Ippolit let voices and movement slide to the corners of his attention. Some Ocelots were going to investigate the cave. Captain Irinarhov, and Isaev, the one who could kill a man without leaving a mark.

Whoever had done this hadn't left much more, in the initial act of murder itself. Subtlety at the base, followed by ostentation.

Rakitin examined the body, careful to avoid the razor wire. The limbs ended in clean severance, as though they had been cut with a butcher knife and impossible strength.

"Not a scratch, aside from the postmortem," he said. "I'll have to do the autopsy before I can tell you anything. Drowning is possible. Our murderer went out of his way to get a clean kill."

A wave of sorrow numbed him, welcome ice pressed against the unneccesary parts of his mind.

"For the sake of a blank canvas, perhaps."