Chapter 4: The Marshal's Death
POV: Kate
Kate Austen couldn't stop checking on the marshal. Every few minutes, she found herself walking past the place where they'd moved him—a shaded spot under improvised palm frond shelter, far enough from the main camp that his screaming wouldn't carry to the children they'd pulled from the wreckage.
Guilt tasted like metal in her mouth, sharp and poisonous. Edward Mars was dying slowly, painfully, and every tortured breath he drew was her fault.
She'd killed her stepfather to save her mother. Shot Wayne Janssen in the kitchen of the house where he'd beaten them both for years, the smell of morning coffee and burnt toast mixing with the acrid smoke of gunpowder. She'd thought that would be the end of it—justice served, debts paid in blood.
But justice had a different opinion. The law didn't care about bruises hidden under makeup or threats whispered in dark hallways. The law saw only a dead man and a woman with motive, means, and opportunity. So Kate had run, and Edward Mars had chased her across three states and two countries, patient as death and twice as relentless.
Now he was dying because of her choices, and she had to watch every agonizing second of it.
The marshal lay on his makeshift bed, his face gray with pain and blood loss. The shrapnel from the crash had torn through his abdomen like shattered glass, creating wounds that Jack's medical expertise could slow but not stop. Infection was setting in despite their best efforts, and they all knew what that meant.
"Kate." Mars's voice was barely a whisper, his eyes focusing on her with tremendous effort. "Kate, come here."
She approached reluctantly, her stomach churning with guilt and dread. Up close, she could see the fever burning in his eyes, the way his skin had taken on a waxy, artificial sheen. Death was coming for Edward Mars, and it wouldn't be quick or gentle.
"I should have... told them about you," he gasped. "Should have... made the announcement... before we crashed."
Kate's throat closed. "Don't talk. Save your strength."
Mars laughed, a sound like broken glass scraping concrete. "Strength for what? We both know... how this ends."
Before Kate could respond, a shadow fell across them. She looked up to find Mac Kerby standing at the edge of the shelter, his expression carefully neutral. The man who seemed to know too much about everything, who appeared wherever there was suffering to be eased or wounds to be healed.
Kate stiffened instinctively. There was something about Mac that set her teeth on edge—not malice, exactly, but a perceptiveness that felt dangerous. He watched people too closely, noticed details others missed, asked questions that cut too near the truth. In her experience, that kind of awareness usually belonged to cops, bounty hunters, or others who made their living by seeing through deception.
"Mind if I take a look?" Mac asked quietly.
Kate wanted to say no, wanted to guard her secrets and her shame from those knowing eyes. But Mars was suffering, and if Mac could help...
She stepped back wordlessly.
Mac knelt beside the marshal, his hands hovering over the infected wounds. The golden glow Kate had heard others whispering about began to emanate from his palms, but after a few seconds, he gasped and jerked back as if he'd been burned.
"Sepsis," Mac said, his voice cracking with strain. "Too far gone for me."
Kate saw something flicker across his face—frustration, maybe, or self-recrimination. Whatever power Mac possessed, it apparently had limits, and those limits were written in Edward Mars's deteriorating condition.
"I could ease the pain," Mac continued quietly, "but I can't save him."
The words hit Kate like physical blows. She'd known Mars was dying, but hearing it confirmed by someone with Mac's impossible abilities made it real in a way she wasn't prepared for.
Mars's eyes found hers again, and she saw something in them that might have been understanding. "Kate," he rasped. "Don't... don't let me..."
He couldn't finish the sentence, but Kate understood. She'd seen enough death in her life to know the difference between dying and suffering. Edward Mars was asking for mercy, and they both knew she was the only one who could give it to him.
Mac seemed to read the subtext of the conversation. He rose quietly, brushing sand from his knees.
"I'll leave you two alone," he said, and disappeared into the gathering dusk.
Kate knelt beside Mars, taking his feverish hand in hers. The irony was suffocating—the man who'd spent four years hunting her was now dependent on her compassion for release from his agony.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry for all of it."
Mars squeezed her hand with what little strength remained to him. "Not... your fault. Just... the job."
But it was her fault. If she hadn't killed Wayne, if she'd found another way, if she'd been stronger or smarter or braver, none of this would have happened. Edward Mars would be home with his family instead of dying in agony on a beach thousands of miles from anywhere that mattered.
The weight of that responsibility sat on her chest like a stone.
POV: Mac
Mac was gathering herbs for pain relief when the gunshot shattered the evening quiet. The sound echoed across the beach like a thunderclap, sending birds shrieking from the jungle and survivors scrambling for cover.
He ran toward the medical area, his heart hammering against his ribs. The gunshot had come from near the marshal's shelter, and Mac's inherited instincts were screaming warnings about violence and death and choices that couldn't be taken back.
