Without a Trace

  "You're lovely in moonlight, so very lovely."

  She closed her eyes. There was a note of goodbye in his tone. He felt so big and warm and solid, she wished she could stand there in his arms forever. He crooked a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face farther back, and she lifted her gaze to meet his. Dipping his head, he kissed her, so softly, so carefully that her breath caught again. She sa­vored the silken pressure of his lips, sensing as only a woman can that this man was someone extremely special. In sud­den desperation, she clung to him, treasuring the moment, knowing without being told it would be the last.

  Slipping her arms around his neck, she pressed her body closer to his and parted her lips, surrendering more com­pletely to his kiss than she had done with any other man, tasting the sweetness of his mouth, sharing the secrets of hers. A warm tendril of heat ribboned through her belly, pooling in a molten shimmer of sensation in the pit of her stomach. Michael. The sound of his name was a song in­side her.

  When he drew away, he took a deep, shaky breath and exhaled slowly. The glimmer in his eyes told her he'd been as effected by the kiss as she, despite the frown that settled on his brow. "I'm sorry, Sarah. I didn't intend to do that. It was selfish, but I wanted this one time to remember."

  Upon hearing the goodbye put into words, a wave of pain washed over her, so all encompassing it took her com­pletely off guard. How could he apologize for something so perfect, so right? She averted her face, staring blindly at the river. The only explanation was that he hadn't felt what she had; she'd only imagined it.

  "Sarah—" There was a note of concern in his voice.

  "No—don't say anything more, please." Squaring her shoulders, she forced an impersonal smile. "Let's call it an evening, shall we? I'm terribly tired."

  She thought she heard him mutter a curse, but he didn't argue. With a heavy sigh, he touched his hand to her arm, guiding her up the footpath, back the way they had come.

  En route home an hour later, Michael thought of little else but Sarah. He had only scratched the surface of his past. No matter what Giorgio Santini claimed, there was a dragon to slay. For his father's sake, Michael couldn't dig any deeper now. And until he knew the truth, he had no right to be­come involved with a woman.

  How many Vietnam veterans had he treated whose mar­riages had been destroyed by frequent, violent nightmares? Dozens. He wasn't a war veteran, but his dreams were every bit as horrible as theirs, affecting every facet of his life. What point was there in fooling himself? Sighing, he crooked a finger under the knot of his tie and worked it loose. There was something special developing between him and Sarah; he couldn't deny it. But how would she or any woman feel about him when she'd lost sleep night after night because of his screams? How would she like waking up in a sweat-soaked bed, smelling his fear and panic? For that matter, how would it make him feel? Michael clenched his teeth. He couldn't put someone he cared about through that.

  He wouldn't.

  An ache rose in his throat as he thought of all the empty tomorrows that stretched ahead of him. He'd get up in the morning, go to work, come home. The same thing, day in and day out, week after week, month after month, year af­ter year. It presented a gloomy picture, but what real choice did he have? He didn't wish his father dead.

  Michael finished breakfast at the Shilo the next morn­ing, pulled out of the parking lot and exited south onto Interstate 5, heading toward his office. As he switched lanes, he braked once behind a station wagon, signaled, acceler­ated and moved over one more lane to a position behind a semitruck. When he glanced at his speedometer, he noticed he was doing sixty miles an hour. The semi downshifted for a snag in traffic. Michael touched his brake. Nothing hap­pened. His foot went clear to the floor.

  And his stomach followed

  For a split second, Michael froze, staring at the eighteen wheeler in front of him. Then he tromped on the brake pedal again. Nothing. His brakes were gone? Riveting his gaze on the silver trailer doors of the truck, he watched in horrified fascination as the embossed diamond pattern in the metal became clearer and larger. Then his eyes dropped to the clearance under the vehicle, and he remembered reading stories about cars driving right under semitrucks, sheering the passengers' heads off. He threw a frantic glance at his rearview mirror, hoping he could move over into the next lane, but traffic blocked him in both directions. He was boxed in with no place to go, no way to stop. With a curse, he again pumped wildly at the brake pedal. He was going to crash if he didn't do something.

