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Turner Publishing Company - William P. Wood

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236 pages

English

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A one-man crime wave is shaking the peaceful city of Santa Maria, California, and no place is safe. Kenny Trask, an unpredictable, high-strung, shockingly violent convict, has just escaped from prison and is intent on putting together enough cash to bankroll a new life for himself, his ex-cellmate, and the female defense attorney he believes they must “rescue.”

Only one man is willing to stand in the way: Robby Medavoy, a cop who’s been called a hero, whose unorthodox style has fueled the resentment of rival officers and the suspicions of his superiors. With a contract on his life from his department’s SWAT team, Medavoy must put everything on the line to pull Trask in—his reputation, his survival, and, unexpectedly, the woman he comes to love.

Sujets

Policier & Thriller

Thriller

Policier

Fiction

Santa Maria

California

William Wood

Thrillers

Legal

Informations

Publié par	Turner Publishing Company
Date de parution	26 août 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781620454794
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0900€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Praise for
William P. Wood
GANGLAND
Compelling A bloody showdown between manipulative killer and dedicated prosecutor from which no one emerges unscathed Wood knows the intricacies and ironies of the legal system.
- San Diego Union
Suspense-filled Realistic, fast-moving Molina is the kind of criminal that you love to hate.
- Daily Press (Newport News, VA)
A unique legal thriller Wood knows the ins and outs of prisons, courts, government witness programs Gangland demonstrates graphically the tensions, frustrations, and personal dangers often endured by the families of crime victims.
-Deltona Enterprise (FL)
RAMPAGE
One of the better courtroom dramas in recent years.
-New York Times Book Review
Clear and compelling.
-Newsday
Superior! Please do not miss this one.
-Cleveland Plain Dealer
Also by William P. Wood
Sudden Impact
Gangland
Broken Trust
Pressure Point
The Bribe
Stay of Execution
Rampage
Quicksand
The Bone Garden
FUGITIVE CITY

Turner Publishing Company
424 Church Street Suite 2240 Nashville, Tennessee 37219
445 Park Avenue 9th Floor New York, New York 10022
www.turnerpublishing.com
FUGITIVE CITY
Copyright 2014, 1990 by William P. Wood.
All rights reserved. This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design: Maxwell Roth
Book design: Glen Edelstein
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014948621
ISBN: 9781620454718
Printed in the United States of America
14 15 16 17 18 19 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Deliver me, O Lord, from the evil man: preserve me from the violent man. --Psalm 140
Contents
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Part Two
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three

