ENYA, AFRICA

FEBRUARY 18, 2005

FOUR MONTHS AGO

Where,” Gina asked, “are we going to put them?”

“The tents?” Molly replied as she dipped the first of the bedpans into the pot of boiling water.

“Mol, you’re not listening.” Gina did the same with the next one, careful not to burn her fingers as she took it out. “There are no tents. The tents won’t arrive until after the busload of volunteers.”

Molly stopped, pushing her unruly reddish hair from her damp face with the ungloved part of her arm. “We’re getting a busload of volunteers? That’s wonderful!”

“Most of them will only be here for a few days. Only two are permanent,” Gina told her. Again. She loved Molly Anderson dearly, but when her tentmate’s attention was focused on something important, it could be difficult to pull her away from the task.

And in this case, Molly’s attention was focused on four thirteen-year-old girls who had been brought to their camp hospital with terrible, life-threatening infections.

They would, Sister Maria-Margarit had told them in her dour German accent, consider themselves lucky if just one of the girls survived the coming night.

To which Molly had muttered, “Over my dead body.” She’d then set to work sterilizing everything that would come into contact with their newest patients.

“When does the bus arrive?” she asked Gina now.

“In a few hours,” Gina said, adding “Shit!” as she burned her fingers.

“Sugar!” Molly spoke over her, giving Gina a look that said robot nun at five o’clock.

The camp had two types of nuns. Human nuns, who laughed and sang and warmly embraced the diversity of the villagers and the volunteers, who saw life’s glass as half full; and the nuns that Molly had nicknamed “robots,” who looked out over a congregation and saw only sinners. Anything less than perfection was to be frowned upon. These robot nuns could, Molly had told Gina, find the problem with a glass that was too full. After all, it might spill, don’t you know?

This sister frowned at them both.

Probably because, in the three-million-degree heat here in the kitchen, both Molly and Gina had had the audacity to roll up their sleeves.

“I think it would be a good idea if we made sure the two permanents were comfortable,” Gina said as she helped Molly lift the pot and empty the hot water down the sink. The volunteer turnover rate here was bad enough as it was. If conditions in the camp were even more primitive than usual... “We don’t want Sister Grace and Leslie Pollard changing their minds and leaving on the next bus out.”

“The sister can bunk in with the other nuns,” Molly said, leading the way into the hospital tent. She grabbed a surgical face mask from the pile by the door.

Gina did, too, reaching up to slip it on past her ponytail—except her ponytail was gone. She encountered only shockingly short waves. God, Max would so hate that. Not that he’d ever admit it, but he’d loved her long hair.

Except what he loved no longer mattered. The man wasn’t in her life anymore. If he hadn’t shown up looking for her by now, over a year after Gina had left D.C., then face it, he was never coming.

And she would not, could not be like Molly—who was waiting, waiting, still waiting for her so-called friend Jones to magically reappear. Oh, Molly swore up and down that she no longer spent much time thinking about the guy, but Gina knew better.

It happened mostly in the evenings, after their work was done. Molly would pretend to read a book, but she’d get that far-away look in her eyes, and...

It had been nearly three years since Molly had last seen the bastard. In all that time, he hadn’t so much as sent her a postcard.

Of course, she should talk. Postcards from Max were also under the zero column in the file marked “in short supply.”

But three years of pining was ridiculous. Shoot, one year was bad enough—and Gina had passed that particularly dark anniversary months ago. It was definitely time to stop hoping for things that would never be. It was absolutely time to stop wallowing in What-ifs-ville and move the heck on.

Maybe one of the men coming in on this afternoon’s bus would be Mr. Wonderful. Maybe he’d meet Gina, fall head over heels in love, and volunteer to stay in camp for the rest of her time here.

It wasn’t completely impossible. Miracles sometimes happened.

Of course, if the busload of volunteers all turned out to be elderly, or monks, or—the most likely possibility—elderly monks, then maybe it was time to reconsider that offer from Paul Kibathi Jimmo, who wasn’t completely kidding when he told Father Ben he’d trade four pregnant goats in exchange for Gina’s hand in marriage.

Paul was an outrageously good-looking, well-educated, and extremely kind young man who’d won a scholarship to Purdue University in Indiana. He’d returned to Kenya halfway through his junior year when his older brother died, probably of AIDS, although they didn’t speak of it. He’d been needed to run his family’s farm.

