"Help!" She was yelling as loudly as she could, but her lungs didn't seem to be working properly. The words came out soft and breathy, m.u.f.fled by the crates above and to the side of her. The guards heard nothing.

"What's this lot, then?"

The driver handed over his paperwork. "Modeling clay. About two tons of the stuff."

"All right. Let's take a look."

The two guards began opening the first row of boxes.

Please! I'm here!

Grace knew in that moment that she didn't want to die. Not yet. Not like this.

I have to find Lenny's murderer first. I have to make them pay.

She started to feel dizzy. Aware she was beginning to lose consciousness, she called out again.

One of the guards stopped. "Did you hear anything?"

His companion shook his head. "Only my teeth chattering. It's friggin' cold out here, man. Come on, man, let's get this over with." Pulling forward another crate, he dumped it on the ground, opened it and checked inside. He did the same with another. Then another. As he was opening the fourth, the driver pleaded, "Come on, you guys, give me a break, wouldya? You know how long this s.h.i.t took to load? I got a six-hour drive ahead a me and I'm freezing my a.s.s off."

The guards looked at each other. They could hear the distant ringing of a telephone, back inside their warm, comfortable surveillance tower.

"Okay. You're good to go." They signed the driver's papers and handed them back to him. "Drive safe."

Sixty seconds later, the truck was cruising out through the prison gates.

Grace Brookstein was still inside.

GRACE AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF the engine gaining speed. Relief overwhelmed her. the engine gaining speed. Relief overwhelmed her.

I can breathe! I'm alive.

One of the guards must have loosened the lid of her crate! Why didn't they find me? It's a miracle. Someone up there must be looking out for me. Maybe it's Lenny Why didn't they find me? It's a miracle. Someone up there must be looking out for me. Maybe it's Lenny, come back as my guardian angel? come back as my guardian angel?

For a few seconds she felt euphoric. I made it out of Bedford. I did it! I made it out of Bedford. I did it! But reality soon rea.s.serted itself. She was a long way from being home free. Uncurling herself slowly and painfully like an arthritic jack-in-the-box, Grace pushed up the lid and climbed out of her cramped hiding place. The rear of the truck was freezing and pitch-dark. It took a minute for the circulation to return to her legs. As soon as she felt strong enough, she began to stumble forward, hands stretched out in front of her like a zombie, feeling for the truck's rear door. After what felt like an eternity, her fingers stumbled upon a handle. It was stiff. She couldn't move it. Just as she was wondering whether the driver had double-locked the doors from the outside so she wouldn't be able to open them, the handle suddenly shifted. But reality soon rea.s.serted itself. She was a long way from being home free. Uncurling herself slowly and painfully like an arthritic jack-in-the-box, Grace pushed up the lid and climbed out of her cramped hiding place. The rear of the truck was freezing and pitch-dark. It took a minute for the circulation to return to her legs. As soon as she felt strong enough, she began to stumble forward, hands stretched out in front of her like a zombie, feeling for the truck's rear door. After what felt like an eternity, her fingers stumbled upon a handle. It was stiff. She couldn't move it. Just as she was wondering whether the driver had double-locked the doors from the outside so she wouldn't be able to open them, the handle suddenly shifted.

It all happened in an instant. The rear door flew open with such force Grace was pulled along with it. Suddenly she was outside, clinging on for dear life, her shins banging agonizingly against the b.u.mper as she dangled one-handed above the ground. They were on an empty, unlit road, moving at incredible speed. How fast? Fifty miles an hour? Sixty? Grace tried to calculate her chances of survival if she fell. Before she came up with an answer, the road forked into a hairpin turn. The driver swung a sharp left. Grace felt the door handle slip from her grasp, as if someone had dipped it in b.u.t.ter. Next thing she knew, she was flying through the air like a rag doll, hurtling toward the trees. The last thing she heard was the thud of her own skull hitting the ground. Grace tried to calculate her chances of survival if she fell. Before she came up with an answer, the road forked into a hairpin turn. The driver swung a sharp left. Grace felt the door handle slip from her grasp, as if someone had dipped it in b.u.t.ter. Next thing she knew, she was flying through the air like a rag doll, hurtling toward the trees. The last thing she heard was the thud of her own skull hitting the ground.

Then nothing.

WARDEN M MCINTOSH YELLED AT H HANNAH D DENZEL.

"Why the h.e.l.l did you send her back to the center? Who gave you the authority?"

