Without a Trace

  "I don't see what other explanation there is."

  She paused within three feet of him. "It's so outlandish. Who could it possib—" A series of muffled pops inter­rupted her. She heard a musical tinkling sound and glanced toward the window. A car was coasting past out front. "What on earth was th—"

  Another staccato burst of pops sounded, and there fol­lowed an explosion of noise as the window glass shattered. Split seconds seemed to stretch into eternity as the room around her disintegrated, first a vase, then a lamp, then an end table. Sarah froze. A horrible feeling of deja vu washed over her. The window glass separated into hundreds of sparkling shards, spewing toward her like shimmering rain as they pelted the gray carpet. She threw up an arm to shield her face, turning as she did to scream at Michael. She didn't identify the popping sounds, didn't give them a name, but deep within her, she knew what made the rapid-fire noise and felt incredulous terror rushing through her.

  Michael's left shoulder jerked backward as if an invisible hand shoved him. His feet lifted clear off the floor from the force of the impact and he did a half spin in the air, landing facedown in a sprawl over Molly's desk. The computer monitor crashed to the floor.

  "Michael." She reached for him, moving like animated sketches in slow motion, each action broken into jerky seg­ments. Her eyes widened in horror as he rolled off the desk onto the floor. For an instant, he lay there stunned, but then he struggled to his knees and lunged at her. As he knocked her to the rug, she saw blood spattered all over Molly's desktop. "M-Michael, you've b-been shot."

  "Shut up! Keep down!" Michael slithered backward across the carpet like a crab, dragging her behind him in the crook of his arm. "The lights. Where's the switch? Sarah, answer me."

  Blood. The small hole in his jacket held her gaze riveted. Memories spun in her mind, mingling with the present. There was another volley of shots. Bullets impacted against the walls so loudly they sounded like cannonballs. Particles of plaster puffed into the air above their heads. They were going to die. Sarah worked her mouth, but no sound would come out. Blood. Blood on the side of the desk, on the rug, on her hand as she drew it away from Michael's arm. She studied the crimson smears on her spread fingers, only vaguely aware of Michael's voice calling her name.

  He shook her. "The breaker box, Sarah. We've gotta douse the lights."

  She heard the car's brakes squeal, saw headlights still glowing out front for all the world to see. She knew with­out being told why he wanted darkness. "T-the bath­room." She wriggled out of his grasp, clawing her way on hands and knees to the back of the office. "Oh, God, Michael, you're shot, you're shot."

  "Keep down, don't talk," he implored behind her.

  Sarah crawled into the bathroom, slamming her hip against the door jamb as she hurled herself through the door. Stretching her arm up the wall to the metal breaker box, she opened the cover. She had no idea what switches supplied what, so she hit them all. Blackness swooped over her— complete, utter blackness. She heard ragged, shallow breathing next to her.

  "Run, Sarah. You have to hide. I can't make it."

  She reached out, homing in on his voice to grasp the front of his jacket. Lunging to her feet, she ground her teeth and strained with all her might to haul him up with her. The broom closet. It was deep enough to hide them, but was it wide enough? She helped him across the bathroom, prop­ping him up by pressing her shoulder into his underarm. She groped with her other hand for the wood panel that opened into the wall. Her fingers touched a crack. Frantic, she pat­ted her way down it. The handle. She seized it and jerked the door open.

  She remembered there was a box of eight-foot fluores­cent tubes leaning against the back wall inside the closet. She had bought it just last week. She groped for the box, slid it from the closet and leaned it against the wall. Michael was slumped against her, standing, but only barely. Sarah wrapped both arms around his waist, squeezed with all her might and lifted, shoving him into the narrow opening. He grunted with pain as his shoulders were compressed to fit between the walls.

  Shoes crunched glass and loud voices echoed in the front of the office. Throwing all her weight against Michael, she stuffed him farther back into the enclosure. Easing herself in behind him, she pulled the box of fluorescent tubes in after her and closed the door. There was room, barely. Michael's knees buckled, bumping her leg, and he slid partway down the closet wall. She caught his waist in a bear hug, heaving all her weight against him to keep him stand­ing. Burying her face in his chest, she stifled her labored breathing, praying he stayed conscious and didn't betray their hiding place by moaning. The light box pressed against her back, moving every time she did, the tubes clinking. She held herself rigid.