Which was located another hundred miles out in the wilderness. Gina couldn’t know for certain, but she would be willing to bet the entire contents of her bank account, plus her parents’ house on Long Island, that Paul’s kitchen was without a microwave.

It was, quite possibly, without a roof.

Not quite Gina’s style, even without taking into consideration the fact that Paul was already married to a Kenyan woman named Ruth.

“What’s-her-name can stay in our tent,” Molly told Gina now, as she checked Winnie’s pulse, lifting the sheet to check the bandage over the girl’s hideously inflamed wound.

Gina had to squint, looking out through her eyelashes, praying that... No, it wasn’t bleeding through, thank God. Of course, that wasn’t saying all that much since Gina had helped Sister Maura change it a mere hour or so ago. Still, out here, even the smallest of blessings was counted and appreciated with full fervor.

Molly looked up at Gina. “What was her name?”

“Leslie Pollard,” Gina told her. “She’s British. She’s probably eighty years old and will expect tea upon arrival.” As opposed to a sleeping bag on a rotting tent floor. “Even if we could find an extra cot, we’d never fit it into—”

“We can hot bunk,” Molly said, moving on to Narari, as Gina helped little Patrice take a sip of water through lips that were cracked and dry. “You and me. One of us will be here with the girls all night anyway. Although... Are we absolutely sure Leslie’s not a man?”

God, what a thought. But Leslie was one of those names that could swing both ways. “The message from AAI referred to her as Ms. Leslie Pollard,” Gina reported. “So unless they’ve got it wrong...”

“Which isn’t entirely impossible,” Molly pointed out. She soothed Narari with a hand against her damp forehead. “Shhh, sweetheart, shhh. Lie still. You’re with friends now.”

But Narari was in pain. Her wound had reopened, too. There was so much blood.

“Nurse!” Molly shouted, and the sister came running.

It took a healthy dose of morphine to calm the girl down.

Gina had to go outside for air while Molly helped Sister Maria-Margarit reapply the bandage.

Not that the air out there was any less hot and heavy. Still, being outside the confines of the hospital gave the illusion of relief.

Gina sat on the bench that was right by the door—probably placed there for weak-kneed people.

Her mother, a trauma nurse, would smile to see her sitting there. But she’d hug Gina, too, and say what she always said. “The ER’s not for everyone.”

What was she doing here? Gina wondered that every single day.

It wasn’t more than a few minutes before the screen door opened with a creak and Molly stepped outside. “You all right?”

“Compared to Narari...” Gina laughed as she wiped her eyes. She hadn’t even realized she was crying. “Yeah.” She shook her head. “No.” She looked up at Molly. “What kind of parents would do that to their own child?”

“Last year at this time, there were nine of ’em,” Molly told her quietly. “Of course, they weren’t as sick—not like these girls. The knife they used this year must’ve been filthy.” She ruffled Gina’s short hair. “Why don’t you go get the tent ready. Do me a favor, will ya, and put my Hunks of the NYPD calendar into my trunk? I don’t think Lady Leslie will appreciate Mr. February as much as you and I do.”

Gina laughed. Molly could always make her laugh. “When I grow up, I want to be you.”

“Oh, and while you’re in my trunk, find the last of the Earl Grey, will you? Maybe if we go all out with the welcome reception, this one will stay more than a month.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a break?” Gina asked. “Because I could—”

“I’m fine. You’re better at cleaning, anyway,” Molly lied. She opened the screen door and went back inside. “Bake some chocolate chip cookies for our distinguished guest while you’re at it.”

Gina laughed. They ran out of chocolate within forty-eight hours after the arrival of each package from home. She did have a few Fig Newtons left. “In your dreams,” she called after Molly.

“Every single night,” Molly called back. “Without fail.”

But Gina knew that wasn’t true. Molly sometimes cried out in her sleep, but it wasn’t for chocolate.

Unless there was a brand of chocolate called Jones sold in Molly’s home state of Iowa.

Gina had recently started praying at night. Dear God, please don’t let me still be dreaming about Max years from now...

Of course, when she first left D.C., she’d thought about Max nearly all the time. Now she was down to, oh, only three, four times.

An hour.

Yeah, at this rate, she’d be over him just shy of her ninetieth birthday.