  Leaning forward, he grabbed the emergency brake han­dle and jerked on it with all his might. The Mercedes was still gaining on the truck. Sweat sprang to his forehead. With a shaking hand, he turned off the ignition key. His car ra­dio blipped into silence. His power steering stopped work­ing, and the car listed heavily to one side. The Dodge beside him blared its horn and its driver roared obscenities out his window. Michael swallowed, wrenching with all his weight to correct the drift, watching the remaining few feet of space between his front bumper and the truck trailer disappear­ing. Fear made his mouth feel filled with cotton.

  Then he saw the distance between his car and the truck gradually widening. He slumped in the seat, letting out a pent-up breath. Checking to his right, he saw a gap in traffic and heaved on the steering wheel to turn into the next lane. He was trembling by the time he could pull off onto the shoulder of the road.

  After the Mercedes coasted to a stop, he climbed from the car to thumb down a motorist. His legs felt as wobbly as half-set Jell-O. A battered blue pickup pulled over behind him and a farmer piled out, hooking his thumbs in the straps of his overalls.

  "Trouble, partner?"

  Michael gave a weak laugh. "You could say that, yes. Thanks for stopping. My brakes went out."

  The older man averted his face and spewed a brown stream of tobacco juice onto the gravel. "Did ya pull yer emergency?"

  "Uh, yes, as a matter of fact, but the damned thing didn't work."

  The farmer squinted at the car, noted its make and said, "Hmmph. Well, lock 'er up. I'll give ya a lift to town."

  While Michael leaned inside the car to pull his keys from the ignition and lock the doors, the farmer took two pieces of wood from the bed of his truck and blocked the Mercedes's tires so it wouldn't roll.

  "I really appreciate this," Michael told him as he climbed into the pickup cab. "If you can let me off at the nearest service station, I'll call a tow company and cab."

  "Better git them brakes fixed, sonny. Or a decent car, one 'r tuther. Man could git killed out here on this freeway without no brakes."

  Michael nearly choked at the derogatory remark about his Mercedes. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Yes, that thought occurred to me a couple of times."

  The farmer exited the freeway and drove to a gas station. Michael laid twenty dollars on the seat as he left the truck, hoping the old man wouldn't notice the money until he was back on the freeway. Lifting his arm to wave, he strode to the phone booth. After calling a tow truck, he dialed Pete's Auto Repair, where he was a regular customer. "Hey, Pete, this is Michael De Lorio."

  "Hi, Michael. What'cha got for me?"

  "A brake job. Lost all but my pedal out on the highway a few minutes ago. A tow company's hauling her out to you." Michael turned his back to the freeway as a semi- truck passed, blowing its air horn. Raising his voice to be heard, he asked, "Can you give me a call at the office when you've got her fixed?"

  "Sure." Pete was silent a moment. "I would've sworn we just did a brake job for you a couple of months back."

  Michael sighed. "I thought you did, too."

  At four-thirty, Michael's receptionist buzzed him, say­ing he had a phone call from Pete's Auto Repair. Michael picked up the phone. "Yeah, Pete, how's it looking? Do you have her fixed already?"

  "It's not lookin' too good. And I haven't touched a thing. I think you'd better call the cops."

  Michael lifted an eyebrow. He'd never heard Pete sound so solemn. "The cops?"

&n
bsp; "Some so-and-so cut your brake lines."

  "You're kidding."

  "I'm sure not, buddy. Somebody's out to get you."

  A chill ran up the center of Michael's back. He'd known Pete Bakker a long time and trusted the man implicitly. Glancing at his watch, he said, "I'm with a patient right now. I'll be there in about forty minutes."

  The underbody of the Mercedes was dirty and compli­cated looking. Beyond that, Michael understood very little of what Pete was pointing to and jabbering about as he stepped beneath the power lift and explained the damage to a policeman. "See there? That line was nicked just enough to spill fluid when the pedal was pumped."

