IT WAS after midnight as Reggie crept down to the library at Harrowsfield. The rain was beating against the windows and a cold wind was catapulting down the chimney, feeding a burst of oxygen onto a fading fire. She closed the door behind her, sat at the long table, and picked up a file. Under the light of a single table lamp she went over the murderous career of Fedir Kuchin for probably the hundredth time. The atrocities hadn’t changed, of course, but if anything they had become more firmly embedded in her mind. She could recite the statistics from memory; she could see the faces of the victims, pages and pages of them. The images of the mass graves, unearthed long after the man had fled the locations of his brutal handiwork, appeared to be seared onto her corneas.

She picked up a grainy picture-they were all grainy pictures, as though violent death could never have any fragment of color-and stared down at the face there. Colonel Huber had had his David Rosenbergs and his Frau Koches, photos Reggie had selected from countless others to show the man at the moment of his death. Well, Fedir Kuchin had his own testaments to a level of insane cruelty that all these men seemed to possess.

The photo she was looking at now was that of a man with an unpronounceable surname. He’d been neither wealthy nor well connected. He’d lived nearly a thousand kilometers from the capital city of Kiev. He was a simple farmer with a large family, one that he worked long hours to support. His crime against the state had amounted to his refusal to turn in his friends to the KGB, to Fedir Kuchin specifically. His punishment had been to be doused with petrol and set on fire in front of his wife and children. He had been burned to bone and cinder while they were forced to watch and listen to his screams.

She picked up another document. Originally written in Ukrainian, it had been translated for her on another piece of paper. It was the order condemning the doomed farmer to death by fire. Fedir Kuchin’s signature appeared large and bold at the bottom of the page, as though he wanted no doubt as to who was the instigator of the man’s horrible murder.

Finally, she gingerly picked up another old photo. It was Fedir Kuchin himself. She held the paper only by the edges, as though afraid to actually touch the image of the man. He was wearing a uniform with the collar undone. In one hand was a pistol, in the other a bottle. It was obviously a staged photo. Back then he had dark hair, slicked back with a severe widow’s peak. His face had not changed all that much over time. Yet the eyes were what drew one in. Reggie felt as though she were traveling down a dark path to the very center of them, losing herself in shadows from which meaningful escape seemed unlikely. She righted herself and slowly put the photo back down, covering it with a stack of paper.

Over the next thirty minutes she went through dozens of other pictures of the dead, Kuchin’s bloody fingerprints on each one. The paperwork was in some ways mechanical; it could have been purchase orders for equipment or food. Yet it was written commands to kill other human beings, done in old-fashioned triplicate complete with carbon copies. Death by bullet. Death by fire. Death by gas. Death by the blade. Death by the noose. All neat and nice. Thank God for those carbon copies, thought Reggie. Without them it would have been nearly impossible to track down and then administer justice to men like Kuchin.

“Extra reading, my dear?”

Startled, Reggie looked around.

Professor Mallory stood in the doorway in an old, tattered checked robe, holding a book and staring at her.

“I never heard you come in,” she said, obviously unsettled that the old man could have gotten this close without her knowing.

“Well, I am light on my feet, despite my size and rheumatism, and you were very much engrossed in what you were doing.” He stepped forward and glanced down at the papers and photos with an inquiring look.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I often can’t sleep,” she admitted.

He sat down in a worn leather chair near the fireplace. “A fact of which I am aware.”

“What are you doing up? Do you have insomnia too?”

“No, Regina, not insomnia.” He winced in pain as he settled himself farther into the cracked leather. “An enlarged prostate, I’m afraid. Given a choice I’d gladly take the insomnia.”

“I’m sorry.”

He eyed the file she was holding. “So what do you think? Any brilliant insights?”

“He’s a man without remorse. He signed off on a thousand death warrants like he would a damn pub bill.”

“Well, I agree with you, but that’s something we already knew.”

He rose, placed another small log on the fire, sat back down in his armchair, and opened his book.

“What are you reading?” Reggie asked.

“On a wild night like this? Agatha Christie, of course. I still feel compelled to see if Hercule Poirot’s ‘little gray cells’ will do their job one more time. It seems to often inspire my own brain, however inferior it might be to the diminutive Belgian’s.”

Reggie rose and stood in front of the fire. Before coming downstairs she’d pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, but her feet were bare and a chill had worked into her. “There was one thing, Professor.”

He looked up from his pages as the storm threw rain at the old leaded window with nearly the force of an errant hose. A scream from the angry wind came down the chimney and Reggie backed away from the sound and sat on a small hassock near him.

“What thing?” he asked.

“Kuchin is a religious man.”

Mallory closed his book and nodded. He pulled his pipe from his pocket and began to stuff it with tobacco.

“Professor, if you don’t mind, that smell actually makes me sick.”

He looked surprised. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I guess I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” She gave a hollow laugh. “I guess after the things I’ve done that seems a bit odd.”

His expression remained serious. “What’s odd? That you have enormous compassion? I would imagine that facet of your personality is one major reason you do this job.”

Reggie hurried on. “Anyway, I read over the case notes. And it says that Kuchin goes to church every Sunday and gives large sums for religious purposes.”

Mallory slipped the pipe back in his pocket. “It’s true enough. I’ve seen it before with men like him. Seeking redemption, solace, hedging one’s bets, even. It’s madness, of course, for such men to believe that any ‘god’ of goodness would have anything to do with the likes of them after death.”

“Mass killers, you mean?”

Mallory interpreted the intent behind her words immediately. “You are nothing like the Fedir Kuchins of the world, Regina.”

“Funny, some days it’s hard for me to tell the difference, really.”

Mallory stood so fast that he dropped his novel. He strode over to the table, picked up a piece of paper, and came back to her, thrusting it in her hands.

It was the photo of the remains of the incinerated farmer. “There is the difference, Regina. Right there.” He took her hand, gripped it firmly, and looked directly into her eyes. “And now tell me about the church.”