Without a Trace

  "I remember," he said hollowly. "I finally remember."

  She didn't know what to say, what to do. He was shak­ing, shaking violently. Propping his elbows on the counter, he dropped his head into his hands.

  "It was never a nightmare, Sarah. None of it. Even the parts that never made sense. The long box with the blood dripping down its sides—I dreamed of it with a child's per­ception, translating my horror into something I could un­derstand." He took a deep, jagged breath. "The lights in my dreams—do you know what they were?—camera flashes. The reporters came at me with cameras, jumping, yelling, trying to make me look at them. I remember it now—how terrified I was. I didn't understand. I was just a kid and they didn't care—not as long as they got their story." He shook his head. "So many things make sense now. No wonder I had phobias about black clothing and guns."

  "Oh, Michael... what can I say?"

  He shook his head. "Nothing. That's the hell of it. It's over and done with, has been for over thirty-two years. It's only real inside my head."

  If it was real to him, it was real to her. Sarah bit the in­side of her cheek, blinking back tears. "Maybe now you can put it to rest."

  He lifted his head, staring at the picture. After a long moment, he leaned back in the chair. "Look how young my dad was. And Mamma. She looks scared to death, bless her heart. These past few weeks, I've hated both of them in a way. Now, at least, I can try to forgive them. No wonder my father was so secretive. I was right all along. He was pro­tecting me, wasn't he?"

  "Yes, I believe he was."

  He looked up at her, his face pale. "We're in way over our heads, Sarah. We've got to get help, and we've got to get it fast."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sarah gazed at the microfilm screen, studying the stricken look on Marcia Santini's face. Right now, Michael strongly resembled his adoptive mother.

  Michael rubbed his eyes, blinking as if he were dazed. "If my dad was a key witness, there should be some kind of agency that helps people like us. Maybe the police will know."

  "If your dad's alive, maybe they can find him. The most immediate thing is to get some protection for ourselves un­til they can get this La Grande character behind bars. Sure wish we could afford a cab. It'd be safer than walking."

  "Unfortunately we're on a limited budget." He rose from his chair, grasping his injured shoulder as he carefully ro­tated his arm to get the kinks out. "Let's get out of here."

  Remembering the obituary she had found, she said, "Wait for me at one of the tables. I'll be right along. I want to get a photocopy made."

  He didn't ask of what, and Sarah chose not to tell him. He had faced enough truths today to last him awhile. She'd make a copy of his natural father's obituary and give it to him later.

  Wind gusted against Sarah's face, and she pressed closer to Michael, longing for a coat as they strode along the side­walk. He seemed distant, speaking infrequently, his face creased in thought. She maintained the silence, respecting his need to remember and sort things into some sort of ra­tional order so he could deal with them.

  Traffic sounds drifted around them. The smell of ex­haust permeated the breeze. Pedestrians scurried, each in his own separate world, eager to get somewhere, not noticing the two out-of-towners. She took a deep breath and ex­haled, tipping her head back to look at the sky. She felt a hundred percent better now that she and Michael knew who was after them and why. At least now they could fight back. A bird swooped from one building to another, graceful, beautiful, as out of place among the tall buildings as she.

  "Finding those news stories and triggering my memory will probably end my nightmares. Once this is all over, I can get counseling if I need it and begin looking forward in­stead of back." He angled a glance at her upturned face. "The first day of the rest of my life. How's that for trite?"

  She smiled. "The reason some sayings become hack­neyed is that they're generally so true."

  "Will you look forward with me?" His eyes were warm, cloudy with tenderness and questions. "Or am I wishing on rainbows?"

  A glow started deep inside her, radiating upward into her chest, as warm as sunshine. She faltered and came to a stop, keeping her head tipped back to see his face. "What are you asking?"

  He lifted his hand to touch her cheek, a habit of his she had come to cherish. "You know what I'm asking."

  "Maybe, but if you think I'll let you off easy, you've got another think."

  He laughed and led her into a recessed doorway so they wouldn't be so easily seen from the street. "Miss Montague, would you consider starting over with me—beginning to­day?"

