Witness Protection Program but surely that was an option. It had to be, particularly since other erstwhile eyewitnesses had been assassinated while in police custody.
Now that he thought about it, perhaps he should withhold his evidence until that idea had been discussed and his wife and children had been offered sanctuary.
The distant wail of sirens told him he had not been the only garden visitor who had sensed trouble. In a way, that was comforting. At least he could be certain he hadn’t imagined the attack.
Dylan stepped onto the nearest path and started to jog toward the gates, figuring to intercept the police, explain what was going on and direct them to Grace and the kids.
Rounding the final corner he spied several patrol cars entering the grounds. He raised an arm and waved to get their attention.
A crack of sound split the atmosphere.
Dylan felt as if someone had smacked his forearm with a baseball bat.
He faltered. Staggered. Grabbed his wrist with his opposite hand and yelled, “Over here!” at the top of his lungs.
When he looked down, there was blood dripping off his fingers and dotting the path at his feet.
THREE
The wail of multiple sirens settled Grace’s nerves considerably. Nevertheless she waited until she spotted a man in a police uniform before she stepped out to show herself and the children.
“You the lady who called this in?” the crew-cut officer asked.
“Yes.” Grace pointed at the gazebo. “We were right over there when we were shot at.”
“You and these kids?” He sounded incredulous.
“No. Me and my estranged husband. He’s around here somewhere.”
“You sure it wasn’t him who took a potshot at you?”
“It couldn’t have been. We were together when it happened.”
“What does your husband look like? How was he dressed?”
“He’s taller than you by a couple of inches,” she reported, failing to add that Dylan also looked far more masculine and mature. “He was wearing a red baseball jacket and cap.”
“You’d better come with me, ma’am.” Taking one last assessing look at their surroundings, he was apparently satisfied enough to holster his sidearm. “This way.”
“Have you seen him? His name is Dylan McIntyre. I’m Grace.”
“Yes, ma’am. I believe he’s in the parking lot with some of my team.”
“Is he all right?”
When she got no answer, she grabbed the officer’s sleeve. “Tell me? Was he shot?”
“I really can’t say.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“We’re almost there, Mrs. McIntyre. He can tell you himself.”
Breath whooshed out of Grace’s lungs. If Dylan could talk, then he was at least alive. At that moment she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to hug him for surviving or to smack him for exposing his family to such danger. Actually, doing both sounded best.
She and the slim officer cleared the exit gates together. Three patrol cars, one black van and an ambulance were parked at intervals, with the police situated closest to the gates.
Grace’s rapid scan of all the vehicles led her attention to the open rear doors of the ambulance where Dylan was being treated. He had removed the silky jacket and rolled up the right sleeve of his white dress shirt. The closer she got, the better she could tell that there was blood staining the cuff.
She stopped and turned to the closest person, a young woman wearing a tailored suit and mirrored glasses. Her dark hair was pulled back severely and Grace could see part of a holster peeking out from beneath her jacket.
“Excuse me,” Grace began, waiting for a smile she didn’t get, then continuing despite its lack. “That’s my husband over there and I don’t want to scare the kids. Could you watch them for just a few minutes so I can go punch him in the nose?”
That candid comment brought a twitch of mirth to the other woman’s face. “Only if you leave some of him for me and my partner.” She offered her hand. “U.S. Marshal Serena Summers. The guy over there hovering behind the paramedics is my partner, Marshal Josh McCall.”
“Dylan’s in a lot of trouble, isn’t he?”
The marshal nodded. “How much do you know already?”
“Only that he helped arrange some adoptions that weren’t strictly legal.” Grace lowered her voice to speak more privately, hoping the children couldn’t overhear. “He just told me some of the babies they placed were stolen. Can that be true?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the case. Maybe we can talk later, after Mr. McIntyre finishes giving us an official statement.” She motioned to a nearby uniformed officer. “Put these kids in the van and show them all our whistles and bells. Keep them entertained and see that they stay put until I finish up out here.”
Grace frowned at her. “Hold on a second. I just wanted you to watch them while I talked to my husband, not take them into custody.”
“It’s for their own good. You want them to be safe, don’t you?”
“Of course, but...”
“Then bear with me, Mrs. McIntyre. May I call you Grace?”
“You know my first name?”
Marshal Summers nodded sagely. “Actually, I probably know more about you and your family than you do.”
“Why does that not make me feel all warm and fuzzy?”
Giving a subdued chuckle, the marshal glanced at her and smiled. “I like your attitude. Reminds me of myself.”
Grace mirrored the smile, partly in reply and partly because she wanted to put her children at ease. “It’s okay,” she told them, primarily concentrating on Kyle. “You can be in charge until I’m done checking on your father.”
“Is—is he okay?”
“You can see for yourself. He’s sitting right over there talking to the ambulance attendants. Now go with this policeman and be good for him, hear?”
The child’s nod was reluctant, yet sufficed.
“He’s a stubborn one, isn’t he?” Marshal Summers asked as they walked away.
“Kyle’s hardheaded, all right. Just like his daddy.”
“What about you, Grace?”
“Me? Why?”
