Epilogue. Third Parties

1

"And then I grab him and bam! Knock him to the ground. He tries to break free, the brute, he kicks, and I—"

A faceted glass with compote clanked loudly on the table.

"What are you doing?" the narrator asked in bewilderment.

"Nothing," Crane answered angrily. "Let me eat in peace."

"What? Am I bothering you?"

Instead of answering, Crane silently broke off a piece of cutlet with a fork and put it in his mouth.

After Force's death and Cord's dismissal, Crane was hired to replace the latter, now not as an intern but as a full-fledged officer. However, now an old chatterbox was his tactical partner. No, he was not a bad man, knowledgeable and experienced, but he talked too much. Maybe old age and loneliness affected him: as far as Crane knew, his children practically did not communicate with him, and even more so, they did not let his grandchildren.

The Villain case had not let go Crane until now. That thug, Mort, would be released on Monday. Although he was not the murderer, he had attacked Crane and his partner, and for that, he earned himself time in lock-up, albeit a short time.

"Well, so…" smacking his lips, his partner continued, "I tell him—"

"Hey, Crane!" the duty officer appeared at the entrance to the dining room. "Someone is here for you."

"Who?" Crane perked up.

"A postman," the duty officer replied. "Go to the entrance. He's there."

Crane's gratitude was beyond words: his ears had already begun to fade away from the stream of consciousness of his partner.

***

A teenage boy in a mailman's uniform shifted impatiently from foot to foot as he stood by the attendant's booth.

"Oh, are you Crane?" he mumbled. "This parcel is for you, special delivery. Sign here and here please."

The postman hurriedly handed him a paper bundle, on which lay a receipt. Crane turned the parcel over in his hands.

"Who is the sender?"

"The sender is usually indicated on the receipt. Read and sign, please."

No, it was not specified, only the address and the recipient.

"Sign, please," the postman urged Crane.

Crane silently left his ornate signature and returned the receipt to the boy.

"Thank you very much!" he grinned. "Goodbye!"

And the postman jumped out of the office with a springy gait.

"Is there a bomb in it?" the duty officer tried to joke.

"Now we will find out," Crane answered gloomily.

***

Returning to his office, which was once Cord's office, Crane sighed with relief: his partner had not yet returned from lunch, which meant that he could open the parcel without unnecessary questions.

Crane put it neatly on the table and took a pair of scissors out of the drawer. Well, what do we have here?

A letter in an envelope and a notebook… Hmm, looks familiar. Then there was an audio cassette with no markings, strange, and an invitation for the Sunday premiere of "Third Parties" at the Post-Mortem Theater, even stranger. Crane had never been interested in theater. Maybe the parcel was sent to me by accident?

Okay, I'd figure it out along the way.

He opened the envelope and pulled out the lone handwritten sheet. As soon as he began to read, his heart beat faster.

__________

Dear Brother!

Most likely, I am writing to you from the grave because if I were alive, there would be no need for this letter. Unfortunately, I did not have time to finish what I was doing, primarily because of my own torment. Am I doing the right thing? What is, in fact, right? But now, as I write these lines, the thought is spinning in my head: if you are reading this letter, then what I planned to do must be done. Sorry for the confusion. I'm not good at wording.

I know who killed Familiar. And I know who's beating me. Or rather, who has already killed me, considering that this letter fell into your hands.

It is Cord. I will not go into all the evidence. You yourself will be able to find it. I will only tell you where to look for it.

1. Cord is ambidextrous, that is, he can use both hands equally well. Go back to Familiar's case and notice the photographs of his wounds and the nicks in the doorframe. They are applied from different sides.

2. Study my diary, especially the January and May entries. I had a habit of writing down thoughts and ideas so as not to forget them. Perhaps they will push you, like me, in the right direction.

3. Listen to the cassette. The recording is terrible, but you can hear it. What you hear there will shock you. For obvious reasons, this tape was not recorded by me, but it was done and sent to you at my request.

4. The premiere of the play "Third Parties" will take place on the 3rd of July. An expected premiere for many theatergoers! And I have a ticket. I want you to go to the play for me. Everything will end there.

