Chapter 47

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On the drive out of the cottage district toward the outskirts of Big Fox, Yuri spotted several crows circling overhead. They must have nested nearby.

He caught their calls intermittently as he continued, and upon reaching the sprawling shopping complex, he spotted a massive black bird strolling across the central crosswalk. The crow scavenged a discarded piece of sandwich, stepping aside whenever a car rolled past before returning to its meal. Amused by the bird’s utter lack of fear and its single-minded devotion, several people paused to snap pictures.

Even when it was finally Yuri’s turn to turn right, the crow remained, pecking leisurely at the sandwich. Through his partially open window, he heard a passing man laugh at the bird for scavenging something so filthy.

Yuri shifted his gaze to the right and stared at the man, his expression utterly unreadable.

Their eyes met.

The stranger caught the chill in Yuri’s gaze, felt a sudden, inexplicable jolt of fear, and quickly averted his eyes, hurrying off.

Food pulled from the trash never tasted as filthy as one might expect. Food was simply food; no matter how repulsive its origin, its flavor remained indifferent. A sandwich stepped on by a boot tasted only of the dust and grit from the shoe, and fruit salvaged from a garbage bin tasted like whatever beverage had been spilled over it.

Searching for sustenance in trash bins had been a harsh reality for the children of Saratov. Those bins often held more edible, salvageable goods than most could imagine. On lucky days, they found bread discarded before the packaging had even been breached, or frozen meals tossed out past their expiration date that tasted perfectly fine.

Such finds became currency for barter. Yuri and Alexei spent their youth alongside children like that, for the only people their age willing to associate with them were the children of vagrants.

Because Alexei was the son of a traitor, Volkov’s associates ostracized him completely, and Yuri endured much the same treatment for standing by his friend. After barely scraping through elementary school, neither had been able to continue their classes.

They had no opportunity to mingle with children who had received an ordinary education. On the rare occasions they crossed paths with someone downtown, the parents would hurriedly intervene the moment they realized Yuri and Alexei were nothing but delinquent trash belonging to Volkov’s gang.

The only place where walking diseases like them found any welcome was beside the garbage bins.

After losing his parents, Alexei had struggled terribly for a time. At just twelve, he spent every miserable coin he earned under Volkov on feeding and educating Valeri, his brother six years his junior.

Alexei survived on whatever he could find along the street. Yuri had been slightly better off then; whenever he brought food his mother had made and tried to share it, Alexei immediately pressed his portion onto Valeri.

One day, furious at the fool’s selfless idiocy, Yuri followed him. When Alexei began digging through a garbage bin, Yuri reached in and plucked out a half-eaten sandwich someone had discarded. Apparently, Alexei could tolerate that life for himself, but the sight of his friend doing the same shattered his composure. He shouted at Yuri not to eat that garbage.

Yuri stared him down and shoved the sandwich, still bearing someone else’s bite marks, into his mouth. Revulsion churned at the knowledge of where it had been, and bile flooded his throat, but Yuri forced himself to swallow every last bite.

The sandwich he chewed methodically tasted like a sandwich. The imaginary flavor of filth was nowhere to be found.

From that day forward, Alexei ate whatever Yuri provided on the spot. Yuri began setting aside extra rations for Valeri whenever he brought food for Alexei, who would then thank him with genuine happiness lighting his face.

What could possibly make him that happy?

Alexei’s parents had practically died because of Valeri’s parents. Yuri had not understood why Alexei went to such lengths to care for a demanding child who knew nothing of the world.

Filled with these questions, Yuri had returned home. When his mother asked what happened to the food she had saved for his father, Yuri lied and claimed he had eaten it.

Instead of scolding him, his mother had praised him. Later that night, when his father returned, she told him Yuri’s appetite seemed to be growing. In a low, worried voice, she said she would have to work longer hours so they could afford more groceries. His father listened quietly and tried to reassure her by saying he would take on more work himself.

His mother shook her head. “The more you accept from that man, the greater your sins become.”

“I’m sorry. Because of me, you’re… forced to live such a miserable life. If I hadn’t been selfish enough to want you for myself, you might be the wife of a wealthy man by now.”

“Vasya, you promised you wouldn’t say things like that. The person at fault is the one who set the trap, not the one caught inside it. Of course, I can’t pretend the work you do is entirely innocent, but… it’s all right. I’ll simply do more good on your behalf. ”

“I’m sorry, Katya. I’m so sorry.”

