"I'll get it," Marc said, stopping in front of gate three and getting out of the car.
He unlocked the padlock and swung the gate open, then slowly drove down the row of storage units. "Number one fifty-two." Karen pointed at it and took out the padlock key.
They both got out of the car, and Marc took the key from her. After opening the lock, he slid back the lever that kept the door from being raised, then bent and caught the handle and lifted the overhead door with a rattle of metal.
The smell was musty but not, she was thankful, mildewed. Her throat caught as she looked at the boxes, the pieces of furniture. Her mother's bedroom suite, all her clothing, the other things Karen hadn't had room for when she moved.
Marc lifted one of the boxes down. Taking out his pocket knife, he neatly sliced through the sealing tape.
Hayes checked his rearview mirror, then, at the next intersection, made a hard left turn, barely missing the oncoming traffic. Behind him, nothing happened.
He grunted in satisfaction. If there had been a tail, he'd lost it for certain. There was no way he could have been followed after that turn, not without a lot of tires squealing, horns blowing, and maybe some metal contact.
Time to find this storage place.
* * *
Chapter 20
« ^ »
All the packing boxes were neatly labeled, but Karen couldn't remember in which one she had placed the smaller box. The first box Marc opened held Jeanette's clothing. She carefully took out each garment, trying not to think of her mother, blinking fast when her vision blurred, and then folding and replacing all the clothing when the search came up empty.
"I think—I think I already had the boxes packed, and all I did was set the other box on top of the stuff already there."
"Then we won't have to dig through the entire box. All we have to do is open each one and see if the small box is there."
"Theoretically. I was still pretty much in shock at the time. I'm not certain what I did."
He was patient, and the heat wasn't as dreadful as she had feared. In fact, the shade inside the storage unit made their work more bearable than if they had been in the broiling sun. Occasionally, a small breeze managed to work its way among the row of units, further cooling them. Still, Marc's T-shirt began to show damp patches and cling. Clinging was good. She eyed him appreciatively.
He sliced open the fifth box and grunted. "Here we go, I think." He lifted out a small cardboard box, not much bigger than a shoe box. Karen saw her mother's name printed on top.
"That's it."
She took the box and opened it. Inside were some papers and a small black-bound notebook, the type available in every discount store in the country, secured with a rubber band. She slipped off the rubber band and flipped through the papers. Seeing some letters in her mother's handwriting, she took a deep breath and handed the papers to Marc, keeping the notebook for herself.
"You look through those," she said, taking a seat on an end table.
He gave her a searching look, then glanced at the papers and nodded in understanding. He scanned the letter Dexter had sent with the box. "He says the papers might be worth some money someday." He propped himself against the dresser and crossed his feet at the ankles. "I thought he was being sarcastic." Karen flipped open the book and stared at her father's handwriting, unusually neat for a man. He had used a small, square style, almost like printing, very legible.
"January 3, 1968," was listed on the first page. Bewildered, she read a description of the terrain, the weather conditions including wind velocity and direction, distance to target, spotter's name—Rodney Grotting—and other information such as the make and model of rifle he used, technical details about the ammunition, and the final notation: "Head shot. Kill made at 6:43 a.m. Viet Cong colonel." Below, Rodney Grotting had scribbled a verification and signed it.
Blinking, Karen turned the page. Another date, another description of conditions, ending with the casual, chilling outcome.
More pages. Most of the time, he took a heart shot, but sometimes he went for the head. Once it was the throat. She had seen such a wound once: the high-caliber slug had torn out half the throat, and the victim had bled to death. For such a terrible wound, with the jugular destroyed, there was nothing that could have been done even if medical personnel had been there when it happened.
She couldn't read any more. Her face white, she closed the book and handed it to Marc. "Take a look at this."
He eyed her sharply, consideringly, then turned his attention to the book. Watching him, Karen didn't see any expressions of shock or distaste at such a sick record.
"It's his kill book," he said.
"Good God, do you mean everyone kept them?"