I didn't work as nicely as Cord, who must have fooled you, but I think I was pretty effective. My friend never suspected that I was capable of cunning manipulations. In some ways, he was right: I was not shrewd enough to survive. Well, what can I do now?

With love,

Force

__________

Crane read the letter again, and again, and again. How is this possible?

Okay. I will do what is written to do. But the Villain case is already in the archives… Okay, I can skip the first point, for now, so the Diary.

Crane started flipping through it. At first, nothing was interesting, but then he stumbled upon one entry made on January 8: "Cord went crazy. So different from him. Although he had never been shot before…"

The letter was certainly written by Force: the handwriting was the same. Crane looked further.

January 12: "The wounds are wrong. Two-handed…? IS THE KILLER—CORD?" The last phrase was circled.

January 13: "Perhaps Cord has guessed."

January 15: "I will not turn Cord in. He is my friend."

February 1: "Cord does nothing. Maybe I was wrong?"

May 4: "Cord looked at me for too long. Does he want to kill me?"

May 5: "I want to die."

May 7: "I didn't die. Can't leave while the perpetrator is free. The monster must be in a cage."

On May 11, the last phrase was left: "A little bit left to go!" Force was killed that day by his best friend Cord.

The thoughts in Crane's head raged. He began to see events in a different vein. It remained to listen to the cassette.

***

Crane almost knocked down his partner, who was returning from dinner.

"Hey, what are you doing?" he was indignant.

Crane did not deign to answer him.

Bursting into Chief's office, he rather stunned his boss.

"CRANE! WHERE DO GET OFF?!" he began, but when he saw the guy's face covered with glistening tears, he broke off. "Explain what happened?"

"Chief, you must hear this!" Crane turned on the tape recorder which he had brought with him.

A deafening hiss sounded from it.

"What is the meaning of this?" Chief was indignant.

"Now, wait, the conversation will begin. Otherwise, it will be inaudible."

Then, a few minutes later, a low bass was heard from the speaker:

"Do you think he's blind?"

The further the recording went, the intenser Chief's emotions became.

"Mort overdid it."

The same Mort who would be released in two days after serving his sentence honestly for assaulting a police officer?

"During the fight with Familiar, I first hit to the left, then began to beat from the right, and in the hallway, I had the ax in my left hand again."

Cord. Chief's eyes filled with tears from realizing that his own son was killed by the one he practically considered his son.

"So it was you who stole Chief's award pistol!"

Force's voice sounded filled with joy. This greatly surprised Chief.

"I choose death."

Force himself sentenced himself to death.

"Goodbye, Cord."

"Farewell, Force."

*Gunshot*

***

Of course, a cassette with a recording from an unknown origin cannot be used as evidence. Still, if you are the head of the Central Police Department, any permission can be issued retroactively.

2

Cord straightened his handsome red bow tie and smiled at his own reflection.

"Well, how do I look?" He turned to Fiddler dressed in a three-piece suit. The friend softly rocked the cradle.

Fiddler smiled.

"You look like a waiter."

"Go to hell," Cord laughed.

"Come on! Do not swear in the presence of a person of blue blood!"

Cord walked over to the cradle. The girl in a miniature dress was lying there and held out her hands to him and also laughed. The father gently took his daughter in his arms. The girl grabbed his nose.

"What was she named?" Fiddler smiled.

"Not yet. We are still thinking." Cord looked into the laughing eyes of his daughter. "What do you say, little one?" Cord buried his nose in her tummy, which made the girl laugh even more.

"It's about time. A whole month has passed."

"Ha! We are not the only slobs! Sky also recently gave birth, did you hear?"

"No," Fiddler was surprised. "How long ago?"

"On Wednesday. On Friday, she called us and told us about everything. They also had a girl, and a very unusual one—an albino with violet eyes. Can you imagine? In short, tomorrow we will go to our country house and celebrate everything—Dia's premiere, the release of Mort, and the birth of the daughter of Sky and Peace. We'll get together in the evening, and it will be an overnighter. Are you with us?"

Fiddler hesitated.

"I probably won't make it. In the morning, my sister is arriving. She is going to enter the university. I need to meet her and all that."

"Is she decent?"

"Well, she's complicated, but she is not involved in crime. Unlike us," Fiddler winked.

