THIRTY-FOUR
APRIL 30, 12:30 P.M.
The recovery had been long and painful. Weeks spent in a disheveled motor home under the care of an old man who had once been licensed as a physician, but who had long ago lost that license for some combination of negligence and misconduct. Now he treated horses at the track, and Viktor Kozlov was his only human patient. Medications were either not strong enough or were so strong they put him out. Once a month, this fugitive’s physician would visit to drop off these medications and see that he was still alive. For a time it was a close call and the prognosis had not been good.
Now he was up and about. He walked away from the trailer and to the coffee shop where the 1:00 p.m. meeting he didn’t want to attend was going to take place. He took a seat in the
