And he still loved Grace, in spite of their estrangement. Yes, most of their problems were of his making. And, yes, he had neglected his family in favor of hard work at Munders and Moore, but that made him a workaholic, not a criminal. It wasn’t a lack of morals that had pushed him to accept records that he should have suspected as being bogus, it was his desire to please his boss and the firm’s clients.
In retrospect, Dylan could see lots of red flags that should have alerted him to the true facts. One, there was a sudden influx of available young children and babies, which had been fairly scarce before. And, two, there was an uncanny similarity in their original home situations. The ease with which their reported birth mothers had given them up was highly unusual. Either those women had been coerced somehow, or worse, they were phantom surrogates who didn’t actually exist.
He moved his injured arm and winced. I deserve everything I get, he mused, disheartened, realizing that Grace was absolutely correct. He and he alone had brought this catastrophe down on his loved ones.
And he alone would have to stand up to organized crime and testify, even if it cost him his life, to ultimately save everyone else he cared about.
He only hoped that God would honor Grace’s faith and spare her and their innocent children.
The marshals had briefed him enough to let him know there was no guarantee that the Witness Protection Program would work. They would try to safeguard everyone, of course. And he would do all he could to impress upon his family that keeping the strict rules was critical to their survival.
Beyond that, the future was out of his hands.
Dylan sighed and glanced at his wife as she stood at the stove, flipping pancakes. “Gracie?”
Her shoulders stiffened visibly before she whirled. “Don’t call me that.”
“All right. Grace, then. I was just wondering if you’d prayed about all this.”
“What kind of question is that? Of course, I have.”
“Good,” he replied with an audible sigh, “because I’m pretty sure there’s no way God’s going to listen to me.”
About to turn away and go freshen up, Dylan spied a movement through the kitchen window behind his wife. “Grace!”
“What?” Her gaze followed his. “What did you see?”
“I’m not sure. Get away from that window.”
“You’re scaring me.”
Dylan was adamant, his heart pounding so hard he could hear the pulse in his ears. He yanked the cord and managed to lower the blinds one-handed. “How did that get pulled up, anyway?”
“I raised it. I like to see the sun in the morning.”
“I’m going to call the marshal’s number and report that we saw something suspicious,” he told her. “You go make sure the kids are okay.”
“Is this what it’s going to be like for us from now on?” she rasped. “Are we always going to be dodging shadows?”
“I don’t know,” Dylan said, cradling his sore arm after moving it too much. “Just remember, some of those so-called shadows may be armed and dangerous.”
“I hate this,” she huffed over her shoulder as she headed for the hall. “And I hate you, too.”
Dylan didn’t bother to argue. At the moment he tended to agree with her. On both counts.
* * *
For Grace, the rest of the morning crept by like a lazy snail on tranquilizers. The police had found nothing amiss in the yard and had regarded her and Dylan with skepticism, acting as if they had purposely made a false report.
She’d dressed and fed her brood, including their father, then had cleaned up the kitchen by herself. There was no way an injured man could have assisted, anyway, and as far as she was concerned, the less she had to interact with Dylan the better she liked it.
The children were watching cartoons on a small console television in the master bedroom when the marshals returned bearing a briefcase filled with important-looking papers.
“The kids are in the back, watching TV,” Grace explained. “Should I go get them?”
“Not yet.” Marshal Summers laid her black leather case on the small kitchen table and clicked the locks open with her thumbs. “We’ll be leaving this background info with you to memorize. You’d be smart to give it your full attention. The better you remember your new identities and the history we’ve prepared for you, the less chance of a slipup.”
“That’s going to be really hard for the kids,” Grace commented. “Can they at least keep their first names?”
“If you want them to. You and Dylan should go with a full change, though. We’re going to call you John and Mary...”
“Smith?” Dylan gibed. “Talk about generic.”
“No, we decided on Appleby, mainly to make it easy for the older children to remember and spell.”
Grace spoke up. “I hope you were kidding about John and Mary.”
“Not at all. Why?”
“Because I’m named after my paternal grandmother. I intend to keep calling myself Grace, whether you approve or not.”
“Then we’ll make Grace your official middle name on your new social security card and you can use Mary for anything requiring a legal signature. Will that do?”
“I suppose it’ll have to.” She pulled a face and shot a look at her husband. “Make his name Mud, will you?”
That brought a wry smile to the marshal’s face. “How about John D.—for Dylan—and you can call each other whatever you like in private?”
Dylan chuckled. “I don’t think giving her that much leeway about what to call me to my face is a good suggestion, considering her current low opinion of me.”
“Work it out,” Marshal McCall interjected soberly. “You’re going to have to rely on each other’s discretion if you intend to survive. We’re going over surveillance recordings at our office to see if anyone who didn’t belong there might have been nosing around my desk when the flash drive you gave us went missing. We may be able to slack up a bit if and when we ID them, but don’t hold your breath, okay?”
