Page 11 of Without a Trace

  He doubled over, pressing his hands to his eyes. "Ahhh."

  His hat tumbled off and rolled on its brim into the gut­ter. A sob welled up in her throat, threatening to choke her and she ran, not looking back. Seconds later, feet again thudded behind her, at a slower pace now, but still follow­ing. Building fronts blurred in her peripheral vision. Each breath she took knifed into her ribs, whistling back up her throat and out her mouth in puffs of steam. Where was she? Her legs grew heavy. The bottoms of her feet felt raw. Then she saw a more brightly lit block of buildings up ahead of her.

  The city mall. People. She cannoned across the intersec­tion, not even looking for cars, and threw herself against the door of a busy ice-cream parlor. The overhead bell clanged to announce her arrival, and several young people turned curious stares on her. She backed away from the parlor windows, clutching her shoes to her chest, fighting to get her breath.

  "You okay, ma'am?" the girl behind the counter asked.

  Sarah swallowed, nodding her head. "C-Can you call the police? A man's chasing me."

  A brawny young fellow, who looked like a university football player, swaggered over to the window. "Where is he? I'll take care of the jerk."

  He pushed open the door and stepped out onto the side­walk, walking first in one direction, then the other. Saun­tering back inside, he said, "If he was out there, he's long gone now, lady. Did you know him?"

  "I don't think so. It was so dark, I can't be sure."

  "Wouldn't do any good to call the cops then. Did he hurt you?"

  Sarah sank onto a wrought-iron chair, shaking her head. "No, I'm fine. I think I should report this, though."

  "Be my guest if you wanna waste two hours of your time for nothing. Won't do any good unless you can give a de­scription."

  "I suppose you're right." Pressing a hand over her eyes, Sarah took a deep, steadying breath. "Could you call me a cab?"

  Sarah adjusted the shower nozzle to the massage set­ting and turned her back to the pelting water, pressing her forehead against the shower stall wall. Her arms and legs felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each, hanging off her body like pieces of clay. Every time she closed her eyes, she envisioned that man in the long black coat, his legs scissor­ing, his stride outdistancing hers.

  Hot, throbbing spurts of spray hit the sore places on her back, kneading, soothing. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of steam, relaxing her shoulders. Tonight she wouldn't bother with soap. Just standing here to get the aches out of her body would be enough. A distant ringing sound caught her attention. She lifted her head, listening. "Oh, damn."

  She shifted the faucet handle to Off with the heel of her hand and shoved open the stall door. Shivering, she snagged a towel from the rack as she raced for the bedside tele­phone. She grabbed the receiver and snapped, "Hello."

  "Sarah? Thank goodness you're finally home. It's Michael."

  Wrapping the towel around herself, she tucked an end between her breasts to secure it and sank onto the bed.

  "This may sound a little peculiar, but hear me out, okay?"

  She pressed the phone closer to her ear. "I'm listening."

  "I'm on my way to Ashland to see my dad. I'll be back sometime tomorrow. While I'm gone, I want you to be ex­tremely careful. If there's any way you can, just stay home with your doors locked until I get there."

  An icy tendril of fear slithered up her back. "Michael, I can't stay home. I have a business to run."

  He was silent for a moment. "Then call a cab to take you to and from, and don't leave the office or house until you see the cabbie pull up out front. Fact is, you should stay around people as much as you can."

  "You're frightening me."

  "Good."

  "What d'you mean, good?"

  He sighed. "Look, I know this may sound a little crazy, but, uh, someone tried to kill me this morning. The brake lines on my car were cut. The cops think it was one of my patients but I don't buy it. I immediately thought of your accident. Isn't this a bit much to be coincidence?"

  Sarah ran her tongue over her lips, glancing toward the sliding glass door. "Michael, tonight when I left the office, a man chased me. I got away, but just barely."

  "Did you call the police?"

  "Uh, no. I ducked into an ice-cream parlor and he dis­appeared. There wasn't anything the police could have done. It was too dark for me to describe him."

  "As soon as we hang up, call them. Tell them we have reason to suspect a connection between your accident and my brake lines being cut, and get a patrol watching your house for the night."

