Page 22 of Without a Trace

  "Yes, but he told me he was full from dinner! Since we haven't eaten, I'd say that's a little strange, wouldn't you?" She ran to the closet, digging through her suitcase. "They were listening, don't you see? He couldn't come right out and say anything. Call Tealson. We've got to get out there."

  "Whoa!" Paddao held up his hands, striding loosely to­ward her, his smile persuasive. "You're jumping the gun here. He could have eaten at St. John's. Ever think of that? Did he or did he not say he was fine?"

  "Yes, but—"

  He shrugged. "I rest my case. Relax, Ms. Montague. If he isn't back in a couple of hours, we'll go out and check on him."

  She grabbed her soiled blouse and slacks from under her suitcase, not bothering to search for a clean outfit. There wasn't time. "He could be dead in two hours. Call Tealson!"

  "I just spoke to Mr. De Lorio. He said nothing was up. We can't converge on a private residence without just cause. There are laws, you know?"

  Sarah hugged her clothes to her chest. "Maybe you can't, but I can. I had an invitation. I'll just go late."

  Paddao stared at her. "I don't think you and Mr. De Lorio understand the gravity of the situation we have here. Have you any idea how powerful a man La Grande is? Without constant protec—" He threw up his hands. "You can't go traipsing all over the city."

  She strode toward the bathroom. "Watch me."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sarah stared out the cab window at the wrought-iron gates of the St. John estate. She had never seen so much outdoor lighting at a private residence. Just in case her hunch was wrong, she hated to be seen sneaking onto the property. She'd ruin Michael's one and only chance to visit with his uncle. It would be far better if she could return to the hotel, no one the wiser. And if she was right? Tension knotted her hands into fists. If she was right, she had to slip back out and call Tealson.

  There was an intercom panel on the left side of the brick entry arch. The cabdriver gave it a long look, then said, "Lady, you wanna go in or sit out here all night? I charge for sittin', ya know."

  Glancing at the fare meter, she cringed. "As a matter of fact, I need you to drive up the road about a block and wait."

  "For how long? I want payment in advance."

  "How much would thirty minutes run?"

  The price he quoted made her teeth ache. She dug into her purse for the fare, muttering under her breath. Shoving the money at him, she said, "Keep the extra. If I don't come back, would you do me a favor and call the—"

  "Look, lady, I'm a cabbie, not a messenger service. You want a phone call made, it's an extra fifty."

  "I don't have fifty. All I've got is ten."

  "Fifty," he insisted.

  She rolled her eyes and stuck out her palm. "On second thought, I want my change."

  He grumbled about it, but he returned the seven dollars he owed her. Sarah stuffed it into her purse, throwing him a glare as she climbed out of the car and slammed the door. Turning to survey the gate, she slung the strap of her purse over her head so she'd have both hands free to ciimb. The cab swept away from the shoulder of the road, its tail pipe rattling as the rear tires bumped onto the asphalt. Putting her hands on her hips, she heaved a sigh. She was on her own now. If she took more than thirty minutes, it was a long walk back to town.

  She approached the gate, looking up at the three decora­tive arches across its top. Grasping a vertical bar with both hands, she jumped, getting footholds on the iron with her rubber-soled sneakers. Shinning up to the top crossbar, she grabbed the crown of one arch, swinging a leg around its rise. So far, so good. Twisting her body, she straddled the bar, pivoting on her bottom to draw her other leg over. Taking a deep breath, she wriggled forward and jumped to the asphalt below.

  Darting off the driveway into the protective shadows of the shrubs, she wove her way toward the house, surprised at how easy trespassing was. She had expected better security— not that she was complaining. She'd just sneak up and peek through a few windows, satisfy herself that Michael was in­deed okay, and leave. No fuss, no fanfare.

  Three-quarters of the way to the house, she heard some­thing behind her—a low, vicious snarl. The hair on the back of her neck prickled and she paused to look over her shoul­der. The first thing she saw was teeth, lots and lots of teeth that glowed blue-white in the artificial light. A Doberman? Now she knew why canines were classified as meat eaters.

  This was bad

  The dog didn't have Trained to Kill branded on his fore­head, but the message came across loud and clear. Move, and you're dead. She tested the animal's intentions by wig­gling the fingers of her left hand, an innocuous little move­ment she hoped looked friendly. "Nice dog."