Nodding, Grace leaned over to scan the documents the female marshal was spreading out on the table. “Except for where we originally came from, this looks pretty easy to learn.” She began to frown. “Hold it. This says we’re husband and wife.”
“You are,” Summers reminded her.
“Not for long.”
“Well, at the moment you still are, so live with it. Or maybe die by pulling out of the program, Mrs. Appleby. It’s up to you, remember?”
“There is no choice for me if it means giving up my children,” Grace countered. “I’ll never do that.”
When Dylan smiled slightly and said, “Good,” she didn’t know whether to be happy or furious with him. While she struggled and struggled to merely think straight, he seemed to be taking everything in stride, as if the whole miserable affair was an adventure.
Remembering how frightened she’d been when she’d seen him sitting at the back of the ambulance, bleeding, she shivered and felt her stomach lurch.
This was no adventure. It was a waking nightmare. One that could turn fatal at any moment.
Dylan had the bullet hole in his arm to prove it.
SIX
One of the deputy marshals had showed up at the safe house bearing brand-new carry-ons for the adults and crammed backpacks for each of the children, as well as the promised social security cards. Beth and Brandon had acted delighted about their new packs while Kyle told everyone who would listen that his was “lame.”
“You’d better be grateful for anything you get,” Dylan warned his eldest. “We’re in the Witness Protection Program now, and, like your mother and I told you this morning, we have to play by their rules. Understand?”
The ten-year-old hung his head and mumbled, “Yeah.”
�
�You, too, Beth, Brandon,” Dylan added, using a softer tone. “Even though none of us like the idea of moving, we have to do it so we’ll all be safe.”
Kyle chose that moment to express himself. “So you’d better behave or they’ll shoot you like they shot Daddy.”
“Kyle!” Grace was adamant. “Stop scaring your sister and brother.”
“Well, it’s true.” Kyle faced his parents with his hands fisted at his sides, as if ready to do battle for his opinion, right or wrong.
Grace sighed, then bent, opened her arms and pulled all three children closer. “This won’t be forever. I promise. We just need to follow orders until the police tell us it’s okay. You’ve seen TV shows that explain what we’re doing. The good guys will keep us safe from the bad guys.”
“Even Daddy?” the youngest asked.
Dylan’s breath caught for an instant when he heard his wife say, “Yes. Even Daddy.”
* * *
Grace had accepted her bag graciously, checked its contents for necessities on the way to the airport and had requested nothing more. Dylan hadn’t even bothered to look in his, deciding to make do with whatever was provided. At this point, he figured he was fortunate to be alive and that sobering fact minimized any other concerns.
Seated on the aisle of the aircraft with Kyle next to him and Grace and the other two children in front by one row, Dylan patted his son’s knee. “At least you’re getting to ride in a plane, huh?”
The boy rolled his eyes at his dad.
“If I could, I’d still go alone,” Dylan said quietly. “The last thing I intended was to put you kids and your mother in danger. You know that, right?”
“Yeah, sure, Dad.” Kyle turned his face to the window, effectively ending their brief conversation on a clearly cynical note.
Dylan knew he’d messed up big time without having to experience his son’s rejection. Everything he’d touched lately had gone to pieces, beginning with his personal life and including his career.
As things stood, he doubted he’d ever be able to practice law again. That occupation made him far too visible, too public. Which meant that his entire education had been wasted.
Wrong, he countered. I threw it away.
Such a stark truth was not easy to accept, but accept it he did. Somewhere along the line he’d stepped off the right path—the “narrow way” the Bible called it—and had strayed into the dark place where he was now trapped. Where they were all trapped.
He closed his eyes to shut out reality and soon found himself pondering God’s grace and His divine forgiveness. True, a man couldn’t undo his mistakes, but maybe, just maybe, he could find a little peace if he repented and prayed for a fresh start.
Words failed Dylan so he let his heart do the pleading. If being so remorseful he could hardly breathe, hardly think, counted with his heavenly Father, then he was more than ready to be forgiven, to turn back to the Lord.
Questions in the remote recesses of his mind kept needling him, insisting that he was too far gone, had sinned too gravely to ever return to God’s family. Yet, within him, there grew an assurance that slowly morphed into calm and brought a deep, soothing peace that seemed to flow over and through him, from the top of his head to his toes.
Dylan inhaled sharply. This must be “the peace that passes all understanding,” he concluded. It was amazing. Indescribable.
Unshed tears filled his closed eyes and dampened his lashes. He dared not open his eyes for fear he might be dreaming. For fear this incredible rightness of being would vanish.
He felt a light tap on the back of the hand on his uninjured side. “Dad?”
Kyle?
Dylan slowly responded, blinking rapidly and hoping he didn’t have to wipe away shed tears in front of his eldest son. “What is it?”
The boy was visibly moved. His lower lip was quivering. His blue eyes glistened. “I’m...I’m sorry, Dad. I’m not mad at you. Honest. I love you.”
