He spun up off the couch and sprinted after her. And if Millicent hadn't stopped to shed her swimsuit, she might well have made it all the way to that four-poster before he caught her. Or she caught him.
Or…
Epilogue: Part Two
Quito, Ecuador, Saturday, October 8, 2059
Nigel Bishop sat in an oak-paneled waiting room, beneath a gigantic neomodernist rendition of a bullfighting scene. He hadn't studied it.
Beneath the broad double windows to his right, street musicians were playing, vying with the horns and motors of a Tuesday's evening traffic. He paid no attention.
For the first time in weeks, when he breathed or moved his face, he experienced no sharp stab of agony. He felt no gratitude.
What he felt, instead, was a niggling feeling of doubt. Somewhere, somehow, something was wrong. It wouldn't come into focus, but he was almost certain…
Bishop cursed softly. Why couldn't he see the flaw? His mind just wouldn't perform with its usual clarity and precision. When he closed his eyes he saw Alex Griffin.
He had to think…
A door opened, and a pretty, light-skinned, almost Asian Hispanic woman beckoned to him. 'Senor Bishop? They are ready to speak with you.'
Nigel stood and brushed invisible dust away from his coat. He gripped his suitcase with hands that were suddenly cold and wet.
There was something. He was certain of it, but but it kept eluding him.
'Excuse me. Senor Bishop?'
'Yes. I'm ready.' He breathed deeply, banishing his doubts. Vague fears and uncertainties often accompanied major life events. Victory, he reminded himself, belonged to the bold.
And so thinking, Nigel Bishop strode across the threshold. 'There are Paths that should not be taken. 'There are Armies that should not be confronted.
