The picture did not add up. Blue pins marked the places where they found the bodies - in a semicircle on Lake Weer, 12-16 yards from the sh.o.r.e. Red pins indicated where the victims lived. From memory, the Commissar stuck green pins where he had met the undead both times. The result was not comforting.

"It hangs around the city," Brennon told the hound grimly, "Without any system. Murphy, McCarthy and Father Tyne belonged to different circles of society and could hardly cross somewhere except the cathedral. But at night only pop could hang around there, so..."

"Did you find the Bible?" asked the consultant. Nathan's irritation eased. Sometimes Longsdale was capable of intelligent things.

"Not yet. But I sent everyone I could to find it. Our only clue is place where the Bible was found. It attacked there. Perhaps then we can find out where the victims could cross. Find a starting point."

Longsdale said nothing. He bowed his head to the side and began to unsystematically move his finger on the map. St.u.r.dy watched his movement with growing interest.

"What path does a child walk from birth to death?" asked the consultant. Brennon nearly pinned his finger with a pin to the cathedral.

"What are you twaddle?"

The hound raised its muzzle and stared into Longsdale's face.

"Birth," he continued melancholy, "somewhere in the bas.e.m.e.nt, with the help of a drunk midwife. Baptism - secretly, under the condemning look of the priest. And death is most often in the nearest river. Or a lake."

Nathan leaned heavily on his fists. Footprints in the snow belonged to the child.

"Aren't children born sinless?"

"The point is death, not sinlessness."

Nathan drew a winding path along the red pins. Death in the lake - baptism in the cathedral - birthplace? Suppose Father Tyne baptized a child, and McCarthy might have had something to do with giving birth as a former doctor. But what does brewer Murphy have to do with it? Was a baby born in his house? Is he conceived there?

"Then who is the fourth?" Nathan thought suddenly, "Father of the child? Or is it Murphy?"

The consultant shook his head.

"No," muttered Brennon. "But then who?"

"The fourth is the apothecary," Longsdale picked up the newspaper, rustled the pages and put the advertis.e.m.e.nts under the commissar's nose, "Apothecaries illegally mix abortion drugs. They sell it under the guise of facilitating mixtures."

The commissar struck the table with his fist and tore off the chair his coat.

"Finnel!"

The watchman galloped along the corridor.

"Sir?!"

"I'm going to McCarthy's house. Find among the missing all pharmacists, apothecary and their a.s.sistants. Let Regan compare the descriptions with our last unidentified victim. And the McCarthy dossier to me, all you find. Now!

***

"Do you think she is involved?" The consultant asked quietly. Brennon shook his head.

"Not sure. But illegal abortions are always screams, blood and ... waste," the commissar added m.u.f.fledly. He happened to take red-handed those who had clandestine abortions - and these were those rare memories from which Nathan sometimes woke up in a cold sweat.

"An abortion is a thing that is difficult to do un.o.bserved. At least the woman will scream."

Longsdale looked studying Mrs. Hughes. Huddled in a corner, she frantically clutched her children to her; however, her hands were not enough for the whole horde, only for two. The other seven huddled behind their mother. A thin, tortured by a life woman, the Commissar noticed. She often blinded tears, her lips trembled weakly; squeeze a little more and...

"It's not an abortion, it's something else," the consultant whispered, "No trace."

"What?"

"Smell."

"The blood was washed away a long time ago."

"Not blood. Such places smell of death."

"And you can't smell it here," Brennon muttered and glanced at St.u.r.dy. The dog, barely crossing the threshold of the house, took an active part in the search - he put his nose on the floor and began to sniff out. The policemen did not respectfully interfere. The hound methodically walked around the room and stopped in front of Mrs. Hughes. The woman pressed her children closer to her. St.u.r.dy sniffed the floor at her feet and stretched his nose to her hem.

"Take it away!" squealed Mrs. Hughes.

"What's the matter?" Brennon asked, "Are you afraid of dogs? Or did you wash the floor badly after the abortion?"

"Lord, what are you talking about?!"

"We'll canva.s.s the neighborhood. They will tell how often unfamiliar women came here. And do not hesitate, all the horrors will be painted in colors."