  "Quiet, Michael, quiet."

  The sound of voices had ceased. Footsteps scuffled, so soft now she could scarcely hear them. She craned her neck to look around the box. Faint light glowed through the crack of the door, bobbing crazily, growing brighter.

  "We got 'em!" barked a voice on the other side of the door.

  She pressed her quivering knees together. Oh, please, if he opens the closet, don't let him look behind the box. Please, don't let him look. She heard the door creak open. Holding her breath, she moved closer to Michael. The thud- thud-thud of his heart beneath her ear almost deafened her. A flashlight beam played over the box of light tubes. The man was so close she could smell his after-shave, a sweet lemony scent.

  "Nope. They're not here after all. They in there?"

  "No," yelled a man from the storage room.

  "Dammit!" The closet door slammed shut. "Find the lights. They have to be here somewhere."

  "Come on, we're wasting time. They're in the alley."

  She estimated by his voice that the man who had opened the closet door was walking toward the storage area. The back door opened. Feet hit the alley, crunching in gravel. Her breath gushed out of her. Michael slumped against the wall, trembling. The small space afforded little air.

  "You okay?" he whispered.

  "I'm fine." Her fingers touched something warm and sticky. "Oh, Michael, you're bleeding so bad. Your jack­et's soaked."

  "D-don't talk about it." He swallowed and dragged in air. "I feel like I might pass out."

  "Don't you dare, not yet. We've got to get out of here and you're too heavy for me to carry." She shifted, her hand sliding down his chest. "Oh, Michael, your shirt is sopped."

  "I said don't talk about it. Sarah, run—you have to ru—"

  He went limp. She tightened her arms around his waist. His head flopped forward, his forehead smacking hers. She blinked, seeing stars for a moment. She peered up into the blackness, pressing her temple against his cheek to support his head. Cold sweat filmed his skin.

  "Michael?" No answer. "Michael?" She shoved him harder against the wall and lifted her hand to his face. She couldn't feel any breath coming from his nose or mouth, couldn't feel his chest rising or falling. A shock of fear coursed through her. "Oh, my God! Michael... ?"

  Chapter Nine

  Concern for Michael made Sarah forget all about the pos­sible danger to herself if the men out in the alley heard noise in the office. All she could think of was getting Michael to a hospital. He wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead.

  She fought to get him out of the closet. The blackness around her was so thick, she felt as though she could reach out and grab a handful of it. As she set the box of light tubes outside the enclosure, the container toppled and hit the op­posite wall with a deafening crash. Meanwhile Michael slumped on top of her, doubling her over at the waist. She stepped forward and her shoe slipped out from under her. Falling to one knee, she slid from the closet with Michael's weight shoving her from behind. The air whooshed out of her lungs as he landed on top of her. Then he rolled off, hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

  Sarah slipped an arm under his neck and cradled his head. Now that they were out of the closet, she could see the out­line of his face in the dim moonlight coming through the window. Pressin
g her fingers to his throat, she felt for his pulse. Her own heart was pounding so hard, it was impos­sible to tell if his was beating. She prodded the wet front of his jacket. How badly was he bleeding?

  "Ouch! Take it easy."

  Sarah started. "Michael?"

  He pushed feebly at her arms. "Who else?"

  "Oh, Michael, I thought you were dead. You scared the living daylights out of me."

  With a groan, he managed to sit up. In the darkness, his features were indiscernible, but she could see him swaying. She knew he was clinging to consciousness by sheer force of will.

  "Where did they go? We have to get out of here."

  "They went down the alley looking for us."

  He struggled to his feet, bumping into the box of light tubes. Broken glass tinkled. His legs nearly gave out. He stumbled to the wall, and used it to hold himself erect. "Come on. They could show up any second."

