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"I'll take care of it." Baseball Cap jogged down the row of storage units and disappeared out the gate. His progress was silent; he didn't seem to make any noise when he moved.
Karen checked Marc's pulse again, watching the second hand of her watch. One thirty-two, way too fast. He was going into shock, his body fighting both blood loss and lack of oxygen, as well as the trauma it had suffered. She dragged his legs up, propping them on the burly man's chest, then positioned herself so her body blocked the sun from Marc's eyes.
"Are you still with me?" she asked, forcing her voice to calmness.
He slowly blinked and managed a faint smile. "Yes, Ma'am," he murmured, duplicating Baseball Cap's sardonic tone. "Status report?"
"The bullet hit your left lung. You've lost a lot of blood, and you're shocky, pulse rapid and thready—"
He took a quick, painful breath. "Serious… but survivable."
"Yes." She admitted her fear of the one, her hope for the other. "Stop talking. Baseball Cap has gone to call nine-one-one."
"I need… to talk to him."
"He'll be back." At least, she thought so. He might clear out while the clearing was good.
But he returned within a couple of minutes, approaching as silently as he had left, going down on one knee beside Marc. The cap was pulled low, and his sunglasses were very dark, effectively hiding his eyes. His hair was dark brown, Karen noticed that much. She knew, however, that if she walked past him within the next five minutes, minus the cap and sunglasses, she wouldn't recognize him.
"Here." He pulled the pistol from his waistband and reversed it, handed it to Karen. "You'll need this, to match the ballistics. We don't want the cops to come up with any strange bullets, do we? Let's see, what would be a logical sequence of events to account for three dead guys, one wounded, and six weapons, not counting the knife?" He paused. "This is going to get complicated."
"I'll handle it," Marc rasped.
Baseball Cap smiled grimly, little more than a quirk of his lips. Standing, he walked over to the senator's body and stood looking down at it for a moment. "You son of a bitch," he said to the dead man.
"Did you… hear?" Marc asked, gasping again.
"I heard."
Something in the grimness of the tone caught her. Karen looked at the senator's body, then at Baseball Cap. "We both shot him," she said. "At the same time."
The bill of the cap dipped once. "Both shots were kills," he said briefly.
"He had my father hunted down and killed." She was surprised at the fierceness of her tone.
"I know." He started to say something else but changed his mind, pressing his lips together.
Marc gathered himself. "Can… this man… be linked to you?" He tapped the burly man's body with his heel. Karen understood what he was asking. McPherson had stuck his neck out offering his aid; Marc didn't want anything brought out that would bring the CIA into the situation.
"No. We're clear."
"The… kill book."
"Make it public." Baseball Cap's mouth twisted. "Let everyone know what a bastard Stephen Lake was. It's proof of his motive." His head shifted a little, and Karen knew he was looking at her. "Is he going to be all right?"
"I think so. Yes." She touched Marc's face, and he turned his head against her palm. "But he's not going to be very happy with things for a while."
"You'll keep him in line." In the distance, sirens began to wail. "Jess was right," he murmured. "You're a natural, Chastain. If you ever get bored with local work, give m—give McPher
son a call."
"I'll do… that," Marc said, and waved his hand. "Leave, before they… get here. I'll… handle things."
Baseball Cap pulled a card out of his pocket. It was a plain white card with a number scribbled on it in pencil. He gave it to Karen. "Call this number, and let us know how he is."
"All right." She slipped it into her jeans pocket.
He raised two fingers to the bill of the cap in brief salute, then walked away, his stride fluid but unhurried, eerily silent.
