Without a Trace

  "Sarah? Sarah!"

  The hysteria in Michael's voice lent wings to her feet as she scurried through the house to him. "I'm all right, Michael. Don't get up." Moonlight gilded the room with silver. She sank to one knee by the arm of the sofa, bring­ing her face close to his. "Someone's been in the house. I cut the lights just in case they come back or drive by again."

  "Oh, no..."

  He started to get up, but she stopped him, gripping his uninjured shoulder with a firm hand. "No. Stay put. With the lights out, they won't know we're here. We have to ban­dage that shoulder. You're losing too much blood."

  "The car, they'll see it."

  "I'm going to move it into the garage. While I'm gone, you stay put. The less you move around, the better. Do you have a flashlight?"

  "Under the kitchen sink." He lifted his hand to cup the side of her face. His teeth flashed in a weak smile, lumines­cent against the shadowed planes of his face. "Sarah, I hate this. It should be me taking care of you."

  "Nonsense. What are you, a chauvinist?"

  He leaned his head back. She saw his eyes drift closed as he grinned. "Be careful. And if you need me, scream."

  She rose to her feet, knowing full well as she walked away from him that if something happened, she was on her own. It would have been wonderful to be able to dump her prob­lems on a big brawny hero right then. But her hero was in­jured, and it was sink or swim.

  She felt her way into the dark kitchen and found the sink, then rummaged beneath it until her fingers curled around the handle of the flashlight. "Where's the garage, Michael?"

  "Through the laundry."

  Sarah let herself out and paused on the garage steps, waiting until her eyes grew accustomed to the meager shaft of moonlight shining through the small window across from her. With a brief flick of the flashlight, she located the garage-door opener and hit the button, cringing at the noise when the mechanism rumbled into action. As the doors lifted, she ducked out into the driveway and ran to the car, fishing in her jacket pocket for the keys.

  It seemed like hours passed before she had the car parked in the garage and the doors lowered to hide it. Before she went back inside the house, she leaned against the fender and took several deep, bracing breaths. She couldn't let Michael see how terrified she was. He'd become upset. That would accelerate his heartbeat and make him lose twice as much blood.

  "How you doin'?" she called as she stepped into the laundry room.

  "Fine. You?"

  "I'm great." Sarah flashed the light and tugged a sheet from the laundry closet. Moving quickly into the kitchen, she withdrew a small butcher knife from a rack above the sink. "Where's your medicine cabinet?"

  He gave her directions to the bathroom. No outside win­dows. Sarah shut the door and flipped on the light so she could see to tear the sheet into strips. She found a bottle of alcohol in the cabinet over the lemon-yellow sink. There were also two prescription bottles, one of Percodan, the other penicillin. It was just like a doctor not to finish his antibiotics. She took two tablets from each, then set the containers on the counter to take along with them to the ski lodge.

  It wouldn't be a very professional nursing job, but at least she could get the wound clean, give him antibiotics to pre­vent infection and slow the bleeding by applying pressure. The Percodan would help ease his pain. She darted out of the bathroom into the hall, shutting the door so the light wouldn't be visible to anyone outside the house. Patting her palms along the walls, she moved back toward Michael.

  "Find everything?"

  "Enough to do us. I hope you have a high pain toler­ance." She helped him off the sofa. "All I could find was alcohol. Cleaning that wound is going to burn like fire."

  "Just get the job done."

  He slitted his eyes when she opened the brightly lit bath­room and helped him inside. Sinking onto the commode, he lifted his good arm, wincing as she peeled his jacket off him. When he saw his scarlet-soaked shirt, he swayed slightly and looked away. "Sorry, but blood makes me woozy."

  It was Sarah's turn to feel woozy as she cut away the gar­ment with the knife. The hole in his shoulder where the bullet had entered wasn't large, but the exit wound above his shoulder blade was gaping and jagged. She swallowed down wave after wave of throat-convulsing nausea, her gaze riv­eted on the sheen of his dark skin. Muscle played on his back with his slightest movement. Such a beautiful body... so male, so strong. In the back of her mind, she had envisioned the wound, but she'd never pictured this—never dreamed a bullet would make such a yawning hole where it exited.