“I love you, too, son,” Dylan whispered.
If there had been the faintest shadow of lingering doubt that God had forgiven him completely, this unexpected conversation had wiped it away. The Lord was using Kyle to convey not only his own childish love, but divine love, as well.
It was going to be nearly impossible to explain this marvelous experience to anyone else. Dylan hardly understood it himself, other than to know without hesitation that he had taken the first step back to redemption. Maybe even back toward the happiness he’d once enjoyed and had foolishly thrown away.
That would have to suffice for the present. He let his gaze rest on what he could see of the reddish halo of Grace’s hair over the seat back and felt his pulse jump. From here on he’d stop wishing away his errors in judgment and would face them squarely, knowing that God was with him again. Perhaps He always had been, even when Dylan had been too caught up in making money to heed the Lord’s warnings.
“Help me find a way for the police to rescue those kidnapped children,” he whispered to himself. No other elements of his legal actions hurt him as much as knowing there were mothers somewhere, perhaps women just like his Gracie, mourning their lost babies.
He now knew he had been involved in worsening their grief. He would gladly testify against anyone else who had participated, even if he had to remain in hiding for the rest of his life.
Even if doing so shortened his days on this earth.
* * *
There was no respite for Grace as the airliner sped toward Houston. Her active brain would not permit her to rest, even for a few seconds. She kept thinking of all the people she’d never see again, all the friends who would probably think the worst of her once they heard what Dylan had done and realized she, too, had disappeared.
Her own mother was going to be given a brief summary of events and told she had arranged ongoing professional care for her mentally failing father. That was the best deal she’d been able to negotiate, and, to her surprise, Dylan had readily agreed to earmark much of the proceeds from the sale of their enormous house for that purpose.
Chagrined, Grace realized that the woman she had once been was no more. The life she had led was in the past, never to return. And the future?
That was the scariest part of all this. The not knowing, not being able to plan sensibly or even to guess what to expect. She and her family were at the mercy of a government entity whose purpose was to keep them alive so Dylan could testify. Period. The officers’ motives might appear fine and noble, but the underlying reason they took such pains to care for everyone had to be because it was their assignment.
So what’s mine? Grace asked herself for the millionth time.
To survive. To be a mother to your children and do all you can to shepherd them through this crisis.
That was a given. And to succeed, she’d have to bend her will to that of her official guardians whether she liked it or not. She could do that much. For the kids. And because she needed to survive to look after them.
What about Dylan? her conscience prodded.
That was a very good question; one she was loath to answer. The man was like a chameleon, never showing his true colors, never being himself unless it suited his purposes. She could not trust him now. Perhaps she never could.
Hardening her heart and firming up her resolve, she vowed to remain on guard against his wiles—or those of any others. While she was caught up in this conflict she must always remain on guard. She must always be cautious about trusting anyone, even those in authority.
The marshals had claimed the files Dylan had given them had been stolen. That seemed awfully farfetched to Grace. If they couldn’t trust their own people, what chance did protected witnesses have?
Like the men who had been killed while in jail, she added, thinking once again of Dylan.
Someone had already tried to kill
him to silence him. In her heart of hearts, she knew they would most certainly try again.
It didn’t matter how disappointed she was in him. If they succeeded in ending his life, she would weep bitter tears.
* * *
Dylan had flown into Houston’s George Bush Intercontinental Airport before and knew how enormous it was. Consequently he was not surprised when their flight landed at the former Ellington Air Force Base field instead, since it was one of the two smaller choices in that part of Texas.
A flight attendant was already in position at the door when the pilot announced their arrival.
Dylan had removed his seat belt and was about to stand when he felt a firm touch on his shoulder.
“You wait here while they empty the plane,” a stranger behind him ordered.
Startled, Dylan’s initial reaction was to tense and prepare to do battle, until he reasoned that the marshal’s office must have put someone on the plane to watch over them. That made perfect sense.
He noticed Grace stirring, so he leaned forward. “Not yet, honey. We’re supposed to wait.”
She was scowling when she shifted and turned to kneel on her seat to face him. “Who says? I don’t remember anybody telling us that when we boarded.”
“The guy behind me. In the next row.” He signaled subtly with a tilt of his head instead of pointing and attracting undue attention.
“Him? You must be joking.”
“Just be patient and don’t get hostile,” Dylan urged.
As he spoke to calm her, he also slewed in the narrow seat and glanced over his shoulder. Grace had a point. The stranger seated behind them was anything but polished and official-looking. Instead he was scruffy with a couple days’ growth of beard, dark hair and eyes, and casual clothes that could have used pressing, not to mention replacing.
The fight-or-flight reaction returned in force. As soon as the aisle was clear Dylan stood and confronted the man, fists balled, muscles taut. “All right. Either show us some ID or I’ll call the flight attendants and tell them I heard you plotting an attack on this plane.”
Family in Hiding Page 6
