Despite the consultant's vigorous a.s.surances that he was fine, Brennon did not expect to see him the next morning. Even such a strong man as Longsdale had to sicken after bathing in ice water with at least a cold (Nathan hoped for pneumonia). However, the next day the gentleman with the dog reappeared on the threshold of the office again, just when the Commissar was reading the minutes of interrogations of students from the campus, trying to fetch a grain of truth from them.

"Good afternoon!" Longsdale said warmly and put a briefcase on Brennon's table, "You are ready?"

"For what?" the Commissar put down the case of the murdered student and took a long look at the consultant, who was full of health, "How are you feeling?"

"Good," Longsdale puzzled, "But why are you asking?"

The hound could not resist and snorted as hard as he could. Brennon leaned down from his chair.

"h.e.l.lo, St.u.r.dy. And you're safe and sound too, huh?"

"What other st.u.r.dy?" Asked Longsdale, bewildered.

"Your dog. This one," the commissar pointed with his finger for complete clarity, "He must have some nickname, right, St.u.r.dy?"

The dog looked coldly at the benefactor.

"So what should I be prepared for?"

"We will melt your victims out of ice."

"You said that you can do it only at night."

"I proceeded from misconceptions about the nature of this creature. It is much stronger at night," Longsdale frowned, and Brennon remembered the crimson stripes on his hands. "Let's not take that risk. So, Commissioner, can I proceed?"

"Come on," Nathan nodded, slammed the folder and pulled off his coat from the hanger.

At the reception, they met Broyd and Mr. Kennedy. Both wished to join, the chief with almost childish curiosity, the pathologist with complete skepticism.

In the yard, ice blocks were laid at a distance of one and a half feet from each other. Longsdale took off his coat, scarf and frock coat, rolled up his sleeves, and Brennon thought in surprise that the scars had flickered on him yesterday. From the briefcase, the consultant took out a wineskin with a narrow neck and a tight cork. Inside was the salt, which Longsdale outlined a wide circle, enclosing three blocks in it. The commissar crouched and touched the salt with his finger, even sniffed. There were some additives in it - small blue and green crystals.

"Don't lick," Longsdale warned sternly.

"You can do this," grumbled Nathan, Kennedy grunted mockingly.

A long dagger appeared from the briefcase. The blade was trihedral, with a sharp tip, without a guard. Longsdale went to the first body and mumbled under his breath. He held the dagger like a candle, and Brennon soon seemed that the edges of the blade really flickered green. The consultant began to cut out some inscription on the block. The ice under the edge of the blade melted silently, like gla.s.s in a gla.s.s-blowing workshop. Having finished carving on ice, Longsdale stood at the feet of the deceased, and his dog sat at their heads. The consultant cleared his throat and suddenly drew a long ba.s.s note in a low voice.

The commissar irritatedly s.h.i.+fted from one foot to another and put his hands in his pockets. He somewhat tempered skepticism, but not to the point of listening to a mournful howl. In addition, Brennon became bored, and he began to study Longsdale. He stood, covering his eyes and swaying a little to the beat of the sounds, which he made, more precisely, the sound, which was changing little by little. Now it rolled like a wave, then quieter, now louder, then higher, now more m.u.f.fled, and after a few minutes Brennon felt dizzy. Longsdale did not interrupt for inhalation and exhalation, and this low sound pierced Nathan's head through and through, pulsing in his temples, reverberationing in his bones and weaving into his heartbeat. Physical sensations faded: the cobbled courtyard beneath the commissar's feet swayed, the walls and the sky turned into foggy haze, and in it he could distinguish only two spots - a large fiery and narrow green.

Suddenly, the sound rushed up and broke off with a short growling cry. Brennon twitched and woke up. The consultant opened his eyes and stared at the blocks of ice with an unblinking heavy look from underneath. The dagger flared up. Nathan heard a purl, lowered his eyes and choked: the ice quickly melted into the water, which flowed into a large puddle around three bodies.

"Done," Longsdale said a little hoa.r.s.ely. The dog got up, squeamishly shook off his paws from the water and sniffed the face of one of the dead. Ayrton Broyd blinked, came to his senses and exclaimed:

"But they are still icy!"

"Well… yes. If I melt all the ice, then we get a pile of bones in a pool of flesh, and the evidence will have to be scooped up with a ladle."

The police chief frowned.

"You mean, they froze like the heart and lungs of the first victim?"

"Yes."

"The whole corpses?!"