  She pulled a paper cup from the dispenser on the wall and filled it with water, trying to keep her hand steady as she offered it to him. "Here, Michael, take these pills."

  "What are they?"

  "Antibiotics I found in the cabinet." She watched him take a mouthful of water. Then she popped four pills into his mouth before he could count them. She knew he'd refuse to take the painkiller for fear it would make him rummy, so she made the decision for him. She couldn't bear to see him suffering like this, and the pain was only going to get worse. "More water?"

  "No."

  Picking up the bottle of alcohol, she clenched her teeth and grasped the cap, giving it a twist. Her eyes fell to the torn flesh on his back. As she tipped the bottle, her stom­ach lurched. He jerked when the liquid spilled into his wound. With a muffled curse, he stiffened and hissed air as the alcohol ran in watery red rivulets down his back. His face, already pale, went sickly white.

  Sarah's hands shook as she pressed pads of gauze over the bullet holes. As quickly as she could, she wrapped him, en­circling his chest several times, then angling up over his shoulder. Around, over, around, over. When she was fin­ished, she was so weak-kneed she could scarcely stand. "Is that tight enough?"

  "Plenty."

  "Too much?"

  He shook his head and rose to his feet, swaying as he ex­ited the bathroom into the hall. "I'm going to get a fresh shirt. Bring what's left of the sheet and the alcohol. We may need it later."

  Sarah glanced down at her own smeared clothing. She thought about borrowing something clean, but there wasn't time. When he emerged from a doorway a moment later, wearing a dark shirt, she assisted him into the family room. He paused, staring at the strewn papers by the desk that glowed blue-white in the moonlight. "I wonder what they were looking for?"

  "I don't know and I don't care. Let's just get out of here."

  "The letter from my dad!" He jerked free of her grasp and staggered to the wall, hitting the electric switch. Light flooded the room. Casting a frantic glance across the floor, his gaze riveted on a piece of folded yellow stationery. "My God, they found it and took the envelope."

  "Michael, what are you—" Sarah ran to catch his arm, holding him up as his knees gave way. "Michael?"

  He continued to stare at the yellow stationery. "It's a let­ter from my dad. The envelope with his return address is gone. That's what they came for. Don't you see? Now they know where to find him."

  His voice rang in the quiet room like a death knell. Sarah fought off panic. She didn't know Robert De Lorio, had never even seen him, but Michael loved him and that was all that mattered. "What are we going to do?"

  He walked unsteadily to the desk and dropped onto the chair. "The hospital, I'll call the hospital and warn them not to let anyone but me into his room. No telling what time they broke into the house. They could already be in Ashland."

  She shoved the phone toward him.

  He grabbed the receiver, dialed information, then placed the long-distance call. A moment later, he said, "Yes, my name is Michael De Lorio. I'm calling in regards to a pa­tient of yours, a Robert De Lorio?" He listened for a mo­ment. "What do you mean, he's been released?" Lunging unsteadily to his feet, he roared, "What two men? Who were they? Look, lady. This is his son calling. Don't talk to me about privileged information. I want to know where he's at and I want to know now." He paused a moment, grip­ping the phone so hard that Sarah could
see his knuckles turning white. "You're sorry? You're sorry!"

  Slamming the phone down, Michael stared at her. She took a step toward him. "Where is he? What men took him? Michael, what did she say?"

  The blank, numbing terror she felt was mirrored in Michael's eyes. "Two men checked him out a little while ago. She wouldn't give me any more information than that over the phone."

  Her heart pounded, each beat seeming louder than the last until the thrumming in her temples nearly deafened her. "Wh-what are we going to do, Michael?"

  He reached out and touched her cheek. She leaned to­ward the warmth of his hand. "Save our own hides. What else can we do?" His gaze rested on her face for a long mo­ment, his eyes cloudy with pain, confusion and concern. "I don't know where they took him. I can't even begin to guess." He threaded his fingers through her hair and pressed her head forward to rest against his chest. Then he whis­pered, "I'm so sorry, Sarah. If it weren't for my stupidity, you wouldn't be involved in this mess. I wish I'd never called Roots, never met you."

