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never hit its target. The buckshot would take half the time to get halfway there, but then it had to go halfway to the next interval, and halfway to the interval after that, and so on. Since there appeared to be an infinite number of these smaller and smaller distances, the buckshot would never arrive.
    I thought about Zeno’s paradox for several days until Dr. Noland gave me a solution. A distance composed of an infinite number of finite moments is not infinite. If the distance between the shotgun barrel and Micky Sicky’s flesh was fifteen feet, it doesn’t make a difference how many times you divide it into fractions; it’s still fifteen feet. This was helpful to me at the clinic because I realized that no matter how many times my thoughts divided into a multitude of more thoughts, I could still make a single choice and function in the world.
    And this is what happened in the alleyway. The buckshot burst through the paradox and hit my target in his left leg.
    Micky Sicky fell backward, then screamed with pain and started rolling around on the dirt. I took a few steps forward and pointedthe shotgun at his head. He had lost control of his bladder and I found the smell unpleasant.
    “Be quiet,” I said.
    Micky’s mouth opened and closed like a Chinatown carp just pulled from the water tank. But he stopped making noises.
    “You killed a little white dog,” I said.
    “Fuckin’ bastard! You just shot me!”
    I cocked the second barrel. “You have three seconds to say one truthful statement. Did you kill a little white dog?”
    “It was nothing,” Micky whimpered. “Just a joke, bruv. I swear. I’m sorry.”
    “Repeat after me: Joey was loved by the angels in heaven.”
    “Fuckin’ hell!”
    “Say it. If you want to live.”
    “Joey … love … by angels.”
    “Good. Remember that. If I see you in this neighborhood again, I’ll take a blowtorch and burn off your ears.”
    I extended the shotgun like a walking stick and shot Micky in the right leg. He was still screaming as I got in the van and drove away. Although I had disobeyed Miss Holquist, my actions had established two facts:
    1. I would no longer be distracted and—
    2. I knew that my weapon worked.

I left London early the next morning. A few hours later, I parked a half mile from Victor Mallory’s estate. Outside the van, the sky was a gray, smudged color. The oak and beech trees had lost all their leaves, and the ditch weeds were dry yellow stalks.
    Using my computer, I connected to the Sentinel hidden in the blackberry thicket across the road from the entrance. At 10:57 a.m., a BMW sedan left the estate. The younger bodyguard had the shift that weekend and he was taking Mallory’s girlfriend back to the train station. I waited a few minutes and then drove up to the CCTV camera at the main gate.
    I pressed the red button below the camera and, a moment later, heard Mallory’s voice. “Who are you?”
    “Dave Pinnock,” I said, speaking with a South Wales accent. “I’m from Jolly Good Fellow.”
    “Jolly Good … what?”
    “Jolly Good Fellow, sir. I have a delivery here for Victor Mallory.”
    “I didn’t order anything.”
    “It’s a gift, sir.” I was wearing a fake ID card attached to a cord hanging from my neck. Holding the card with two fingers, I waved it at the CCTV camera. “Jolly Good Fellow is a specialty gift service. Or motto is:
‘When Flowers Aren’t Enough.’
 ”
    “I don’t give a damn about your motto. What are you doing here?”
    “I’ve got a holiday gift for you, Mr. Mallory, sir.”
    “Leave it at the gate.”
    “Sorry, sir. But I can’t do that.”
    “Why not?”
    “I do hate to spoil the surprise, Mr. Mallory. But the gift is a case of French champagne. It’s against our procedure to leave alcohol or jewelry at an address without someone signing for it.”
    “And who the hell is sending me champagne?”
    “Can’t tell you that, sir. It’s on the gift card and the card is in the box.