"I say that the creature is being improved," Longsdale answered calmly, wiped the dagger with a rag and scabbed it.

"And how do I search them?" the commissar inquired the authorities.

"Visually!"

"And will I autopsy them visually too?" Kennedy snorted. "Or I need to arm myself with a saw and an ax?"

Brennon went to the bodies. They froze in the same poses as death caught them. Father Joseph Tyne clenched a cross in his fist and held it at chest level, and folded fingers of the other hand with a pinch. Brennon pulled a wand from his pocket (he knew from experience that it might come in handy), squatted down and poked it in the priest's fingers.

"He was holding something in his hand. A fragment remained in the fingers."

"What is it?" Asked Kennedy, studying the body through pince-nez.

"I do not know. Something black, and threads stick out of it."

"It's the book spine," Lonsdale bowed his head to one side. "It seems the Bible. Here is the letter "B". Gold stamping."

"So his Bible was lying somewhere near the place of death. This beast knocked the book out of his hands, but was not afraid of the cross. Ah, Longsdale?"

"The cross is just a toy," the consultant answered, and the Commissar just physically felt the stupor of the good Catholics around. "Costly and beautiful, but harmless to this creature. Unlike a true relic, which, apparently, was the Bible of Father Tyne."

"Yeah. And the problem is that we need to search all of Blackwhit in seeking of a book with a tattered spine."

"But if we find, we discover the place of death. After all, we still do not know where they died."

Brennon scratched his beard thoughtfully. Longsdale's idea was very reasonable, and the Commissar had this idea, too. Most likely, someone picked up the Bible. Someone from one hundred forty thousand inhabitants of Blackwit. Nathan sighed.

"Okay," he decided, "First, inspection of the bodies. Then you take them, Kennedy. And you, Longsdale. The report in the evening, at mine, at eight. Today we need to clarify at least something. Three days pa.s.sed, and earlier at this time we had a new corpse. Time is running out."

***

"So, what do we have," Brennon said, and drummed his fingers on the cutting table. "There are three corpses, and we cannot collect a single piece of evidence from any of them."

Four detectives from the Brennon's department respectfully listened to the authorities. The three deceased lay on the autopsy tables.

"It's outrageous," Kennedy grumbled, "On vest of number two, I see a light brown smudge that can be defined as a smudge from beer. But without the slightest certainty. How do we work now?!"

Longsdale bent over the second victim. The dog sniffed at the third.

"This one is softer," said the consultant, "Apparently, glaciation affected only the internal organs and part of the circulatory system. You can try an autopsy. I will a.s.sist."

Kennedy snorted angrily.

"You think I'm not able to handle a saw?"

"Until that," the commissar said coldly, "before us three deceased is unknown from what. And I want to know from you the cause of death. Clear?"

"Yes, sir," the consultant responded disciplinedly. Kennedy opened the tool cabinet.

"We need to identify the second and third victims. Byrne, get busy. Spur on the cops at the same time to track all the suspicious disappearances over the past three weeks. Further. In the hands of Father Tyne was the Bible. Regan, go to his sister and find out if they have a family Bible or something like that. Then organize an interrogation of all who could pick up the book. In circles, the center is from the cathedral. Dwyer, question every single inhabitant of the block in which Murphy's house is. All they can remember about that night. Gallagher, take care of the cathedral. Find and interrogate all the priests and their servants. I need Father Tyne's last day in minutes. Clear?"

Detectives responded in an dissonant chorus.

"So take another intent look at them," Brennon snapped, "The slower we move, the more we will have such handsome men. Savvy?"

"Sir," Regan said, "will they give us any amulets?"

"What?" The commissar asked threateningly. Regan swallowed.

"Well this is ... evil spirits, right?"

"No," said Longsdale, not distracted by feeling the body, "Evil spirits has absolutely nothing to do with it."

The detectives quieted. Brennon gave them a long, hard look.

"Well? Anyone else want to chat about womanish superst.i.tions?"

No one wanting was found.

"Then get out. And if I find out that someone is spreading village gossip!.."

"You want to say that this phenomenon has a natural reason?" Kennedy inquired and poked pince-nez in the leg of Father Tyne. The metal frame quietly clinked on the ice.

"No. But evil has nothing to do with it. We are dealing with the undead."

"But is there a difference?" Muttered the commissar, not having time to rejoice at a glimpse of normality.

"Yes. Please give a saw."

"Without me," Nathan firmly decided. He had another business outlined.