Denny bristled. If Grace Brookstein really had had escaped, she was d.a.m.ned if she was going to take the blame. This was the warden's problem. "I escaped, she was d.a.m.ned if she was going to take the blame. This was the warden's problem. "I have have the authority, sir. Work details on A Wing are my responsibility. The delegation had left, and Grace had unfinished work. Who gave the Sisters authority to have A-Wing inmates supervise pickups?" the authority, sir. Work details on A Wing are my responsibility. The delegation had left, and Grace had unfinished work. Who gave the Sisters authority to have A-Wing inmates supervise pickups?"

The two guards from the North Gate checkpoint were also in the warden's office. Warden McIntosh quizzed them. "You're certain Grace Brookstein wasn't on that truck? You checked every crate?"

From the look on McIntosh's face, the guards figured honesty was probably not the best policy. "Every crate. The truck was clean."

Warden McIntosh's head was throbbing. Then where the h.e.l.l is she? Then where the h.e.l.l is she? He turned back to Hannah Denzel. "I want Cora Budds and Karen Willis in here right now. In the meantime, alert all police units. I want that truck found, stopped and searched." He looked at the two guards ominously. "If you guys have f.u.c.ked up, I'll have both your heads on a plate." He turned back to Hannah Denzel. "I want Cora Budds and Karen Willis in here right now. In the meantime, alert all police units. I want that truck found, stopped and searched." He looked at the two guards ominously. "If you guys have f.u.c.ked up, I'll have both your heads on a plate."

"Yes, sir." But everyone in the room knew that the first head to roll would be the warden's.

GRACE OPENED HER EYES SLOWLY. BENEATH her was a blanket of deep undergrowth. Springy and p.r.i.c.kly like an old straw mattress, it must have broken her fall. Her head was filled with a loud whirring. her was a blanket of deep undergrowth. Springy and p.r.i.c.kly like an old straw mattress, it must have broken her fall. Her head was filled with a loud whirring.

No. It's not in my head. It's overhead. Choppers.

They're looking for me.

She had no idea how long she'd been unconscious. Minutes? Hours? What she did know was that she was freezing cold, so cold that it was hard to move. She also knew that she was in grave danger. In the short time she'd been inside the truck, they could not have gotten more than a few miles away from Bedford Hills. She had to put some distance between herself and the prison.

Gingerly, Grace got to her feet. By some miracle, nothing seemed to be broken. Gradually her eyes acclimated to the darkness and she could make out the shadows around her. She was standing in woodland just a few feet from a quiet country road. Not quiet. Silent. Not quiet. Silent. A single twig cracking beneath her feet sounded as loud as a thunderclap. A single twig cracking beneath her feet sounded as loud as a thunderclap.

I have to get out of here.

Her left side was bruised and stiff, but she found she could walk without too much trouble. To her right, the tree line jutted up into a steep escarpment. From the top of the hill, Grace heard the dim rumble of traffic.

The police will be patrolling the main road. If I go up there, I triple my chances of being caught. I triple my chances of being caught.

If I don't go up there, I won't get a ride out of here. I won't get a ride out of here.

She started to climb.

AT THE TOP OF THE HILL someone had planted a row of poplar trees, presumably as a sound barrier. Grace squatted low behind them, trying to get her breath. The climb had exhausted her. The road was busy, almost as if it was rush hour. Grace wondered again how late it was, but there was no time to dwell on that now. Brushing the icy leaves off her skirt, she stepped out onto the side of the road and stuck out her thumb, the way she'd seen people do on TV. someone had planted a row of poplar trees, presumably as a sound barrier. Grace squatted low behind them, trying to get her breath. The climb had exhausted her. The road was busy, almost as if it was rush hour. Grace wondered again how late it was, but there was no time to dwell on that now. Brushing the icy leaves off her skirt, she stepped out onto the side of the road and stuck out her thumb, the way she'd seen people do on TV.

I wonder how long it'll take for someone to stop. If I don't get inside soon, I could die of hypothermia.

A squad car screamed out of the darkness, blue lights flashing, sirens blaring. Instinctively Grace leaped back for the cover of the trees, twisting her ankle on the icy hard ground. It was agony but she didn't dare cry out, holding her breath in the darkness, waiting for the police car to slow or pull over. It didn't. After a few seconds the dying wail of the sirens faded to nothing. Grace crawled back out to the roadside.

