Excerpt of Randall on the Run by Judy Christenberry

Jessica Randall was going home.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she'd finally loaded into her car all her personal items from the furnished apartment where she'd lived for three years.

Three years. She'd been awfully naive when she'd first arrived in Hollywood. Since then, she'd learned a lot about the movie industry — and it wasn't all good. In fact, the underbelly of Hollywood had soured her on living here. Dreams about home had gotten stronger and stronger until she could no longer relegate them to her subconscious.

It was night, but she figured she could get in at least five hours of driving before she'd have to stop and sleep. After all, in Hollywood, no one went to bed early.

Besides, she didn't want to stay here one more night. "Come on, baby," she called.

There was a loud woof before the arrival of her

"baby," a golden-labrador retriever mix. He'd kept her company so she wouldn't forget home. Every morning she'd run with Murphy at her side, his tongue hanging out as he raced gleefully along.

With one last look, she locked the back door and reached for the garage door opener just as shots rang out. Jessica swallowed as a shiver raced over her. After all the warnings of her family, she hadn't had contact with any bad elements in Los Angeles since her arrival. Immoral elements, yes, but no gun-toting bad ones.

On her last night she ran into a gunfight? What were the odds?

She paused, but when she heard nothing else, she joined Murphy in her SUV and locked the doors before she pressed the garage door opener. Then she cautiously backed out. Everything seemed deserted, exactly as it always was.

Good. She just wanted to get away.

Flicking on her high beams, she started down the alley. Then she gasped when her eyes lit on a dark mass on the roadway. It looked like a body! She slammed on the brakes and took a second look.

It was a man. And he wasn't moving. Was he dead?

As much as her better judgment was telling her to keep driving, to leave Hollywood and all its baggage behind, she knew she couldn't. She had to stop. Leaving her engine running, she looked carefully around her before she slipped from behind the wheel.

In the bright beam of her headlights, she saw the man was still breathing, but bleeding heavily from his upper right torso. "Hold on, I'll call for an ambulance," she told him, though she didn't really think he heard her.

She turned then, but a strong hand grabbed her arm, holding her in place. A scream died in her throat as she looked down at the injured man.

"No! No ambulance."

"But you need medical help. I can't —"

His hand on her arm squeezed harder. "No doctor, either," he managed to say.

"What do you expect me to do? I can call the police but they'll —"

"No!"

A suspicious feeling settled around Jessica. The man was seriously injured, but he refused help. Why? Fearing the worst, she began to back away.

"I'm DEA undercover." Through his pain he managed to get the words out, but she could see the effort was a struggle for him.

"Then why can't I call the police?" She remained skeptical.

"I — I think my own people shot me. The police will contact them...and I'll die. I won't be able to — to defend myself." The lengthy speech drained him, and he sighed deeply.

Jessica had no way to know whether his story was true or just another of Hollywood's fictions. But there was something about the man, something she heard in his voice, that made her take a chance. If what he said was true, she had to get out of this dark alleyway, and fast. "Do you want me to take you anywhere? Someplace safe?"

He nodded. "You'll have to tell me where to go."

"Okay," he muttered, but his eyes slowly closed. Jessica knew she had to do something about the bleeding, otherwise he wouldn't make it much longer.

She hurried to the truck and the first-aid kit her father had insisted she bring with her. "You might need it in Los Angeles." Just thinking about her father and his strength and courage steadied her nerves. She took the box to where the man lay and ripped his shirt open to expose a gunshot wound in his shoulder.

She was surprised to find a manila envelope stuck in the top of his pants.

"What's this?" she asked, almost to herself. Again to her surprise, his hand grabbed the envelope, but he didn't have the strength to pull it from hers. "Evidence. It's...important."

"I'll take care of it. I won't let anyone see it." Her voice was urgent. She was afraid whoever shot him would come back to be sure the job was done.

He seemed to accept her assurance as his grasp loosened. She lay the envelope beside her as she began to tend to the gunshot wound, hoping the thick pad she held on the wound would slow the bleeding.

He cursed in a hoarse voice.

But she knew pressure was needed to stop the bleeding. Then she struggled to get him to his feet. When he was finally upright, though draped all over her, she led him to the SUV. He was a big man, and without his help she never could've gotten him up.

"Got to hide," he whispered in her ear.

Again shivers attacked her. She didn't know if it was from the words or the breath of hot air against her skin. "Okay. But first we have to get you inside. You're going to have to help me."

She'd gotten a couple of friends to help her put her mattress in the back of the SUV, with the rear seats folded down. Murphy used it as a comfortable bed.

Shoving back some of the clothes, she wedged the man in behind the front seat and lay his head on a pillow. All in all, she thought he'd be pretty comfortable. To be on the safe side she covered him with some of her clothes, and on his head, pulled down low over his face, she put a cowboy hat that she'd taken with her from Wyoming as a remembrance of home.

Maybe it was a little overdone, but she wasn't taking any chances.

Remembering her promise to take care of his evidence, she hurried back to the spot and grabbed the manila envelope. She slipped it beneath her seat in the SUV, out of sight.

When she got behind the wheel, she thought she caught some movement in the dark behind her. But when she looked around, she saw nothing; she told herself it was her imagination, and pressed down on the gas.

"Damn!" She'd forgotten to ask her passenger where he wanted to be taken. She leaned over the seat back, but even when she shook his leg under the clothes, he didn't answer.

So now what was she supposed to do?

She got on a freeway, or a parking lot, as they called them in L.A., headed in the direction she planned on going. At least he was safe in her car. When he woke up, she'd figure out how to get him where he needed to be.

About twenty minutes later, she wasn't quite as sure about his safety as flashing lights suddenly appeared in her rearview mirror. At the siren she carefully pulled to the side of the road and put on her hazard lights. She certainly hadn't been speeding. Why was she being pulled over?

After a quick check to be sure her passenger remained hidden, she rolled down her window.

A Los Angeles policeman approached her and she greeted him with her most charming smile. "Good evening, Officer. Was I going too fast? I didn't think so, but —"

"No, ma'am. But we've been looking for a perp in a robbery and the car kind of fit the description of yours."

For some reason, Murphy growled at the officer. Jessica realized the dog hadn't made any protest about her injured passenger.

"Well, there's just me and Murphy," she said, gesturing to her dog. "Unless the bad guy was a woman with a big dog, I think you've got the wrong vehicle." She noticed his eyes kept focusing on the piles of items in the back.

"You've got a lot of things in your vehicle. Big shopping trip?"

"No, not at all. I'm moving."

"No furniture?"

"No, I was renting a furnished apartment."

"I see." He still stood there, searching with his eyes. Finally, he said, "Mind if I search your car?"

She gave him an appalled look. "Yes, I do. It may not look organized to you, but I very carefully loaded my things so that nothing would get broken. I don't want you stirring things up. Anyway, it's not as if I could hide a — what did you call him, a perp? — in there."