  She pretended to consider that and then grinned. "Yes, Mr. De Lorio, I might do that if I were asked properly."

  "Witch. And my name's not De Lorio, it's Santini." His eyes widened. "My God, come to think of it, it's not even Michael, it's Gino." The corners of his eyes crinkled in a smile. "Somehow, Gino just doesn't cut it."

  "I don't care what I call you, just as long as I can call you."

  "And I'll take that to mean yes."

  "Don't delude yourself. I'll say yes when the question is put to me in a yes or no fashion. Not before."

  "Yeah? Well, I'm not asking, not on a smutty sidewalk with a mobster out after my hide." He grabbed her hand, tugging her along behind him. "Let's go to the hotel so we can call the cops."

  She skipped to catch up with him, laughing at the grin he flashed her. At just that moment, a cream-colored car swerved into the curb and two men jumped out. She rec­ognized them immediately as the men they had seen at the concierge's desk in the hotel last night.

  "Mr. De Lorio?" one of them barked.

  Michael whirled, shoving Sarah behind him. "Yes?"

  Both men reached inside their jackets. Sarah saw all twenty-nine years of her life flash before her eyes. Then their hands emerged, holding pieces of folded brown leather which they flicked open and shoved toward Michael's face. Badges. She nearly collapsed on the sidewalk from sheer relief.

  "Dennis Tealson, United States marshal," the shorter man said. "My partner, deputy marshal Sam Paddao."

  She felt Michael's body relax. "U.S. marshals? My God, if only we'd known—"

  Tealson smiled and motioned toward the car. "Our sen­timents exactly. You've led us a merry chase, believe me. Please, let's take a little ride, shall we?"

  Sarah felt like singing. United States marshals? It was the most wonderful thing that had happened to her since... She glanced at Michael as he slid into the back seat beside her and bit back a gigantic grin. Nothing, not even rescue, compared to Michael admitting he loved her. Oh, he hadn't said it in so many words, but she'd seen it in his eyes, and that was enough.

  "My father must have called you then?" Michael asked.

  "He's in our Witness Protection Program. We checked him out of the hospital and took him to a government med­ical facility. Then we tried to pick you up as well."

  Sarah frowned. "I didn't think that program came into existence until the early seventies."

  "It didn't, but Robert De Lorio was one of the few we grandfathered in. La Grande never stopped looking for him. A couple of years ago he even tried bribing a deputy in our Chicago office for information, so it was a necessary safe­guard."

  Tealson drove aimlessly through the city, talking constantly, and with every word, Sarah's heart sank a little more. Giorgio Santini had come forward shortly after their visit to his home. He was now in protective custody with Robert De Lorio, who had been flown to Chicago two days ago. Michael was being offered immediate transport to join his father. From there, the three men would go under with new identities, and Sarah would be returned to Eugene. Once La Grande could no longer get at either of the De Lorio men, he would have no use for Sarah, so she would be safe.

  Michael raked his hand through his hair. "Uh, whoa— run that by me again. Under? New identities? What exactly does that mean?"

  "A new start in a new place with a new name," Tealson explained. "We'll try to fix
it so you can practice in your field. No promises, but we'll try."

  Michael smiled uncertainly at her. "I like being who I am, thanks. Once is enough, right? I'll stay Michael De Lorio."

  Tealson glanced at them in his rearview mirror. "I'm afraid you don't understand, Mr. De Lorio. This isn't an option, it's survival. You have to go under."

  Michael's smile vanished. "But I—" he licked his lips "— I have a life of my own, separate from my father."

  "Explain that to Brian La Grande. Even if we put him away—which we have plans to do—especially if you'll agree to cooperate, he could still get to you from prison. The heads of these organizations don't relinquish control be­cause of incarceration."

  "What do you mean, if I'll cooperate? Cooperate with what?"

  Tealson sighed. "We need you as bait to catch him."