  She wrapped both arms around his waist, fighting back tears. As crazy as it was, she couldn't imagine not being with him right now, letting him go through this alone. She knew she would opt to stay even if she had a choice, and that confused her even more. Nothing made sense to her, noth­ing but the feel of him in her arms. "Michael, neither of us had any idea something like this might happen."

  "No. I've gone over it and over it, my trip to Chicago, the people I saw there, my dad, and everything I know about him. It's insane, Sarah. Someone's trying to murder us and I don't even know why."

  She tipped her head back. "I'm glad I'm here with you, Michael, really I am."

  He slid his hand down to her shoulder. "Can you drive?"

  "I even promise to stay off the sidewalks."

  "Then let's get to that ski lodge where we'll be halfway safe. I'll think what to do about Papa from there."

  "Just give me two seconds. I thought I'd round up stuff from the kitchen to take along."

  Nervous sweat filmed Sarah's palms as she steered the Ford around a sharp turn. She had never driven Highway 58 at night and now she knew why—curves and steep grades. On a nice, sunny day, this was a gorgeous drive, the asphalt shaded by towering pines, the roadside lakes shimmering like sapphires through the trees. But this wasn't a sunny day. It was pitch-black, and on every curve, she played a guess­ing game, trying to figure where the road went next. In many spots, there were no guardrails and, therefore, no reflec­tors. The centerline had been all but obliterated by sand dumped from snowplows last winter. She sat hunched for­ward, peering over the dash to see where she was going. Her neck ached, and if her hands ever came unglued from the steering wheel, it would be a miracle.

  She glanced over at Michael who had long since slumped against his door, his head lolling against the window. Passed out or asleep, she wasn't sure which. She hoped it was just the Percodan doing its job. He'd spoken to her back at Oak Ridge when she'd stopped, so he was probably just asleep.

  Two Styrofoam cups of coffee from the restaurant sat untouched on the console tray. They'd both be cold soon, but she couldn't risk even a sip for fear she'd go off the road. She darted another look at Michael. If he was uncon­scious, what was she going to do? She had no idea where his friend's ski lodge was. A couple of miles this side of the summit, he'd said. That didn't tell her a lot. She was driv­ing toward Willamette Pass. That was all she knew.

  Bright headlights washed her back window with a silver glare, reflecting off her rearview mirror and into her eyes. Instant wariness assailed her. She'd tried to be certain no cars had tailed her out of Eugene, but with city traffic com­ing and going, it had been impossible. She squinted, tap­ping her brake to signal to the other driver to lower his beams. He didn't take the hint and was soon practically on her back bumper. She edged the Ford toward the shoulder of the road to let him pass. But he slowed down to stay be­hind her. Don't jump to conclusions, Sarah. A lot of peo­ple have poor night vision. She couldn't blame someone for using her taillights to blaze a trail. She'd do the same if she could.

  "Get off my bumper," she muttered.

  Tapping her brakes again, she slowed down even more to force the car to pass her. The twin orbs of the other vehi­cle's headlights grew larger in her mirror. Her breath caught. Before she could hit the gas pedal for a burst of speed, the other car plowed into her back bumper, throwing her for­ward against the steering wheel. Her horn blared. She straightened and stomped her foot on the accelerator, spin­ning her right rear tire in gravel as she fishtailed onto the asphalt. Michael moaned and stirred.

  Sarah glanced frantically over her shoulder at the other car. It had backed off a bit. She tapped her brakes again so she could see it better. The rosy glow of her taillights splashed on green paint. Fear made her heart skip a beat and she reached sideways to release Michael's seat belt. Sliding her hand between the seat and his back, she shoved him forward, cringing when his head cracked on the dash. He moaned, legs folding as he slid to the floorboard. Leaning his head back, he muttered under his breath.

  All thought for the treacherous curves fled Sarah's mind. She clenched her hands on the steering wheel as the speed­ometer crept toward seventy. The other car stuck to her like glue. She saw it swerve into the oncoming lane to pull up beside her. Terror struck her mouth dry as she imagined a bullet plowing into her skull. She longed to be on the floor with Michael.