“No. I’m happy because I met you, Vasya. Even if we go hungry, the life I have now, after meeting you and giving birth to our little jewel, Yuri, means far more to me than any peaceful life I might have lived without you. So don’t apologize, my love,” she comforted him in a firm voice as he suffered, crushed by the weight of having placed his wife and son in danger through his own foolish choices.

Yuri’s father knew there was no falsehood hidden in her words. That certainty deepened his pain, yet her sincere love also granted him the will to continue living.

Pulled without warning into the memory, Yuri slowed the wheel, careful not to hit the bird, and eased the car into the shopping complex.

The crow raised its head, staring at Yuri with black, gleaming eyes. Then, apparently losing interest, it returned to pecking at the sandwich.

Yuri parked in a corner at the far edge of the wide lot. Before leaving the car, a cold breeze brushed the back of his neck, and he instinctively turned to look toward the trunk. The sky, brilliant when he had left the cottage, had turned hazy. It was not raining, but once clouds obscured the sun, the wind quickly chilled.

An inexplicable unease rose within him.

Yuri strode to the trunk, popped it, and retrieved the hard case stored beneath the floor. He stared down at the black container, his face rigid, before reluctantly moving it to the passenger-side floor.

He had a sinking feeling he might need it.

After locking the car and walking toward the liquor store, Yuri uneasily considered the fact that Alexei had not contacted him once during the three days his phone had been off. He had called several times on the drive there.

Alexei had not answered once.

Dark possibilities crossed his mind, but evidence contradicting them soon followed.

If Alexei were truly unreachable, Valeri or T-Mac would have called me. Alexei might worry anyone else, but never Valeri. I’m certain of that.

Remembering the friend who had lived and died for Valeri since childhood calmed him slightly. Alexei was not someone who died easily. He had declared war on Igor Volkov with every intention of dying and still survived in the end.

Surely.

Preparing while tending to the work before him was better than tormenting himself over an uncertainty. Yuri shut down the useless thoughts and quickened his pace. He wanted to finish his errands and return before Cherriot had to wait too long.

Upon entering the liquor store, he first searched the displays for the pale ale Cherriot had requested. When he failed to find it, he asked an employee, who confirmed the store did not stock it. With no other choice, he picked up a six-pack of Coors Light, then surveyed the shelves for something he himself might drink.

There were countless choices, but the only bottle that felt familiar was Stolichnaya vodka. He had not started drinking it because he was Russian; there were simply few liquors with both a high alcohol content and a price below twenty dollars, so he had chosen it from the moment he was old enough to drink. Even that had felt expensive back then, and he rarely bought it. He did not know whether this was what Cherriot had wanted, but he grabbed the Stoli.

Turning the bottle in his hand, Yuri realized that whatever had first led him to it, it had eventually become his preference. There were undoubtedly better vodkas in the world, but he had never seen a reason to search for them.

Would I have bought something else if Cherriot had come with me?

The thought made Yuri smile faintly.

He did not yet know Cherriot well enough to predict every detail of his behavior, but from what he had seen over the past few days, he had the feeling the man would have enthusiastically recommended several other bottles.

Yuri had been away for barely twenty minutes, yet he already regretted that Cherriot was not beside him.

Perhaps they should simply have come together.

Wanting to return quickly, Yuri headed for the register. While waiting in line, his gaze wandered over the miniature liquor bottles displayed above the counter—things he had never once examined before. As he studied the unfamiliar drinks, his attention settled on a tiny champagne bottle. Looking at the small bottle of prosecco made him wonder what the champagne that always appeared in movie party scenes actually tasted like.

No one around him drank such things. Even after moving to Vancouver, he had never found a reason to try it.

Now, he wanted to taste it with Cherriot.

Does he like champagne? If he does, he probably likes it sweet. Or is he particular enough to drink only expensive brands like Moët & Chandon or Krug?

His turn arrived while he was still considering it. After hesitating, Yuri picked up the little prosecco bottle on his way to the counter.

It was an unexpected expense, but by now he had saved enough money that one impulsive purchase would not leave him starving. Under Volkov, no amount of work had allowed him to save anything. Once he left Saratov, merely working diligently had been enough.

After making his first true impulse purchase, Yuri walked toward the pharmacy, feeling oddly self-conscious.

All he had to do was buy the neutralizer and return. The moment the automatic doors opened, he headed directly for the pheromone-related medication aisle. There were too many products to inspect individually without wasting time, so he decided to ask the pharmacist.

