The Heavenly Fugitive

  © 2002 by Gilbert Morris

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-7052-8

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Cover illustration by William Graf

  Cover design by Josh Madison

  This book is dedicated to all the faithful readers of THE HOUSE OF WINSLOW. Without you, I would probably be pumping gas at Exxon—or selling ladies’ shoes at J.C. Penney’s.

  I wish it were possible for me to come to your door, dear reader, and thank you fervently for your loyal support. Since that is not possible, let this dedication be a feeble substitute. As Shakespeare put it, “I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks and ever thanks!”

  How many more Winslow novels can you expect? I have good news! There will be at least thirty-two, for I have written that many at this time, and Bethany House has them in-house. In addition to these, I plan to bring the series up to the end of WWII, which will mean another six books.

  The novels will come to the bookstores at the rate of one or two each year, and I hope that you will approve of them.

  I trust that all the novels in this series will glorify the Lord Jesus Christ and be a blessing to those who read them. I recently was very pleased to learn that the Winslow novels are very popular in a maximum security prison in Florida. The librarian told me that over eight hundred men are confined to their cells for twenty-three hours each day. He said, “Most of them won’t take Bibles, but time after time, inmates will say, ‘Any more of them Winslow novels?’ ”

  I would like to feel that you, dear reader, are partners with me and with Bethany House in ministering Christ to these men who need Him so desperately.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART ONE

  November 1923-June 1924

  1. A Spoiled Beauty

  2. “I’ll Give It All I’ve Got!”

  3. A Gift From Africa

  4. The Winslow Clan

  5. A Biblical Principle

  6. Always a Fugitive

  PART TWO

  April-October 1925

  7. A Visit With Lola

  8. A Door Opens

  9. Passing

  10. The Underside of New York

  11. Amelia Meets a Man

  12. Sentence of Death

  PART THREE

  February-April 1927

  13. A Different Rosa

  14. Out of the Past

  15. Water Street

  16. Dom Steps In

  17. An Afternoon With the Morinos

  18. The Trap

  PART FOUR

  April-July 1927

  19. Casualties

  20. Father and Son

  21. All for Love

  22. “I’ve Always Wanted the Wrong Things”

  23. Amelia’s Choice

  24. A Heavenly Fugitive No More!

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Spoiled Beauty

  NEW YORK CITY

  NOVEMBER 1923

  A series of harsh cries caught Phillip Winslow’s attention. He turned to watch four black crows arise from a field with a great flapping of wings, then alight on the branches of a leafless oak tree. Its bare limbs cast long shadows across the frozen ground to where he stood. He shivered in the cold air and went on his way, slapping his hands together and whistling a favorite hymn. The old hymns kept him from getting too homesick for his parents in Africa, where he’d spent his childhood. He wondered how his sister, Amelia, was doing—if she was enjoying life in the States as much as he.

  Phillip had quickly adjusted to the faster pace in New York, and after living there for over a year, he had even adopted the American preference for nicknames, gladly answering now to “Phil” and asking everyone to call him that. He had always been a good student and a hard worker, so his college studies were stimulating, and his job at the Thornton Stables provided the physical work his manly young body needed. Except for missing his parents, who now pastored a church in Nairobi, he loved his new life in America. But he worried about Amelia.

  When he reached the whitewashed barn of the Thornton Stables, he made his way inside and down a line of horse stalls. The smell of horses, leather, and feed had become so normal to him he no longer noticed the odor. Stopping before one of the stalls, he looked at a sleek Arabian mare, who stared back at him with cold arrogance.

  “Ready for your trip, girl?” The horse gave him a snorting reply. He picked up a bridle and cautiously opened the stall door, waiting to see what the mare would do. When she merely stared at him, he laughed. “You’re in a better mood this morning. Yesterday you tried to wipe up the floor with me.” He stepped forward, grateful when she accepted the bridle. Slapping her on the neck, he said, “That’s a good girl. Come along, now. You’re going to your new home.”

