Number 47 wanted to release the garrote at that point, not out of a sense of revulsion, but to speed his escape. Especially since some other boy could enter the lavatory at any time and discover the grisly scene. But 47 knew that the only thing worse than a dead enemy was one who came back to life, filled with a burning desire for revenge. So in spite of the stench, the young assassin continued to pull the wooden handles in opposite directions, and counted to sixty.

Finally, confident that Number 6 was truly dead, 47 let go.

Then, in keeping with a boyish impulse to send a message to his clone brothers, he wrestled 6 into one of the stalls. The body was limp-a dead weight-so it was difficult to push the head into a toilet and make sure it remained there. But that’s what the newly minted killer was determined to do.

Finally that chore was accomplished, and it was time to return to the dorm. There he gathered up two pairs of socks, plus his boots, and a heavily loaded daypack. After having taken one last look around, Number 47 slipped out of the room.

A flight of stairs led down into the front hall, where Mrs. Dorvak was asleep behind the big desk, her head back, hands clasped over her protuberant belly. Number 47 smiled thinly as he tiptoed past. Maybe, if everything went especially well, Lazlow would fire the old cow for sleeping on duty!

Once in the hall beyond, he had to pause and pull on socks and boots before following a corridor to the side entrance. The much-abused door normally produced a horrible screeching sound whenever someone went to open it. But thanks to the grease lavished on its hinges the previous day, the door opened silently, and a blast of frigid air invaded the hallway.

But that was the easy part, 47 knew, because the real threat was patrolling the grounds outside, and his name was Bruno. The exact nature of the dog’s ancestry was unknown, although he was huge and resembled a mastiff. A bad-tempered mastiff that prowled the asylum’s grounds at night to keep intruders out, and to keep the boys in. Which Bruno managed to do with great efficiency. As far as 47 could remember, there had been only one escape attempt. It had concluded in a cacophony of horrible screams followed by a brief memorial service two days later.

So 47 had reason to be frightened as he left the protection of the asylum building and made straight for the pump house. That was where he had stashed a bow he had stolen from the gym-along with a single steel-tipped arrow. Dry snowflakes fell all around him, the air was bitterly cold, and his boots made a crunching sound as the ice-crusted snow gave under his weight.

Had Bruno heard him? Or caught his scent? There was no way to know, because everyone knew that Bruno’s hunts were silent, until his jaws closed on something, and it began to squeal.

Of course, since he didn’t want to attract any attention, that was good—or it could be, provided that 47 was able to pull the weapon out from under the pump house in one smooth motion, string the bow with cold fingers, bring the modified target arrow up into the proper position, pull the string all the way back, and let loose before Bruno could close with him.

After what seemed like hours of crossing the open ground, 47 skidded to a halt, fell to his knees in the snow, and stuck his right hand in under the dimly lit pump house. There was a brief moment of joy as his cold fingers closed around the arrow, but it was quickly followed by a sense of despair as he felt for the bow, and realized that it wasn’t there! Most likely the groundskeeper or a maintenance worker had come across the weapon while performing some chore, missed the arrow during the process, and returned the bow to the sports equipment room.

It was a horrible break, but there was no time to think about that as 47 heard a deep growl and turned to confront the oncoming dog.

The brute was airborne by that time, so all the twelve-year-old could do was throw up his arms in a futile effort to protect himself while he waited to die.

But the arrow was clutched in his left hand, its knife-sharp tip pointed outward, and as Bruno’s weight came down on it, the dog’s own momentum inadvertently pushed the other end of the shaft into the frozen ground! There was a pitiful yelp as the improvised point penetrated the mastiff’s skin, punched all the way through his heart, and emerged between his shoulder blades.

Number 47 took the full brunt of Bruno’s weight, and produced a grunt as all of the air was forced out of his lungs. It took him a minute to recover, but finally, after gasping like a just-landed fish, the youngster managed to suck some oxygen. It was only then, as he battled to push Bruno off his torso, that 47 realized the dog was, indeed, dead.

The boy was too scared, and too cold, to appreciate the full extent of his good fortune, but there would be time later to marvel at how lucky he had been. Or was it luck? Because even though the bow was missing, the arrow had been wielded by 47’s hand, which had made the “good luck” possible.

He shook his head to clear his mind of such thoughts. All 47 wanted to do now was turn and make a run for the metal fence that encircled the property.

It rattled as he leaped and his boots hit the mesh two feet off the ground. The boy’s breath came in short gasps as he began to climb. Less than a minute later he was over the top, dropping to the ground below, and jogging along a snow-covered access road, then onto the main road. There weren’t very many streetlights, but those there were wore halos, and led the way toward the highway, where he could hitch a ride to the city of Brasov.

The youngster’s plans didn’t extend much beyond that, although he knew Headmaster Lazlow would be furious and that all sorts of people would be out looking for him. So once in the city, it would be important to find additional transportation, and put as much distance as he could between himself and the asylum.

Yet like his clone brothers, 47 had never been allowed to venture outside of the asylum grounds, so after flagging down a passing motorist, and spinning her a lie about going to visit his sick grandmother, he quickly found himself in what amounted to an alien world. She took him into the city, where he asked to be dropped off.

Brasov had begun to stir by then. It was an ancient city, built on land that had been occupied since the Bronze Age, most recently by the Germans and the Soviets, and had long been regarded as Transylvania’s gateway to the south and east.

He had been taught the city’s origins in the course of his studies, and 47 could feel a deeply rooted connection with the past in the red-roofed merchant houses that surrounded Council Square and the tall watchtower located at the center of it. His boots left shallow impressions in the snow as lights came on in buildings around the perimeter of the square and the business day began.

There were all sorts of buildings off the main square, as well as store windows filled with things he had never seen before, all requiring money the runaway didn’t have. Which was why 47 asked a passerby for directions, made his way to the local bus depot, and was busy trying to figure out a way to sneak on to a sleek-looking coach, when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

The boy struggled, but to no avail, as Headmaster Lazlow frog-marched him out of the depot and onto the busy street beyond. At that point the murderer-escapee fully expected to be turned over to the authorities. Or immediately taken back to the asylum for corporeal punishment.

But to the youngster’s everlasting surprise, Lazlow led him down the street and into a busy restaurant. Once they were seated the headmaster ordered hot drinks and an enormous breakfast, which the two of them shared.

Then, as 47 went to work on a big mug of steaming cocoa, peering expectantly at his captor, Lazlow did something the boy had never seen before.