The Heavenly Fugitive
Read The Heavenly Fugitive Online
Authors: Gilbert Morris
© 2002 by Gilbert Morris
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
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 T
HE
H
OUSE OF
W
INSLOW
. 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
2. “I’ll Give It All I’ve Got!”
17. An Afternoon With the Morinos
22. “I’ve Always Wanted the Wrong Things”
24. A Heavenly Fugitive No More!
CHAPTER ONE
A Spoiled Beauty
N
EW
Y
ORK
C
ITY
N
OVEMBER
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 of 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.