"The snipers did. I was a Marine, too, you know. The snipers in the Vietnam war were legendary. The best ones could take out a target at a thousand yards. Their kills had to be verified, so they kept track in their kill books."
The idea still made her feel ill. "But wouldn't the Marine Corps have kept the books?"
"I don't know. I wasn't a sniper, so I never asked. Maybe they did. Maybe he kept two books, one for his own records. It was a bad war, honey. It messed up a lot of good men."
He continued flipping through the pages, scanning each one. When he reached the last one, he said, "Sixty-one kills. He was good at his job." He started to close the notebook, and the pages fluttered; there was some writing on the last page, though about forty pages had been skipped and left clean. Frowning, Marc opened the small notebook to the last page.
"Holy shit," he said slowly.
Karen had been watching him, had seen the way his pupils flared, the quick compression of his lips. "What is it?"
"Another kill," he answered, then lifted his gaze to hers. "An American soldier. He was paid twenty thousand dollars to do it."
Karen's stomach twisted. Dear God. Her father was a murderer, a paid assassin. Killing the enemy in war was one thing, but killing a fellow soldier was hideous.
"I'll take that, thank you," a strange voice said, and a man stepped in front of the open unit. He was burly, middle-aged, but hard looking; the pistol in his hand was aimed straight at Marc's head. He was in his sock feet, which explained why they hadn't heard him approach. "I've been wondering what was in that little book that was so damn interesting. I suppose I should thank you for saving me the trouble of looking for it. Just put it down on the box, there." His tone was easy, his manner anything but. "You, cowboy, ease that piece out of the holster and toss it on the ground. Gently, now. Two fingers."
Karen sat frozen. Marc's face was expressionless, but a slight shake of his head told her he didn't want her to move a muscle. Carefully, he did as the burly man said, using his thumb and finger to ease his pistol from the holster. He tossed it to the ground at the man's feet.
"Good boy."' The man didn't even glance at the pistol, didn't take his eyes off Marc. "Who the hell are you? Boyfriend? Cop?"
"Cop," Marc answered, leaving it at that. If he admitted to a personal relationship with Karen, the man would know he could force him to do anything by threatening her.
"I was afraid of that." The man sighed. "Okay, toss over your backup piece."
Silently, Marc removed a small pistol from his ankle holster and tossed it to the ground beside the other.
"Shit," the man said. "I really don't like killing a cop. It causes all sorts of trouble."
"Then rethink your position," Marc said. He started to straighten, and the man shook his head warningly.
"Just stay where you are. Sorry about this, Cowboy, Ma'am." Oddly, his regret seemed genuine. It didn't matter. He was going to kill them anyway. Karen watched his finger tighten on the trigger, horror slowing her perception so that the tiny movement seemed to take forever. Without thinking, she cried, "No!" as she reached out as if she could catch the bullet in her hand and prevent it from striking Marc.
The man jerked, just a little, his attention fragmented by her sudden cry
. Marc uncoiled like a snake striking, shoving Karen to the ground with his left hand while his right one whipped down and out. There was a blur of something shiny, then the man made one of the worst noises she had ever heard, a mixture of a cry and a gurgle, and with his free hand he clawed at the knife sticking in his throat, the knife Marc had been using to open the boxes.
He was a professional. He pulled the trigger anyway.
There was only a coughing sort of noise. Marc staggered back, caught his balance, launched himself forward. He hit the man in the chest and drove him backward to the ground. There was another coughing sound, and the mirror in the dresser shattered.
Scrambling up, Karen dived for Marc's pistol. The two men sprawled, struggling, in the rough gravel. Marc's left hand was locked around the other man's right wrist, forcing the weapon upward. With his right hand, he jerked the knife blade sideways.
The man choked, gagging. Blood spurted from the gaping wound in his neck. His face took on a bluish tinge. Rolling so he straddled him, Marc slammed the man's gun hand hard against the ground, twice, three times. Finally, the thick fingers loosened, and the pistol dropped from his grasp. He coughed, a rattling sound, and his legs quivered. He clawed at his throat.
