Strangers

practice, and now she's losing everything. It's tragic."
        "Think about this, damn it: she's almost certain to discover that knowing the truth is even worse than not knowing. If the repressed memories are breaking through like this, then they must be so traumatic that they could destroy her psychologically."
        "Maybe," Pablo acknowledged. "But shouldn't she be the one to decide whether or not to keep digging for the truth?"
        Alex was adamant. "If the memory itself doesn't destroy her, then she'll probably be killed by whoever implanted the block. I'm surprised they didn't kill her straightaway. If it is an intelligence agency behind this, ours or theirs, then you've got to remember that to them civilians are entirely expendable. She got a rare and amazing reprieve when they used brainwashing instead of a bullet. A bullet's quicker and cheaper. They won't give her a second reprieve. If they discover that the Azrael Block has crumbled, if they learn that she's uncovered the secret they've hidden from her, they'll blow her brains out."
        "You can't be sure," Pablo said. "Besides, she's a real go-getter, Alex, an achiever, a mover and shaker. So from her point of view, her current situation is almost as bad as having her brains blown out."
        Making no effort to conceal his frustration with the old magician, Alex said, "You help her, and they'll blow your brains out as well. Doesn't that give you pause?"
        "At eighty-one," Pablo said, "not much of interest happens. You can't afford to turn your back on that rare bit of excitement when it comes along. Vogue la galčre - must chance it."
        "You're making a mistake."
        "Maybe I am, my friend. Maybe. But… then why do I feel so good?"
        
        Chicago, Illinois.
        Dr. Bennet Sonneford, who had operated on Winton Tolk yesterday subsequent to the shooting at the sandwich shop, ushered Father Wycazik into a spacious den, where the walls were covered with mounted fish: marlin, an immense albacore, bass, trout. More than thirty glass eyes stared sightlessly down upon the two men. A trophy case was filled with silver and gold cups, bowls, medallions. The doctor sat at a pine desk in the shadow of a forever-swimming, open-mouthed marlin of startling proportions, and Stefan sat beside the desk in a comfortable chair.
        Although the hospital had provided only Dr. Sonneford's office number, Father Wycazik had been able to track down the surgeon's home address with the aid of friends at the telephone company and police department. He had arrived at Sonneford's doorstep at seven-thirty Christmas night, effusively apologetic about interrupting holiday celebrations.
        Now, Stefan said, "Brendan works with me at St. Bernadette's, and I think very highly of him, so I don't want to see him in trouble."
        Sonneford, who looked a bit like a fish - pale, slightly protuberant eyes, a naturally puckered mouth - said, "Trouble?" He opened a kit of small tools, choosing a miniature screwdriver, and turned his attention to a fly-casting reel that lay on the blotter. "What trouble?"
        "Interfering with officers in the performance of their duties."
        "Ridiculous." Sonneford carefully removed tiny screws from the reel housing. "If he hadn't tended to Tolk, the man would be dead now. We gave him four and a half liters."
        "Really? That isn't a mistake on the patient's chart."
        "No mistake." Sonneford removed the metal case from the automatic reel, peered intently into its mechanical guts. "An adult has seventy milliliters of blood per kilogram of body weight. Tolk is a big man - one hundred kilos. He'd normally contain seven liters. So when I first ordered blood in the ER, he'd lost over sixty percent of his own." He put down the screwdriver and picked up an equally small wrench. "And they gave him another liter in the ambulance before I saw him."
        "You mean he'd actually lost over seventy-five percent of his blood by the time they got him out of that sandwich shop?
        But… can a man lose so much blood and survive?"
        "No," Sonneford said quietly.
        A pleasant shiver passed through Stefan. "And both bullets lodged in soft tissue but damaged no organs. Deflected by ribs, other bones?"
        Sonneford was still squinting at the reel but had stopped tinkering with it. "If those.38s had hit bone, the impact would've resulted in chipping, splintering. I