Without a Trace

  "You're changing the subject."

  "Did I dream it?" he persisted.

  "I wish. They caught up with us and gave me a couple of quick lessons in how to play bumper cars."

  He choked and grabbed for his coffee. After a quick swig, he lifted his watery gaze to meet hers. "I slept through that! You're incredible. You gave me those pain pills knowing full well I'd conk out on you. Then you stayed up all night with nothing but a gun for company. Most... I'm surprised you can still joke about it."

  "I was a quick learner. I ran them off the road. It's over now. That's all that counts."

  "And you just apologized to me for freezing?"

  She studied his lean, dark-skinned face. He was running on sheer willpower. She wished he'd go lie down and let her serve him breakfast in bed. She jabbed her egg with her fork. Men could be so bullheaded sometimes—for some of the stupidest reasons. As if he'd be less masculine if he complained a little and let her baby him while he was recu­perating. An ache of longing assailed her, miniscule at first, increasing to a sharp pain. She wanted to pamper him, needed to. He'd almost died last night. Short of drowning him in her tears of relief, touching him and making a fuss over him were the only emotional outlets she had.

  "Do you think we'll be safe staying here for a few days?" he asked.

  "I don't think they can find us here. The problem is fig­uring out what to do next. We can't stay here forever."

  "No, just long enough for me to get some strength back."

  "Then what? We have to do something, call the police, something."

  "No police. I'm going back to Chicago."

  Chapter Eleven

  Sarah stared at him, waiting for him to grin, wink, laugh, do anything to let her know he was kidding. He didn't do any of those things. Fear for him swamped her. "Have you lost your mind? Those men are probably from Chicago."

  "Exactly. There's no other place to get to the bottom of this."

  She wiped her mouth with a paper napkin, her gaze locked to his. "What's wrong with calling the police and letting them get to the bottom of this? We're not equipped to handle those men. Do you want to get killed?"

  "No. And I don't want you to get killed, either. Sarah, I gave this a lot of thought this morning. When I told my dad I'd seen Giorgio Santini, he wasn't just upset, he was terri­fied. Thirty years have passed, but he's still living in fear. I think he was involved with the mob in Chicago and fled to Oregon because they threatened him and his family."

  "That's sheer supposition. I've never heard such a ridic­ulous idea. The mob? Come on."

  "What about my nightmare? That much blood? Some­one must have been murdered. My folks left Chicago and went into hiding, never even telling me they'd changed my name? They must not have been running from a small-time hood, Sarah, but from someone with a very long reach, someone with a reputation for never letting bygones be by­gones. Those men who attacked us last night were profes­sionals. Don't you see? The local police can't give us round- the-clock protection, not indefinitely. We have no proof so I doubt we could convince them it was necessary at all. If we leave it to the police we'll be dead within a week."

  "If we go to Chicago, we'll be dead within hours. No way, Michael."

  "I didn't say we. I'm going alone."

  "You're what?"

  "You heard me."

  "You're going to take off and leave me? If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be in this mess."

  The hurt that flickered in his eyes made her regret saying it. She knew darned well that the only reason he planned to leave her behind was that he feared for her safety and knew he was going into danger. She rose from the table, tossing her napkin onto her plate. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that, really I didn't. I think we both need some time to think about this. Rationally."

  "Meaning I'm not?" He sighed and passed a hand over his eyes. "Listen to me, Sarah. It's not you I'm angry at. Maybe you're right. We do need to think."

  She glanced out the window at the drizzle running from the cabin eaves. The silence seemed heavy. "If you'll give me your charge card, I'll run out to the store while the rain has let up."

  He fished in his wallet and extended a gold Visa card to her. When she reached for it, he hesitated and tightened his grip on the plastic. "On second thought, I'll go. You could have problems signing on my account. Besides, look at yourself. You're a mess."

  Her appearance wasn't what concerned him, and she knew it. She snatched the card from his hand, glancing down at the dark stains on her lapel as she tucked her blouse into her tweed skirt and straightened her jacket. "You can't tell it's blood," she said. With a smile, she slipped the charge card into her pocket and ran her fingers through her hair. "I'll just say we're newlyweds and I don't have my own card yet. If you move around too much, you'll open that wound and start bleeding again. Right now, that's the last thing we need."