  Sarah felt sick. Sick and heartbroken. Michael was going away? This couldn't be happening. None of it. And after all they'd been through, how could the marshals ask him to endanger himself again? She listened to Tealson, feeling more numb by the moment. They said they would keep Michael under close surveillance. When La Grande made his move, he'd be arrested.

  "But why would Michael make such wonderful bait?" Sarah squeaked.

  Michael grasped her hand, giving it a squeeze. Tealson frowned at her in the mirror. "La Grande wants Angelo Santini—Robert De Lorio to you—an eye-for-an-eye kind of thing. If La Grande can get his hands on Michael, he'll have the bargaining power to draw Robert out of hiding and get his revenge. We hope to use Michael to turn the tables and catch La Grande red-handed. As of this afternoon, we also have a contact on the inside."

  Sarah lifted an eyebrow. "Who?"

  "The man asked that his name be kept confidential. Contacting us could put his life in danger if it leaks."

  "I see." Sarah saw all too well. "And what does Michael get out of all this?"

  "Satisfaction." Tealson shrugged. "It's not an ultima­tum. You don't have to do it, Dr. De Lorio. We just thought you might want your pound of flesh before you went un­der." "You thought right." Michael avoided looking at Sarah. "He's messed up half my life. Now it looks like the next half is shot all to hell, too. You bet. If I can do something to put him behind bars, I'll do it."

  "It could be dangerous. We aren't infallible, as much as we'd like to be. One mistake and you could be a dead man."

  "I'll risk it."

  Sarah parted her lips to protest, but she was forestalled when Tealson said, "And how about you, Miss Montague? We can swing it without you, but it'll look less suspicious if you stay in for the duration. La Grande will wonder why you're suddenly out of the picture if you fly back to Oregon."

  "Oh, no!" Michael held up his hands. "I agreed to put­ting my neck on the chopping block, not hers."

  Sarah leaned forward. "How closely will you be watch­ing us?"

  "I won't know if you have your toast with butter or without, but I'll know if you're eating white or wheat."

  "I'll do it."

  Michael jerked her back against him. "You won't. You're getting on the first flight home. This is my problem, not yours."

  "I make my own decisions, Michael. I've got my pound of flesh coming, too. For Molly."

  "Fine. The deal's off." He met her gaze with steely de­termination. "It's not a go, Tealson, not with her in­volved."

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Suits me. I didn't want you getting your head blown off anyway."

  "She'll be protected to the fullest extent of our capabili­ties, De Lorio," Tealson inserted.

  Michael rolled his eyes and tried one more time. "Sarah, look, this is my—"

  "I'm doing it if you are and I'd do it without you if I could. End of discussion."

  He studied her for a long moment. Then at last he nod­ded his head. "Okay, Tealson, what do you want us to do?"

  The marshal took a right turn, glancing at his partner. "Brief them, Paddao."

  Paddao twisted in his seat. "Mostly we just want you to be visible, to La Grande and to us. When you went into a less affluent area, it threw everyone a curve. Giorgio Santini helped us trace you. His man, Pascal, will probably tip La Grande with the same information. You need to stick tight in one general area—make it easier for La Grande, stop covering your trail." He shrugged. "What were you doing at the library?"

  Michael explained.

  Paddao nodded. "It would stand to reason you'd be looking at microfilm trying to find out what's going on. The library's as good a place as any for us. Bear in mind, it could take hours or days for La Grande to make his move. It's a waiting game."

  Michael shrugged. "We can always read. We don't have to stay there constantly, I hope?"

  "You'll leave for meals, of course, and at night to go to your hotel. At those times, we'll be around, you just won't be able to see us. When La Grande tries to nab you, we'll have his men spotted and move in as soon as we have proof of the La Grande connection."

  "What's to stop him from killing us?" Michael asked. "He's tried before."

  "Not since your dad was taken into protective custody. He needs you alive to lure your father out of hiding. Be­fore, he probably wanted you out of the way so you couldn't talk." Paddao cocked an eyebrow. "Well, what do you say? Back to the library?"

  Michael glanced at Sarah. "Yeah, the library will be fine."

