Whoever was on the other end had delivered bad news—she was sure of that by Mac’s posture and clipped words.
Mac kept his attention on Priscilla in the dim interior of the car. “He’s getting more desperate.” After a few more exchanges, he disconnected.
“What happened?”
“Trevor Grammar has been killed.”
“Grammar? One of the other witnesses scheduled to appear at Culvert’s trial?”
Mac nodded. “Marshals found him a few hours ago dead and the word snitch written on the wall beside him.”
Her breath came out in a gasp. “That’s terrible.”
“Grammar refused to enter the witness protection program and didn’t even want any bodyguards.” Mac rubbed his face. “It was his right to refuse, but we repeatedly warned him of the danger, and had contacted him again when Culvert escaped.”
Mac delivered the news to the marshals in the front seat, then called the men in the other vehicles. Beside him, Priscilla tried to regulate her own breathing, not wanting to let her dismay over Grammar’s murder send her into a panic. As a middleman between Culvert and his clients, Grammar had brokered assignments with high-profile targets. Grammar’s direct knowledge of Culvert’s career as a hit man had helped the US attorney build a bigger case against Culvert beyond the casino shootings she’d witnessed. She had faith that could move mountains—wasn’t that what she’d just shared with Mac?
The SUV sped into the brightening sky as the sun awakened from its nightly slumber. Priscilla clung to the promises each new day brought, and prayed that she would live to see the sun go down that evening.
NINE
Luc buttoned the black-and-red flannel shirt, glad for the warmer shirt to combat the crisp early-December day. At least this fit better than the borrowed scrubs from the clinic. He yawned. Despite sleeping for eight hours in the new safe house tucked into a quiet neighborhood a few blocks off the main street in Evans, West Virginia, he hadn’t wanted to get up. But Marshal Bill Myers—a huge bald man—had knocked on his door a half hour ago with a sack of clean clothes and an announcement that dinner would be ready in forty-five minutes.
The scent of tomato sauce and oregano beckoned and his stomach growled in reply. A feminine laugh drew him quickly down the hallway to the kitchen, but instead of Priscilla in the kitchen, a couple stood side by side at the counter. A man wearing a University of West Virginia hoodie snitched a piece of carrot from a cutting board while a tall, dark-haired woman in tailored jeans and a navy sweater swatted his hand, a kitchen knife in her other hand.
Disappointment coursed through his veins, but he tamped it down, not wanting to dwell on why he wanted to see Priscilla. He should focus instead on how to broach the subject of what they should do when she couldn’t remember their wedding.
The pair must have sensed his presence because they turned in unison to the doorway. The man popped the carrot in his mouth and crunched, while the woman laid the knife on the counter and held out her hand. “You must be Luc. I’m Marshal Laura Devins, and this rascal is my husband, Dr. Steven Devins, who’s a consultant for the US Marshals Service.”
Luc shook their hands, then moved back to the doorway. “Where’s Mac?”
“He got called back to headquarters, but will return tomorrow morning.” She smiled at him. “Don’t worry—there are four agents patrolling outside, two more in the house, plus myself and Steven.”
Luc relaxed his shoulders. Surely all those highly trained men and women would keep them safe. He sniffed the air as his stomach rumbled more insistently. “Smells good.”
“Oh, it will be—it’s my grandmother’s special spaghetti sauce recipe. From the old country.” Laura picked up her knife to finish chopping carrots.
“If by old country, you mean Philly, then yes, that’s true.” Dr. Devins touched his wife’s shoulder as he squeezed past her to join Luc near the open door. “Come on—I’ll introduce you to the house agents while she finishes the salad.”
“What is this, the 1950s? Why aren’t you helping?” Laura called after him.