  He pushed up from the table when she turned toward the back door. "I don't want you going out alone. Sarah, dammit, come back here!"

  She paused with her hand on the doorknob, looking back over her shoulder at him. His gaze met hers, glinting with determination. She stood there for a long moment, then twisted the knob. "Go lie down, Michael."

  With that, she left and slammed the door behind her.

  The grocery store on Highway 58 was small, but its shelves were well stocked for the outdoor sportsmen who flocked into the area. Sarah gathered what supplies she thought she and Michael might need, putting them on the counter next to the register. Her attention wandered to the pay phone outside the window. She should call her mom while she was here. If an account of what had happened last night at the office hit the news, everyone who knew Sarah would be alarmed.

  The middle-aged man who was waiting on her didn't hes­itate when she handed him Michael's Visa. Just as he was about to run the card through his imprinter, she spied a news rack. Michael might enjoy reading the newspaper. Unless she discovered a way to entertain him while he convalesced, keeping him quiet might be difficult. They could also check the paper for mention of the shooting at her office last night, though she doubted it would have been reported be­fore Molly went to work that morning.

  "Put a paper on my bill, too, would you please?"

  She stepped over to the rack and took a copy of Eugene's Register-Guard, returning to the counter to stuff the paper into one of her bags. As she folded the publication in half, she noted a few of the headlines.

  "Sure is nasty out there," the man commented. "Rainin' again. Look at it come down."

  She glanced out the window and nodded. "Pretty wet for September."

  A woman's photo smiled up at her from the front page of the newspaper. Her hand tightened. Molly? She pulled the Register-Guard back out of the sack. Her heart slammed as she read the headline: LOCAL WOMAN LEFT FOR DEAD.

  "Ma'am, are you okay?"

  The store seemed to swirl around Sarah. She felt as if she might be sick. She grabbed the counter to steady herself. Someone had hurt Molly? It couldn't be true. Not harm­less, scatterbrained Molly with the vague blue eyes and the funny little smile. Scanning the print, she read enough to make her legs turn to water. Molly might not live. "The young woman was found at 9 p.m. yesterday lying in an al­ley near her place of work." Near the office? It had prob­ably happened shortly after Molly left Roots then. She had been going to Valley River Center, a shopping mall that was quite some distance from Thirteenth Avenue

  . "The police have not yet released an official statement, but they suspect Harmon was a random victim of robbery. She suffered multiple knife wounds, one an apparent attempt by her at­tacker to sever her jugular vein. Harmon remains in critical condition, unable to give the police any information about her attacker."

  "Can I get you some water? Are you feeling faint?"

  Sarah lifted her gaze to the storekeeper's concerned face, too shocked to reply. She stuffed the newspaper into the bag and scrawled her name across the charge ticket, adding De Lorio as an afterthought. The
n she scooped the sacks into her arms and hurried to the door, peering out at the pass­ing cars on the highway.

  "Goodbye," the man called. "Thanks for stopping. Come again."

  Tears filmed her vision. She staggered out of the build­ing, fighting back sobs as she ran through the rain to the car, panic licking at her heels. She didn't believe Molly had been a robbery victim, not for a second. The attempted murder was somehow connected to Michael. But why? The ques­tion echoed in her head.

  She unlocked the Ford and tossed the groceries onto the back seat. Another car pulled into the parking lot, splash­ing through a mud puddle. Fear clawed at her with icy tal­ons. She glanced wildly over her shoulder, afraid to look, afraid not to. A woman with two toddlers in tow climbed out of a Volvo station wagon. Sarah's legs nearly buckled. Shaking, she slid into the driver's seat and struggled to in­sert her keys into the ignition. She had to get back to Michael, she thought, back to Michael and the safety of the lodge.