  "Are you all right? You weren't in a wreck?"

  "Just an extremely close call. Listen, write down my fa­ther's number. If you need me—if anything suspicious happens, anything at all, no matter how silly it seems—you call me, understand? And call the police."

  She grabbed a pen and notepad off her nightstand, jot­ting down the number he gave her. "You'll be careful, won't you?"

  " You be careful. I can take care of myself."

  She sighed as she depressed the phone button. If that wasn't a typically male response, she had never heard one. But it didn't really annoy her. His concern told her better than words that at least he cared about her as a friend, even if she had struck out with him romantically. With the end of her pen, she punched out the number for the police station.

  It was twelve-thirty when Michael pulled into his fa­ther's driveway in Ashland. A golden sphere of light re­flected against the living-room drapes, which told him his dad was sitting in his favorite chair reading, as was his habit late at night. Climbing out of the car, Michael ran his fin­gers over the door panel to find the lock button. Slamming the door, he tossed the keys and caught them, gazing up the street. No sign of anyone following.

  He strode up the front walk and onto the porch, ringing the doorbell. His throat ached with tension. This was one conversation he wasn't looking forward to. When Robert answered the bell, he looked older than he had yesterday. Older and more tired. Michael gave him a hug, enduring the cheek pinching that was as much a part of Robert De Lorio's greetings as the loud, wet kisses he showered on people's faces.

  After the initial embrace, Robert grasped Michael by the arms and stood back to look up at him. "This is a wonder­ful surprise."

  "Hello, Papa." He couldn't put much enthusiasm into his voice. "I need to talk to you."

  Robert's smile faded. "It is bad news, eh?"

  "I'm afraid it's not good." Michael glanced around the room, remembering how upset his father had become yes­terday, during their conversation about Chicago. As a pre­cautionary measure, he strode into the kitchen to get the older man's heart pills, returning to the living room with the bottle clasped in his right hand. "Sit down, Papa."

  "No. You tell me what is wrong."

  Michael tightened his grip on the bottle. "Papa, some­one cut the brake lines on my car this morning."

  All the color washed from Robert's face, leaving his skin gray as cement. "What is this craziness? Who would want to kill you?"

  "That's what I'm hoping you can tell me."

  "How should I know?"

  Meeting his father's gaze, Michael said, "Papa, please, no lies this time. Too much is at stake. Why did you leave Chicago and change your name?"

  Robert's breath quickened and a sickly blue line etched the edges of his white lips. "Who told you such a thing?"

  "I know who you really are. I saw pictures of you and Mamma and myself that were taken when I was a baby." Michael took a step forward. "Don't you realize how much I love you? Whatever it is you're hiding, it won't matter to me. You're my father."

  "Pictures? Where? How?"

  Michael hesitated, then decided this was no time for half- truths. "I visited Giorgio Santini."

  Robert's eyes widened and the black of his pupils flared until the brown of his eyes disappeared. He swallowed con­vulsively, staring up at Michael as if he were a ghost. "G- Giorgio?"

  "Yes, Papa."


  Swaying on his feet, Robert clamped a hand to the center of his chest. For a moment, Michael thought it was yet an­other attempt on his father's part to forestall this long overdue conversation, but when Robert's throat began rat­tling for air, he knew it was no act. He popped the lid off the medicine bottle and shook some pills onto his palm. Grab­bing one, he shoved it under his father's tongue. "Papa, please, calm down—just calm down. It'll be okay. Don't you see? There's nothing we can't handle together."

  Robert sucked in another tortured breath. His eyes bulged and he made a feeble grab for Michael's jacket. The next second, his knees buckled and he hit the floor like a felled tree. Michael dropped beside him, ripping open Robert's shirt. His father's face was turning blue. Tearing to the kitchen, Michael grabbed the phone and called for an am­bulance, then ran back to the living room.

