All day long, Sylvan Cheney felt as if his head were splitting, and it was anything but pleasant.
In the afternoon, he slept for a little over half an hour. He had just started to drift off when the phone jolted him awake in a daze.
One hand braced against his forehead, he picked up the phone with the other. "Yeah."
"President, the photos you asked for have been sent to your phone."
"Mm." Sylvan woke up a bit more. "That fisherman—has he been sent back to Landon?"
"He's already been sent back. No one knows about it. During this period I'll have people keep an eye on him. But ever since that night he was scared out of his wits, fell seriously ill, and he's still bedridden."
"So easily frightened." Sylvan's lips curved with a faint, indifferent smile.
The person on the other end gave an awkward chuckle. Faced with that kind of thing, pretty much no one could stay calm, and Sylvan wasn't exactly the type whose looks put people at ease.
