Morok

Chapter XI. Marzipan

When the overdressed guests poured out of the Gallery to look at the body, Gorenski lingered behind the window, his lips forming a smirk. Two things became apparent to him: the shiny ripples dissipating in the air above the dead businessman and Zora Bukur's absence. While the victim had indeed been a Wave, Gorenski did not find him particularly interesting or worthy of his curiosity. Pierce, the American, on the other hand, showed surprising calmness- incongruous for a pampered son of a tycoon who never saw blood or struggle in his life. And then there was the issue of Zora – that maddening woman with dark wit and a defiant gaze.

When she appeared in the main hall, her chest heaved as if she had been running. If she was the one responsible for the murder, Gorenski could grudgingly offer her his praise. But he was not certain. Was it his own demise that he worried about, or was it the chilling realization that he would not be remembered or missed?

"I am a surgeon. Let me see if something can be done," Gorenski said, making his way through the crowd. A depression fracture in the back of the man's skull confirmed what the doctor had already known. No amount of medical attention could help him. Yet it was not the obvious trauma that he sought.

As he leaned over the body, whose limp limbs lay twisted in a mess like sausages on a grill platter, Gorenski took a deep breath. While he could no longer smell illness and affliction from the man, he could discern fear.... but not the usual kind. No, it was the afterthought of existential horror that stuck in one's throat: rust and salt against the background of sunburnt skin. He could not explain its origins. And then there was the man's snapped neck that the wailing public did not notice.

When Gorenski retreated, a figure appeared behind him, brandishing his Interpol ID. With his sour, unemotional face, he was the detective Gorenski had read about in the news.

"I don't think you can help him any longer, Doctor...."

"Igor Gorenski," he supplied the information.

"Hm." The detective grumbled, his gaunt figure moving forward. Like an oversized owl, he looked around and blinked his dark, round eyes behind huge glasses.

"Polish?" Kesic raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Yes." It was the truth in more ways than Gorenski wanted to admit.

"And the girl asked if you were Czech or Russian. I heard that."

"I speak many languages. An easy mistake to make. Besides, my name is remarkably suitable for almost any Slavic country. You would know that yourself, I am certain."

"Yes, I know." Kesic dragged his tired hand over his face.

When a small yelp reached Gorenski's ears, he did not react, knowing the guests had just discovered another truth he knew. Apparently, so did Kesic.

"The picture is gone!" A red-haired woman shouted. Massaging his forehead and rubbing the glasses, Kesic cursed in Serbian.

"You will have to excuse me, Doctor Gorenski." He headed back inside the building. "Please, remain here."

"I intend to."

Kesic sighed, then waved his hands like a living scarecrow in the darkness. "Everyone! Please remain inside until the Police arrive!"

A chorus of grumbles followed, accompanied by righteous indignation that Gorenski found curious: it seemed that a human's death did not disturb these businesspeople quite as much as the unexpected change of plans the incident had caused. As always, empathy was rare and destructive for one's soul. No surprise there.

Grateful for the opportunity to observe the guests, Gorenski focused on Zora and Pierce, who loudly complained to others about his unfortunate circumstances. With deliberate grace, Gorenski followed Zora and Pierce into the adjacent room, straining his Morok-enhanced hearing and eyesight. While Zora was the one calling the Police and conversing with the Gallery's owner in Hungarian, Rose remained by her side. But Pierce sneaked away at the first opportunity, excusing himself and heading into the small inner courtyard.