Of course, maybe that was all going to change in just a few hours. Maybe Mr. Wonderful really was on that bus. She’d take one look at him and fall madly in love.

And two months from now, she would be hard pressed to remember Max’s last name.

It wasn’t likely, sure, but it was also not entirely impossible. One thing Gina had learned from her time here was that miracles did sometimes happen.

Although she wasn’t going to sit back and wait for a miracle to come to her. No, if need be, she’d get out there and hunt one down.

She was going to find happiness and meaning to her life, damn it, even if it killed her.

SARASOTA HOSPITAL, SARASOTA, FLORIDA

AUGUST 1, 2003

TWENTY-TWO MONTHS AGO

Max considered dying.

It probably would’ve hurt a whole lot less.

Problem was, every time he opened his eyes, even just a little, he saw Gina looking back at him with such concern on her face.

It was entirely possible that, during the excruciating haze of pain-drenched eternity since he was brought out of surgery, she hadn’t left his side for more than a moment or two.

Unless it was all just a dream, and she wasn’t really there.

But when he couldn’t find the strength to open his eyes, he heard her voice. Talking to him. “Stay with me, Max. Don’t you leave me. I need you to fight...”

Sometimes she didn’t talk. Sometimes she cried. Softly, so he wouldn’t hear her.

But he always did. The sound of her crying cut through this fog far more easily than anything else.

Maybe this wasn’t a dream. Maybe it was hell.

Except sometimes he could feel her holding his hand, feel the softness of her lips, her cheek beneath his fingers. Hell would never include such pleasures.

But he couldn’t find his voice to tell her so, couldn’t do more than keep breathing, keep his heart beating.

And instead of dying, he lived. Even though it meant that he had to redefine pain. Because the pain he’d experienced prior to getting shot in the chest didn’t come close to this torture.

But it was a torture that didn’t hurt nearly as much as listening to Gina cry.

Then, one evening, he woke up.

Really woke up. Eyes fully open. Voice able to work. “Gina.” Voice able to work a little too well, because he hadn’t meant to wake her.

But wake her he did. She’d been sleeping, long legs tucked up beneath her, curled up in a chair beside his bed. Now she sat up, pushing her hair back from her face, then reaching for the nurse’s call button. “Max!”

He knew he’d forever remember that moment, even if he lived to be five hundred years old. That look on her face. She lit up from within, yet tears brimmed instantly in her eyes.

It was joy he saw there on her face—a mix of love and hope and sheer shining happiness. It scared the living shit out of him.

How could anyone possibly be that happy?

And yet, somehow he was responsible—simply by saying her name.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “Oh, my God! Don’t go back to sleep. Don’t...”

“Thirsty,” he said, but she’d gone over to the door.

“Diana! Diana, he’s awake!” She was crying, she was so happy.

It sure beat her crying because she was unhappy, the way she had in his car... When? Christ, was it just last night? Gina had been terribly upset, and he’d made the mistake of going with her into her motel room. To talk. Just to talk. Only, after she’d stopped crying, she’d kissed him, and he’d kissed her and...

Jesus H. Christ.

What had he gone and done?

Max had fallen asleep after they’d made love—first time in years that he’d gotten a good night’s rest. He remembered that.

Only there he was when he woke up—in Gina’s bed. The one place he swore he’d never go. He remembered that all too clearly, too.

Still, he’d wanted to stay right there. Forever.

So of course he’d run away. As hard and as fast as humanly possible. And he’d hurt her badly in the process and—

Wait a sec.

He may have been woozy and viewing the world through a considerable amount of blear and that still relentless pain, but there were coffee cups and soda cans scattered around this hospital room. A couple of floral arrangements that were looking somewhat worse for wear sat on the few available surfaces. Along with a pile of books and magazines. Not to mention the fact that Gina apparently knew the nursing staff by name...

Woozy or not, it didn’t take Max’s extensive training and years of experience with the FBI to know that he’d been lying in this bed for more than just a day or two.

“How long...?” he asked as Gina smoothed his hair back from his face, her fingers cool against his forehead.

She knew what he meant. “Weeks,” she said. “I’m sorry, I can’t give you anything to drink until the nurse comes in.”

“Weeks?” No way.

“You were doing so well when you first came out of surgery,” she told him, lacing his fingers with hers. “But then, a few days later your tempera-ture spiked and... God, Max, you were so sick. The doctors actually gave me the prepare-yourself-for-the-worst talk.”