He arrived to find chaos. Sawyer Ford stood over Edward Mars with a smoking revolver in his hand, his face a mask of grim satisfaction. Kate knelt beside the marshal, her expression twisted with horror and disbelief. Jack Shephard was shouting something about medical ethics and criminal liability, his voice cracking with outrage.
And Mars... Mars was still alive, but worse than before. The bullet had hit him in the lung instead of the heart, creating a sucking chest wound that filled with blood and pink foam. His breathing came in wet, desperate gasps, each one weaker than the last.
"What did you do?" Kate's voice was raw with anguish.
Sawyer's jaw was set in stubborn lines. "Put him out of his misery. Man was suffering."
"You made it worse!"
Jack shoved Sawyer aside, dropping to his knees beside the marshal. But even Mac could see it was hopeless. Mars was drowning in his own blood now, his lungs filling faster than they could empty. The mercy shot had become torture instead.
"Let me try," Mac said, pushing through the gathered crowd.
"Mac, don't—" Jack started to protest.
"Let me try!"
Mac's hands found the marshal's chest, avoiding the bullet wound while seeking the internal bleeding that was killing him. His healing power flowed outward, but there was too much damage, too much trauma for his Phase One abilities to address.
Still, he could do something about the pain.
Mac poured everything he had into Edward Mars, not trying to heal the fatal injuries but simply numbing the agony that was consuming him. The golden glow intensified, and Mars's breathing eased slightly. The panic faded from his eyes, replaced by something approaching peace.
The marshal's gaze found Kate's face and held it. For just a moment, his expression cleared completely, and Mac saw something that might have been forgiveness pass between them. Then Mars closed his eyes for the last time, and the ragged breathing stopped.
Silence settled over the beach like a blanket. Mac lifted his hands from the dead man's chest, feeling the familiar echo of pain that came with every healing. But this time, it was mixed with something else—relief, maybe, or simple human exhaustion. Edward Mars had been suffering, and now he wasn't.
"He's at peace," Mac said quietly.
Kate was crying now, silent tears that tracked through the sand and salt on her face. Sawyer holstered his gun with hands that shook slightly, his usual swagger replaced by something more subdued.
"Didn't mean to make it worse," Sawyer muttered. "Just... man shouldn't have to suffer like that."
Jack stood slowly, his face pale with shock. "We need to bury him. Before the heat..."
Mac nodded, already thinking about logistics. They'd need a proper grave, something that would keep scavengers away. His Builder instincts were already working through the problem—where to dig, how deep, what materials they'd need.
But first, he needed to check on Kate.
He found her hours later, sitting alone at the tide line while the rest of the camp settled into exhausted sleep. She didn't acknowledge his approach, but she didn't leave either. Mac sat beside her on the sand, close enough to offer comfort but far enough away to avoid crowding her grief.
They sat in silence for a long time, watching waves roll up the beach and retreat in endless rhythm. Finally, Kate spoke without looking at him.
"You knew I was running from him."
It wasn't a question, and Mac didn't treat it like one. "I guessed. The way he looked at you. The way you looked at him."
Kate was quiet for another minute, processing his words. When she spoke again, her voice was barely audible above the sound of the waves.
"You have secrets too. I can tell."
Mac laughed hollowly. "Yeah. But mine aren't hurting anyone. Yours?"
Kate's jaw tightened. "They might. Eventually."
The admission hung between them like a confession. Mac could feel the weight of whatever Kate was carrying, the burden that had driven her to run halfway around the world only to end up stranded on a mysterious island with the man who'd been hunting her.
"Then we'll deal with it," Mac said, surprising himself with the words. "Together, if you want."
Kate finally looked at him, searching his face for judgment and finding only tired understanding. "Why would you trust me? You don't know what I've done."
Mac shrugged. "Because you didn't run when things got hard. You stayed. You tried to help him, even after everything."
Something shifted in Kate's expression—not trust, exactly, but the foundation for it. The recognition that Mac wasn't going to press for details or demand explanations she wasn't ready to give.
"What makes you so sure I'm worth trusting?" Kate asked.
"Maybe I'm not," Mac admitted. "But we're all stuck here together, and I'd rather have allies than enemies. Besides, anyone who'd sit with a dying man she had every reason to hate... that says something about character."
Kate's smile was small and sad, but real. "You see a lot, don't you?"
"Sometimes more than I want to."
They sat together in comfortable silence as false dawn began to lighten the eastern sky. Mac could feel Kate's guard dropping slightly, the walls she'd built around her secrets becoming just a little more permeable.
It wasn't friendship yet, but it was the beginning of something. An alliance built on mutual understanding of what it meant to carry secrets that could destroy you if they came to light.
Mac rose as the sun touched the horizon, brushing sand from his clothes. He had work to do—a grave to dig, a body to bury with whatever dignity they could manage on a beach thousands of miles from civilization.
But maybe he'd also planted seeds of trust with someone who would become important in the trials ahead. On this island, allies would be worth more than abilities.
The math of survival was becoming clearer every day.
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