  The policeman craned his neck to look upward, nodding and frowning. Michael's stomach knotted. Who would have cut his brake lines? The question ricocheted inside his head, filling his entire mind. Who? And why? The lines had to have been cut while he was eating breakfast at the Shilo. Someone must have followed him there. There were only a couple of stops between the restaurant and Interstate 5. Whoever had cut the lines had taken a gamble, counting on Michael to take the highway route to reach his office. Fast traffic and failed brakes were a deadly combination. Some­one had tried to kill him.

  Pete pointed at a severed cable, his expression grim. "And there you can see where the emergency brake cable was cut. This wasn't any accident, buddy. Somebody who knew what he was doing did his damnedest to kill this fella."

  Michael silently seconded that. The Shilo parking lot was always packed with vehicles, and he had only been inside eating a few minutes. Only an expert could have slipped under his car and sliced his brake lines so quickly with such deadly precision.

  The policeman examined the severed cable, then gave his soiled fingers a cursory wipe on his dark slacks. "In other words, the lines were cut that way so the fluid wouldn't spill out immediately?"

  Pete nodded. "That's right. Just a big enough cut that the hydraulic system would work two, maybe three times, then go kaput. Every time Dr. De Lorio hit his brakes, he squirted more fluid. And these babies don't work without fluid."

  The policeman jotted notes for several minutes, then lifted curious gray eyes to scan Michael's face. "Dr. De Lorio, do you have any idea who might have done this?"

  "None at all."

  Pete stepped out from under the car, wiping his hands on a rag.

  "Can I get this fixed now and out of the shop?" Michael asked.

  The tatti-tat-tat of an air-powered drill drowned out the police officer's reply. All three men left the garage area to escape the noise the other mechanics were making. "I think it would be a good idea to leave the car as it is until we can investigate this further," the officer repeated.

  "No problem, Michael my man, you can take my loaner." Turning toward the garage, Pete cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "Hey, Jimmy, take the Mercedes down and push it around to the parking area. Then take the LTD up and give her a quick check. Dr. De Lorio is going to borrow her for a few days."

  The policeman stepped closer to Michael. "Dr. De Lorio, can you come to the station so we can make a full report on this?"

  "Certainly."

  "On the way, try to figure out who could have done this. My bet is it's one of your patients. In your line of work, you never know when one of those people might go off the deep end."

  One of those people? Why did everyone always assume his patients were crazy? They were just average people with stressful lives and more than their share of problems. "I'll certainly think about it as I drive over."

  Fastening his pen to the clipboard, the officer frowned. "Another possibility is a jilted girlfriend. Anyone like that in your life? Someone who might have hired this done?"

  Michael immediately envisioned Sarah's upturned face from last night. Her lips had shimmered in the moonlight, her large brown eyes searching his, the curve of her cheek shadowed by a nasty bruise. His heart lurched as he re­called her story about being hit by a car. Had it really been a drunk driver? Or was it a deliberate attempt on her life? He glanced at his watch. It was almost six.

  "Could you excuse me a moment, officer? I have an ur­gent call I need to make."

  Stepping into Pete's small office, Michael dialed Sarah's business number. Her answering machine took his call. Not wanting his message to be recorded in case Molly played it first, he hung up and tried Sarah at home. No answer. He glanced at his watch again. He'd call her again from the police station.

  Sarah locked the office door and pocketed the key, pivoting on the shadowy sidewalk. She had eaten dinner with an important prospective client at a nearby restaurant, then returned to the office to work late retrieving computer files. It was now well after seven. The bright amber halos around the streetlights shimmered against the black sky. With her bike out of commission and her Fiero in the shop for a scheduled lube job she hadn't wanted to cancel, she had no choice but to walk to the bus stop. It was only three blocks, but she was running late and wearing the most im­practical shoes she owned. Why hadn't she thought to bring a pair of comfortable shoes to change into? She'd known she wouldn't have the car tonight. A wry grin curved her mouth. A lot of good it had done her to dress up. Her im­portant prospective client hadn't panned out, and now all she'd get for her trouble was blistered feet from wearing these silly spikes.

  Through the window of her office, she heard the phone ringing. Hesitating, she started to turn back, then changed her mind. As it was, she had barely enough time to catch the bus. Her answering machine could take the call.