Weeks. She’d stayed with him for weeks. “Thought you were,” he labored to say, “going to... Kenya.”

“I called AAI,” she told him, “and postponed my trip again.”

Postponed wasn’t as good as cancelled. The thought of Gina going to Kenya made him crazy. Of course so did the thought of her going anywhere more dangerous than Iceland, where the locals still didn’t lock their doors at night. “Til when?”

“Indefinitely.” She kissed his hand, pressed it against her cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

“Need you,” he said, before he could stop himself. They were the two most honest words he’d ever said to her—pushed out of him perhaps because of the drugs or the pain or the humanizing news that he’d cheated death—again. Or maybe Gina’s glow of happiness had a hypnotizing effect, rather like a truth serum.

But luck was on his side, because the nurse chose that exact moment to come into the room, and the woman was energy incarnate, drowning him out with her cheerful hello. Gina had turned away to greet her, but now turned back. “I’m sorry, Max—what was that?”

He may have been temporarily too human, or woozy from drugs and pain, but he hadn’t gotten to where he was in his career, in his life, by making the same mistake twice.

“Need water,” he said, and with the nurse’s permission, Gina helped him take a cool drink.

KENYA, AFRICA

FEBRUARY 18, 2005

FOUR MONTHS AGO

There was one incredible hottie among the crew that descended from the bus.

He had blond hair, a cute German accent, and really terrific knees, but as Gina got closer, she realized that he was the leader of the Temporaries—the volunteers who would only be staying for a few short days.

Which meant that his name was Father Dieter.

And that meant her chances of him falling in love with her at first sight were slim to none, with heavy on the none.

Other breaking news was that the bus was a real bus—not one of the nine-passenger rinky-dink VW vans that kicked up dust as they bounced along the so-called roads from village to village.

There were twenty-four volunteers in Father Dieter’s party—ten more than were on the list of names Gina had seen. Father Dieter’s tentless, luggageless party of twenty-four celibate priests, thank you very much.

Most of whom had the region’s version of Montezuma’s revenge, and were sicker than dogs.

Father Ben and Sister Maria-Margarit were running around, organizing workers to—shit!—dig more latrines, as well as forming a sort of triage to get those of their guests who were the most desperately ill into the shade.

They didn’t want to bring them into the hospital building until they knew for sure what had caused the sickness, in case it was contagious.

God help them all if this was contagious.

Count on AAI to turn the arrival of a busload of volunteers into more work for the home team.

Gina spotted Paul Jimmo in the chaos. He must’ve been riding shotgun on the bus, a deadly looking weapon still slung across his broad back as he helped Sister Helen set up the mess tent as temporary living quarters.

He waved to her and smiled—a flash of white teeth in that too-handsome face—trying to flag her down. But Gina’s job one was to find Her Majesty Leslie Pollard, and make sure that she didn’t run screaming back to Nairobi to catch the next flight home to Heathrow.

Except, aside from the new nun in town, Sister Gracie, there didn’t seem to be another woman in the crowd.

Gina approached Father Dieter, who looked to be the kind of guy who would know all. “Excuse me,” she said.

And the holy man—not quite as handsome up close thanks to a severe sunburn—booted his lunch on her feet.

“Oh dear, that’s quite the little problem,” a crisply English-accented voice spoke from directly behind her.

But Gina couldn’t turn to see who was talking to her because the priest just slowly keeled over, crumpling, as if to kiss the dusty ground. He was too sick to be mortified—which was a good thing. It was far better that he just became instantly unconscious, rather than attempting to apologize or even clean up the mess.

Sister Maria-Margarit rushed up to take the priest from her, thank you God, leaving Gina to deal with hosing off her feet.

Aw, gross.

“I’m afraid Father Dieter didn’t partake of the goat stew that’s being blamed as the source of food poisoning,” the BBC Masterpiece Theater–wannabe voice continued. It was, of course, a very non-female voice.

Gina turned to find her expression of dismay reflected in a pair of dark sunglasses.

“Please tell me you’re not Leslie Pollard,” she said. But of course he was. She had vomit between her toes. Why shouldn’t this day get even worse?

He sighed. “The powers that be listed me as a Miss again, did they?”

