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Decade’ is over on the same day it began. It can be closed safely at any moment now. They will of course look for Borovsky, describe him in numerous communications and discuss his potential whereabouts with Mexican authorities. But finding him now is extremely unlikely. And even if he is captured, that would not help return the money to the bank. The money is gone for good.
    He would know how to spend it, how to hide it, how to make it untraceable. There’s a lot of things he knows now. A lot. He knows how to rob a bank. He knows how to get away. He speaks Spanish. He can hit the bull’s eye from a dozen different weapons. He even knows how to skydive.
    Seriously, why did he have to spend all that time at the gun range? And that parachute jump. Well, it’s a no-brainer. A childhood dream or a relatively new wish . . . Running away with a load of money from the woman with the grim smile is a more or less new wish. But jumping off a plane with a parachute—and having the whole world to yourself as you free fall through the clear blue sky—that seems more like a childhood dream. And all you need is just one jump. And what boy doesn’t dream about shooting like a real cowboy—hitting the bull’s eye every time and being equally comfortable with every kind of handgun and rifle and whatever else they may need to shoot when facing the bad guys. Well, maybe not every boy dreams about it, but enough of them do. But only very few actually get to do it. Only those who are capable of living their life according to a simple principle: every decision leads to an action.
    The mobile phone vibrated. Gorton glanced askance at the number and looked away. Later. Later . . . The phone vibrated for a few long seconds, then gave up and calmed down. Instead, the desk phone began ringing angrily. Gorton put his hand on the receiver without picking up. He kept looking at the phone, but didn’t see the detested number any longer. A different picture flashed before his eyes . . .
    A straight gr ay road under the scorching sun. Mountains on the horizon. A car speeding along the highway. In the driver’s seat—a man in his mid-forties. His head is balding and his posture bears signs of many years of slouching in front a computer. But his eyes behind the sunglasses are decisive and look straight ahead. Until just recently he was spending his days going to the job he could no longer stand, coming back to an indifferent woman who after nearly twenty-five years of marriage still didn’t know him, and gathering a collection in which he had lost interest a long time ago.
    Now he is an independent, confident man, riding toward his new life. Whatever this new life may turn out to be—even it turns out to be rough and painful—it would be what he wanted. Unlike that dull existence that he had been calling a life for years. And all this is because now his every decision is followed by an action. Because for four months he has been taking a double dose of Arbidium XT, which as of yet is not available in any pharmacy even with a prescription.
    Gorton slowly raised the receiver to his ear and just as slowly dialed the number. He didn’t even have to look it up on the blue pen.
    This time it was Dr. Moore who picked up the phone.
    “Lieutenant, if you try calling me once again, I will file a formal complaint. I hope the police takes cases of overstepping authority seriously.”
    “This is the last time,” said Gorton. “At least today. I promise. And this is a very quick question. You still have some Arbidium left, correct?”
    “Of course.”
    “I’m going to send one of my guys over to your place. Please give him the same ten-month dose you gave to Borovsky. We need it as material evidence.”
    “I see,” Dr. Moore replied. “Material evidence. Certainly. Wouldn’t a few pills suffice?”
    “No,” Gorton said firmly. “The dose of Arbidium must be exactly the same as the one you gave to Borovsky. This is important.”
    “I