  He led the mare out of the stable to a horse trailer hitched to the back of a truck. He cautiously guided her up the wooden ramp into the open door of the trailer, admiring her sleek coat, which glistened like sunlight on water. To his surprise she entered the trailer without hesitation. He closed the door and stepped back to take one last look at her before delivering her to her new owner. He had longed to put a saddle on her and try her out himself, but his boss, Luke DeSalvo, had refused to let any of the stable hands ride this particular animal. She had been kept for a special customer.

  Phil turned and walked over to a small brick building, the downstairs of which housed the office for the stables and the upstairs a small apartment for DeSalvo. The door opened before he reached it, and the manager stepped out to greet him. DeSalvo was a short, stocky man with muscular legs and arms and almost no neck. He wore a pair of faded corduroy trousers, old rubber boots, and a tattered sweater. He thrust a clipboard toward Phil and, chomping on his ever-present cigar, growled at him, “Here, college boy. See you don’t let nothin’ happen to that mare.”

  Taking the clipboard, Phil read the order. He smiled and said, “Boadicea, huh? That’s a pretty fancy name for a horse.”

  DeSalvo rolled the cigar around in his mouth with his tongue and studied Winslow. He had not wanted to take on the young man, who had seemed too educated, in his opinion, to work at the stables. He had told the owner, “He won’t last. The first time he has to muck out the stalls he’ll be outta here.” Phil had proved him wrong, however, for he had cheerfully mucked out stalls and never complained about the dozens of other chores DeSalvo heaped on him. Now that he was in college and had to study every day, Phil couldn’t come to work until midafternoon, but he willingly worked late into the evening when necessary to get all the chores finished.

  For all his gruffness, DeSalvo admired the young Winslow and couldn’t figure out what such a bright young man was doing working at the Thornton Stables. He eyed the nineteen-year-old briefly and took in his tall, lean physique and ruddy complexion. Much outdoor living in his years growing up in Africa had made Phil strong. Strands o
f auburn hair stuck out from under his cap, and he had the most penetrating green eyes DeSalvo had ever seen. He wore a pair of faded blue trousers, a striped shirt without a collar, a gray waistcoat fastened by two buttons, and rubber work boots.

  Phil looked up and said, “Ten Oaks. Where’s that, Mr. DeSalvo?”

  “Just the other side of the Jamison place, where you took the gray stallion last Thursday. Ten Oaks is about a mile beyond that, back off the road, with a big black iron fence around it.”

  “Yes. I know the place.”

  DeSalvo removed his cigar, studied it as if it were a valuable jewel, then jammed it back into his mouth. He drew on it until the end glowed a cherry red and nodded. “Keep your mouth shut when you’re there, college boy. There’s some real tough hairpins in that place.”

  Startled by this revelation, Phil focused on the stubby manager, waiting for some explanation. When none was forthcoming, he asked, “What do you mean ‘tough hairpins’?”

  “This mare belongs to Tony Morino,” DeSalvo said with a snort. “You ever hear of him?”

  “No. Don’t think so.”

  DeSalvo laughed. “Well, you don’t know everything, college boy. He’s a tough one, but he’s managed to stay out of jail.”

  “You mean he’s a criminal?”

  “He’s never been convicted, but everybody knows he’s a big-time bootlegger, and he’s got his finger in other pies, too. He runs with a rough crowd, so mind your manners.” He paused then and almost turned to go back in the office, but curiosity touched his gray eyes. “What are you doing mucking out stables, anyway? A college boy like you could get a cleaner job.”

  “I like being around horses. One of the things I miss about my home in Africa.”

  “What kind of horses they got in Africa?”

  “Same as here. Some fine ones like that mare and some not so fine.”

  DeSalvo grunted. “Well, get on your way. Mind what I told you.”

  “Okay, Mr. DeSalvo.”

  The manager watched Winslow climb into the truck and start the engine. As the truck pulled away, a tall, heavyset man with blunt features approached DeSalvo and grinned broadly. “What’s Joe College doin’ now? He don’t look like much man to me.”

