Several times during the nights they had spent together, Gabe held her and dried her tears at the notion of having taken a life the way she did—even one as monstrous as Treat Griswold's. The story she shared of her battles in L.A. to clear the name of a fellow nurse, and also her subsequent torture at the hands of Griswold, more than justified her actions in Gabe's eyes. But there were tears nonetheless.

Gabe's own reaction to having killed the men sent to kill him was far more tempered—certainly less anguished than on the two occasions in his life as a physician when his decisions, forced during raging medical emergencies, contributed to the death of a patient.

Pine Grove Cemetery.

With a heaviness in his heart, and even some trepidation, Gabe left his car on the street and entered the small cemetery through a wrought-iron arch, using a cane for support. In his other hand he carried a single rose. Through the gloom and the persistent drizzle, he could make out the silhouette of a man, standing motionless by one of the stones.

Thirty years.

The man, about Gabe's height but thinner, had his head bowed. He looked up as Gabe approached. His face was narrow, his posture proud.

"Singleton?"

"Gabe."

"All right. If you wish, Gabe. I accept you calling me Leon."

Uretsky spoke with just the hint of a Russian accent and Eastern European phrasing.

"Thank you for seeing me like this."

"I have twice tried to kill you. Meeting you seems the least I could do."

"I'm glad you weren't so good with your guns."

"The truth is, Doctor, I am quite good. I was a marksman in the Russian Army before I moved here at age twenty-five. The weapons I used those two times were mine, bought some years ago for target practice . . . to stay sharp. For all those years I thought about revenge. Then, at the last minute, both times, I just could not do it. Thirty years ago I could have, I believe. I tried to find you after you left prison, but I was a recent immigrant and had little means. Each trail took me no place and cost me money. Finally, I just gave up. But I never forgot. Then, when a friend showed me the article about you—"

He was unable to continue.

Gabe moved a step nearer to Uretsky, unsure whether the moisture on his own cheeks was from the drizzle or from his eyes. One thing was certain. In that instant, he felt an indescribable closeness to the man.

"You loved her very much," Gabe said.

"I was put on this earth to love her," Uretsky replied. He motioned to the headstone, which had both the names Irina Kursova and Dimitri Uretsky inscribed. "And I believed you took her from me. Her and my son."

"We had no right to drink like we did and no right to drink at all, then drive."