Cord laughed.

"How old is she?"

"Eighteen."

"Well, she is almost the same age as Sky. Tell her to come with us."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite. You can even ask Dia, although she is always up for new acquaintances."

"Okay," Fiddler smiled. "By the way, I was thinking about a name for your daughter…"

"And?" Cord looked at his friend with interest.

"Her birth became a kind of border between the past life and this one—"

"Hmm. Are you suggesting we call her Life?"

"No," Fiddler shook his head, "I suggest the antithesis to Mort. Vie."

"Vie?"

"Yeah. The name is short and makes you smile when you say it. And if you consider what a funny girl she is, it is very suitable for her."

In confirmation, the child hummed happily. Cord laughed.

"And what, my daughter seems to agree. I like it too. Dia will probably be all excited."

Cord glanced at his father's old chronometer.

"We've got to go," Cord said. "They'll be coming to pick us up now."

"Wait, you are without a bouquet, or what?"

"Children are the flowers of life, aren't they?" Cord winked slyly.

***

They arrived at the Post-Mortem forty minutes before the start of the performance and therefore found time to admire the theater's appearance. The combination of wood, glass, and natural stone created a fantastic feeling of being in a fairytale and close to nature. The square with fragrant flowers and young birches only intensified it. Cord, who had never understood architecture, could not (although he really wanted to) find the words to describe the splendor that opened before him.

At the entrance, they were met by Tsar, who looked, as always, gorgeous, and the director of the play, whose name Cord had forgotten.

"Oh, oh, here are our dear friends!"

The director waved to Cord and Fiddler, walking with the carriage and a bouquet of white and red roses.

"Tsar, is that in anticipation?" asked Cord, shaking hands with his father-in-law.

"You don't say," Tsar smiled. "My daughter will fulfill her dream today, and her husband and daughter will see her performance!" The grandfather smiled regally at his granddaughter. The girl giggled.

***

After talking a little, the company went inside, and Cord noticed another acquaintance in the crowded foyer. The boy, he thought his name was Ghost, was talking to a stranger in his thirties. Fragments of their conversation reached Cord.

"Is everything ready?" the man asked Ghost.

"Things will go as they should," he assured him. "There shouldn't be any inconsistencies."

"Good."

The man met Cord's gaze for a moment. He smiled, nodded briefly at him, and disappeared into the crowd. He looked familiar, but Cord couldn't remember where he had seen him before.

"Cord, hello!" Ghost walked up to him. The young guy was the only one in the foyer not in a jacket, but in a vest over a white shirt. "Glad you came!" He shook Cord's hand vigorously.

"How could I have missed a play in which my wife plays?"

"Oh, Dia is a brilliant actress, you'll see! And I'll tell you a secret, the performance will be unforgettable!"

***

Whenever he was at Tsar's country estate, Cord had never noticed that he was being guarded—Tsar masterfully hid his defenders. Still, today Cord saw strong men here and there, keeping order. Visually almost indistinguishable from the theatergoers, the "men in black" did not look relaxed but collected. Of course, they were not relaxed; there were too many elites per square meter gathered here!

Cord shared this observation with Fiddler.

"Imagine what they would do if they found out that a homeless man was in their midst?" he chuckled.

The first bell rang, then the second, and people began to flock to the hall.

Here Cord and Fiddler parted with Tsar: he, together with top state officials, went to the VIP booths. The friends and Vie went to the ground floor, to the first row. Cord was surprised when Dia insisted they take their daughter with them. However, the girl did not cause any problems and just quietly looked around and sucked on a pacifier.

And now, the third call. The lights went out. A young guy who Cord recognized as Ghost came out on stage and announced the beginning of the performance. The curtain went up, and the show began.

***

Cord never understood theater. Why was it needed when there were movies? Deliberately vivid emotions, intentionally active gestures—in contrast to films where the actor could convey the psychological state of the character with the simple movement of an eyebrow; the abstract scenery that required additional work of the imagination—and filming on location or in a studio where everything was as detailed as possible.

Despite the aforementioned, while watching his wife's performance, Cord, to his surprise, succumbed to theatrical magic. The actors no longer seemed unrealistic to him, and the plot, albeit against simplistic scenery, captured his attention in such a way that Cord caught every remark and every movement while striving not to miss anything.

