ll 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."