  The canine sprang forward a foot or so, growling with an intake of air through its nostrils that sounded wet, impa­tient and deadly. Then he barked. Not an ordinary bark, but a bark interspersed with snarls. Four more Dobermans rose to the hue and cry, springing out at her from the dark shrubbery. She closed her eyes, imagining their teeth tear­ing into her flesh.

  To her surprise, the dogs didn't attack. They raised an alarm, barking, lunging and snapping the air, but they didn't bite. Eternity passed—at least it seemed like eternity. Then two men appeared on the well lit front walkway of the mansion, moving toward her. One wore a blue smoking jacket and looked so much like Michael from a distance that she nearly dissolved with relief until she realized it wasn't him. The other was tall, portly and bald, wearing a black suit with tails. The butler.

  The man who resembled Michael walked into the midst of the snarling dogs with an amused smile creasing his face. "Ms. Montague, I presume?"

  She worked her mouth, then stammered, "Y-yes," flinching when the sound of her voice excited the crouched Dobermans.

  "Guten tag," he said sharply, snapping his fingers. The Dobermans immediately quieted, circling his legs as he stepped closer to her. "As I'm sure you've guessed, I'm Marcus St. John. This is an unexpected pleasure." He pulled a small silvery gun from the pocket of his jacket, aiming the barrel at her chest. "Frisk her, Snider."

  The butler ran trembling hands over Sarah's clothes, clearly embarrassed. "She has no weapon, sir."

  Extending his hand to her, St. John said, "Your purse, please, and then we'll escort you inside to join my nephew."

  "Sir, whatever are we going to do?" the butler asked. "That gentleman, Shuelle, is already gone. I haven't a thought how we might contact him."

  "We'll simply wait, Snider," St. John growled with im­patience.

  At St. John's request she handed over her purse and walked toward the mansion, prodded in the back by his gun. The two men followed her. Once inside the house, they flanked her and seized her arms, hurrying her across a spa­cious entry hall and up a winding staircase. Three floors up, they paused outside a door. The butler unlocked the portal, then preceded Sarah and St. John into the dark room.

  "Tie her," St. John ordered, forcing Sarah to lie face­down on the floor.

  Light from the hall spilled across several coils of rope lying on a nearby trunk. With shaking hands, the butler grabbed a length of it and trussed Sarah hand and foot, arms behind her. Then he and St. John stepped out, slammed the door and left her in darkness. She heard a key rasp in the lock.

  "Sarah?" She heard a rustle and a thump, then a drag­ging sound. A warm shoulder bumped hers. "Sarah..." Michael's voice sounded so close and wonderfully dear that tears flooded her eyes. "Are you okay?"

  "I—I think so." She swallowed and gave a weak laugh. "For a while, I thought I was gonna be dog food." She told him about the newspaper stories she had read, how she had put two and two together and come out here to check on him. "Paddao wouldn't believe me when I told him some­thing was wrong."

  "I can't say I'm sorry you left. I just wish you hadn't come here. St. John sent Shuelle and two sidekicks to kill you."

  "Who's Shuelle?"

  "Hired muscle, that creep in the Pontiac who packed the Uzi, the gray-haired, skinny guy? He's got two thugs
named Lund and Packer working with him. The three of them make La Grande's boys look like nursemaids."

  Dim light shone through an oculus window at the gable end of the room. An attic? She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. The mustiness was so strong it nearly made her sick.

  Straining her eyes to see, she could barely make out his silhouette. "Have they hurt you?"

  "I'm fine. They're saving the fun for later. We've got to get out of here, Sarah. When Shuelle gets back..."

  Even though he didn't finish, she knew what he'd been about to say. "He wouldn't dare. Paddao knows we're here."

  "They'll just say we left. La Grande will get the blame."

  She closed her eyes. Her shoulders felt as though they were being pulled from their sockets. She squirmed, rolling onto her back. Staring blindly at the blackness above her, she said, "What's our plan? In the movies they get back-to- back and untie each other."

  After a great deal of thumping and grunting, they man­aged to touch hands, but the ropes were too tight to work them loose.

  "Before they brought you in, I was rubbing my wrists on a wall stud, trying to cut the ropes."

  "Was it working?"