Marc slumped forward, breathing hard, his head down.
"Oh, God," Karen whispered as she skidded to the ground beside him, ignoring the pain in her already abused knees. She forgot about the pistol in her right hand as she put both arms around him, easing him upright so she could assess the wound and his condition.
The front of his T-shirt was already soaked bright red. There was no exit wound in his back.
She spared only a glance for the man on the ground. He wasn't dead yet, but he would be shortly. His chest heaved as he tried and failed to suck in oxygen; his face was turning darker and darker, it was almost purple now.
Marc pressed his hand hard over the wound. The bullet had hit him high in the left chest, so high it had missed his heart but hit his lung. Karen heard the terrifying whistle from his chest as air escaped from his lung. The blood seeping through his fingers had bubbles in it, and a pink froth lined his lips.
"It's okay, sweetheart, you're going to be okay," she heard herself murmuring as her mind raced. Plastic. She needed some thin plastic, like Saran Wrap, to seal the wound and keep the lung from collapsing.
Sucking chest wounds were critical, and God only knew what kind of collateral damage the bullet had done tumbling around inside his body. He would die if she didn't seal the wound and get him to a hospital, quick.
The man he was sitting on began to spasm. Marc's teeth clenched as the movements jarred him, but the "Unnnhh" of pain escaped anyway.
"Don't bother," another voice said behind her. "I regret the necessity of this, but I really can't let either of you live."
* * *
Chapter 21
« ^
Marc sagged in Karen's arms, and she struggled to hold his weight. His head turned toward two newcomers, a trim, good-looking man, in his fifties perhaps, with a gray mustache and gray hair, and an older, heavier man who looked as battered as some old fighter. Both were standing slightly behind them, each holding a silenced pistol in his right hand. The pistols were aimed at them.
They couldn't see the gun she held, Karen realized, staring at the weapon in her right hand. And where in hell was the man McPherson had sent to follow them? Unless—horrible thought—he was the man who had just tried to kill them.
"Hello, Senator Lake," Marc said in a strained voice, and coughed.
The younger man looked startled and aggravated. "How did you recognize me?" he snapped.
"I was… kind of… expecting you. I… read the book."
"Don't talk," Karen begged him. Painfully, he dragged his left arm up so he could touch the pistol. She knew he was telling her to let him have it. But he was too weak, she thought, in too much pain; he would never be able to handle the heavy weapon. She tightened her grip on the gun, her jaw locking as she stared at this new threat.
Marc closed his hand around the pistol, groping. His shaking finger found the safety, clicked it off. The sound was a tiny snick. Karen barely heard it, but she knew what he had done.
Senator Lake's gaze went to the small, stained notebook lying on top of the box. "Keep them covered," he said to the bigger man, and quickly stepped into the storage unit to retrieve it. He flipped through the pages, then tucked the book into his shirt. "Yes, this is it," he said, and smiled at Karen. "How gratifying that someone has finally found it." He sneered at the dead man on the ground. "Hayes certainly couldn't manage to do the job, though he finally figured out where to look and led us here. He thought he was so sharp, with all his evasive maneuvers, but once again he underestimated my, ah, capabilities."
Senator Lake was very pleased with himself and the way the day had turned out. Not only was Hayes out of the way, but the notebook had been found. This whole aggravating nightmare was almost over with. He was especially pleased with the weapon in his hand; the pistol itself wasn't much, but the best silencer made anywhere in the world was screwed onto the barrel. Nothing more than a slight cough would be heard when he fired it. Hayes had told him once about walking up to a target on a busy street, shooting him with a silenced .22, and no one around them paid any attention until the target keeled over on the sidewalk. By then, Hayes was already several steps beyond the target, blending with the crowd. He should have known then that Hayes couldn't be trusted, because what sort of man would brag about something like that?