  Fear shot through her, but it quickly faded, chased away by a strange feeling of detachment. Rising to her feet, she draped his arm over her shoulders, guiding him out to the lobby. Their shoes crunched glass as she steered him to the front door. The car the gunmen had come in still sat in the street, engine running, headlights bathing the asphalt with yellow light. Sarah stared for an instant at the dark green automobile's front fender, her mind frozen with incredul­ity. The night of the hit-and-run, she hadn't been able to remember where she had seen the other green car. Now it all came flooding back to her. The evening before Michael left for Chicago, when she had walked him to the door! The Realtor's car! Only, of course, it hadn't been a Realtor in the car at all—but a murderer.

  This was a nightmare. That was why her legs felt numb, why her feet dragged like lead weights. It was always like this in bad dreams, as if she were walking through hip-deep molasses. No one was really trying to kill them.

  It seemed to Sarah they moved a fraction of an inch at a time toward the brown Ford Michael was driving. Her scalp tingled. She expected shots to ring out at any second as she stuffed him into the car and took the keys he proffered. Fear niggled its way up from the numbness inside her chest, coil­ing at the base of her throat. Throwing a dazed glance over her shoulder, she slammed the passenger door shut and ran around to the driver's side. Leaping in, she started the en­gine, She shoved the shift into drive and the car lurched away from the curb.

  "Don't use the lights," he hissed. "They'll see 'em."

  Her eyes widened and the last traces of shocked numb­ness fled. Clutching the steering wheel tightly, she screeched, "They've already seen us. Oh, God, Michael, what do I do?"

  He stiffened when he saw the two men who had jumped out from the buildings ahead of them. "Turn on the lights and step on it, Sarah! They'll get out of the way." When she hesitated, he roared, "Do it!"

  Knowing she had no choice, Sarah flipped on the head­lights and shoved the gas pedal hard against the floor­board. The men brought up their guns, taking steady aim at the windshield. Michael cursed. Grabbing for the wheel, he yelled, "Get down!"

  "No, you get down. I'm the one driving." Sudden anger shot through her. The men had cleared a path for the car, one on each side of the road. If they thought she would drive between them and make a target of herself, they had an­other think coming. Wrenching on the wheel, she drove straight for the man on the left. He froze for a moment, then dived for the curb to get out of her way. He no sooner did so than she gave the wheel another vicious twist, careening in the opposite direction. The second man scrambled back­ward, the snubbed barrel of his weapon spitting white flame as he took several haphazard shots. Then his nerve seemed to fail and he threw himself sideways, rolling into the gut­ter.

  Sarah managed to avoid hitting the man, but couldn't correct her steering soon enough to miss the curb. The Ford bounced onto the sidewalk and swerved wildly, sideswiping a parking meter before veering back onto the street. She glanced toward Michael, who was still clinging to the dash, his face ashen. "Are you all right?"

  He sank back in his seat, slanting his right arm over his eyes. "I'm fine. And you're doing great. Now hit 1-5 and head for Ashland. And step on it or they'll be on our tail."

  She hit the gas, taking a corner on two wheels. No lights appeared behind them. "Ashland? Are you crazy?"

  "Sarah, I've got to get to my dad." He dropped his arm to read the street signs as she took an erratic route through an older residential section of the city. "Where are you going?"

  "The hospital." Her tires grabbed traction on a turn and burned rubber with a squeal. Still no lights behind them. She slowed a bit and relaxed her grip on the wheel. "We've got to get that shoulder tended and call the police."

  "No hospital. They know they got me. That's the first place they'll look." He leaned his head back against the rest, swallowing convulsively. "I'll be okay, Sarah. I think the bullet went clear through. I've got to get to my dad—be­fore they do.''

  Gnawing on her bottom lip, she threw a worried glance at the side mirror. "You won't be any help to your father dead. We'll call the cops, Michael. They'll take care of him. And us."

  "You think they'll believe a story like this?"

  "You don't think that hole in your shoulder might con­vince them?"

