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Then he found the perfect spot beneath the first tier of seats in the balcony. It took him a few minutes to pry the slats open without splintering the wood—and he commended himself for coming prepared with the tools he might need for most eventualities.
He unzipped the rifle case, and from long practice quickly assembled the pieces of the AS50 while still wearing his gloves. Then he fit it in the curve of his shoulder. He sighted down the scope, taking careful aim at the stage. No problem.
He loaded cartridges into the rifle from the box in the case and repeated the process, wanting every little edge he could have. A loaded rifle weighed more than an unloaded one, so he needed to be sure his aim was perfect.
“Click,” he whispered to himself. The senator would never know what hit him.
He stashed the loaded rifle and the case in the hiding place he’d created, then fitted the wood slats back in place. When he was done, few people would have noticed the difference between the before and after. And anyone who’d never seen that spot before wouldn’t have a clue that it hid anything.
Marsh glanced around, thinking Adams Hall looked more like a medieval church—with its arched ceiling, lavish use of wood, ornate paintings and stained-glass windows—than a lecture hall. His lips twisted in cynical amusement. Not a bad place to die...if you were going to die.
Chapter 19
The oatmeal was edible...barely. Shane added salt and milk to his bowl before popping it into the microwave. Carly added a teaspoon of sugar and—after scrounging in the cabinets—a dash of cinnamon to hers.
They sat at the table, eating and not saying much, until Carly raised her head and asked quietly, “Would you tell me what it’s like when it happens?”
Shane didn’t pretend not to understand. “I told you before, that first day, remember? I also described the symptoms for the interview last Sunday.”
“I know. You feel cold all over, as if you’ve walked into a freezer. You don’t black out—you have total recall of each episode. And you’re able to carry on a conversation when it happens—I know that from my own experience. But that’s not what I mean.” She made a face of frustration. “I’m not talking about the symptoms. I want to know what’s going on in your mind.”
“Honestly? I’m not really thinking anything except ‘Damn it, not again.’” He shook his head. “There’s no warning. No odd feeling that a seizure’s about to hit. And unless my arms and legs are visible, no one but me can tell I’m having an episode.” He scraped up the last bite of oatmeal before adding, “I had one on the Senate floor on Wednesday morning. Right at the beginning of my speech on the pipeline bill.”
“You did?” Her expression was half startled and half wondering. “I had no idea—I was in the gallery and I couldn’t tell.” Then her expression changed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What am I supposed to do? Announce to the world, ‘The show’s starting, folks. Senator Jones is having an epileptic seizure’?”
“Of course not.” She gave him a long-suffering look. “But you could have told me later.” She thought for a moment. “That was the night we came here, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
Her voice was very quiet when she asked, “So why didn’t you tell me?”
He had no easy answer. Why hadn’t he told Carly? “You’d already witnessed one episode, the night of the reception at the Zakharian embassy,” he said finally, stalling for time. “I didn’t keep that from you.”
“Not after I guessed. No, you didn’t.” After a long silence during which her gaze never left his face, she said, “You didn’t tell me...because you’re ashamed for me to know.”
Sudden anger shook him. “That’s a crock.”
“Is it? Then why didn’t you tell me?”
He stood so abruptly his chair scraped against the tile floor, a grating sound. He carried his bowl to the sink and ran water in it before turning to confront Carly. Only to find her bent over, her hands covering her face, her body shaking uncontrollably...and silently. Sobbing without making a sound.