Standing there, thumb out, stamping her feet against the subzero temperature, Grace started to sway. She'd barely eaten all day, and the fall from the truck had left her weak and dizzy. Lights from the cars' headlamps began to merge into one solid orange glow. In Grace's frozen, confused state, it looked warm and welcoming. Half conscious, she staggered toward it. The deafening blare of a truck horn brought her back to her senses.

"Are you outta your mind, lady?"

A man had stopped. Pulled over onto the hard shoulder, he was talking to Grace out of the driver's-side window. Middle-aged, with a thick black mustache and dark eyes that sat flat on his face, he looked like he might be part Asian, but it was tough to be sure in the darkness. He was driving a light blue van with TOMMY'S YARD SERVICES TOMMY'S YARD SERVICES written on the side in bold black lettering. written on the side in bold black lettering.

"Don't you have a coat?"

Grace shook her head. Pretty soon her whole body was shaking, racked with cold and exhaustion. The man reached over and opened the pa.s.senger door.

"Get in."

BOOK 2

FIFTEEN.

DETECTIVE M MITCH C CONNORS RETURNED TO HIS desk in a pensive mood. desk in a pensive mood.

Is this a good thing, or a bad thing?

Tall, blond, athletic and altogether too big for his gla.s.s-walled office, Mitch Connors looked more like a football pro than a cop. Sinking into his uncomfortable chair (Helen had bought him the d.a.m.n thing two years ago, for his back pain. It had won a bunch of design awards, apparently, and cost a small fortune, so he couldn't throw it away, but Mitch had always hated it), he stretched out his legs and tried to think.

Do I really want this case?

On the one hand, his boss had just handed him what would, in a few short hours, become the biggest, most high-profile investigation in the country. Late last night, Grace Brookstein had pulled off a dramatic escape from a maximum-security prison. It would be Mitch Connors's job to find her, apprehend her and haul her thieving, designer-clad a.s.s back to jail.

His boss said, "You're the best, Mitch. I wouldn't put you on this if you weren't." And Mitch had felt a warm glow. But now he felt something else. Something bad. For the life of him, Mitch couldn't figure out what it was.

He blamed the chair. It was so torturous, no wonder he couldn't concentrate. Ergonomic, my a.s.s. I figure Helen bought it on purpose to torment me. To pay me back for all the s.h.i.t I put her through. Ergonomic, my a.s.s. I figure Helen bought it on purpose to torment me. To pay me back for all the s.h.i.t I put her through. Then he thought, Then he thought, That's bulls.h.i.t, Connors, and you know it. That's bulls.h.i.t, Connors, and you know it.

Helen wasn't like that. She was an angel. Saint Helen of Pittsburgh, patron saint of tolerance.

And you drove her away.

MITCH C CONNORS HAD GROWN UP IN P PITTSBURGH. He was born in the well-to-do suburb of Monroeville, where his mom was a local beauty queen. She married Mitch's dad, an inventor, when she was nineteen. Mitch arrived a year later and the couple's happiness was complete. He was born in the well-to-do suburb of Monroeville, where his mom was a local beauty queen. She married Mitch's dad, an inventor, when she was nineteen. Mitch arrived a year later and the couple's happiness was complete.

For about six months.

Mitch's father was a brilliant inventor...by night. By day, he was a traveling encyclopedia salesman. Mitch used to go on trips with him. The little boy would watch in awe as his dad scammed one housewife after another.

"Do you know the average cost of a college education, ma'am?"

Pete Connors was standing on the front steps of a dilapidated house in Genette, Pennsylvania, wearing a suit and tie and shiny black shoes, his trilby hat held respectfully in one hand. He was a handsome man. Mitch thought he looked like Frank Sinatra. The woman standing at the door in a stained housecoat was fat, depressed and defeated. Hungry kids ran around her feet like rats.

"No, sir. Can't say I do."

The door was closing. Pete Connors stepped forward. "Let me tell you. It's fifteen hundred dollars. Fifteen hundred hundred dollars. Can you imagine that?" dollars. Can you imagine that?"

She couldn't imagine.

"But what if I were to tell you that for as little as one dollar a week-that's right, one one dollar-you can give your child the gift of that same education right here at home?" dollar-you can give your child the gift of that same education right here at home?"