"Oh my G.o.d, what women? What are the horrors? What are you speaking about?!"

Red spots appeared on the woman's cheeks. One of the youngest children sniffed and burst into tears.

"About screaming," the commissar continued calmly, not taking her heavy gaze from her, "About b.l.o.o.d.y rags. About waste, after all. Where did you bury them, by the way?"

Mrs. Hughes turned white and leaned against the wall: her legs no longer held.

"N-untruth," she jabbered.

"Sir," the policeman slipped into the room, "they sent a dossier to McCarthy."

The commissar took an unexpectedly weighty folder, and it opened itself, where another folder was enclosed, thinner. Brennon read the t.i.tle and looked up at the bailiff Hughes spouse.

"Your landlord, ma'am, worked as a doctor for twenty-eight years at a munic.i.p.al hospital for the poor. I think he knew which way to put the tongs in."

Longsdale grabbed the folder from the Commissar and began to flip quickly. Mrs. Hughes sobbed, covered her face with an ap.r.o.n and burst into tears.

"Listen," the consultant hissed, "this is not the point!"

"And in what?"

"She has nine children! She wouldn't give abortions to others!"

"She would. Stranger are not their own. About a year ago, we hung one lady who had six of her children, but she also cleaned out unwanted children for eight years."

"But think for yourself - would McCarthy live in the same house with nine children if he hated them like that? His rooms on the second floor..."

"The matter isn't in hate," Brennon took the folder, "but in the profits. How much did they pay you, Mrs. Hughes?"

The woman's crying turned into convulsive weeping.

"Take it," Brennon nodded to the cop, "And call someone from the neighbors, let them look after her brood until her husband returns."

"Nnnnoooo!" Mrs. Hughes howled. "No, for G.o.d's sake! I will tell, only please... My children! Oh G.o.d, G.o.d!.."

"I tell you, she doesn't feel sorry for strangers," the commissar shrugged, "Only her own. And then not always. Take her to some room and watch so that she doesn't run away.

Longsdale pursed his lips. The hound followed the policemen, who not so much brought out as dragged Mrs. Hughes into the next room.

"What are with you?" the consultant asked quietly, "Why are you doing this? She didn't kill anyone."

"Are you an idiot or do you have a memory like a goldfish?" Brennon said through set teeth, "You said that the beast remained hungry last night, which means that today after sunset it will go hunting again. And we have eight hours left with something to find out who it will rush at this time. I don't have time for sentiments and persuasion."

The next room was a tiny dining room. Mrs. Hughes sat at the table, on the very edge of the chair, crumpled her ap.r.o.n and sniffed. Someone from the policemen donated him handkerchief to her. Brennon threw a folder on the table with a loud pop, and the bailiff's wife jumped up in a chair, as if stung.

"Well?" The commissar asked dryly, hanging over her. He put one hand on the back of the chair, the other on the table, and the woman scaredly crouched in a lump, moved away from him as far as possible.

"I ... I did not know her ..." she jabbered and licked her lips, "Mista McCarthy brought her to us in the winter, from the street ... Although she was not street, no! Well ... Not one of those fallen ... Probably," Mrs. Hughes swallowed, "She was in such a gray dress, very modest, and an old coat, and shawls. Mista McCarthy said her water broke just in the street... I ... I don't know why he brought her ... Why did he bring her!" She cried out with fury.

"She gave birth?" The commissar asked. Mrs. Hughes nodded and wiped her eyes.

"Yes. The boy. I helped. Mista McCarthy said that he needed a midwife and told me..."

"What happened to them?"

"I dont know. The next morning she was gone. Mista McCarthy went around all the neighboring streets, questioned the neighbors, went to all the shelters he knew about, asked in hospitals..."

"Touching care. Maybe it was his child? Or she was his relative?"

Mrs. Hughes flashed:

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"How can you! Mr. McCarthy would never have stooped to such a thing! He has always been so ... so ... Oh Lord, Lord!"

"How did she look?"

The bailiff's wife was distracted from the sobbing that began, thought about it and said:

"Tall, fair-haired, with blue eyes. Very young, but not ours, a foreigner. Pretty," she added, not without envy.

