They would find his footprints, but he didn’t worry about that. When he bought the shoes, he’d been extra careful to make sure they were a mass-produced brand, nothing extravagant. He didn’t have to wait long; his target was as punctual on the first day of the holiday as on every other morning. And he hit him right where he intended. With one blow, his circulation ceased. His heart, no, her heart stopped beating. The way it should have stopped beating ten years ago, if nature hadn’t been so cunningly cheated. He’d wanted so much to see the old woman’s face, the shock, the painful realization that all that money had bought only ten years’ postponement. But he couldn’t risk staying here, even though the temptation was great. He bent down, picked up the empty cartridge, and stuck it in his jacket pocket. Then he stowed the rifle, shouldered the bag, and stepped out of the bushes, which had provided a perfect hiding place. The darkness of night was yielding to a gray dawn as he went up the steps and disappeared.
