So it was, he moved directly to acceptance. Sanderson even imagined, in a triumph of positive thought, that his affliction was an advantage of sorts—would it not be easier to chase a dangerous assassin as a man with nothing to lose? So with the throb at the base of his skull acting as a constant reminder, he forced himself to get on with the business at hand. Just as he’d been doing for thirty-five years.

The pastry had been quite good, and he went back to the confectionary and bought another, along with a large white coffee. Calorie counting, he decided, was going to get a holiday. Sanderson set back out on the sidewalk at a measured pace with his hands full of sugar and a gun in his pocket. He scanned faces in the shadows of trees shedding yellow, noted untended vehicles in windswept alleys, and eyed the cold lake as chestnuts crunched under his feet. It was noon on Sunday.

If his thinking was right, he had eight hours in which to find Edmund Deadmarsh.

*   *   *

Christine sensed movement, and she opened her eyes to find Anton Bloch staring at her. It was a weary, medicated gaze, but his recognition was obvious.

She smiled. “Welcome back.”

He blinked, as if a grin was too much effort.

Christine kept to protocol and immediately summoned a nurse, who in turn put through a call to the attending physician.

“The doctor will be here in a few minutes,” the nurse said. In English she asked Bloch how he was feeling, and got a grunt in return. She then began tending his IV.

Bloch kept his gaze locked on Christine.

“I want to say thank you,” she said. “I know what you did for me. For David.”

“Da … David?” he rasped. “Where?”

She cocked her head, then gave him a knowing nod. “You’ve been out for quite some time. Today is Sunday, October 20.”

She watched him think about it, and could almost see the slumbering synapses connect—a calendar date in his head highlighted in red. This time it was Bloch who reached out and took her hand in his. Christine felt him squeeze.

Chapter 49

FORTY-NINE

At seven that evening Arne Sanderson was sitting on a large rock—not by choice, but simply because that was where he’d been standing when his legs buckled ten minutes earlier. That his body was failing was not unexpected, but he did rue the timing. Another few hours was all he needed.