  "Papa, please... Oh, God, don't let this happen." Pressing his fingers to the vein in his father's throat, Michael checked his pulse. It was faint and irregular. Sweat filmed Michael's face. Though his father was still breathing, it was clear he was growing steadily weaker. His eyes were rolling back into his head. His lips were turning a frightening bluish black. Michael was well trained in CPR, but his knowledge was useless unless Robert's heart went into complete arrest. He wished he could do something, anything to help him. "Oh, Papa, forgive me, forgive me."

  It seemed to Michael that an eternity went by before the ambulance arrived. He stood back, watching in numb disbelief as attendants worked desperately over his father's unconscious body. One thought echoed in his mind like a litany. It'll be my fault if he dies.

  Michael drove behind the ambulance to the hospital. When he entered the building, he wandered around in the halls as if in a trance for several minutes, then collapsed on a vinyl chair and buried his face in his hands. More time passed. He had no idea how much. He sat and stared blindly at a potted philodendron, seeing nothing, hearing nothing.

  "Mr. De Lorio? Are you Mr. De Lorio?"

  The man's voice seemed to come from miles away. Michael focused on brown pant cuffs, lifting his eyes to the tail of a white coat, then to a blurry face. "Yes?"

  "I think your father is going to make it."

  Michael closed his eyes.

  "It's a shaky situation. It's not uncommon for a second, more severe attack to follow the first, but if his condition stays stable until tomorrow noon, I think we can relax a lit­tle. We'll have to watch him closely for a week or so, but it looks good. He was lucky. The damage wasn't as serious as we first thought."

  Lifting his lashes, Michael said, "He was extremely up­set when it happened. If he's conscious now, he may still be upset. I gave him some bad news. I guess I shouldn't have."

  The doctor nodded. "Yes, he's been muttering and call­ing out, so I assumed there had been some sort of emo­tional upheaval. We're doing our best to keep him calm. I, uh, think it might be wise if you didn't see him this first twenty-four hours. You understand?"

  "Yes. You'll keep me posted? I'll be staying until you feel he's out of danger."

  "Someone will try to keep you updated. I'll leave a note on his chart so they won't forget you in case I'm not around."

  As soon as the doctor walked away, Michael sank back in his chair, gazing at the opposite wall. A hairline crack zig­zagged from the baseboard to the ceiling. He had a feeling he'd know every twist and turn in that fissure by the time his father's condition stabilized enough to risk leaving him to return to Eugene. Sarah. It was going to take him much longer to get back to her than he had estimated.

  He pushed up from the chair, balancing on wobbly legs. A pay phone. He had to phone Sarah so she'd know where she could get in touch with him. Then he should call Father O'Connell. Just in case his father took a turn for the worse, there should be a priest nearby.

  At five-thirty the next afternoon, Michael left the hos­pital, assured by the doctor that his father's condition had stabilized enough for him to leave for a few hours. It was a comfort knowing that Father O'Connell would be readily available should anything go wrong. The church was only a few minutes away, and the priest had promised to spend his every spare minute that evening at Robert's bedside. Michael drove directly for Eugene, his only thought that he must reach Sarah.

  About an hour after Michael left the hospital, Robert De Lorio regained enough strength to demand to see his son. After he was told that Michael had left for Eugene, Robert asked that a telephone be hooked up beside his bed. The nurse dialed the phone number Robert gave her, then handed him the receiver.

  When a man answered, Robert said, "Mr. Bronson, please. This is Robert De Lorio." He closed his eyes, al­ready short of breath. "Hurry. It's urgent."

  "Bronson here."

  Robert licked his lips, keeping his eyes squeezed shut. A tear escaped from beneath his lashes, slipping silently down his pale cheek. "They have tried to kill Michael. He told me last night that he saw Giorgio Santini when he was in Chicago."

  Bronson let loose with a string of curses. "Where are you?"

  Robert told him, then added, "You'd better hurry. And get to Michael first. He's on his way to Eugene. He is most important. You understand?"

  "Don't you worry about Michael. I'll have men on the way to both of you right after we hang up."

  Sarah heard a flat rap on the office window and leaped with a start. Ever since Michael's second phone call last night after his father's collapse, her nerves had been shot. Glancing up from her desk, she was relieved to see it was Michael outside the front door. Who else it might have been, she didn't know, but the entire day, a heavy feeling of fore­boding had clung to her. Probably just concern over Robert De Lorio's condition, she assured herself, but unsettling just the same.