“No,” she told him. “They had you as a Miz.”

“Ah. And somehow that’s... better?” He flipped up his sunglasses—they were the kind that attached to regular glasses—and blinked at her from behind the lenses. His eyes were a nondescript shade of brown in a face that was coated, literally white in places, with sun block. Obviously he was a Type B volunteer.

“I’m an American,” Gina said, holding out her hand to shake, “so yes, it’s better. But in this case, only marginally. Gina Vitagliano. I’m from New York.” It was usually all she had to say.

Leslie Pollard gave her a dead-fish handshake—yeesh. He was definitely a Type B.

As if she couldn’t tell from the virulently ugly plaid shirt that hung on his skinny British frame. Yes, this was a man who had rarely left his London flat dressed in anything other then a tweed jacket and slacks, stains from last week’s tea on his tie.

He was taller than she was. Not that anyone would know it, because he, of course—in the grand tradition of Type Bs—slouched. Beneath his floppy hat, his graying hair was lank and unwashed. It was hard to tell if that was the result of the long bus ride or merely a poor decision in terms of personal hygiene, brought on by that common Type B malady—severe depression.

Gina was guessing number two.

Type Bs usually came to them after enduring some terrible personal tragedy. Like volunteers Type A, C, and D, they were looking to jumpstart their lives, to find meaning, to “make a difference.” But unlike the others, they had never done a day of camping in their entire lives. They meant well, yes, but oh my God, they were ill-equipped and unprepared for this nonluxurious lifestyle.

They usually asked, within their first week, for the location of the nearest laundromat. Sometimes the nuns—the human nuns—even got a betting pool started. The sister who picked the date closest to when the Type B resigned would win the pot.

Yeah, this one wasn’t going to be here for very long.

The good news was that despite the gray in his hair, the dude was still somewhat young. During the two to three weeks he would spend here, he’d actually accomplish something. For example, he could help Father Ben dig that new well.

But then, as she watched, Leslie Pollard shouldered his duffle bag and picked up a cane that had been lying on the ground, next to it. Great. It was similar to the cane that Max had used while in the physical rehab facility.

Perfect. A Type B volunteer who not only couldn’t walk without assistance, but would remind her, every time she saw him, of the one man she was trying most to forget.

Gina forced a smile. “Well, welcome. Will you excuse me for a sec while I go find some water, to, you know, de-puke?”

He smiled somewhat vaguely, distracted by the camp’s activity. Still, Gina was grateful for small miracles. Type Bs sometimes didn’t come with an ability to access their senses of humor, and a vague smile was way better than nothing.

“Actually,” he said, “if you’ll just point me to my tent...?”

“Um, yeah,” Gina said. “About that. See, we’re waiting on a shipment of supplies, and until then, well, I’m afraid you’ll have to share living quarters.”

He nodded, barely listening as he looked around. “Of course. Believe me, after that bus trip, I can sleep anywhere.”

Gina would believe it only when she saw it. Still, she managed another smile. “Good. Because I cleared some space for your things in the tent that I share with my friend Molly Anderson—”

“Excuse me?”

And just like that, she had Leslie Pollard’s fully focused attention. His gaze was suddenly so sharp, it was a little alarming. She took a step back, for a second wondering if maybe she’d read him completely wrong and that he was a Type A instead of a B.

But then he blinked rapidly, almost as if he were doing a bad Hugh Grant imitation as he said, “I’m sorry? You cleared a spot in your tent? That won’t do. No, I’m afraid that won’t do at all. Doesn’t AAI have rules about that—comingling, cohabitation? Do you open your tent to strangers—strange men—all the time?”

He was serious. Apparently, Leslie Pollard was even more of a prude than Sister Double-M.

“If you’d have let me finish,” Gina said, “then you would’ve heard me say that my tentmate and I will be spending most of our time in the hospital for the next few days. Even without the invasion of the puke monsters, we have a few patients—little girls—who need round-the-clock care. You’ll have the tent completely to yourself at night. And if you need to get something from your bag during the day, just make sure you knock before you come in. I cleared out a storage trunk for you—there’s a key in the lock. It’s not very big—but make sure you put anything of value in there and secure it. Sister Leah is a total klepto.”

Leslie blinked at her.

