LITMIR.BIZ

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the long, curving driveway.

      Yeah, right. He didn’t believe in coincidence.

      There had to be a connection.

      He snipped a dead branch off some kind of white-flowering bush. An azalea, probably. He wasn’t sure. Some gardener.

      He wasn’t an investigator by nature or training. He was a search-and-destroy specialist. His wife was the plotter, the thinker, the analyst.

      She’d want him to call the police when he found her killer.

      But he had a feeling he wouldn’t do that.

      Three

      Nate climbed off the exam table and continued his argument with his doctor—her badge identified her as Sharon Ling, and she was all of five feet tall and maybe thirty years old—about getting his pants and shoes back and clearing out of the E.R. He’d heard that the news reports had him in surgery, but he’d only needed a few stitches. But apparently that was plenty for Dr. Ling. She wanted him admitted.

      “Pants, shoes, whatever paperwork I need to get out of here,” he said. “A couple of Tylenol and I’ll be fine.”

      She shook her head not for the first time. “No way. You can go home in the morning.”

      He’d turned his weapon and cuffs over to Juliet Longstreet, another marshal who’d arrived on the scene before he and Rob were whisked away. The paramedics had shredded his shirt and jacket. Nate figured he could tuck in his hospital gown and change when he got home. But it was hard to look commanding and tough with a gown flapping on his back end. Dr. Ling had explained that he had a perforating, not a penetrating, wound, meaning she hadn’t had to dig out the bullet that had struck him. The FBI investigators were undoubtedly looking for it somewhere in Central Park. Maybe it was at the bottom of the pond. Maybe the ducks had made off with it.

      Nate didn’t give a damn. He just wanted to get out of the hospital.

      Dr. Ling didn’t seem to consider the armed deputy posted at the exam room door anything out of the ordinary, probably because she’d treated plenty of wounded criminals. Nate knew from his E.R. doctor sister, Antonia, that it was her job as a doctor to treat the patient in front of her. Period. Meaning Dr. Ling would do her job whether he was a murder suspect or a federal law enforcement officer with fifteen years experience catching bad guys.

      She sighed through her teeth. “You are a very determined man, Deputy Winter. At least let me get you into a room for a few hours. You can sit tight until your local anesthetic wears off.”

      “Doesn’t it make more sense to get out of here while it’s still working? I can have my feet up in front of the television before I start hurting.”

      She seemed singularly unimpressed with his argument. She crossed her arms on her chest and gave him a firm look. “You’re a very lucky man, Deputy Winter. I don’t think I’d be pushing my luck any more today.”

      What she meant, Nate knew, was that the bullet that had ripped into the fleshy part of his upper arm had caused a superficial wound that would heal fast. No permanent damage. No surgery. A couple inches one way, the bullet would have missed him entirely. A couple inches another way, it could have nicked an artery or shattered bone.

      Luck.

      He agreed to sit tight for a few hours.

      Dr. Ling handed him his pants and shoes—he’d track down Longstreet for his weapon—and an orderly and the deputy guard wheeled him upstairs.

      Nate noticed the dried blood on the knee of his pants and the tops of his shoes.

      Rob’s blood.

      When he got to his floor, he understood the subtext of Dr. Ling’s stubbornness. Control and security. No media allowed, more armed deputies and a private waiting room for family members and any political, FBI, USMS, ATF and NYPD brass who wanted to check on the two wounded deputies.

      No family members had arrived yet.

      Thank God.

      Nate didn’t think he could deal with Gus and his sisters right now. The politicians and law enforcement types in the waiting room stayed put when he was wheeled past the open door.

      They wouldn’t want him off on his own too fast. A sniper had just tried to take out two federal agents in Central Park. All hell had to be breaking loose.

      A nurse greeted him in his private room. Nate asked about Rob.

      “He’s still in surgery.”

      “Any word on his prognosis?”

      She shook her head.

      After she left, Nate ducked into the bathroom and put on his pants. He dampened a paper towel and scrubbed the blood off his shoes. Nothing to be done about the blood on his pants.

      He checked his reflection and winced. “Hell.”

      It wasn’t just pressure from his bosses that had compelled Dr. Ling to want to admit him. It was her medical judgment. He looked like shit. He was pale, he had dark circles under his eyes, he’d cut his lip from biting down too hard—no wonder she didn’t want him going home right away.

      He washed his face, felt his stomach turn over, almost barfed and decided, okay, maybe he should take it easy. He staggered back out of the bathroom.

      FBI Special Agent Joe Collins was waiting for him. “Thought I was going to have to go in there and scrape you off the floor. How you feel?”

      “Like I look.”

      “I was afraid of that. Up to talking?”

      Nate knew Collins, although they’d never worked together. The shooting of two U.S. marshals was a federal crime that fell to the FBI to investigate, with the assistance of the Marshals Service, ATF and the New York Police Department. The marshals handled fugitive investigations and apprehension, prisoner transport, witness protection, the security of the federal judiciary and special operations—evidence gathering in federal criminal investigations was up to the FBI.

      Nate nodded. “Sure. Excuse the outfit.”

      “You’ve got someone bringing you a change of clothes?”

      His uncle Gus and sister Carine would have been contacted by now in Cold Ridge, about a six-hour drive to New York unless they got a shuttle flight from Manchester. Antonia was in Washington. Closer. But she was almost eight months pregnant. Maybe she’d stay put.

      Not a chance.

      And his brothers-in-law would be at their wives’ sides.

      Collins looked tired, but he always did. He had the kind of laid-back demeanor that made people think he wasn’t quite with it—their mistake. He was in his mid-forties, his wedding ring too tight on a knuckle-swollen finger, his stomach pushing against the buttons of his button-down blue shirt. He had a friendly face filled with broken capillaries.

      Another FBI agent, straight backed, tense looking, maybe in her mid-twenties, stood silently in the corner by the bathroom.

      “Any word on Rob?” Nate asked.

      “He lost his spleen,” Collins said. “You can live without a spleen. It’s the blood loss the doctors are worried about. It’s still touch-and-go.”

      Nate remembered the paramedics talking about internal bleeding at the scene. He didn’t respond. What was there to say?

      “How’re you doing?” Collins asked.

      “Fine.”

      The FBI agent gave him a look that said they both knew better.

      “We walked down to Central Park after the news conference. Rob—Christ, he wanted to see the tulips. Someone shot us.” Nate sat on the edge of his hospital bed. “That’s it. End of story.”

      Except he knew it wasn’t. Collins would want to ask

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