He had just begun walking toward the pharmacy counter when—

“…Have you… seen this person?”

Yuri stopped quietly at the sight of the man already speaking to the pharmacist. It was a suspicious question.

Following his instincts, Yuri muted his presence and remained at a slight distance, listening.

“I can’t be certain from a description alone,” the pharmacist said. “Why are you looking for them?”

“Ah, pardon me. I’m a private investigator. I specialize in finding missing people and informing their families. It isn’t dangerous work, and nothing you say will place you in trouble. Here, please take a look at this photograph.”

The man wore a khaki fishing windbreaker and black trousers. His hair was cut moderately short. From behind, he looked like any ordinary Canadian. Despite his appearance, he was far more cautious than an ordinary civilian. He leaned over and shielded his phone almost completely with his upper body, concealing whatever was displayed on the screen.

Yuri could not see the photograph.

Raising his gaze slightly, Yuri checked the positions of the security cameras. One covered the pharmacy counter. There was another over every aisle, and two more above the registers.

With cameras everywhere, I can’t cause a disturbance or do anything conspicuous.

Normally, Yuri would at least have brought a black jacket capable of obscuring his build and making him harder to identify. Instead, he had carelessly come out wearing only Cherriot’s short-sleeved shirt.

His anxiety intensified with the realization that he had let his guard down like an idiot.

Rather than confront the suspicious man, Yuri focused only on confirming whom he was searching for and looked toward the counter. The pharmacist was studying the phone with a troubled expression. Perhaps sensing Yuri’s gaze while waiting for her answer, the man slowly turned his head and looked behind him. His face was ordinary enough to disappear anywhere, but an indefinable bloodlust clouded his brown eyes.

Yuri knew at once.

A mercenary.

Most mercenaries were former soldiers. Not all were alike, but many sought such work after leaving the service because killing suited them. Yuri had met men who carried the same presence at the hotel only a few days ago.

“How much longer am I expected to wait?” Yuri asked. “From the look of it, you aren’t even here to buy medicine.”

He met the man’s penetrating gaze without emotion and deliberately spoke first. By putting irritation into his voice and acting like an impatient customer tired of waiting, he drew the surrounding attention toward himself.

If the man had been hired by the Hell’s Watchmen, there was a strong chance he would recognize Yuri. For the moment, however, Yuri committed fully to feigned ignorance.

The pharmacist assisted him at exactly the right time. The middle-aged woman pushed her glasses higher and addressed the man apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recognize him. You’ll have to ask somewhere else. Unless you need a prescription filled, I’d like to help the next customer. Would you step aside, please?”

At her words, the man glanced toward the security camera behind her, shrugged, and moved away. He had already locked his phone, leaving the screen black. Slipping one hand into his jacket, he retreated slowly from the counter. His footsteps passed Yuri one measured beat at a time.

Yuri continued watching him as though deliberately trying to provoke a confrontation. He had presented himself as an impatient, short-tempered man, so he needed to behave accordingly.

The stranger smiled as if telling Yuri to calm down, passed him, and headed toward the registers.

Once the man had completely left his field of vision, Yuri approached the counter and asked, “I need a neutralizer. Where would I find one?”

“I have to dispense neutralizers directly. Do you have your health insurance card?”

“I left it behind. I’ll purchase it without insurance.”

The pharmacist went to a shelf, retrieved the medication, and set it before Yuri. In a voice barely above a whisper, she asked, “You were here a few days ago, weren’t you? With another tall man?” Then she raised her voice to a normal volume. “It’s thirty-two dollars without insurance. How will you be paying?”

Yuri slowly took out his wallet and handed her cash. Quietly answering her first question, he asked, “Why do you want to know?”

“The man he was looking for was the person who came with you. The one wearing sunglasses and a mask.”

Pretending to count the cash, she muttered rapidly, then collected his change from the register behind her. As she placed the coins in front of Yuri, she added, “My husband is a former police officer, so I know plenty of private investigators used to be cops. But very few of them make you feel the way that man did.” The pharmacist glanced up and met Yuri’s eyes. “Be careful.”

Then, as if making it clear she intended to involve herself no further, she turned and disappeared into the back.

Without hesitation, Yuri took the neutralizer and his change, then left the pharmacy at a brisk but controlled pace. Before exiting, he checked the register area.

The man was gone.