  Without warning, the green car swerved into Sarah's lane and crashed against her door. The force of the impact threw her sideways in the seat. Her breath came in ragged gasps as she fought to regain control of the car. She felt the car leave the road and a helpless scream tore from her throat as her headlights fanned over stout tree trunks and huge boul­ders. Then the car's front bumper pitched downward into a swath of blackness.

  Chapter Ten

  The car landed with a jolt, metal crunching metal as the body slammed into the frame. A ditch? Sarah's stomach knotted. She heard Michael moan, but the sound barely registered. Brush and trees loomed in her bouncing head­lights, tilting at crazy angles. Then a gigantic boulder ap­peared. She screamed and jerked the steering wheel hard to the left. The undercarriage dragged over rock and dirt. Mi­chael moaned again, stirring and mumbling as she maneu­vered the car out of the ditch and back onto the pavement.

  She glanced in her mirror. There was only one way out of this situation. She held her breath and watched the green car's headlights inch closer. She tensed her arms. She would only get one chance. Her temples began to throb from not breathing.

  Now! With all her might, Sarah wrenched on her steer­ing wheel. A shuddering crunch of metal reverberated through her own vehicle, as it hit the other car's front fen­der, but this time she was prepared for the jolt and kept a tight grip on the wheel. Rubber squealed. The other car's headlights wobbled crazily as it bounced into the oncoming lane and plunged into the opposite ditch.

  Letting her breath out in a rush, Sarah careened around the next curve. This was a game of kill or be killed. There were no rules. She couldn't allow herself to think of any­thing but survival. Now what? She had no way of knowing if she had put the other car out of commission. She needed a plan of action, and she needed one fast.

  "Michael?" She reached sideways until she touched his hair. A lump of anxiety choked her. "Michael?"

  "Hmm?" He stirred and then groaned. "Wha'ya want?"

  "Where's the ski lodge?"

  He mumbled something unintelligible. Maybe she could hide on a forestry road until he came around. How long would the effects of the painkiller last? Four hours? Six? She speeded up. She had to outdistance the other car so her headlights wouldn't be seen if she made a turn.

  She drove past the ski area, never slowing down. The lodge was back there somewhere, but she didn't dare to try to find it as long as those men might be following her. As if on cue, lights appeared again behind her, flickering in her rearview mirror. Her mouth went dry, and she licked her lips with a
cottony tongue. There weren't many cars on Highway 58 at this time of night. She increased her speed and sat more erect.

  Green road signs peppered the side of the highway. Watching her mirror, she waited until she couldn't see the car behind her, then turned off the highway, dousing her headlights immediately. Complete darkness swooped over her.

  Her teeth snapped together as the Ford lurched from one chuckhole to another. She cringed with every jolt, afraid of what the rough ride might do to Michael. She heard his jagged moan, but she couldn't stop. Headlights from the highway flashed through the trees. If she touched her brakes, their pursuers would see the red flare of her tail- lights.

  Reaching under the dash, she felt for the emergency brake. She found a small handle far to the left and jerked on it. A thunk resounded through the car. Horror swamped her. Had she pulled the wrong release and popped open the hood? Where was the damned emergency brake? With her left foot, she searched the floorboard until she found a pedal. She slammed it home, locking her rear tires. The car fishtailed into a skid. All she could do was hold tight to the steering wheel and pray nothing stood in her path.

  The Ford finally rocked to a stop. She killed the engine and rolled down her window. The night breeze rustled the foliage. She heard the soft crackles and pops of the car motor as it cooled. Otherwise there was nothing but an ee­rie silence. Had the men stayed on the highway then? Hot tears ran down her cheeks. She stared at her side mirror, her hand poised over the ignition key, ready for a quick get­away. Who was she kidding? If they had seen her turn off, she and Michael were history. This road probably wound through the woods to a dead end, a very dead end in this instance.

  Twisting sideways in her seat, she groped for Michael, calling his name. He shifted his position and hissed air through his teeth. She slid a hand down the neck of his shirt to check his bandages for wetness. What if the jostling had made him start bleeding again? The cloth felt dry. Relief flooded through her.