  Slanting rain pelted Sarah's face. She held her arm up to shield her eyes while she dragged brush from the creek bank and draped it over the car. By the time she grabbed the bags of groceries from the back seat and made a run for the house, her suit was soaked. Thunder cracked across the sooty sky, reverberating in the air. She leaped with a start, looking back over her shoulder at the shadowy woods.

  With every step, her high-heeled shoes sank into the sod­den grass, mud sucking at the soles to bog her down. She half expected a killer to jump out at her from the brush, knife upraised. Pictures of Molly lying crumpled in an al­ley assailed her.

  In the back of her mind, she knew she was hysterical; the gnawing, electrical fear she felt was irrational. The assail­ants didn't know where she and Michael were. But logic played no part in her reactions to the storm and Molly's at­tack. She sobbed as she ran, angling across the yard and up the steps onto the deck. The grocery bags were soaked and disintegrating. A can of chili dropped and hit the top of her foot. She stooped to pick it up and the sack in her left arm split, scattering groceries onto the rain-drenched planks. The next instant, she felt the bottom of the other bag give way. She cupped her palm under it and managed to slow it down enough to save the eggs, which were on top, but everything else spilled.

  Staring down at the array of wet foodstuff, Sarah's fra­gile hold on her self-control snapped. She sank to her knees and set the two cartons of eggs on the deck with exagger­ated care. She hung her head and her hot tears mingled with the raindrops on her cheeks. Molly was lying in a hospital, barely clinging to life. The realization was slowly sinking in, filling her with icy dread. She lifted her face to the angry sky, closing her eyes.

  "My God, what's happened?"

  She raised her lashes at the sound of Michael's voice. He lunged out the back door and across the deck, sinking to his knees beside her to grasp her shoulders. She worked her mouth, tried to speak, but no sound would come out.

  "Sarah?" He caught her face between his hands. Rain­water dripped off his black hair and ran in crooked streams down his forehead and over his cheeks. "Honey, answer me. Are you all right? I knew I shouldn't have let you go by yourself. I knew it."

  She caught hold of his shirt, forgetting all about his shoulder. She could feel his heart pounding under the knuckles of her right hand. He felt so strong, so solid and safe and warm. "M-Molly. They tried to k-kill Molly."

  His features twisted and his skin lost some of its color. "Oh, no, not Molly."

  He echoed her first reaction exactly. Molly was such a lovable girl once you grew accustomed to her scattered, vague way of thinking. So gentle, eager to please. It was in­conceivable that someone would hurt her. Of all people, not Molly. A fresh rush of tears spilled from her eyes, and she leaned against him to hold herself erect. The sobs welling felt as if they were ripping out her vocal cords. "They found her in an alley. H-her throat was slit."

  A wave of nausea rolled through Michael's stomach. He bent his head, dragging in a breath, his face pressed against her wet hair—dark hair, similar to Molly's. The suspicion that sprang to his mind unnerved him. Molly was about Sarah's height and weight. From a distance or in the dark, could someone have mistaken one woman for the other? He remembered Sarah saying a man had chased her. Now he wondered what might have happened if she had been caught. He lifted his head, checking the shadowy yard for signs of movement. "Come on, let's get you into the house."

  Sarah staggered to her feet. "But what about the grocer­ies?"

  "Forget the damned groceries. I'll get them later."

  He took her hand and tugged her along behind him. Once they were inside with the door locked, he turned and pulled her into his arms. She pressed her face into the hollow of his right shoulder, clinging to him. "M-Michael, hold me. Don't let go. Hold me."

  The shrill hysteria in her voice raked down Michael's spine. With his uninjured arm, he squeezed her tightly around the waist. Her suit was so wet that it oozed and dripped under the pressure of his hand. "I won't let go. I'm here, Sarah. It's okay."

  Even as he reassured her, he knew it wasn't okay. Right then, it didn't look as if anything would ever be okay again. How easily it might have been Sarah lying half dead in that alley. Her sobs filled up his mind until there seemed to be nothing else real around him but her pain and terror. He felt her tremble and didn't know if it was from cold, shock or both. He needed to get her out of her wet clothes and under a pile of warm blankets.