Dressing himself in his office, Brennon went over in his mind everything he knew about the consultant. And the d.a.m.n little was known. The Commissar snorted grimly. It is time, after all, to face the truth - Longsdale, in spite of her sleek appearance, is not at all a harmless lap doggie. He showed up in the city only for the fourth murder, but that didn't mean anything he could be holed up in a hole somewhere.

Of all the strange (to put it mildly) properties of Longsdale, the Commissar was most struck by his knowledge. Where could a normal person get such this thing?! Who in their right mind will become interested in how to slay evil spirits? Either the lunatic collector of village fables, or ... Brennon cringed. The focus that Longsdale showed just a couple of hours ago was absolutely real.

Therefore, Nathan resolutely went to house 86, with the firm intention of learning as much as possible while Longsdale and Kennedy were doing the autopsy. In the early hours of the morning, he made inquiries at all three of the domestic employment offices and found out that the consultant had not hired a single maid, not a single servant, or even a cook. Really lack of time? What's the butler for, then?

The commissar climbed the cleanly swept stairs and rang a brilliant bell. Who is was.h.i.+ng and cleaning all this? Who is cooking? Or does the consultant not eat? Or eating... something instead of food. Sleeps during the day...

The butler opened the door and was clearly not happy with the visit.

"Mr. Longsdale is in your department, sir," he informed coldly.

"I know," Brennon poked inside, but the guy grabbed the jamb with one hand, with the door of the other hand and stood up to protect the house with his chest.

"Sir!"

"There is something to hide?" The commissar inquired good-naturedly, "Do you lead mistresses there? Or you arrange dancing party? Or steal the master's goods?"

The butler gave Brennon a look in which he could fry. The Commissar really became a little hot. Maybe because of the warm air from the house.

"Well?"

"What you need?" through the teeth asked the butler.

"To come in."

"What for?"

"Son," Nathan said softly, "they don't ask me such questions."

The guy stepped back, but slammed the door behind the Commissar so hard that the windows rang.

"What's your name?"

"John Raiden."

"And if you shout "John!" – who of you will respond?"

"It's not customary in our house to shout "John!", sir."

And what is customary in your house?

Brennon scanned the dark hall, barely lit by a pair of narrow, like arrow-loopes, windows to the left and right of the door. An oak staircase led to the second floor, nearby there was a table with a tray for letters and business cards. And nothing more.

"Where are the servants?"

"Who?" Raiden's dark eyes narrowed unkindly.

"The servants. Cook, maid, lackeys..."

"We haven't hired anyone yet, sir."

"That is, you wash the house, cook food, wash and light fireplaces alone?"

"We order food in the cafe, and laundry in the laundry room."

"Where?"

The butler went to the table, looked for a couple of business cards on it and poked the commissar in his arms. He glanced briefly and put them in his pocket.

"And you wash the floors, then yourself. Right with these hands. Where is the kitchen?"

"Are you hungry, sir?"

Brennon measured the impudent gaze. For a servant from a good house, he was too sharp-tongued.

"I like to drink tea with a cook or toss off a gla.s.s of Xeres with a butler. You can learn a lot from these respectable people, huh?"

Judging by the face of Raiden, Brennon could not count on his Xeres. The butler quickly headed for the kitchen - through an empty hall, into a narrow corridor, five steps down - and here it is, a huge s.p.a.ce with a hearth of impressive size. Perfect order reigned all around, utensils glittered in the light of the sun from the windows under the ceiling, twirls sparkled like blades ... and n.o.body. Nathan shook his finger at the tall gla.s.s paprika flask. A range of spices lined up on a shelf, under bunches of dried herbs.

They don't cook here, yep... But who does it?

"How long have you worked for Longsdale?"

"Five years."

"A long time. Can I have a look at your recommendations?"

"No."

Brennon turned and raised an eyebrow. The servant kept of recommendation letters as treasures, because they were the guarantee of hiring. The butler stood at the door, folding arms across his chest, and there was something menacing about it.

"Where did you serve before?"

"Nowhere. Mister Longsdale is my first employer."

"Details."

"Are you interrogating me?" the split in two brow raised, "Is this already police arbitrariness or is it just only abuse of authority?"

Brennon scrutinized this cheeky, narrow, impudent phiz. Why is he not remembered, d.a.m.n it?

"I'm making inquiries about a person who works with the police department. If he is human at all."

The butler's eyes widened in amazement. Something skipped inside the commissioner.

