Only Kyle seemed to grasp the reality behind her actions. “Where’s Dad?”
“Never mind that. Just do as I say.”
The slim ten-year-old started to rise. Grace grabbed a handful of his shirt and yanked him back down. “No! You have to stay with me.”
“But, Dad...”
“Your father got himself into this mess and he says he can get himself out of it, so we’re going to let him.” She fixed her most convincing parental stare on her eldest child, thankful to see him wilt from its effects.
What she wasn’t willing to admit, to Kyle or even to herself, was how worried she was for Dylan’s well-being. For his future. And for the rest of the family.
Positive her brood would stay put, at least for the present, Grace reached into her shoulder bag, pulled out her cell phone and pressed 9-1-1. Somebody had to be practical and behave like a sensible adult. While Dylan was acting as if he thought he could outrun bullets, she was going to summon proper assistance.
As soon as the call was answered, Grace began with, “I’m at the botanical gardens. We think somebody is shooting at us!”
* * *
Dylan was torn. Should he circle back to rejoin his family in the hope he could protect them? Or should he stay as far away from Grace and the kids as possible? Neither choice seemed foolproof.
He’d been listening carefully and had heard no more shots. Was it possible the whole incident had been imagined? Was he so mentally unbalanced from the stress of finding out what he’d done that he was hearing things? Ducking phantom attackers? Making a mountain out of a molehill?
His jaw clenched and he shook his head. This was no trivial matter. Even if his own life wasn’t currently in jeopardy, that didn’t mean he and his family would remain safe in the future. Nobody who had interrogated him had mentioned the possibility of going into the 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