  "Michael, please, don't go to Chicago. They'll kill you. I know they will."

  "Shh. Calm down, Sarah. It'll be all right. Calm down."

  "What are we g-going to do? They're going to kill us, aren't they? Even if we go to the police, we w-won't be safe. There's some sort of vendetta, isn't there? That's why your father hid all th-these years. Why he broke into my office— why he threatened me on the phone. He was d-desperate."

  "What do you mean, he broke into your office?"

  In between sobs, she told him about the burglary. "I knew it was your dad. I—I didn't tell you because you would have d-dropped the case to get him off my back. I knew how im­portant it was to you to find your parents. I should have told you, though, shouldn't I? You would have stopped the in­vestigation. Maybe then none of this would have hap­pened. Molly might not be—"

  "Stop right there. None of this is your fault. Don't even think that way."

  She shrank closer to him. "I let her leave the office and walk right into a trap. I was so stupid. The memory loss on my computer wasn't an accident. All the information about you and your father was on there, don't you see? They erased it. They must have been planning to murder Molly and me so there'd be no proof of who you really were. That man who chased me, he was going to kill me, only I got away. But Molly didn't."

  "It's not your fault, sweetheart. Please don't do this to yourself."

  "But she might be dead! The paper said she might not make it." Her breath caught and she went quiet a moment. "Oh, Michael, please... I couldn't bear it if something happened to you, too."

  He stirred and dropped his arm from around her. "Come on." Taking her hand, he led her to the bedroom, halting beside the bed to tug her jacket off. She blinked when he unfastened her skirt and nudged it down her hips.

  "What are you—"

  "Hush and be still," he whispered, bending his head to kiss the tears from her face as he fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. "I'm having enough trouble doing this with one hand without you fidgeting. You're exhausted and cold. We've got to get you warm." When she was stripped down to her slip and bra, he drew back the covers. "In you go."

  She lay down, shuddering and rubbing the gooseflesh on her arms. He sat on the edge of the bed and drew the blan­kets over her. His touch was incredibly light as he smoothed her wet hair, combing it back from her forehead with his fingertips. Over and over again, he ran his hand from her temple to her nape, mesmerizing her, slowly relaxing her. Gradually her sobbing subsided and her lashes fluttered against her cheeks. "I have to call the hospi
tal," she mur­mured. "It's my fault this happened to Molly. I have to find out if she's okay. It's my fault, Michael."

  "No—no it isn't your fault. Stop it, Sarah. Molly wouldn't want you feeling this way."

  Her eyes widened. "Wh-what if they're still after her? What if they try again?"

  He pressed her back against the pillow. "She's safe for now. She can identify her attacker, honey. The police will guard her to make sure the killer can't get to her."

  She relaxed, realizing that what he said was true. Molly was safe. At least for now

  "It's my turn to stand watch, hmm? You sleep a while. You'll feel much better with some more rest."

  She sought his gaze, comforted by the warm assurance that glowed in his eyes. "You won't leave me?"

  He touched a finger to her lips. "You know I won't. I'll be right here when you wake up."

  She nodded and nestled her cheek into the pillow, her mind already adrift as she slipped into slumber.

  Sarah woke hours later. Darkness pressed the window above her head, casting the corners of the room into black shadows. Through the doorway, she could see amber fire­light flickering. She sat up and saw a man's terry robe draped over the foot of the bedstead. She leaned forward, grabbed it and slipped her arms into the sleeves as she rose to her feet.

  Michael sat on the sofa before the fire, his gaze fixed on the burning logs. He looked up when she approached and patted the cushion next to him, his lips curving in a half smile. "You look much better."

  She sank beside him, leaning forward to hold her palms to the heat. "I feel better. I'm sorry I came unglued like that."

  "I came a little unglued myself. After everything you've been through, a little hysteria was understandable."

  "I can't believe it happened."

  He sighed and motioned toward the newspaper where he had spread it near the hearth to dry. "I read about it. I guess the hardest thing is knowing what she's like. Who could hurt someone like her? She's so childlike."