"What makes you think that?"

"Why shouldn't I think that?" said the Commissar slowly, "You should have a closer look at your master, guy. How do you know him? Where did you meet? How did you find yourself in the service?"

Raiden leaned back against the kitchen door, and the lock clicked. Brennon squeezed the hilt of his cane.

"How much curiosity," Raiden snapped. In the partial shade, his face seemed paler, and his eyes turned completely black. Nathan did not take his eyes off him and still missed the moment when amber lights flashed in his black eyes.

***

Standing in front of his home department, Brennon tried to figure out how he ended up here. He clearly remembered that he had gone out and was going somewhere, but where and why? He was obviously going for some reason, if he wouldn't just wander around in the midst of an investigation, but for what? Nathan put his hands in his pockets - maybe there was a note left there? Evidence? Something pushed him to go to h.e.l.l! And how did he come back? ..

"Mister Brennon!"

He turned around. This voice was always pleasant to him - but especially today, because the melodious hail dispelled the fog swirling in his head. The widow van Allen hurried to him, accompanied by her eldest son, and smiled affably.

"Good afternoon," the Commissar bowed and answered with a good-humored nod to the respectful greeting of the young man, "How are you?"

"Thank you, excellent. However, you have not been with us for two days. Would you like to have lunch?"

At the word "lunch" in Nathan's soul (and stomach), everything stirred up, moreover, no urgent cases were foreseen in the department, and the results of the autopsy could not be expected before the evening.

When the Commissar finished the dessert and pulled a large cup of tea toward himself, Mrs. Van Allen sat down at his table and coughed in embarra.s.sment.

"Great roast," Nathan said to begin the conversation, "It melts in your mouth."

"Yes, yes, thank you," the widow answered absently, "Tell me, the mayor still allowed festivities on the lake or not?"

Brennon looked at her over the cup. The owner of the cafe looked away and admitted:

"We are directly opposite your department and are open from early morning until late at night. There are already four of them, right?"

"That's right," said the Commissioner. In fact, it is difficult not to notice the carts with blocks of ice ... But how did she guess what it was?

"And there will be more?"

She searchingly looked Brennon in the face. Nathan drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the saucer. In the end, soon they will not hide anything.

"Probably if we don't take precautions."

"Which ones?"

"Do not leave the house at night."

Mrs. Van Allen sighed weakly. Brennon picked up the words.

- Do not open to anyone after sunset. Even if it seems to you ... mmm ... that someone summon you, that ringing or someone else's voice is heard from the street, even if you want to go out."

"Oh my G.o.d," said Mrs. Van Allen quietly, "This is not a human."

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The commissar p.r.i.c.ked up. She didn't ask. So she knew.

"Why are you so sure?"

The woman did not seem to hear. She looked through the interlocutor, thinking deeply, and then suddenly covered the commissar's hand with hers. Brennon flinched so much that he nearly doused himself with tea. It is difficult to imagine a more indecent gesture from such a respected lady.

"Missis!"

"Sorry," the widow woke up, flushed from the blush and removed her hand. "You describe it this way, as if you are sure that it is not a human who threatens us. In addition, this consultant on oddity has appeared in your department."

"That's yap!" Nathan thought collectively about all the cops. The noise in his head subsided, and the commissar felt his memory clearer somewhat. At least now he was sure that he was going to Longsdale's house. If he strain himself a little more, then, may be, he will even remember why.

"This has not yet been established," Brennon said, but he saw from the widow's face that the excuse was unconvincing.

"Take a honey drink with you? There is not a drop of alcohol in it, you can drink it where you're on duty."

"Thank you... Tell me, do you have friends in the country?"

Mrs. Van Allen shook her head.

"No. Do you think this will happen again?"

Brennon raised an eyebrow.

"They were brought to the department every three to four days. And today is the fifth day after..."

It's good that there are more fools than smart ones, the commissar thought. Not everyone is able to count days, like Mrs. Van Allen. But so far not everyone knows that these days must be counted. But what will happen when there are too many corpses...

"Will you let me warn my friends? I promise no panic..."

"Yes."

The widow smiled, but the smile faded immediately.

"Are you sure that this person, whom your people call a consultant, will be able to help us with something?"

"At least he will say how to kill this beast."

Mrs. Van Allen, frowning slightly, held her gaze at the police department and stood up.

"I'll bring you a drink."

Brennon followed her gaze. The consultant and his dog stood at the porch and gazed steadily at the bakery.