Dia played the wife of a writer who had created a potential masterpiece. There was the problem: the editor demanded the author rewrites the story because its ideas were non-standard and could seriously harm conservative society. And the writer began to remove this or that detail. Then, together with his wife, he again sent the manuscript and again received letters with corrections in response.

At first, minor details disappeared, then the plot changed, but his wife continued to bring him refusals. The writer was slowly going crazy. It seemed to him that he could never finish the book. Then it seemed that he was the hero of his novel and not the writer at all, and therefore writing the book became impossible.

History had come to its own catharsis. The writer, sitting at the table, surrounded by crumpled and scattered sheets of text, took a fistful of pills in his hand and exclaimed:

"I'll fall asleep from this world!" and swallowed them in one gulp.

The stage lights went out slowly.

And suddenly, Dia appeared in the spotlight. She walked slowly towards her husband's body, clutching the very first manuscript.

"What a fool! You wrote a masterpiece, but you were not sure of it, and therefore you allowed yourself to be deceived."

Dia defiantly took a pen from the table, crossed out her husband's name in the manuscript's title, and wrote her own. Amazed exclamations were heard in the hall. Dia turned to her dead husband:

"Your book will be printed under my name."

Then she turned to the audience and took two steps to the edge of the stage.

"When I came, then I—"

Suddenly the lights turned on in the hall. Dia hesitated, and her eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and horror: the hall was full of armed men in uniform.

"Dear viewers!" The voice came from the side of the VIP booths where her father was. "Please do not worry, and stay where you are. At this moment, there is a dangerous criminal in the hall."

***

Chief's voice. Cord recognized it and grinned.

Damn it. I had not planned for this.

He glanced at Fiddler, nervously clutching the bouquet. Or maybe…

"Fiddler," he called his friend in a whisper, "give me the bouquet and take my daughter."

The friend obediently followed the instructions.

"Find your way to the stage and wait behind the curtains. As soon as I call you, come out and do what you need to do. You will understand."

Fiddler nodded.

Chief continued to broadcast into a megaphone.

"This man is the most dangerous criminal in recent years. You know him by the name of the Villain. He is a former investigator who worked in the Central Police Department. He is one of the best in the business and has successfully led us around by the nose for a year. He has ten victims on his account, including my son Familiar, unjustly accused of his crimes, and a friend and colleague Force Majeure, who worked with this man on the Villain case."

Clear. They had now attributed all the murders to me, which meant that now there would be a demonstrative public detention. After all, they could have quietly detained me at the entrance, but they chose to put on the show.

Well, bitches, you'll get your show.

Cord pulled off the wrapping from the bouquet in one motion. The rustle was heard all around, and the automatic rifles in the hands of the soldiers began to look for the source of the sound. Cord got up from his seat and walked to the stage, holding the bouquet in his right hand.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" announced Cord. "My former boss Chief, or Saffron, if you like his proper name, is talking about me. I am indeed a murderer, and yes, the deaths of his son and my friend and colleague Force are indeed on my hands. However…" Cord paused meaningfully and smiled. "Can everything be so simple?"

Whispers were heard in the hall. People did not understand what was happening here. Someone applauded, probably thinking that what was happening was a continuation of the postmodern performance.

"Cord, throw the bouquet on the floor and hands behind your back!" ordered Crane, approaching along the aisle.

Cord ignored him and pointed with the bouquet to the VIP booths where Chief was standing next to Tsar.

"We all understand a person's desire to protect their loved ones. Some, like me, are ready to cross the line of the law for this. I killed Familiar because he tried to shoot me himself. You all probably know about this; in January, that is all that people talked about it. But why, you ask, did I not act according to the law? For the simple reason, ladies and gentlemen," Cord smiled. "The law is not the same for everyone."

The hall was quiet.

"Chief!" shouted Cord. "On the night of the twelfth of July last year, you helped your son get rid of the corpse of the prostitute Piala whom he had killed!"

"FALSE!" Chief barked into the megaphone.

"So there's no torn body bag or a pair of red shoes at the bottom of one of the park pond?" Cord squinted slyly. "So it is not true that you did not give investigators permission to survey the pond because there was evidence which incriminated you and your son?"