  Despite her gloomy mood, excitement fluttered in her stomach as she hurried for the door. Michael looked so handsome standing out there, stooped slightly to see be­tween the gold letters on the glass, his jacket collar turned up against the wind, the fluorescent light from inside bath­ing his face. As she let him in, she cried, "Michael, I was worried about you."

  "What do you think you're doing here this late?"

  She lifted an eyebrow at his tone. "Working. I figured it was safer than being home alone. Molly was driving me crazy so I let her off early to go shopping. I had extra stuff to do before I could close." Glancing at her watch, she added, "I didn't expect to be this late, if you want the truth, but some information for a client came in over the modem right before closing and I've been going over it."

  He shut the door behind him. "I'm sorry, Sarah, I didn't mean to snap."

  "You look tired." Relocking the door, she stepped closer to study his face, then touched his arm, not sure what to say. His eyes met hers, so filled with pain, she blinked back tears. "Oh, Michael."

  She couldn't be sure who made the first move, but the next instant, she was in his arms, hugging his neck, press­ing her face into the hollow of his shoulder. He tightened his hold on her, squeezing until she could scarcely breath, his body taut. It felt so right, so wonderfully right, being close to him like this. Sarah closed her eyes, willing the moment to never end.

  "I shouldn't be doing this," he whispered. "It's not fair to you. But I—" He took a ragged breath. "I need you right now, Sarah."

  She pressed closer. "And that's all that counts. We'll worry about tomorrow later. How's he doing?"

  "Better. It looks like he'll make it."

  "That's wonderful."

  He ran a trembling hand up and down her back, then pulled away. "We need to talk."

  The phone rang just then. Sarah sighed. "That's prob­ably Molly. Her roommate called here, worried about her. She hadn't come home." She ran to the secretary's clut­tered desk. "Roots. Sarah Montague speaking. May I help you?"

  A hollow buzzing crackled over the line, and then a man said, "Yes, is Dr. De Lorio there?"

  "Uh, one moment please." Sarah shrugged and held out the phone. "For you."

  Michael walked over and leaned
against the desk, taking the receiver. "Hello?" A frown creased his dark face. Hanging up, he said, "Nobody there. We must have gotten disconnected." Concern flickered in his eyes. "I wonder if it might have been the hospital."

  "How would they get this number?"

  A relieved smile touched his mouth. "Good question. Oh, well, whoever it was will call back." His lips immediately thinned into a somber line. He sighed, tugging the cuffs of his shirt down to a precise inch below the sleeves of his jacket. She studied his bent head, wondering what she could say that might comfort him. As if of its own volition, her hand reached up to smooth his hair. Touching him filled her with an ache of longing, but she was too concerned about him at this point to care about the cost to herself.

  He caught her hand and lifted his brown eyes to hers, his expression rather dazed as he brushed her knuckles along his cheek. "I've been doing a lot of thinking since my brake lines were cut. About my father, about the peculiarities you found in his background. Remember when you mentioned he might have some kind of criminal record? Well, I think maybe you were right. Someone from Chicago is trying to kill us. That hit-and-run wasn't any accident. I had my sus­picions last night when I called you, but after seeing my dad's reaction when he heard I'd seen Giorgio Santini, I'm almost positive."

  She pulled her hand from his, staring at him. "But why? Why would anyone—"

  "When my brake lines were cut, the emergency brake ca­ble was severed as well. It's an entirely different mechanism from the hydraulic system. It couldn't have been an acci­dent."

  "There's no way the mechanic could have been mis­taken?"

  "None. He's one of the best in town. Put two and two together. Someone runs into you and drives off? My brake lines get cut?"

  With a troubled frown, she turned on her heel to pace, remembering the man who had chased her last night. Mur­der was something that happened in Hitchcock movies, not in real life, not to people like her and Michael. As she piv­oted to walk back toward him, she saw headlights round the corner. "So you really believe we're in danger?"