Free The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art by Ken Fry

wrapped, packaged, and bound in bundles of four.
    A shiver passed through his body prompting him to throw more logs onto the gasping fire. He stood back for a moment to watch the display of yellow, orange and red sparks, hissing and spitting from the grate. Turning to look from the window, he could see autumn’s advance, evident in the drooping melancholy of the surrounding trees, as they surrendered their leaves to the earth. A lazy morning mist drifted across the meadow from the Vorskla River, embracing all in its path.
    How wonderful, how wonderful!
    He never failed to notice the moist, warm, straw smell from the animals, the fumes from the oil lamp he always kept burning, and the pungent smell of his brother’s cured tobacco. Not much had changed since his father’s days.
    His admiration was interrupted by the potent sounds of war, drawing closer, louder and threatening. He knew he had little time. From a distance, he could hear the growl of artillery, the muted thunder of exploding shells, and the whine of unknown weaponry ripping their lethal loads into God knows what. He looked around the cobbled courtyard where Katya, a big chestnut mare stood tethered to a spacious cart that stood alongside his IZH motorcycle. He saw Katya’s ears twitch, as if she understood the approach of a dark catastrophe.
    Out of the window, he called to his brother Lev, who, with his sister Sofia, were loading supplies and possessions into the back of the cart. Everything was covered in tarpaulins and bundled together with stout ropes and farmer’s string.
    Lev walked in. “Mikhail?”
    Mikhail’s affection for his younger brother, as warm as a blanket in summer, had never changed. He looked over at him, not knowing if he would ever see him again. Lev had a short black beard and wore a woollen peaked cap with a collarless shirt fastened around his waist by a leather belt.
    “Lev, can you load these into the cart? Be very careful, please.” He pointed to the paintings he’d stacked along the wall.
    “Of course.” Lev bent over to pick up the first bundle.
    As he did so, Mikhail could see Lev’s body had grown thin from food shortages, his shoulder blades jutting through his shirt. Yet, hardships hadn’t succeeded in diminishing the inner strength that continued to smoulder through dark, sorrowful eyes.
    Lev began stacking the paintings into the back of the cart, while Sofia stood in the back, arranging them in tidy rows, making sure they were protected by the soft bundles of padding she placed around them.
    Sofia was younger than them both, and Mikhail and Lev had, in her younger days, guarded her fiercely from any troubles or upsets. Now, she was more than capable of looking after herself. Mikhail stood back, unable, even at this time, to prevent himself from studying her tall silhouette framed against the sun as she moved around in the cart. Her tousled hair hung from behind, a tight-fitting, red and blue patterned headscarf fixed around her head. She wore a matching heavy woollen top, skirt, and strong firm leather boots.
    Mikhail had always wondered why she had never married – undeniably, a rough and rugged beauty sparkled from her face, as if a sculptor had chiselled it. She had said she would never marry for the sake of it, unlike other women from the village, and that when the right man appeared, she would know it. He wondered if she ever would.
    She shouted down to Mikhail. “Mikhail, when we reach the river, we can hide your paintings in the forest caves where those Nazi thieves won’t find them. What d’you think?”
    “That’s what I was thinking. They’ll be protected from the weather and nobody’s going to find them there. Promise me you’ll let me know exactly where you put them. Promise?” He knew what he’d said would have an impact. He saw them stand straight, turn and look at each other with concerned and quizzical expressions.
    Sofia placed her hands on her hips. “What?”
    “Yes, what are you