"I never really thought about-"

"Of course you didn't! You're a busy woman. You have bills, responsibilities. You don't have time to sit down and read studies like this one." At a given signal, Mitch would run forward and hand his father a laminated sheaf of papers with the words Educational Research Educational Research printed on the front. "Studies that prove that kids who have an encyclopedia in the house are more than printed on the front. "Studies that prove that kids who have an encyclopedia in the house are more than six times six times more likely to go into white-collar jobs?" more likely to go into white-collar jobs?"

"Well, I-"

"How'd you like for this little guy here to grow up and be a lawyer, huh?" Pete Connors slipped one of the dirty-faced children a boiled candy. "For as little as one dollar a day, you can make that happen, ma'am."

He was like a whirlwind. A force of nature. Some women he would bulldoze. Others he would charm and cajole. Others still he would take upstairs to perform some "secret" sales technique that Mitch was never allowed to see. It always took around fifteen minutes, and it always worked. "Those Pennsylvania women!" Mitch's dad would joke afterward. "They're hungry for knowledge, all right. You ain't never seen seen a woman hungrier for knowledge than that one, Mitchy!" a woman hungrier for knowledge than that one, Mitchy!"

After every sale, they would drive to the nearest small town or rest stop and Pete Connors would buy his son an enormous ice-cream sundae. Mitch would return home to his mother full of excitement and wonder, chocolate sauce smeared all over his face. "Dad was amazing. You shoulda seen what Dad did! Guess how many we sold "Dad was amazing. You shoulda seen what Dad did! Guess how many we sold, Mom. Go on Mom. Go on, guess!" guess!"

Mitch could never understand why his mother never wanted to guess. Why she looked at his dad with such bitterness and disappointment. Later-too late-he understood. She could have borne the infidelity. It was the recklessness she couldn't forgive. Pete Connors was a natural salesman, but he was also a dreamer, who regularly blew his earnings investing in one crackpot invention after another. Mitch remembered some of them. There was the vacuum cleaner you didn't have to push. That was going to make them millions. Then there was the mini-refrigerator for your car. The running shoes that ma.s.saged the ball of your foot. The clothes rack that got out creases. Mitch would watch his father work on each new design during weekends and late into the night. Whenever he finished a prototype, he would "unveil" it in the living room in front of Mitch's mom.

"Whaddaya think, Lucy?" he'd ask hopefully, his face alight with pride and antic.i.p.ation, like a little boy's. The tragedy was, Pete Connors loved his wife. He needed her approval so badly. If she'd given it, just once, perhaps things would've turned out differently. But her response was always the same.

"How much d'you blow this time?"

"Jeez, Lucy. Give me a break, would you? I'm an idea man. You knew that when you married me."

"Yeah? Well, here's an idea for you, Pete. How about we make our mortgage this month?"

Mitch's mom used to say that the only thing his father could ever economize on was the truth.

By Mitch's sixth birthday, they'd moved out of the Monroeville house. The new place was a condo in Murraysville. Next it was Millvale, an area full of old millworkers' tenements. By the time Mitch was twelve, they were in the Hill District, Pittsburgh's Harlem, a boarded-up, drug-riddled h.e.l.l bordering the prosperous downtown. Too poor to divorce, his parents "separated." Within a month, his mom had a new boyfriend. Eventually they moved to Florida, to a nice house with palm trees in the front yard. Mitch decided to stay with his dad.

Pete Connors was excited. "This is great, Mitchy! It'll be like old times, just the two of us. We'll have poker nights. Sleep late on Sundays. Get some pretty girls over here, huh? Shake things up a bit!"

There were girls. Some of them were even pretty, but those ones were paid for. Pete Connors's Frank Sinatra days were long gone. He looked like what he was, a tired old roue long past his sell-by date. It broke Mitch's heart. As Mitch grew older, his father began to get jealous of his son's good looks. At seventeen, Mitch had his mother's blond hair and blue eyes and his father's long legs and strong, masculine features. He'd also inherited Pete's gift of gab.

"I'm just home for the summer, helping out my old man. I'm off to biz school in the fall...

"My car? Oh, yeah, I sold it. My little cousin got sick. Leukemia. She's only six, poor kid. I wanted to help out with her medical bills."

Women lapped it up.

Helen Brunner was different. She was twenty-five years old, a redheaded, green-eyed G.o.ddess, and she worked for a veterans' charity that provided impoverished ex-servicemen with meals and helped them out at home. Mitch never knew how his father had convinced Helen's charity that he'd been in the navy. Pete Connors couldn't even swim. Pictures of boats made him nauseous. In any event, Helen started showing up at the apartment three times a week. Pete was crazy about her.