Pamela Tracy - Fugitive Family

He wasn’t a laborer; he was a banker. Greg wasn’t wealthy like the real Greg Bond, the man whose identity he’d stolen—borrowed. Alex Cooke was an upwardly mobile man with a wife and child.

He had to remind himself he no longer had a wife.

And Greg knew that just to get at him, whoever had killed his wife wouldn’t hesitate to come after his daughter, too.

He had to remember his number one rule: stay as private as possible; don’t involve others.

That included his daughter’s pretty teacher, Lisa Jacoby.

lives in Arizona with a newly acquired husband (Yes, Pamela is somewhat a newlywed. You can be a newlywed for seven years. Ack, we’re on year seven!), a confused cat (Hey, I had her all to myself for twenty years. Where’d this guy come from?) and a preschooler (newlymom is almost as fun as newlywed). She was raised in Omaha, Nebraska, and started writing at age twelve (a very bad teen romance featuring David Cassidy from The Partridge Family). Later, she honed her writing skills while earning a BA in Journalism at Texas Tech University in Lubbock, Texas (and wrote a very bad science fiction novel that didn’t feature David Cassidy). Please visit her Web site at www.pamelakayetracy.com, or enjoy her blog at http://ladiesofsuspense.blogspot.com/ or write to her c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.

—Isaiah 41:10

To my father, Albert Hammonds Tracy,

who continually demonstrated that fatherhood

wasn’t a job, it was a passion.

Also, as always, to the people who help along

the way to completion: my editors, my critique

group, my husband and son, and special thanks to

Roxanne Gould and Paige Dooley—

my final readers.

PROLOGUE

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

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Six Months Ago

The bank teller flinched and tried to go faster. Tried being the operative word. She was going as fast as her shaking hands would allow. As she continued to stuff money into the old, blue backpack, he managed a quick look at the customers. Some were hunkered down on all fours. One big man in a wrinkled business suit sobbed louder than the pair of twentysomethings next to him. He never moved his face from between his legs. The twentysomethings did a strange hiccupy thing when they looked at the bleeding security guard. They stopped making any noise at all when they looked at him and his gun. Fear was a powerful motivator. Their forgotten paychecks and deposit slips lay on the floor beside their purses.

Funny how money became unimportant when faced with mortality.

He could see the frantic activity around him, feel the raw energy. He planned for the robbery to take six minutes. He knew the response time, and he knew the dangers of the getaway. Before entering the bank, he’d put an orange cone at the lot’s entry. It wouldn’t completely deter, but it might keep someone new from entering the bank for at least six minutes. Every detail had been perfectly planned, and in this moment, he felt a clarity he would never forget.

Without taking his eyes off the teller, he carefully pulled a pencil from his pocket, inserted it under his mask and scratched at a nonexistent itch. He intended to leave a pencil behind. Not the one he scratched with, but an identical one. One that had taken him three days to snatch; one that did not have his fingerprints on it, but someone else’s.

He moaned in pretend relief. Then he lay the other pencil on the counter.

Ingenious.

He’d chosen the mask wisely, too. He wasn’t wearing a boring black ski mask or impersonating some ex-president. Instead, he looked like a walking maggot infestation. The larvae had taken over his head, neck, and only those with very strong stomachs would wonder what was going on under his plain blue jacket. No one looked especially inclined to get too close.

He smiled. It was really too bad, because in actuality—this more than any other time—was his finest hour. And the critics would never know because this time he wasn’t just acting, he was being. He didn’t have props; he had tools of the trade. Real gun, real backpack, and in the parking lot a real getaway car. He glanced at the security guard. His blood looked real because it was real. The security guard was really the only victim here. The bank could spare the money. The bank manager deserved to spend his life behind bars. Unfortunately, the guard didn’t deserve to forfeit his life. But first-offense bank robbers usually only got a slap on the hand, and this heist was designed to warrant so much more.

He hadn’t expected to feel such a rush. But, then, this was his first time in the lead role, and obviously it was where he belonged. Soon, the world would recognize his talent.

And, really, his talent wasn’t robbing banks.

He’d been planning this robbery for almost a year. There would be no mistakes and soon everything he wanted would be his. He knew this bank and its personnel inside and out. He knew that Wednesday was a slow day and that two major businesses made cash deposits right before noon.

He inched closer to the teller. He’d chosen her because not only was she the youngest, but she was also the new girl on the block.

“Faster, Helen,” he urged. “Make it work.”

She froze, fingers trembling, and slowly looked up. He grinned, not that she could see. He blinked a couple of times, hoping she’d notice the brown eyes.

She finished loading the money: all she had, all the tellers on either side of her had, all the money she could reach.

He grabbed the backpack. He turned, pushed aside a toddler and headed for the door.

He had the money.

He skidded to a stop just before reaching the door, turned one last time to survey the damage, and this time, he didn’t just aim his finger for the pretend itch under his chin.

He put his whole hand there.

The mask popped off like a rocket. He frantically grabbed at it, holding it in front of his face, up, down, and to the side, all the while knowing he’d mastered the perfect look of surprise. Then, with the mask held just below his chin, he looked straight at the surveillance camera.

“I didn’t kill my wife.”

The voice, deep-pitched and steady, seemingly coming from nowhere, almost caused Greg Bond to drop his hammer. No one would have noticed. They were all busy. Wiping sweat from his brow, he forced himself to stay calm and listen for the sound of his own voice. It only took a moment to find the source, but the noise coming from the construction site drowned out whatever the radio news commentator might be saying next.

He located the radio. It took all Greg’s will not to grab it, turn up the volume and listen to what the next chapter of his life might be.

He fell to his knees, ear pressed to the speaker, and listened as a monotone Paul Harvey wannabe managed four whole sentences.

“The body of Rachel Cooke was discovered earlier this morning in a deserted farmhouse in Yudan, Kansas. Her husband and the prime suspect, Alexander Cooke, already wanted for the murder of a security guard during a bank robbery last April, is still at large. The whereabouts of their six-year-old daughter, Amy Cooke, is unknown. Authorities believe she is still with her father and in danger. In other news…”