—Elena?

Yates nodded.

—That she wasn’t angry. And that she loved her. She kept mumbling it over and over. Tell her I’m not angry. Tell her that I love her. And then she shut her eyes. This time she didn’t open them a gain.

Leo was crying. He let his tears run, unable to wipe them away since he was keeping Yates’s arms pinned down. He composed himself enough to ask:

—You didn’t tell Elena? You couldn’t even do that?

Yates shook his head.

Leo stood up. Freed, Yates pressed his hand against the bullet wound, stemming the bleeding. His anger and confidence returned.

—I answered your questions! Call an ambulance!

Leo took hold of Nara’s hand, silently guiding her up the padded stairs. Behind them came the cry:

—Call me a fucking ambulance!

In the hallway Leo put the gun down on the side cabinet. The telephone was situated below the wedding photograph, the young, handsome Yates with his beautiful bride, destined for a life together of duty and dislike. Holding the receiver against his ear, ready to dial, staring at this photograph, Leo thought of the details of Yates’s confession, picturing Raisa’s last minutes – the physical pain, the protracted suffering and the grubby loneliness of her death, bleeding on the floor of a police precinct. There was not a doubt in his mind that Agent Jim Yates deserved to die. It was sentimental dishonesty to believe that a show of mercy would result in a change of heart. Men like Yates regretted nothing. They could not repent and were incapable of uncertainty. Contemplation and introspection served only to underscore what they already believed. They would always be able to justify their actions. A voice seemed to shout at Leo, demanding justice:

Let him die!

That was why he was here, that was why he’d travelled so far and risked so much. How could he come all this way only to save the man who’d murdered his wife? He was not seeking the moral satisfactionof being a betterperson than his adversary. He would find no sense of pride in saving this man. The anger and anguish he suffered over his wife’s death were as raw today as they were on the day he heard the news – those feelings should be acted upon, rather than a preconceived notion of decency. Knowing the truth of what happened was no tonic to his hurt and provided him with no sense of inner peace. His fury was just as strong, his emotions as unsettled as they had ever been. Maybe if he let Yates die, alone in his basement, a sad and pathetic death, one befitting a man ruled by hatred, he would feel differently, he would achieve the peacehe’d been seeking.

Let him die!

Let him die.

Nara touched his arm.

—Leo?