"Can you describe her appearance to the painter?"

"Uhhhh, yes," said Mrs. Hughes in surprise.

"Well. Kelly, send Eddie here. Let him do it. At the same time, rustle through all the statements of missing women, maybe there is some from Mr. McCarthy among them. Look for everything that happened during the period... Um... When did he bring her?"

"But do I remember ... Maybe twenty-fifth ... Or twenty-sixth of October..."

"Okay, Kelly, look starting at the twentieth."

"The date is important," came suddenly from behind the commissar. Brennon turned around. Longsdale propped up the wall by the door. The hound sat at his feet, and the consultant's eyes flickered in the twilight, like pale blue lights. "I need to know the exact day."

"What for?"

Longsdale walked over, confidentially bowed to Mrs. Hughes and stared into her eyes.

"Remember," he whispered softly, "what day was it? What did you do in the morning?"

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing?" The commissar asked displeasedly. He was ignored. Even by the dog.

"Day?" the woman whispered perplexedly, looking mesmerizingly into the consultant's blue eyes, "What day? Usual..."

She somehow strangely froze in a chair, sideways, as if she wanted to get up, but forgot why.

"Day, Nancy," the consultant repeated, and carefully took her hand, "Take a breath and remember the day. You remember everything, just breath."

Mrs. Hughes leaned back in her chair, took a deep breath, and went limp like a doll. Her gla.s.sy gaze settled on Longsdale's face.

"Day ..." she muttered slurredly.

"It has begun," the consultant whispered.

"Until the light," the woman answered dutifully, "We got up, me and my daughters, kindled the fireplace, heated the water ... The kettle burst, and I climbed into the pantry ... My husband went down, Jenny went to wake up the boys..."

"Have you had breakfast?"

"As usual," Mrs. Hughes whispered, "Danny dropped his bread, Macy nearly knocked over the boiling water, Sammy and John fought again ..."

"Can she faster?" The commissar asked through gritted teeth.

"The husband went to the service," the bailiff's wife muttered, "and took the boys to school on the way ... Lord, why do they need school, as if ... as if ..." Longsdale squeezed her hand; she fell silent and wrinkled her forehead, "And I need water for was.h.i.+ng. He forgot to carry water, and we again with buckets ... In this d.a.m.ned cold..."

"Did you wash?" Longsdale asked softly.

"As always, on the last Monday of the month ..."

The consultant released her hand and turned to the commissioner. Mrs. Hughes nearly fell off her chair - the policeman barely managed to catch her.

"Last Monday of October," Longsdale said. "Twenty-sixth."

"Good," the Commissar muttered displeasedly. "Kelly, from the twenty-sixth of October. Someone had to look for the missing young woman."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, do not stand a pillar!"

A policeman jumped out of the dining room, overshadowing himself with a cross as he ran past Longsdale. The hound snorted contemptuously.

"She touched the baby and she had mother's blood on her," said the consultant to Brennon.

"That's why your hound smelled ... Okay. Although it makes no difference, twenty-sixth or thirtieth. This is not a matter of principle already."

"She gave birth to the twenty-sixth, which means she could have drowned him on the twenty-eighth," Longsdale glanced gloomily at the Commissioner. "Three days to Samhain."

***

Brennon drummed his fingers on the folder.

"So, McCarthy has nothing to do with abortion or the conception of a child."

"Well, she could first turn to him for an abortion remedy..."

"He would not give her that, judging by the reviews of his superiors and patients. He worked as a physician in a munic.i.p.al hospital for the poor for twenty-eight years. At the munic.i.p.al hospital! Do you even know what this means?"

"No."

"There they treat the poor, vagrants and the needy. But after graduating from the University McCarthy received invitations to the best hospitals. Here it is, everything here - he stored it on memory, probably. But he didn't leave."

"Yes," Longsdale said, looking at the portrait of the girl that the painter had sketched from the words of Mrs. Hughes.