He was amazed sometimes at how well things worked out. How convenient of Hayes to leave town at just the right time. Disposing of him in D.C. would have been a problem, even for Raymond. For one thing, reporters were always snooping around. For another, Hayes would have been missed. That was where he lived; he had associates, neighbors, people who would have been able to identify him. Here… well. This was all working out very nicely. There would be three bodies here, and nothing to tie any of them to him.
All in all, he was rather proud of himself. He seemed to have a knack for this type of thing. All one had to do was plan carefully, but really, he had found most people too stupid for such meticulous thinking.
"Shoot them," he said to Raymond.
Karen tensed, her gaze locked on the big man's pistol. She started to lift her right hand, knowing even as she did so that she wouldn't be fast enough, not with the big man already aiming at her. She felt Marc gather himself.
"How much… are you paying… for our murders?" Marc gasped between phrases, his chest moving in jerks as he tried to breathe. The froth at his mouth dripped down his chin. "As much as… you paid Whitlaw… to kill… your brother?"
The big man froze. "What?"
The revelation rocked through Karen. Horrified, she stared at the man she had seen so many times on television, a man known for his integrity. So that was what Marc had read, what he hadn't had time to tell her. That was why her father had been killed.
"You had your own brother killed," she said slowly. "You hired my father to do it. He was blackmailing you, wasn't he?"
"Don't be ridiculous," the senator said, his tone uneasy as he glanced at the big man beside him.
"Mr. Stephen." The big man was white, haggard. "Mr. Stephen, let me see that book."
"Don't be ridiculous," the senator said again. "Don't tell me you believe this… this pack of lies!"
"It was in Vietnam," Karen said.
"Shut up!" The senator rounded on her, pointed his pistol at her.
"My father was a Marine sniper," she continued, though she was shaking in every limb. "You paid him twenty thousand dollars to kill your brother."
"Kill her, Raymond," the senator said, infuriated.
The older man, Raymond, still looked stunned, but he was recovering. He said, sadly, "Mr. Stephen," as he turned his weapon on the senator.
Senator Lake calmly turned and fired. Raymond staggered back, a look of astonishment and sorrow on his face. Senator Lake f
ired again, with no sound except that ominous little cough Karen knew would haunt her dreams, and Raymond fell.
"Damn you," the senator said furiously, wheeling on Karen. "Why couldn't you keep your stupid mouth shut?"
Marc lifted his bloodstained hand, pulling the senator's attention to him. "What about… Medina?"
Marc's entire body was trembling with effort. Karen gripped him tighter with her left arm, thinking fast. If she tugged him to the ground, it would get him out of the line of fire, but the sudden motion might cause the bullet to shift, causing even more damage. She couldn't see that she had any other choice.
"Whitlaw thought he could blackmail me with the book. No one else could track him down, so I called in Medina for the job. I told him Whitlaw had killed another contract agent in Vietnam, one of Medina's friends. It was a lie, of course, but Medina had some troublesome morals. I needed him, and that was the only way I could get him. He knew Whitlaw, so he had an advantage the others lacked."
Karen felt her breathing slow, get deeper. Her vision narrowed as she stared at the stylishly dressed man, until she could see only him. This man was the one who was the cause of everything. He had paid to have his own brother killed, then had her father hunted down and executed.
"Medina?" Marc gasped again. He sagged to the left, away from her. Desperately, she locked her fingers in his shirt, holding him upright. The muscles in her left arm strained and shook.
"Oh, well, obviously I had to have him taken care of, too. He wouldn't have liked finding out I lied to him. Those pesky morals of his again."
"Tell me… something."
The eyebrows rose. "As a sort of last request? Of course."
"What kind of… shithead… brags about… murder?"
The senator jerked a little, outrage flaring in his eyes as if he couldn't believe Marc had called him a shithead. His hand came up. Something erupted in Karen's chest, an inhuman sound that was very close to a growl. She felt as if she were moving in slow motion, but so was he. Using her grip on Marc's shirt, she dragged him down and at the same time lifted his pistol.