"What are you talking about?!" Chief angrily shouted into the megaphone. "This bastard is manipulating you all!"

Tsar raised his hand for silence. Then he got up and took the megaphone from Chief:

"Go on, Cord."

"The law is not the same for everyone. Homeless people, drug addicts, prostitutes—these are three categories of people least protected by the law. Their testimony is often not taken seriously, their lives are not deemed to be valuable, and because of this, the police do not actively investigate crimes against them. I have a witness who saw Chief and his son pack a corpse in a bag and sink it in a pond. The problem is, he's homeless. Fiddler!" Cord waved towards the stage.

Fiddler uncertainly came out onto the stage. He gave Cord's daughter to Dia and then stood next to her.

"That is…" The voice came out soft, but then Fiddler coughed and pulled himself together. "It's true! That night I was sleeping on a bench in a parallel alley and saw everything. How they hid the corpse in a sack, and then how they sank it into the pond. I waited until they left and dived for the body because I believe crimes should not go unpunished! But I was afraid for my life, and therefore did not testify—"

"He did the right thing!" Cord interrupted his friend. "Unfortunately, today my second witness is not here—a prostitute who witnessed the quarrel between Familiar and Piala. But her madam testified and was killed last October. Who do you think by?"

Cord himself did not know by whom, but from the audience, a lonely cry was heard: "By Familiar!"

"Now, do you understand why I killed Familiar instead of acting according to the law? Because the law is not the same for everyone, because I was sure that his father would again help him avoid a fair punishment and then Familiar would have the opportunity to make another attempt on my life, or perhaps not on me but on my pregnant wife or later on my daughter. I figured that family was the only thing that could be killed for."

The hall was buzzing. Tsar gave a signal, and two bodyguards tied up Chief. He yelled, "He's lying!"; he was swearing, splashing saliva everywhere, and no longer resembled the stately head of the Central Police Department but a crazy old man.

Cord couldn't believe what was happening, but… Would I really be able to get out of the water dry? Could I really outplay them?

He raised his hand for silence, and the uproar gradually died down.

"I confess to another murder—the murder of my best friend Force, who was also the brother of this guy, who is still aiming his gun at me."

Crane lowered the pistol uncertainly. However, the fighters with machine guns continued to keep the former investigator in their sights. Cord continued calmly:

"My friend fell in love with a journalist whose name you probably know. Her name was Pink Flaminga. Thanks to Force and some not very sensitive information in the Villain case he provided her, she became popular. But between them, there was a disagreement, and this was the first blow for my friend. Then the journalist was killed—the second blow. But Force was finally finished off by dismissal from the ranks of the police. His work was everything to him. Guess who robbed Force of his work?" Cord again pointed to Chief with the bouquet and turned to him: "You said that my friend's offense was not too serious, and you would have punished him with a reprimand. So why then did you decide to fire him?"

Chief said nothing.

"Were you afraid of a scandal? Like the one that erupted after your son's death? When society took up arms against you, and me and Force and the journalist, by the way, tried to protect you in every way. You were afraid that a mole scandal in your office would destroy your reputation. And so you decided to ruin a person's life. How are you better than your son who solved his problems by killing people who disliked him?"

"But it was you, you killed Force!" shouted Chief. "Not me!"

"You plunged him into the abyss of depression. Force began to drink too much, then tried to hang himself. So, ladies and gentlemen!" Cord again fraternized with the hall. "Do you want to know why I killed my best friend?"

A dead silence froze the hall. All eyes were on Cord. He silently looked around at the audience and then heard the unexpected:

"He asked you to."

Crane. There were tears in the guy's eyes.

"He saw no more reason to live," Crane said loudly. "He said that he had lost everything, and in any case, he would make another suicide attempt."

A chill ran down Cord's spine.

"How do you know that?" Cord asked Crane.

Suddenly, the lights went out in the hall. Someone yelled out in surprise. Then, unexpectedly, the darkness was lit up by a flash. Cord turned and, as if in slow motion, saw a curtain of fire falling behind them. He saw Fiddler pushing Dia away and the wall of fire crashing onto the stage.

