? Such a thing was possible, but dangerous. Overuse of memory sculpting could leave victim lost in a maze of fantasy, unsure of what was real and what was not, lost to everyday world.

In bad sculpting jobs sometimes the actual memory (bridge) leaked through even though prompt (cross) was needed to bring true memories back. But Georgi would’ve gotten me the best sculptor in city.

Unless he wanted me dead.

Americans have always compared Russia to bear, but the truth is she is more like a pack of wolves. We follow lead wolf.

Until he shows even slightest sign of weakness.

Then the pack is on him, snarling and snapping, until the snow is stained bright red.

Maybe Georgi was looking to take out the second wolf as a warning to all challengers: no weakness here.

I turned the idea over in my head. After my father was killed by the KGB in the eighties, Dorbayevas took me in. Georgi and I had grown up together, we were brothers.

Still, I couldn’t rule it out.

Tightness in my gut returned. I am not religious man, but I said little prayer to St. Peter. Please don’t let it be Georgi.

The key to it all was the H. If I could just find heroin, I’d also find truth.

I stopped and looked up. Some time in my wandering I’d walked to a small park: dormant see-saws and swings blanketed with snow, naked elms mixing with lightly frosted pines, an unused path curling through the trees.

And beyond it the arc of a stone bridge, a pool of darkness at its heart.

While I stood there, it started to snow, big heavy flakes sticking to the cold, cold earth. The snow seemed to soak up all the sounds of the city, covering the park in a blanket of white silence.

There is a magic that requires no spells or charms, a magic older and more powerful than mankind itself.

The ancient forces of the earth had claimed this little park as their own. As long as silence of snow reigned here, no human being could follow me into this place. I would not be observed.

So much for Chinese tailing me to drugs.

I stepped onto the crooked path I remembered from vision, marking virgin snow with my boots, the crunch of snow the only sound in that winter refuge.

I passed under a cathedral of branches and emerged in clearing on other side. The land dipped down, curling into little depression that gave way to a twisted path of ice that would melt into a little stream in the spring.

It was here that someone had built bridge, a gray arch of stone and mortar fording stream. The bridge was small, just wide enough for man and woman to walk side by side.

It might’ve been charming, except here man had left his calling cards: an old McDonald’s bag, a spill of white napkins, a crumpled section of Tribune, two crows fighting over the remnants of a half-eaten cheese-burger.

I heard the distant honk of a horn.

It was a warning. Focus on the signposts of man’s presence, and magic of this holy place would be broken. And then one of Zhang’s people could find me.

I turned my gaze from top of bridge. There was nothing for me there. What I was looking for was underneath.

In the dark.

I stalked down the hill, half-walking, half-sliding. Walked slowly toward shadow of bridge’s arch. It was small space. Maybe three feet at top of the arch, the ground covered by perfect, white snow.

Undisturbed.

I crouched down, staring at scene for long moment.

The bridge should’ve sheltered ground from above, if snowfall had been light and gentle as it was now. No, this snow had to have blown in. And that couldn’t have happened last night. Because last night was clear and twenty-two.

At Midway.

Meaning heroin wasn’t hidden here, by me or anyone else.

Then what had drawn me here?

I looked again. If there is one thing we Russians know, it is cold. So much of our magic came from the need to endure the frigid winds that sweep down from the arctic north, freezing the land and everything on it.

To my trained eye, this pool of shadow beneath bridge looked like warmth. Small, yes, but large enough to lie down, keep out the wind with a flattened cardboard box anchored by a couple rocks. Hang blanket up on other side and you would have a kind of cocoon, far from prying eyes of Chicago PD.