The Holy Thief Read Online Free PDF Page B

interrupt the general when he was thinking. Eventually Popov remembered his presence and pointed the unlit pipe toward the entrance once again.
    “A terrible thing, Korolev. Some fellow got in there last night and . . .” he paused and then beckoned Korolev to follow him into the church. “It’s not pretty, anyway, and if we don’t catch him soon he’ll be at it again. He has the taste for it—I feel it in my bones.”
    The interior was dark except for weak rays of light squeezing through the small stained-glass windows that circled the several domes. Each dome of the church offered a separate fresco representation of a scene from the Bible and the murky light picked out the gold-circled heads and silver robes of saints. Korolev felt his mouth harden as Party slogans loomed out of the darkness, painted directly onto the frescos and mosaics. The young brats should find better things to do with their time than acts of mindless hooliganism, he thought to himself as he followed Popov from shadow to shadow toward the sacristy at the far end of the church.
    Even the sacred templon, the wooden wall that separated the congregation from the mysteries of the altar and which would have been covered with icons in the old days, was now hung with banners exhorting greater efforts for the Soviet cause. Korolev made the sign of the cross in his pocket. Hadn’t Comrade Stalin himself nearly become a priest? He’d have words to say if he saw what these Komsomol pups had been up to.
    “She’s in here,” the general said, walking blithely through the central doors of the templon and into the sacristy, from which white light poured out into the murky nave. Korolev hesitated and then made for the “Deacon’s Door” to the side. The “Holy Doors” in the center were forbidden to all except priests and, even if the holy fathers didn’t seem to have been inside this particular church for a good ten years, he wasn’t walking through their doorway.
    Before he even caught a glimpse of the murdered girl, Korolev already knew something terrible had happened to her. He could smell it. Despite his years in the army, or perhaps because of them, he hated the smell of blood. He didn’t much like the sight of it either and the white marble floor was covered with the stuff. The serene faces of the saints circling the room looked off into the distance, as though they were pretending the horrific scene beneath them had happened somewhere else—and he didn’t blame them. It wasn’t just blood—the poor girl lying on the altar had died hard. He swallowed an urge to retch and could feel his nails digging into the palms of his hand, grateful for the pain they caused. The body had been horrifically mutilated, and he struggled to control his stomach, saliva sharp and salty in his mouth. He reassured himself that if he could last another ten seconds he’d be fine; it was the first minute that was the worst. He took another step forward and, looking down at her, guessed her to have been pretty when life had colored her skin. Only the Devil himself could be responsible for evil such as this. On the other side of the altar, the general sniffed angrily.
    “In a church, of all places,” Korolev heard him whisper and looked up at the general in surprise. Two careless remarks in one day either meant he trusted Korolev more than he should or that Popov had grown weary of life. But then the savagery of the crime had indeed been amplified by the location. Korolev took another step forward, careful not to step in the blood, particularly not the congealed shoeprints that might give a clue to the killer.
    She was laid out on her back, her arms extended at right angles to what was left of her chest. Where the body was not hacked open or smeared with blood the skin was pearly white, as though it had never seen the sun, but he was aware this might be an effect of the arc light’s intensity. The girl’s legs were slightly spread, enough for Korolev to see