And then short bursts of automatic weapons fire could be heard in the hall.

"The Villain is here," Cord heard himself say. "Give me a gun!"

"What?" Crane had not yet understood.

There was no time. Cord ran up to the guy and poked the bouquet in his face. He gasped in surprise and dropped the pistol. Cord caught it on the fly:

"Run, you moron!" and he rushed to the stage.

Along with the shots, panic ensued in the hall. People shouted, jumped up from their seats, tried to run, knocked each other down, and ran over the fallen. Meanwhile, the fire was spreading, as was the black smoke. Cord looked for a passage to the stage, but could only see a wall of fire. Suddenly, he heard someone call out:

"Cord, here!"

Cord covered his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his jacket and walked towards the sound. Fiddler was waiting for him at the half-open door to the stage, hidden behind the velvet curtains that were already starting to burn.

"Faster, Cord!"

Cord made his way along the edge of the stage, pushing through the people rushing around in a panic. Finally, he reached the entry area to the stage.

"Where is Dia?!"

"I'm here, Cord!" she shouted from the far side of the stage.

"Find water, moisten a rag and cover our daughter's nose and mouth, then your own!"

"I am! Right now!" Fiddler rushed backstage and brought back two half-liter bottles of mineral water.

"Those are okay. Give me one! Pour the second one onto the crook of your elbow and press it to your face! Like this!" Cord switched Crane's pistol in his free hand and demonstrated. Then he ran to his wife, taking off his jacket on the way.

Dia was wearing her theatrical dress and coughing, trying to calm their crying child.

"Father!" she remembered.

"They'll save him," Cord moistened the sleeve of his jacket, put the lower part on his daughter's face, and handed the upper part to Dia. "Do as I said!"

Cord had heard that it is not the fire that is dangerous in a fire, but the smoke. The moistened cloth would help protect the respiratory organs from it.

"Where to now?" Cord asked.

A terrible rumble was heard behind them as the spotlights fell onto the stage. Fiddler barely managed to jump out of their way.

"Lead!" Cord shouted to Dia. "Walk along the wall and stay as close to the floor as possible!"

***

They walked along a smoky corridor, lit only by flashes of fire. Shouts were heard everywhere, sometimes silhouettes flashed, past once Dia tripped over someone's motionless body. Ahead, in the room to their right, there was an explosion. The door flew off its hinges, and a screaming, burning man ran into the corridor.

"Don't stop!" commanded Cord.

The living torch was moving directly towards Dia and the child. Cord, without wasting a second, fired three bullets at him. Two hit the target, and the man collapsed to the floor. Passing the broken door, Cord looked into the room. There, in the smoke, several more silhouettes writhed in terrible agony. Someone was reaching out to him, asking for help. And Cord fired once at each silhouette. He hoped he saved the poor fellows from torment and did not add new sufferings with inaccurate shots.

"Exit!" shouted the coughing Fiddler.

Cord caught up with them at the heavy-looking wooden door.

"It won't budge!" said Fiddler.

"To hell with it!" shouted Cord. "We'll take it down!"

And they pushed. Something on the other side was going against the door. A trap?

"One more time! Come on!"

Finally, the door gave way, and they heard something soft roll off the porch.

"Dia first!" commanded Cord. "Then Fiddler!"

When they got out, Cord jumped out on his own, slammed the door, and coughed in an attempt to inhale the fresh evening air. They were saved. Fuck! What was all that? The fire, the explosions, and the shots—

"Cord," Fiddler touched his friend on the shoulder.

Cord turned and was speechless. Their door had been blocked by two bodies, now lying on the steps of the porch. But this was not what horrified Cord: before his eyes was a real massacre. The bodies of the theater employees, hoping to find salvation here, lay interspersed with the bodies of the soldiers of the Special Capture Group, who had come for the soul of Cord. Some were shot, some were missing limbs, and one soldier had his head chopped off. And amid all this kingdom of death, it stood.

The Swan.

Safe and sound.

In a moment, the daze passed. The friends ran down the stairs and walked away from the burning theater building.

"How is our daughter?" Cord asked.

"Okay," Dia smiled, covered in soot stains. "This is your car, right? The one we had an accident in?"