"Six years ago, he suffered a hard tonsils and could no longer practice. Shortly before that, he received a small inheritance, bought a house and began to rent it. Neighbors prayed for him - not everyone sc.r.a.ped together money for a doctor, and McCarthy did not refuse advice to anyone. So he is just able to rush to the aid of a single woman, even if he sees her for the first time in his life. But you can't say this about our victim number three," Nathan took a piece of paper from the table and waggled it, "This is our last victim at that moment."

Longsdale broke away from studying the portrait.

"Sure?"

"Pharmacist. Jonas Cavana. He was already recognized by his mother and brother. Regan continues to search his pharmacy. In the cache under the pantry floor they have already found a mountain of drugs for abortion."

Longsdale nodded absently and turned away.

"I can't understand just one thing. Well, Colin Murphy is an accidental victim, the beast was hungry and gobbled up the first comer. Okay, Cavana - he sold his mother an abortion drugs, although it did not work. But why the Father Tyne and McCarthy? They were good people... Not bad, at least. So what's the point..."

"Have you read Christmas tales?" suddenly snapped Longsdale. Brennon even flinched. The consultant threw the portrait of the girl on the table and turned to the window. The commissar looked at the predatory profile against the backdrop of a darkening sky and caught himself at the fact that for the first time he saw the consultant annoyed.

"Good people, bad people — what the h.e.l.l is the difference?"

"Well, if it was an ordinary killer, I would agree with you. But this is the spirit."

Longsdale snorted.

"Do you seriously think that the restless soul of an innocent baby will take revenge on the old sinners who brought the child to the grave?"

"Well..."

"Well, throw this nonsense out of your head," Longsdale turned sharply, and Nathan did not recognize his face, "This beast does not care about the good and the bad. It seeks prey, and the first are those whom it remembers. They always do that. This is the last step from human to the undead."

Brennon did not recognize this man. His voice was m.u.f.fled, lower, and mocking; his look, full of mockery and anger, his posture, even a grin twisted to the left ...

The another, Nathan thought. The hound did not take his eyes off the commissioner

"Oh yes," Longsdale hissed, "both the good priest and the glorious doctor — and many other people when it kills everyone she knows. There is no good undead punis.h.i.+ng the villains. There are beasts crawling out from that side of nightmares, and nothing more."

"So it won't stop?" Brennon asked. And he was thinking ... he was hoping ... Secretly, he had a shameful hope that this toad would calm down by killing everyone it knew.

"No," the consultant grinned, and the corner of his mouth rose again in a wry smile. "Its strength will grow and demand new food."

"Who are you?"

He looked at the commissar from underneath, like a wolf, with unkindly glittering eyes, and then suddenly he leaned his shoulder against the window slope, as if suddenly exhausted. In the darkness, the Commissar noticed a faint tremor that ran through the body of the consultant. He suddenly crawled down the slope, and the hound slipped into his arm. Longsdale leaned his hands on the withers of his dog.

"Now I know who it is," he- erstwhile whispered.

Even a voice, the commissar thought. But why did he suddenly change this way? What was the man just here, d.a.m.n it?!

"And who?"

"Utburd," the consultant muttered.

"What is it?" the commissar was puzzled. He pulled out a drawer, found a flask of whiskey hidden in papers and poured into a gla.s.s, handed it to Longsdale. He picked up and sniffed absently. The gla.s.s danced a little in his hand.

"Undead. It appears if the mother kills her baby or leaves him to die. Utburds are strong, dangerous, and the older, the stronger. True, I did not think that they climb so far south. I met them at Sternborn."

"What will he do?"

"Utburds always try to get to their mother, and then they take for everyone else. One such beast can mow a small town. Ours is still relatively weak, and therefore it must be finished now, while I can do it."

Me, Brennon thought. Him and his dog. The dog, hearing the last words, lifted its face and flashed with the embers of its eyes.

"But he is baptized, perhaps..."

Longsdale shook his head.

"Baptism helps protect the soul from other side, and not from the mother's curse. That is how a utburd appears - not just abandoned, but killed in a fit of hatred or despair."

Brennon moved to himself the portrait, which was painted by the painter from the words of Mrs. Hughes. A pretty blond girl of about nineteen to twenty. So nice looking, so cute ... Who is she? And why did that?