  “What would you know about it, Cotton!” DeSalvo spat. “If you had his brains, you’d be in velvet! Why, I showed that young Winslow the stud book last week, and he just leafed through it and memorized that mare’s bloodlines all the way back to Adam. I couldn’t believe it. He’s got a memory like flypaper!”

  Cotton wasn’t convinced by the boss’s defense of Winslow. “Some kind of foreigner, ain’t he?” Cotton grumbled. “Why didn’t he stay where he come from?”

  “Go feed those horses, Cotton!” DeSalvo grunted and stepped back into the office. Despite his praise of Winslow, he too wondered about the young man. Funny guy. Smart as a whip but don’t mind muckin’ out stalls. Not many like that around. . . .

  ****

  Following DeSalvo’s instructions, Phil drove past the Jamison place and a mile farther down the road spotted the black iron fence. The house was set back off the road, and the driveway was lined with large oak trees reaching their naked limbs into the sky—Like they’re praying, Phil thought. He stopped at the front gate and got out, leaving the engine running. There was no sign with a name on it, but he knew this had to be the Morino estate. He punched a button but heard no bell. He waited, glancing around at the woods that surrounded the property. A blue jay lit above him, proclaiming his presence loudly, his bright colors shining brilliantly against the dead grays and browns of the trees. Hearing footsteps, Phil turned and saw a small man approach the gate. He was bundled up in a heavy plaid coat with a soft cap pulled down over his forehead.

  “What’cha want, eh?” The question was shot at Phil like a bullet from a gun.

  “I’m delivering a mare for Mr. Morino from the Thornton Stables.”

  “You got a paper that says so?”

  “Right here.”

  Phil shoved the invoice through the bars and watched as the man scanned it suspiciously. Apparently satisfied, he handed it back and unlocked the gate. Phil had started back to the truck when the guard’s gruff command halted him. “Hold it right there, Mac!”

  The man walked toward him and said, “I’ll have to frisk you.”

  “Frisk me? What for?”

  The guard’s cold gray eyes twinkled at Phil’s confusion. “Gotta see if you’re packin’ a gat.”

  “What’s a gat?”

  “Don’t give me that, kid! I ain’t got time for games.” The man ran his hands up and down Phil’s body.

  Remembering DeSalvo’s instructions, Phil kept still. When the inspection was over, he smiled and asked, “Am I okay?”

  “I’ll have to check the truck and trailer.”

  Phil walked back to the truck and waited while the man checked under the seats and inspected the horse trailer.

  “Okay,” the guard said, turning. “You can go on in.”

  “Where are the stables?”

  “Take that road up to the house. Bear to the left and circle around. You’ll find them out behind in a big field. Ask for O’Connor. He takes care of the horses.”

  “Thanks.”

  Getting back into the truck, Phil was amused at being the object of such suspicion, but he had read enough detective novels to recognize the methods of gangsters. Now he was even more curious about Morino, but he knew he’d better be careful. The guard’s businesslike attitude and steely eyes warned Phil that he was walking into a potentially dangerous situation.

  He chuckled to himself as he made his way to the stables and thought, Maybe I’ll get to see a real live American gangster. I’ve heard about all the bootleggers but never thought I might meet one!

  ****

  A white ball rolled across the green felt, struck a red ball sharply, and sent it toward the pocket, where it disappeared with a heavy plunk! The girl who had made the shot nodded with satisfaction at her younger brother. Fifteen-year-old Rosa Morino shook her lustrous ebony hair and grinned, a sparkle of mischief in her enormous dark eyes. She moved around the table with the awkward grace of an adolescent and made shot after shot. When she had cleared the table, she racked up the balls for a new game, but the noise of a truck backfiring caught her ear. She slammed the cue down on the table and ran to the window. “Jamie, she’s here! My horse is here!”