Cord swallowed. For some reason, it felt creepy.

"Looks like it."

"What is it doing here? I thought you sold it."

Dia's questions didn't fit the situation!

"I don't know. Dia, listen. My story is over. Despite the performance that I put on, they will jail me. And then there are these corpses. Therefore—"

"No 'therefore'!" Dia objected. "We'll get out of here all together!" And Dia and her daughter went towards the Swan.

In the distance, sirens were heard—firefighters, or police, or all of them at once. It was time to get out of here.

"I will not dissuade you, yes?" Cord caught his wife by the hand. "Okay. But first, I'll check the car."

Intuition shouted to Cord: "Stop! Don't go near! It's a trap!", but he brushed it aside. He was not thinking clearly, and his whole existence was focused on one thing: survival. He didn't have time to argue or think through a plan.

He scanned the underbody of the car, then under each wheel arch. Nothing, no explosives. He looked in the window, and there, in the ignition, was a key.

He thought this is a terrible idea, but still, he opened the driver's door (unlocked, of course) and got behind the wheel. He put the pistol in his belt.

Well, now either there will be an explosion, or the car will start.

Cord exhaled and turned the ignition key. The motor started gurgling a little. Nothing else happened. Meanwhile, Cord had already seen the flashing beacons of police cars approaching the theater.

There is no time.

"Come on, everything is fine!"

Dia sat in the front seat with her daughter in her arms, and Fiddler jumped into the back.

Actually, there was another possibility, and that was that the car would explode while they were driving. But no, Cord squeezed the clutch, turned on the gas, and the Swan started smoothly.

And at that moment, the car was hit up by machine gun fire. The bullets went through the hood, windshield, and roof. Cord instinctively pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor to avoid being shot. Accelerating, the car shot forward, rammed through a barrier, and flew out onto the roadway, where it almost crashed into a passing car. Taking back control, Cord glanced at the blazing theater. There, on the roof, surrounded by flames, stood a man with an automatic rifle in his hands.

"Fuck! Are you all safe?"

"I'm fine!" answered Fiddler. "You have blood on your right side."

Cord looked down. A red spot was spreading across his white shirt. Just then, Cord felt the pain: the bullet must have gone through tangentially. He turned his gaze to his wife and almost froze with horror.

The bullets miraculously missed the child, but Dia was not so lucky. On her right thigh, stomach, and the upper part of her left breast, red stains were spreading. She was coughing up blood.

"Fiddler, take Vie!" Cord shouted in panic.

The friend bent down and, with infinite care, took the child from Dia's weakening arms.

"Vie…" Dia tried to smile. "Good name…"

"Come on, your left hand on your stomach, your right hand on your thigh, and squeeze tight!"

But the girl, not listening to her husband, put her right hand on her husband's hand, which was pressing the wound on her chest.

"Better… this way…" the girl tried to wail again. Tears appeared in her eyes.

Cord heard the horn and barely managed to avoid a collision after he had flown into the oncoming lane.

"Fiddler, where is the hospital?!"

"Not far! At the crossroads, turn left!"

Dia turned to her husband and caught his eye. A trickle of blood came out of her mouth. Their daughter screamed in the back seat.

The car sped up to one hundred and twenty kilometers per hour. Cord steered with one hand, while with the other, he was trying to stop Dia's bleeding. It was useless: the girl was weakening before his eyes.

"Hold on, Dia," Cord begged her. "Please hold on…"

An ambulance flew past with the lights on. It meant that they were already near.

Cord felt his wife's fingers release his hand.

"No, no!" Cord squeezed it. "Dia!"

But the girl's eyes closed: she lost consciousness.

"There it is!" exclaimed Fiddler, pointing forward.

Cord had already seen for himself: they drove up to the hospital and entered through the open hospital gates. The Swan sped up to the main entrance and screeched to a stop. Smoke was pouring out from under the hood of the car.

"Let's go!" commanded Cord.

His right arm, side, and leg were covered in blood, but his own wounds didn't matter. He had to hasten.

"Get out of here!" Cord turned to his friend. "Take the baby. If Dia doesn't survive—"

Fiddler nodded. Words were superfluous. He hugged the crying Vie close to him, got out of the car, and disappeared into the night.

