Lisa Scottoline - Daddy's Girl

Out of the corner of her eye, Nat saw the security guard turn and leave. She picked up the article quickly where she'd left off:

Mark Parrat of Chester was set free on bail today, pending resolution of drug distribution charges and weapons offenses. Parrat is said to be second-in-command to alleged drug kingpin Richard Williams, who is charged with the murder of six rivals in the Bex Street massacre. Williams is being held without bail pending the resolution of drug distribution and conspiracy charges. The trial is set to start in Philadelphia this winter.

Nat blinked. Richard Williams. That's where she'd heard the name. He was the federal prisoner on courtesy hold at Chester County. He was coming up for trial on Tuesday. It all jibed with her theory. Graf and Machik must have been dealing drugs to the inmates, in league with Parrat and Williams. Saunders must have found out about it, and Graf had to kill him to silence him. Upchurch was just the cover to get Saunders into the room without the security camera. It would have worked perfectly, but for the prison riot and Nat running into the room.

The teenager was going nonstop. "So I told Courtney that we should have a pity party, and we had ice cream and made popcorn and put real butter on it and rented Miss Congeniality II, even though I saw it like forty gillion times-"

Nat rose quickly, turned without a sound, went back down the stacks, and peeked around the corner. The librarian with the long skirt was talking to another librarian in hushed tones, and they were standing too close to the door to let her pass unnoticed. She ducked back in the stacks and peeked out through the top of the books. In the next minute, the librarians walked back to the circulation desk, and she left the stacks, walked toward the door, and slipped outside.

Nat's adrenalin was pumping so much she hardly felt the frigid air. She kept her head down and scanned the parking lot for Graf or security. Nothing. Just two women with blue canvas tote bags going to the library and shoppers carrying multicolored bags from the mall. The Neon was parked on the other side of the mall. She kept up her pace, walking along the outside of the JCPenney, looking constantly for security guards, feeling exposed without the NASCAR cap. She hurried to the end of the store, turned the corner for the parking lot and mall entrance, then froze.

A black-and-white East Whiteland Township police car idled in front of Houlihan's. Its back door was open. The old woman who had complained about the keying was sitting in the backseat of the cruiser, cradling her arm. A patrol officer bent over her, talking with her. It was too far away for Nat to see what was going on, but an ambulance pulled into the parking lot and turned toward the cruiser. Nobody was looking in Nat's direction. She kept her head down and stayed on course for the Neon.

Two women passed her, talking. "Can you believe that?" the one asked the other. "That black guy knocked that old lady right over and drove away. He almost hit her with that truck."

Parrat. Nat kept walking. Graf's black Bronco was still parked in its space, which meant that he could reappear at any second. It had been only fifteen minutes since the chase through the mall. Enough time for Graf to explain to the local cops she was a fugitive. She tucked the fear away. She couldn't afford to freeze up again.

The ambulance pulled up next to the cruiser. The cop was focused on helping the old lady to the ambulance. Nat hustled across one line of parked cars and ran around a moving Lexus SUV. She kept an eye on the ambulance. Its driver was getting out and talking to the old woman and the cop, blocking their view of her.

Three lanes of parked cars lay between her and the Neon. She had to go faster. A dirty white Tahoe barreled past, and Nat hustled around it. Only two rows to go. A minivan slowed to park, and she hurried through the parked cars. One row left. She scooted up and finally reached the Neon.

Yes! She got out her key with a trembling hand and shoved it in the lock, opened the door, jumped in, and started the ignition. She hit the gas and was pulling out of the space when a black Hummer came out of nowhere and stopped just short of her front bumper with a loud scchhreech.

Nat gripped the wheel, waiting for the impact that didn't come. She must have pulled out in front of the Hummer in her panic.

HONK! HONK! The Hummer driver pounded his horn in protest. The massive chrome grille blocked Nat in. The Hummer driver started shouting at her, but she ignored him and looked at the cruiser. The noise had drawn the cop's attention, and he was looking over, shielding his eyes from the sun. The ambulance driver was supporting the old lady on his arm, and in the next minute, she started pointing at the Neon with her free hand.

Nat yanked the wheel to the left, floored the gas, and jumped the curb to get out of the lot. Cars stopped at a traffic light and clogged the exit lane. She accelerated onto the median like a stunt driver, then banged down and tore out of the entrance lane, almost sideswiping a minivan. She veered right onto Lancaster Avenue and kept the pedal down, straight ahead.

A police siren started blaring, but Nat didn't have time to look back. Traffic filled Lancaster Avenue, and she switched onto the shoulder and ran in that lane, increasing her speed to seventy miles an hour, then to eighty. Drivers turned to watch, their mouths dropping open. She kept the hammer down. The Neon blasted down the shoulder of the road. She checked the rearview. The police cruiser roared out of the mall lot.

And came straight at her.

Nat had to think fast. The cop could outrun her on a straightaway. The Neon was no match for the cruiser's big engine. The siren sounded louder, the cruiser getting closer. Cars were already pulling over to make way.

She swerved onto a suburban back street and tried to keep her wits about her. She gripped the wheel and gritted her teeth, turned left, and sped to the end of the street. She turned right randomly and focused on the road. Houses, trees, and cars flew past. An old man putting out his trash shook his fist at her. A woman walking her poodle scooped him up. The police siren blared. The cruiser popped into the rearview, swung a wide turn onto the back street, and barreled ahead.

Nat's heart lodged in her throat. She turned onto the next street. A gray Mercedes was driving toward her. She drove up on the curb to go around it, then hit the road with the rubber burning. In the next second, she heard another police siren, farther away, joining the first. The cop must've called for backup.

She hit the gas. She couldn't see the cruisers but she could hear them. She saw nothing but the road. In the next second, she swerved to avoid a Taurus station wagon pulling out of a driveway, with kids in the backseat.

Dear God! She didn't want to kill anybody. She didn't want to get killed. She had to get out of this neighborhood. She took a right, skidding around an icy patch at the end of the street, then saw a sign. Route 100.

She raced down the street, followed the signs, and bombed down the road for the on-ramp. The cruiser veered around the corner, right on her tail. The straightaway gave the cops the chance to close the gap, the cruiser's grille a gleaming maw. They zoomed together onto the highway, pursuer and pursued. The second siren blared closer. Traffic cleared at the blaring of the siren, and Nat rammed down the middle lane, with the cops right behind her. It was now or never. She gritted her teeth and jammed the pedal to the metal.

The Neon speedometer climbed to ninety, ninety-five, then hovered at one hundred. Nat streaked down the shoulder, spraying ice and gravel. The steering wheel wobbled furiously in her grip. It took all her might to hold it still. Suddenly she saw a ragged shred of tire tread lying ahead on the shoulder. She barely had time to react. She heard herself shout as she turned the wheel, jerking the Neon into the left lane. The back end fishtailed but she held on tight and kept control of the car, her concentration so intense it could only have been powered by fear.