"Come upstairs," she said. "You need some medical attention."

There had been too much drama in Jude and Gentle's reunion already tonight for them to add more to it, so there was no gushing forth of sentiment on either side. Jude attended to Gentle with her usual pragmatism. He declined a shower but bathed his face and wounded extremities, delicately sluicing the grit from the palms of his hands. Then he changed into a selection of dry clothes she'd found in Mar-lin's wardrobe, though Gentle was both taller and leaner than the absent lender. As he did so, Jude asked if he wanted to have a doctor examine him. He thanked her but said no, he'd be fine. And so he was, once dry and clean: aching, but fine.

"Did you call the police?" he asked, as he stood at the kitchen door watching her brew Darjeeling.

"It's not worth it," she said. "They already know about this guy from the last time. Maybe I'll get Marlin to call them later."

"This is his second try?" She nodded. "Well, if it's any comfort, I don't think he'll try again."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because he looked about ready to throw himself under a car."

"I don't think that'd do him much harm," she said, and went on to tell him about the incident in the Village, finishing up with the assassin's miraculous recovery.

"He should be dead," she said. "His face was smashed up... it was a wonder he could even stand. Do you want sugar or milk?"

"Maybe a dash of Scotch. Does Marlin drink?"

"He's not a connoisseur like you."

Gentle laughed. "Is that how you describe me? The alcoholic Gentle?"

"No. To tell the truth, I don't really describe you at all," she said, slightly abashed. "I mean I'm sure I've mentioned you to Marlin in passing, but you're... I don't know... you're a guilty secret."

This echo of Kite Hill brought his hirer to mind. "Have you spoken to Estabrook?" he said.

"Why should I do that?"

"He's been trying to contact you."

"I don't want to talk to him."

She put his tea down on the table in the living room, sought out the Scotch, and set it beside the cup.

"Help yourself," she said.

"You're not having a dram?"

"Tea, but no whisky. My brain's crazed enough as it is." She crossed back to the window, taking her tea. "There's so much I don't understand about all of this," she said. "To start with, why are you here?"

"I hate to sound melodramatic, but I really think you should sit down before we have this discussion."

"Just tell me what's going on," she said, her voice tainted with accusation. "How long have you been watching me?"

"Just a few hours."

"I thought I saw you following me a couple of days ago."

"Not me. I was in London until this morning."

She looked puzzled at this. "So what do you know about this man who's trying to kill me?"

"He said his name was Pie 'oh' pah."

"I don't give a fuck what his name is," she said, her show of detachment finally dropping away. "Who is he? Why does he want to hurt me?"

"Because he was hired."

"He was what?"

"He was hired. By Estabrook."

Tea slopped from her cup as a shudder passed through her. "To kill me?" she said. "He hired someone to kill me? I don't believe you. That's crazy."

"He's obsessed with you, Jude. It's his way of making sure you don't belong to anybody else."

She drew the cup up to her face, both hands clutched around it, the knuckles so white it was a wonder the china didn't crack like an egg. She sipped, her face obscured. Then, the same denial, but more flatly: "I don't believe you."

"He's been trying to speak to you to warn you. He hired this man, then changed his mind."

"How do you know all of-this?" Again, the accusation.

"He sent me to stop it."

"Hired you too?"

It wasn't pleasant to hear it from her lips, but yes, he said, he was just another hireling. It was as though Estabrook had set two dogs on Judith's heels—one bringing death, the other life—and let fate decide which caught up with her first.

"Maybe I will have some booze," she said, and crossed to the table to pick up the bottle.

He stood to pour for her but his motion was enough to stop her in her tracks, and he realized she was afraid of him. He handed her the bottle at arm's length. She didn't.take it.

"I think maybe you should go," she said. "Marlin'll be home soon. I don't want you here...."

He understood her nervousness but felt ill treated by this change of tone. As he'd hobbled back through the sleet a tiny part of him had hoped her gratitude would include an embrace, or at least a few words that would let him know she felt something for him. But he was tarred with Esta-brook's guilt. He wasn't her champion, he was her enemy's agent.

"If that's what you want," he said.

"It's what I want."

"Just one request? If you tell the police about Estabrook, will you keep me out of it?"

"Why? Are you back at the old business with Klein?"

"Let's not get into why. Just pretend you never saw

me.

She shrugged. "I suppose I can do that."

"Thank you," he said. "Where did you put my clothes?"

"They won't be dry. Why don't you just keep the stuff you're wearing?"

"Better not," he said, unable to resist a tiny jab. "You never know what Marlin might think."

She didn't rise to the remark, but let him go and change. The clothes had been left on the heated towel rack in the bathroom, which had taken some of the chill off them, but insinuating himself into their dampness was almost enough to make him retract his jibe and wear the absent lover's clothes. Almost, but not quite. Changed, he returned to the living room to find her standing at the window again, as if watching for the assassin's return.

"What did you say his name was?" she said.

"Something like Pie 'oh' pah."

"What language is that? Arabic?"

"I don't know."

"Well, did you tell him Estabrook had changed his mind? Did you tell him to leave me alone?"

"I didn't get a chance," he said, lamely.

"So he could still come back and try again?"

"Like I said, I don't think he will."

"He's tried twice. Maybe he's out there thinking, Third time lucky. There's something... unnatural about him, Gentle. How the hell could he heal so fast?"

"Maybe he wasn't as badly hurt as he looked." She didn't seem convinced. "A name like that... he shouldn't be difficult to trace."

"I don't know, I think men like him... they're almost invisible."

"Marlin'H know what to do." "Good for Marlin."

She drew a deep breath. "I should thank you, though," she said, her tone as far from gratitude as it was possible to get.

"Don't bother," he replied. "I'm just a hired hand. I was only doing it for the money."

From the shadows of a doorway on 79th Street, Pie 'oh' pah watched John Furie Zacharias emerge from the apartment building, pull the collar of his jacket up around his bare nape, and scan the street north and south, looking for a cab. It was many years since the assassin's eyes had taken the pleasure they did now, seeing him. In the time between, the world had changed in so many ways. But this man looked unchanged. He was a constant, freed from alteration by his own forgetfulness; always new to himself, and therefore ageless. Pie envied him. For Gentle time was a vapor, dissolving hurt and self-knowledge. For Pie it was a sack into which each day, each hour, dropped another stone, bending the spine until it creaked. Nor, until tonight, had he dared entertain any hope of release. But here, walking away down Park Avenue, was a man in whose power it lay to make whole all broken things, even Pie's wounded spirit. Indeed, especially that. Whether it was chance or the covert workings of the Unbeheld that had brought them together this way, there was surely significance in their reunion.