Cord opened the passenger door from the inside and pressed the horn. Then he got out of the car and walked as quickly as he could towards Dia. It hurt to walk. Cord only now realized that he himself was injured seriously.

History was repeating itself. It was the same as in the summer when he crashed into a pole in this same cursed car and almost killed Dia. But now it was worse, much worse.

Cord looked at the entrance. Where are the fucking doctors?! Cord pulled the pistol from his belt and fired twice into the air, once towards the exit. The glass of one door shattered.

Cord returned the pistol to his belt. Gingerly, he grabbed Dia. His wife was practically weightless. Or maybe the adrenaline gave him strength.

A frightened woman in a blue dressing gown finally appeared outside the door. Cord shouted:

"Emergency! Gunshot wounds! We're from the theater!"

Holding Dia in his arms, he made his way to the entrance of the hospital.

***

The nurse on duty, hearing the beeps of the car, paid little attention to them. Tonight would be an intense night: a terrorist act had been committed in the newly built Post-Mortem Theater. She had already sent three ambulance teams and mobilized all the doctors she could reach. The first victims would arrive here any minute, and she had no time to watch who was honking.

It was only after two shots rang out, and a third one was followed by the sound of breaking glass, that she finally looked out. A disheveled and soot-covered man, clutching a pistol, carried a girl in his arms, blood dripping from her chest and legs onto the asphalt. Behind them was a shot-up car with a shattered windshield.

***

Before even reaching the first step, Cord saw orderlies running out of the door with a stretcher. An elderly doctor ran alongside and gave out commands.

"Young man, put her down like this, carefully." He turned to the orderlies: "To the intensive care unit!"

"Doctor," Cord tugged at his sleeve. "Three gunshot wounds from a rifle. Caliber unknown. Right thigh, abdomen and left lung, the wound in the abdomen went through."

"Time of injury?"

"About ten minutes ago."

"First aid?"

"We tried to stop the bleeding with the pressure of our hands as we drove here."

The doctor nodded and glanced at Cord's side.

"You are wounded."

"I am finished, so don't waste your time."

The doctor nodded again and hurried after the orderlies. Cord tried to keep up with them. At the entrance to the intensive care unit, the doctor stopped him.

"You can't go in there."

"I'm her husband."

"Even so."

Cord pulled the pistol out from his belt again.

"I will not interfere."

***

The nurse called the police. She said that a man with a pistol had burst in and said that he was from the theater. They quickly guessed who it was and sent the Special Capture Group to get him.

***

Dia had lost a lot of blood. Her pulse was quickening. 130 beats per minute. 140. Her heart tried to pump blood, which was becoming less and less. The bleeding could not be stopped.

Cord sat in a stupor against the wall. This is the end. He had no illusions. In the theater, he had dared to hope that everything would be okay, but he understood intellectually: his freedom was over. But what happened next, he had not foreseen.

Today I had faced the Villain and had lost.

He thought about the shooter. As he stood surrounded by fire and watched them all the time. It was he who shot the car. It was he who killed…

Dia… Dia… Dia…

My wife, my love, my happiness…

***

The doctor shook him by the shoulders and sadly told Cord:

"There is nothing we can do."

Cord looked at him blankly.

"There was no chance. The bullet severed the pulmonary artery—"

Cord waved the pistol, interrupting the doctor's explanation.

"Go away. Get out of here, please."

The doctor hesitated and nodded.

***

The Special Capture Group had made it to the hospital.

***

Cord walked over to Dia and looked at her face. So beautiful, so dear, so pale.

For the second time recently, he looked at the dead face of a loved one.

Dia… The girl who had become everything to him, who gave his life meaning, the girl who every moment he was with had made him happy… She was gone.

So much hadn't been said yet. Not done. Not experienced… And never would be.

Cord gripped the petite hand of his beloved wife. Goodbye, Dia.

***

Cord heard the clatter of heavy boots coming down the corridor and returned to his original place against the wall. He sat down. Tears ran down his cheeks.

It's time.

Cord put the muzzle of the pistol to his chin…

Here I had nothing more to catch.

…closed his eyes…

Fuck life.

…and pulled the trigger.

There was a click.