“That was a joke,” Gina told him. Apparently she was wrong about the sense of humor thing. “We don’t even have a Sister Leah and... Never mind. Third tent on the left. It’s the one with a tin of tea out on the table, along with the sign that says, ‘Welcome, Ms. Pollard.’ Please make yourself at home.”

And with that, she squished off to find some water.

Leslie Pollard stood with all his gear just inside the door of the tent.

There, on the table was the tin of tea—Earl Grey—that what’s-her-name—Gina—had mentioned. It was next to a kettle, a can of sterno, and an obviously coveted Tupperware container of Fig Newtons. His stomach rumbled just at the sight of them. Of course, his stomach rumbled pretty damn constantly these days as he tried to keep his weight down.

The sign she’d described was there, too. “Welcome to our home, Ms. Pollard.”

As far as homes went, from the outside this was one of the shabbiest tents he’d ever seen in his life. The canvas had been repaired so many times it was more patch than original fabric. And the frame reminded him of a swayback mule. Old and ugly, and probably unreliable in a storm, but able to get the job done on an average day.

As if there were any average days here in this camp—this holier-than-thou den of do-gooders on a mission to save this extra-crappy section of an all-but-irredeemable world.

No doubt about it, though, this part of Africa had more priests and nuns per square mile than just about anywhere he’d ever traveled. If someone needed saving, this was the place to come.

And yet Gina, of the dark brown hair and killer bod, actually thought no one would... what? Care? Or maybe not notice that the volunteers were suddenly having co-ed sleepovers?

According to the rules and regulations of AAI—he’d been given an entire booklet from the office in Nairobi—unmarried men and women were not allowed to “fraternize individually.” This included any travel outside of the camp. Relief workers were encouraged to travel and socialize in groups, three being the magic number.

The booklet claimed these rules were created both to provide protection for the relief workers, and to be an obvious example of AAI’s utmost respect of all of the varying customs and cultures in Kenya.

So... share a tent in an AAI camp with two very attractive women?

Not bloody likely.

He had gone, brimming with disbelief, to talk to the stern-faced Nazi nun. He figured he’d go straight to the source to find out where he really would bunk down tonight.

But apparently the camp had some kind of pamper-the-new-guy policy, and Sister Brunhilda also agreed that having him stay temporarily in this tent while the two women slept in the hospital—where, on the floor?—was the best solution to their overcrowding problem. She did let him know that it would all be under her watchful eyes. And he could tell just from looking that she was the type who slept with one eye open.

When she bothered to sleep at all.

So here he was.

He set his cane and his bag down on the bed nearest the door—the one with the empty trunk chained to its metal frame.

The two women had sewn brightly patterned fabric to the inside top panels of the tent, and it drooped down in places—somehow managing to make the space look exotic instead of pathetic. There were richly dyed spreads on their cots, a cozy homemade table and chairs, bookshelves crafted from old crates that were stuffed to overflowing.

Every available surface was covered with candles and carvings and all of the little knickknacks and photographs and drawings and collectibles, each with its own story, that made this faded tent in a godforsaken corner of the world into more of a home than any place he had stayed for more years than he could remember.

But there was another sign on the table, too: “Only drink bottled water,” with about six exclamation points, underlined three times.

It reminded him of the puking priests. Going out there and offering to help would win him salvation points.

It would also remove him from the temptation of rifling through private papers, letters, diaries. He’d sworn to himself that he wouldn’t do that.

Or at least that he wouldn’t get caught.

And there’d be less of a chance of someone walking in on his unauthorized browsing after the camp was asleep.

Besides, it looked as if anything of interest was securely locked up in one of the larger trunks.

Trunks had locks any beginner criminal could pop in a heartbeat.

He quickly unzipped his bag and put his clothing into the one empty trunk and locked it.

His real valuables would go elsewhere. Not that he had much. His cans of “Silver Fox” theatrical hairspray—irreplaceable out here in Nowhereland—went up between the top of the tent and the fabric faux-ceiling. He hung them from the tent pole, so that they wouldn’t be seen, either from inside or out. His passport he kept with him, along with the remainder of his cash.

He went out the door and was already several steps toward the mess tent before he remembered and scrambled back inside. Jesus! It was a careless mistake, a stupid mistake. What the hell was wrong with him, after coming so far?

But no one had seen him. Thank God for that.

Heart still pounding, he picked up his cane and, leaning on it heavily, he limped out the door.