  Sarah's mood was in a steady decline. She had decided to put their time at the library to good use and look for more articles on Adam St. John. It was unlikely Michael would ever be able to return to Chicago. This way, at least he'd have information about his father to take with him, some­thing he could save and show his children.

  His children.

  It was that thought that depressed her so badly. He was going away, possibly within hours, certainly within days, to take on a new identity in an unknown town. She wouldn't know who he was or where he was. He would simply dis­appear without a trace, lost to her forever. As if he had died.

  He might ask her to go "under" with him, but the very idea panicked her. All her life, because she had been so dark and her parents so fair, she'd had a feeling of separateness, of being different, of not quite belonging. No matter how dearly she had loved her adoptive parents, her own appear­ance had made her wonder where she had come from. Now, after sacrificing a year of her life to find them, she had a mother as well as brothers and sisters who looked like her. She even had nieces and nephews, which she could never have had as an only child. It gave her a feeling of roots, of having a niche where she truly belonged. Because she had never had it as a kid, that feeling was doubly important to her now.

  To go with Michael, she would have to take a fictitious name and cut all ties with the people she loved. She stared at the machine before her, advancing the microfilm with­out really seeing it. The overhead lights hit the screen at just the right angle so she could see her reflection on its surface. How many times as a kid had she stared in a mirror, asking herself, "Who am I? Who am I really?" A hundred times? A thousand? And always the same answer. I am Sarah from nowhere. She couldn't go with Michael and live the rest of her life feeling like that. She just couldn't.

  Sighing, she decided she had scanned too many blurred newspaper articles. She already had several copies of stories about Adam St. John stuffed in her slacks pocket. She hadn't taken time as yet to read them, but she hoped she had accumulated enough information to give Michael a sense of identity.

  She found Michael at a reading table, hunched over a book. She hesitated behind him, trying to compose her fea­tures. Since her time with him was limited, she wanted to make the most of every second. Sneaking up on him, she bent down to blow softly in his ear. He whipped his head up, focused on her and grinned. "Do that again and I'll follow you anywhere."

  "How about following me to a restaurant? I didn't eat breakfast. We skipped lunch. And I'm suffering from caf­feine withdrawal."

  He glanced at his watch. "It's four? I didn't realize."

  "It was all those d
oughnuts you ate. Meanwhile I'm ex­piring."

  He closed the book and pushed up from his chair, taking hold of her arm. "I saw a cafe a couple of blocks over."

  "Did it look clean?"

  "Squeaky."

  Sarah fell in beside him, wondering if he sensed how de­pressed she was under her facade of cheerfulness. If he did, he didn't say anything. As they exited the library, she saw him glancing around as they walked and realized he was searching for the marshals. "Cagey, aren't they?"

  He smiled and put his arm around her. "Good at what they do, that's for sure. If they're here, I can't spot them. Kind of gives me chills."

  They were nearly to the cafe when she noticed the arm he held her with was on his injured side. "Hey, you must be getting better."

  "Much. Fact is, I'm feeling almost human. Another week and I'll be just like new."

  Sarah averted her face. In another week, he'd be gone. She'd never see him again. The bell overhead rang when he pushed open the door. She slipped inside ahead of him, pleased with the cafe's appearance. Delicious smells wafted to her nose, the most delectable being the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. She took a deep breath, glancing back over her shoulder. "Any preference where we sit?"

  He guided her to a nearby booth, taking the back side and leaning forward to lift an eyebrow at her. As she sat down across from him, he said, "Earlier, you mentioned some­thing about finding my father's obituary?"

  As briefly as she could, she related what she had found. "I found a few other stories about him, too. Quite a prom­inent citizen, from what I read."

  "I'm not surprised. You should have seen Marcus St. John's house. We're talking three or four million on the low side." His eyes began to glow with excitement. "So there was actually mention of my dad having an illegitimate son?"

  "According to the article, he even provided for the child in his will but could never locate him."

  "Of course he couldn't. My adoptive parents covered their tracks too well."

  She frowned. "One thing really bothers me, now that I've stopped to think about it. Why did Marcus deny the exis­tence of a nephew?"