  Tucking her purse under her arm, she set off at a brisk pace. At this time of evening, the business offices along this part of the street were all deserted. The night air was crisp and cold on her cheeks. She shivered, watching the dark­ened doorways ahead of her. Too bad cab fare from here to home cost an arm and leg. She felt uneasy out here this late. Just that morning, Molly had read a news story aloud about a rapist who broke into a house over on Eleventh night be­fore last. That wasn't far from here, she realized. A woman couldn't be too cautious walking alone after dusk.

  Sarah had no sooner thought that than she heard foot­steps on the concrete behind her. She lengthened her stride, holding her head high, looking both right and left. She had read that alert people were far less likely to be attacked than those who ambled along, watching their feet. Her heels made sharp and precise clicks on the cement. The shoes be­hind her were much more quiet and seemed to be getting closer. A man, she guessed, wearing street shoes.

  The hairs at her nape tingled. She could feel eyes watch­ing her. Catching her lip between her teeth, she veered left across the street, glancing back over her shoulder. There was no one there. She hesitated, straining to see. The street­lights illuminated the sidewalk, but it was shadowy next to the buildings. She knew she had heard someone. Had he hidden so she wouldn't see him?

  She hurried to reach the opposite sidewalk, picking up her pace. Her heart started to slam when she heard running footsteps cross the street and fall in behind her. She began walking even faster. The footsteps picked up speed, too, coming closer and closer. Sarah whirled to look. No one? Her mouth went dry and the metallic taste of fear slithered up her throat. She hadn't imagined the footsteps. Someone was there; he was just hiding.

  Tightening her arm around her purse, she walked back­ward several steps, hoping to spot him. There! She saw the dark, hulking outline of a man step out of a shadowed doorway, then step quickly back. A tremor ran the length of her legs, making her stride unsteady. If only there were a lighted office nearby she could go to. Don't panic, Sarah. Just get rid of those high heels and outrun him. Keeping her eye on the doorway, she stepped out of one shoe, then the other. The cement felt cold and rough under her nylon-clad feet. Stooping over, she picked up her shoes with her right hand. The sharp spike heels might end up being the only weapon she had. Taking three steps backward, she watched the doorway a moment longer, then whirled to flee.

  As soon as she bolted, Sarah heard the man leap out to follow her. T
he hem of her skirt snapped taut around her legs as she bounded for the corner. A pebble cut into the ball of her right foot and sent a streak of pain clear to her knee. She kept running, forcing herself to breathe in a deep, reg­ular rhythm, knowing she could keep going much longer if she conserved her strength and paced herself. She knew she was a fast runner, she just hoped the man chasing her wasn't faster.

  At the corner, Sarah saw headlights coming from her left. She plunged off the curb, dashing into the car's path. "Help me!"

  Brakes screeched as the car slid to a stop. She skirted the front bumper, peering in the driver's window at an elderly woman who looked as frightened as she was.

  "Help me! Please! A man's chasing me!"

  Shaking her white head, the old woman gunned her ac­celerator. Her car lurched forward into the intersection.

  Sarah staggered backward, staring at the man running toward her. She had managed to get some distance ahead of him, but he was coming up quickly. He was nearly to the corner now, the tails of his long black coat flying behind him, his hat pulled low to conceal his face. Terror made her breath come in shivery little gasps. She lunged for the op­posite curb, running as fast as she could. Shoe leather slapped the asphalt behind her, the sound growing louder and louder.

  Chapter Eight

  As Sarah drew close to an alleyway, something brushed the back of her suit jacket. A hand? Oh, God, he was grabbing for her. She could hear him breathing, almost feel the steamy heat of his expelled air on the back of her neck. She tried for another burst of speed, but she was extended to full stride now. Her lungs ached, feeling as if they might burst. She couldn't run much farther. Glancing frantically right and left, she tried to recognize something. In her panic, she had turned down another street to lose him, and now she was lost instead.

  In a last desperate attempt to save herself, she tightened her grip on her shoes and swung around, smacking her pursuer in the face with the sharp spikes of her stiletto heels.