Her eyes were wide, fixed on his. He could see her very clearly. The snow had almost stopped. Fifty feet away, Deaver stepped out from behind the concrete wall and assumed the stance.
“Ben? You’re Ben?”
Jack brought his weapon up, aimed. Time had run out.
“Run, Caroline! Run!” he screamed.
Caroline bolted and ran. But not toward his vehicle. She ran straight toward him.
Deaver stepped out from behind the concrete wall, tracking her…finger on the trigger…
Jack caught Caroline with one arm, lifting his weapon with his other, going for the one shot certain to kill instantly—putting a round right on the bridge of Deaver’s nose. Deaver fell backwards, the spray of blood bright on the pristine white snow.
And that was all Jack saw as he wrapped his arms around Caroline, safe now, safe forever, and buried his face in her hair, tears bright and cold on his face.
Headquarters of The Children’s Shelter
Chicago
Two weeks later
Sister Mary Michael smiled at the envelope on her desk. Over the course of the past ten years, there had been many of them—all the same. They had all been addressed to her, care of the nondenominational charity she headed. The Children’s Shelter, dedicated to providing an education to the lost children in homeless shelters.
Each envelope was written in black ink in a bold, strong hand. Each envelope held the same return address—a foundation incorporated in the Bahamas. The JP Foundation, Box 1341, Freeport, Grand Bahama. Each envelope had held a check.
There was no way to know whether the person writing was a man or a woman, but Sister Mary Michael just knew it was a man. Something about the strong strokes of the pen, the spacing, the evenness of the letters…over the years she’d even built up an image in her mind. A tall, strong man, who didn’t want gratitude.
She’d tried to thank him. Oh, how she’d tried. After the first few checks had arrived, she’d asked Tom Pinto for help. Tom had learned to read at the age of twelve thanks to the Shelter, and he had become one of the finest private investigators in the country. She asked him to track down the person or persons behind the JP Foundation. Tom was very good at his job, but he never managed to crack the infinite layers of protection screening the Foundation’s backers. Finally, Tom had told her gently to let it be, and she had.
The Foundation was clearly an example of God’s will, shining through.
Sister Mary Michael laid the envelope down on the desk before her, touching it with the tips of her fingers and said a prayer for the immortal soul of the sender, knowing that God’s grace shone particularly strong in him. The Shelter would have long since had to close its doors if it hadn’t been for her mysterious and generous benefactor.
Sister Mary Michael picked up a wooden letter opener that had been carved for her by one of her lost children, lost no more, now a second-year surgical resident in Boston, and slit the envelope open.
The checks had started out small. A thousand dollars, a couple of times a year, at first. As the years went by, the checks increased in size as her benefactor, bless his soul, grew wealthy.
The last check had been for thirty thousand dollars.
Smiling, Sister Mary Michael slid the check out and looked at the figures. Two thousand dollars. Well, maybe business hadn’t been…
No, she’d read it wrong. Twenty thousand—no. Sister Mary Michael caught her breath and blinked, staring at the words written in black ink in that familiar strong hand.
Twenty million dollars.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to my agent, Ethan Ellenberg,
and to my editor, May Chen.