About The Author

At five a.m. one morning about two months short of her forty-third birthday, Carol Beaufort was startled awake by a telephone call.
The phone rang joltingly, twice. She groaned, snapped her arm out, fumbled the receiver into her hand. She had a heavy, pounding headache. Lo? she mumbled.
Carol? a man shouted back.
Before she could answer, the man went on exuberantly, Guess who? I m on my way! and hung up.
She lay back on the pillow, the receiver pressed against her ear for a moment. Another wrong number. Her heart hammering, her head stinging. A perfect start to another perfect day in her new home in this new city.
Carol got a lot of odd calls because her telephone number was similar to the Glass Pheasant restaurant and the Santa Maria Riding Stables. Out of irritation lately, she had started taking reservations for tables and answering breeding questions when people called.
She banged the phone down disgustedly. The man s voice just now sounded familiar, but was hard to make out against the background clamor of music, laughter, shouting. Where was this one calling from? Truck stop? A party? Bar?
Her hand went out to the other side of the cold mattress and found that side of the bed empty. The guy knew her name, and she thought for a moment it might be one of her boozy companions from the night before, during that long, hazy marathon at the marina bar.
At least I didn t bring him home this time, she thought. I m showing some discrimination suddenly.
She lay still, unable to sleep, fighting it, then giving in. She was too jangled to get back to sleep without some help.
Carol got up and shuffled to the kitchen. She didn t turn on the lights. The throbbing behind her eyes wouldn t take the shock.
Going through the living room, she stubbed her toes in the dark. She stopped, cursing, bending down to rub the pain. All the furniture was new, including the hassock that had caught her. Although she had moved to Santa Maria four months ago, she still hadn t unpacked completely, and the tables, chairs, sofa in the living room were strangers.
Limping a little, she went into the kitchen and found the Gilbey s bottle with practiced fingers. Some parts of the new house weren t strangers at all. She found a glass in the cupboard to the right of the sink. Everything looked slightly luminous, faint in the darkness. She poured a shot and drank quickly.
It was so quiet in the neighborhood at that hour, she heard a dog barking miles away and the rising and falling lament of the train passing through town.
Big day today, she thought, lots of good old work at the office. I need my rest. But the vodka hadn t quieted her enough. Something more was needed, much better than the glass of warm milk Mom would certainly have made sure she drank.
Into the darkened bathroom, Carol felt her way around, pushing bottles on the sink around until she felt the fat Xanax. Just like Valium, just as much deadening, soothing blankness. One five-milligram, she thought, taking it with water she slurped from the faucet. Two Xanax would be greedy.
She got back into bed, leaving the covers off, breathing in the night s fading air. I m on my way, the caller said. Who isn t, she thought? Look at me, I m well on my way.
I look ten years older than I should, she thought. That s why no lights now, why I don t look at myself in the mirror in the morning or at night or any time when you can t hide it. My figure s good, I m slim, I look perfectly fine, until you see that face giving it all away. Getting old, older, oldest. Mom gave me her face and her figure. Thank you.
Carol was almost six-two barefoot, with reddish hair and sturdy features. Even though she wasn t homely, she didn t like the way she looked. I look like I should be behind a goddamn mule-drawn plow, she thought.
Her head banged less now, her breaths jerked. Think of something pleasant, drift off with a dream.
This house was hers. That was a dream realized. It was her first home, not something bought or rented for her by Mom and Dad. She had moved away from them finally, putting hundreds of miles between them and her. She coughed uncomfortably. All right, they re both ill, in Mount Calvary Convalescent, but the rest of the family is there. Let someone else spend the years tending and watching them. I did my share, tied into the whole family and Dad s business pals, everybody watching, weighing and judging. So Carol s still alone, maybe that s why she started this drinking thing. Is Carol afraid to work for a decent lawyer, some firm in town? She afraid to go out on her own ?
Carol sat up, heart thudding, her throat tight. Not sick, not again, once a night was more than enough and I did mine after the marina frolic. She heard the unseen dog barking somewhere, smelled the thick oatish-scented breeze blowing across fields outside the city.
She forced herself to calm down, let the pill and the liquor work. She had been a lawyer for fifteen years, always working for small firms or solo practitioners who needed a diligent, discreet attorney who had a horror of going into court. Carol was intelligent and worked hard in the law office and library.
But finally, about four months before, the lifetime of being so close to a tight-lipped, unbending family and career had become enough. I ran away from home after I was forty, she thought wryly, smiling in the dark, sitting cross-legged on the bed.
Right now her employer was Brian Reilly. She imagined him later that morning, a squat, bustling bundle of unscrupulous energy, coming into her office, sinking down into a soft chair. He would hand her the files and motions to prepare, ask her what he had to worry about in court. On today s docket were interrogatories for a deposition one of his many developer clients had been trapped into giving and a divorce action a police lieutenant was bringing against his wife of six years. Reilly represented some cops. He also represented the most dynamic and risky elements in Santa Maria s building boom.
And I tell him where to go and what to do every morning. I hold his hand. I know where all the bodies are buried, she thought. And Reilly had a lot of buried secrets to watch over.
She did not particularly like this aspect to her new life, but Carol was practical. She could not uproot herself, set down, and hope to find everything as respectable as Mom or Dad would want. I ve got a lot of dead years, wasted days to catch up on.
She lay back on the pillow, the soft hand of the barb and vodka closing around her burning head. A vivid memory of Mom came to her, one of those that seem to point toward revelation and rarely do.
It was their old kitchen, on Mesmer Avenue, the same red-brick waxed floor and Mom was retying one of her shoes. Much huffing and sighing. Carol could see Mom s broad back bent over her shoe. She was always losing her shoes and she must have been in the third grade about the time this one came off. They were always expensive shoes, too, the best from Dad s stock.
That s why losing her shoes was so embarrassing. It made her seem slow, stupid, ungrateful. Carol Beaufort can t even keep her shoes on. And her Dad owns Beaufort s Best Shoes