  He groaned. "And how long can they protect us? For the night? A couple of days? Then what? Those fellows aren't amateurs. We've got to find someplace for the three of us to hide until we can think what to do."

  "And where might that be?"

  "A friend of mine has a ski lodge up Highway 58. I know where he keeps the key. No one could find us there.''

  Sarah's mind felt like fried mush. She was too confused to make sense of anything, too numb to argue with him. Maybe hiding someplace until they could sort things out wasn't such a bad idea. The police might not believe them at first if they went to them with a story like this. Michael was right about that. And they didn't dare stand around making long explanations. She gave a brisk nod. "All right, Michael, but first we go to my house and take care of that shoulder."

  "And get blown away? You think they don't know where we live?"

  She slammed her hand against the steering wheel and shot him a glare. "Well, what do you suggest? Letting you bleed to death? Call it cowardice if you like, but I don't want you dying on me."

  Her voice rose to a shrill pitch on the last word. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, closing his eyes. "Okay, okay, point taken. We have to go someplace. One house is as bad as the other, so make it mine. It's south of town and we won't waste time that way."

  As Sarah pulled into Michael's driveway, the Ford's headlights washed over the contemporary, shake-roofed house from end to end. She parked by the front entrance and hurried around the car to help Michael out. The mo­ment he climbed from the car, he laid his arm across her shoulders and leaned most of his weight on her.

  "I'm sorry, Sarah."

  "Hey, not to worry." His pallor frightened her. A lump rose in her throat and she blinked away tears. Seeing him like this drove home how very much she had come to care for him. If something happened to him, she didn't know what she'd do. She slipped an arm around his waist, tip­ping her head to smile up at him. The moon was so bright, she could see the beads of sweat on his brow. If only she were strong enough to carry him. "Ready?"

  He eyed the porch as if it were a mile away. They walked toward it. "You've got the key there on the chain." He sagged against the house while she unlocked the door. When she turned back to him, he was clutching his injured shoul­der with his right hand, his face twisted in pain. She helped him inside and groped for a light switch. A series of clear globes above them sprang to life.

  "The family room," he whispered hoarsely, inclining his head toward the rear of the house. "It's got a sink in the wet bar."

  She blinked, adjusting her eyes to the sudden brightness as she helped him circle the fountain in the atrium entry. He nearly fell as they stepped down into the living room. She steadied him, straining under his weight
as they passed through the formal dining area to reach the family room. After lowering him onto a natural tweed sofa before a fire­place with a stone hearth, she paused, gasping for breath. Light shone through the glass wall of the atrium. Hurrying to the wet bar in the corner, she found a cloth in the top drawer and dampened it under the faucet.

  "There are sheets in my laundry, right there off the kitchen. Get one and we'll cut it into strips to use as ban­dages."

  She forced another smile, trying to hide her anxiety over his shoulder as best she could. She wiped his pale face with the cool cloth, then pressed it to his brow, forcing his head back. "Just relax here, hmm? I can find what I need."

  He closed his eyes, too weak to argue. She dropped her gaze to his shoulder. The dark weave of his wool jacket was soaked black with blood around a jagged hole. A red splotch was spreading on the light upholstery of the sofa behind his shoulder. How much blood could a person safely lose? Could she staunch the flow with pressure? Panic flut­tered in her chest. She hurried toward the kitchen, making a mental note to gather some food together to take to the lodge before they left.

  Halfway across the dimly lit family room, Sarah halted midstride. Her eyes widened as she saw the built-in rolltop desk along one wall. The drawers on either side had been jerked from their runners and dumped on the floor. The overhead cupboard doors stood open, the contents of the shelves littering the work areas below them. The hair on her nape tingled and she hugged her arms around herself, doing a full turn to give the room a careful once-over. There was no question. Someone had been in here. She strained her ears for the slightest sound. What if they hadn't left? What if they were still here, waiting in the dark recesses of the house?

  Nonsense, she scolded herself. If they were still here, you’d be dead. But they might be driving by now and again, watching the windows for lights. Sarah's heart began to pound as she ran back to the atrium. She hit the electric switch, blanketing the house in darkness.