Chapter Forty-Two

Dordogne, France

October 23

R eynard was through with hospitals. His primary bedroom had everything he needed. The four-poster bed he had shared with his wife was comfortable. Logs crackled in the great stone fireplace. The framed photos of Annette and childhood pictures of Clara by the bedside warmed his heart. Outside, a full October moon hung in the sky like a beacon. Reynard had been a very lucky man.

At the moment, he was watching the pulsing red dot on his laptop screen with an amused gleam in his eye as Clara’s shared location signal slowly blinked south down the eastern seaboard. Doctor Chu and his hulk of a nurse, Gerome, buzzed around, monitoring the immunotherapy IV treatment and checking his vitals. Gerome adjusted the pillow under Reynard’s one remaining leg.

Reynard winced. “Easy, Gerome. Are you trying to lop that one off, too?”

The nurse’s laugh was rich and deep. “Naw, Mr. Reynard. You’re gonna need it for when we enter the three-legged race at the annual hospital picnic next spring.”

Even the stoic Dr. Chu chuckled as he scanned the real-time data on his tablet. “You’re responding as expected, Luka. I’m encouraged.”

The use of his Croatian given name made Reynard feel as though Dr. Chu was speaking of someone else. Luka Kovac was a scrawny, helpless street rat. Reynard was a rich and powerful man. Now, as he lay in bed, weak but determined, he supposed he was both those things.

Dr. Chu and hyperbole had never been acquainted. So the word encouraged had Reynard sitting up. “How encouraged?”

The doctor took the chair beside the bed and held the tablet so they both could see the screen. “We’ll take it week by week.”

“Yes, of course,” Reynard replied. At this late stage, Dr. Chu was trying to extend Reynard’s life by weeks, not years.

“You’ve beaten the odds so far—partly—by sheer force of will.”

When the doctor and Gerome had departed, Reynard settled in for the night. As was his habit, he ran a frail finger down his wedding photo. Soon, Annette . He glanced at a picture of a bundled-up ten-year-old Clara sitting on a sled in the snow. Her beaming smile reminded him that heaven or hell didn’t matter at the moment; he still had business on the corporeal plane.