  Leaving her brother and running out of the billiard room, Rosa dashed down the hall but halted at the sound of her father’s voice coming from an open door. “Where are you going, Rosa?”

  Rosa stepped into her father’s study, her eyes flashing, and cried out, “It’s my mare! She’s here, Daddy! I’m going to ride her right now!”

  “Oh no you’re not, young lady! Not until O’Connor checks her out.”

  Rosa’s father rose from his desk chair and came toward her. A daunting figure, he was a solid man with heavy legs and arms and massive fists. He had a round face with blunt features and a ragged scar that traced its way down his right cheek and along the jawline. The scar was the result of a run-in with a horse, not a brawl. He had been kicked, but as was typical of him when it came to animals, he had insisted it was his fault, not the horse’s.

  Big Tony Morino was more understanding of animals than of human beings. He had come to this country as a child speaking only Italian and had fought his way up through childhood on the tough streets of New York City’s Lower East Side. He had managed to stay out of the clutches of the law except for one thirty-day bout behind bars, but after that month of incarceration, the crafty Morino had determined to find a way to get rich without going to jail for it. He now ruled over several organized gangs of bootleggers in New York City, along with five or six other kingpins.

  Though Morino was a fearsome man to anyone who crossed him in his business dealings, to Rosa he was simply her father, and she was not afraid to plead with him to let her see the horse right away.

  T
he hardwood floor shook with his weight as he crossed it and stood face-to-face with Rosa. “No riding until O’Connor’s checked her out,” he bellowed.

  Rosa was hardly fazed by his stern demeanor. “Oh, Daddy!”

  “You mind what I say, Rosa. O’Connor said that horse is too lively for you.”

  “I can ride her!”

  “Maybe you can, but you’re not going to yet. Now, you mind your father.” His dark scowl relaxed a bit as he reached out and tenderly tugged a lock of Rosa’s black hair. Her skinny, girlish shape had given way to womanly curves, and she looked stunning in a pair of dark blue jodhpurs, a wine-colored jersey, and shiny riding boots. Big Tony took special pride in her beauty, and he often gave in to her pleading expressions, but this time he refused to let her get the better of him completely. “You can look at her—but no riding without O’Connor. And that’s final!”

  “Oh, all right, Daddy.” She suddenly threw herself against him and kissed him on the cheek, her eyes sparkling. “Thank you so much, Daddy. It’s the nicest present anyone ever got!”

  “Well, go along now,” Tony said, pleased at her embrace. She was an affectionate girl, and as she wheeled and ran out of the room, he realized how much of his heart was in this girl on the brink of womanhood. His first wife had given him no children, and after her death Tony had married Maria, who had quickly given him two—Rosa, followed two years later by James. Tony never minded interruptions from his family, and he was especially happy when Rosa was around. Now he moved back to his desk and perused his list of business contacts.

  Before long he was interrupted again—this time by his wife. He looked up as she entered the room and smiled at her. “The mare is here, Maria. Rosa’s already gone out to look at her.”

  Maria Morino crossed the large study and stood beside her husband. She was a trim woman of forty—nearly twenty years younger than her husband. She had been raised in a conservative home, and her family had been horrified when she had announced her engagement to Big Tony Morino. Although she had introduced him as Mr. Anthony Morino, they knew who he was and what he did for a living. They had done all they could to prevent her from marrying a gangster but to no avail. Maria could not explain it to herself. She had turned down many more suitable men, and her family feared she would never marry. But then Big Tony had simply swept her off her feet. She was happy in her marriage and proud to have given Tony two fine children. She was grieved at his illegal activities but had never tried to interfere in his work. It was one area of his life she could not touch. She knew the nature of his work when she married him, but she couldn’t help loving him for who he was at home. He was always kind to her and loved his family as much as any man could. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for them. He was also a patriotic man who loved America with a passion. He proudly carried the American flag in parades and attended Fourth of July speeches, applauding with his ponderous hands and whistling at the oratories extolling the virtues of his adopted country.