"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 McPherson 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.
Karen knelt in the dirt, the bright sun glaring down on her head, and held Marc. He clasped his long fingers around her wrist, and they waited together, listening to the sirens draw closer and closer. Ten hours later, Karen slipped out of Marc's SICU cubicle and went to the pay phone. The surgery had gone well, actually better than she had expected, and feared. The bullet hadn't done as much damage as it could have, because, after piercing Marc's lung, it had lodged in a rib, preventing it from tumbling around. He had required two units of blood, but he was now stable, actually awake, and as unhappy as she had predicted.
She took the white card out of her pocket and punched in the phone number, then her own calling card number. The call was answered on the first ring.
"Yes?" was all he said, but she knew it was Baseball Cap.
"The surgery went well," she reported. "He's stable, will probably be in SICU for another day, and home in a week to ten days."
"Good. Thanks for calling."
Sensing he was about to hang up, she said, "Wait!"
He paused.
Fury bubbled up in her. "What did take you so long to get there, damn it?" she said fiercely, spitting the words out between her teeth.
He sighed, and in the long moment of silence that followed, she thought he wasn't going to answer her. Then he said, "I wanted to know why. I didn't know about the kill book, so… I listened."
"What difference did the why of it make?" she demanded, so angry she was shaking. Marc could have been killed while this man listened .
There was another long pause, then he said, very quietly, "Yours wasn't the only father killed, Miss Whitlaw."
He hung up so gently she barely heard the click on the line, then the dial tone buzzed in her ear. Slowly, she returned the receiver to the cradle and made her way back to SICU. Marc was still awake, his face as white as the pillow beneath his head. He lay very still, not wanting to disturb any of the tubes running into his body in various locations, especially not the ones for which special holes had been made. But his mouth curved into a smile, and he cautiously moved his hand to reach for hers.
She cupped both of her hands around his. "Medina was his father," she blurted. "Baseball Cap, that is." Marc considered it, his eyelids drooping sleepily as the morphine drip worked on him. "Then I'm glad they were both kill shots," he said simply.
Yes. Karen caught her breath. If it was possible for anyone to be killed twice, she and Rick Medina's son had both avenged their fathers.
"I love you," Marc murmured. "Have I told you how damn wonderful you were, snarling 'Doesn't anyone smoke anymore?' You'll make a great trauma nurse."
Somehow, despite everything, he was actually smiling. Karen bent her head and pressed her lips to his hand. "Don't get smart with me," she warned tenderly. "Don't forget, this is my hospital, and I can get the nurses to do all sorts of nasty stuff to you."
He winced and kept on smiling. "They've already done some of it. I think I've lost my virginity."
"I'm sure of it," she replied. "Go to sleep now, sweetheart. I love you, and I'll be here when you wake up."
"I know," he said. "You won't ever leave." Then his eyes drifted shut, and he slept while Karen held his hand, and watched over him, and stayed. As she had promised, and as he expected, she was there when he woke.
John Medina sat with his steepled fingertips pressed to his lips, staring thoughtfully into space. It was good that Detective Chastain was going to be all right; Jess had been right in his assessment of the man. A man who could take a bullet in the chest and still cut his assailant's throat was a man to be respected. He had to leave shortly, return to his assignment, but John allowed himself a few minutes of reflection. He had kept it all inside, because only then could he function at his peak, but his father's murder had hit him hard, harder than anything since Venetia's death. Now that it was over, now that justice—and vengeance—had been served, he could let loose the grief, the rage.
The press was in an uproar, of course. Dexter Whitlaw's kill book was in police custody, and the section of it pertaining to William Lake's death had been released. The news reports were rampant with speculation about Stephen Lake's motive for having his brother killed, but John was fairly certain the late, unlamented senator had regarded it as nothing more than a career move. He had killed the heir apparent and then smoothly stepped in to take his place.
John checked his watch. Time was getting away from him. He stood, tossing the red baseball cap into the garbage and running his hand through his dark hair. A plane was waiting for him, and he had to be on it.
He'd have Jess send Miss Whitlaw and her detective a very nice wedding gift. Winner of many awards, including the Silver Pen from Affaire de Coeur and the Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Award for Best Sensual Romance, Linda Howard has captivated her vast audience with bestselling romances such as A Lady of the West, Angel Creek, The Touch of Fire, Heart of Fire, Dream Man, Shades of Twilight , and Son of the Morning . Her dazzling After the Night was praised as "a novel you won't want to end…" (Catherine Coulter), and with Kill and Tell , Linda Howard proves once again why she is one of America's favorite romance authors.