  "Yeah, but it would take all night. We may only have a few minutes." She saw him struggling to sit up. "The win­dow. If I can get on my feet and break it, maybe we can get some glass to cut the rope."

  She craned her neck. "How could you break it?"

  "With the back of my head."

  "Oh, my God... no way, Michael. You could cut your­self."

  Dry humor rasped in his voice. "It'd take me awhile to, uh, well—you know. Before that happens, I'll be long gone and on my way to a doctor."

  "Bleed to death. Why not just say it?"

  "Don't push it, Sarah, or you'll have an unconscious hero on your hands."

  "It's a stupid idea."

  "Maybe, but it's our only idea at present."

  She watched him bounce his way toward the window with growing horror. If he hit the glass wrong, he might sever an artery in his neck. Struggling to sit up, she bounced after him. "Michael, wait. We'll think of something else."

  "Like what?" He put his back to the wall and shoved with his feet, trying to inch his way up it. "I have to get you out of here."

  An ache rose in her chest, crowding into her throat. If ever she had doubted his love for her, she never would again. He finally gained his feet and hopped along the wall to the window. She cringed when she saw the silhouette of his head and shoulders against the glass.

  "Hitting it from this side, all the glass will go out on the roof," she protested. "Please, don't—"

  She saw his head come forward, then snap back. Crack. She cringed and bit down hard on her bottom lip. The glass didn't break. He sighed and tucked his chin on his chest again. The next moment, another loud crack resounded. Glass shattered.

  "Michael?" She stared at his silhouette. If he was hurt, she wouldn't be able to help him. The thought petrified her. "Michael, are you all right?"

  "Just seeing a few stars. Did all the glass go out?"

  She had heard some of it fall inside the room. She tried to home in on where the sound had come from. Off to her right someplace? "I heard at least one piece."

  "Wonderful. That's like a needle—" he dropped bottom first onto the floor "—in a haystack."

  "It's over here somewhere," she said with a grunt, push­ing with her feet to move her rump sideways, then rocking forward to move her shoulders. When she reached the spot where she thought she had heard the glass fall, she rolled onto her side, stretching her hands out behind her to flick her fingers along the floor.

  "Can you feel it?"

  "No. You?"

  He heaved another long sigh. "No."

  A sudden pain shot through her shoulder. She flinched and grew still, twisting her neck to see. "I think I just found it."

  "Where?"

  "I rolled on it." She pivoted to get her hands near the glass, tucked her bound feet under her and strained to sit up. She rasped her fingers on the dusty floor until her thumb touched something sharp. "I've got it! Get back-to-back with me."

  He rolled across the floor and wriggled into a sitting po­sition, pressing his back to hers. "Sarah..." She heard him swallow, a loud plunking sound at the base of his throat. "Need I remind you that wrist arteries—"

  "Trust me. I'm very good at feeling my way." She hooked a finger around the hemp between his wrists and began sawing furiously. She felt the rough cording snap in two. "Did I get it?"

  The support of his back disappeared and she nearly top­pled.

  "Yeah, hold on a sec."

  She could hear him breathing heavily beside her. A sec­ond later, he flipped around and seized the bindings on her hands. She sighed with relief when the ropes fell away. Jackknifing forward, she hurried to free her ankles. "Now what?"

  "We—" He broke off and fell silent. "Damn, we don't dare chance the dogs. Our only hope is to overpower St. John and the butler before Shuelle comes back."

  "You and me?" she squeaked.

  "Got a better idea?"

  "That isn't an idea, it's suicide."

  He rose to his feet, grabbing her arm to haul her up with him. After shedding his jacket and tie, he tugged her over to the broken window. Her heart started to pound wildly. "Not the roof! I hate heights. Do you know how far up we are?"

  "Three stories. But they'll hear us if we bust down the door. It's the roof or nothing, Sarah." He kicked off his shoes and grasped her waist, boosting her to the opening. "Careful, don't cut yourself."

  Sharp jags of glass snagged her clothing as she shinned through the hole. The pitch of the roof fell sharply under her. It had begun to sprinkle rain, making the shakes slick. Her head spun with dizziness, and she had to take a deep breath. Don't look down, Sarah. On all fours, she turned to the window, offering a hand to Michael. He clasped her wrist and heaved himself up, working his broad shoulders through the narrow passage.

  Once he was beside her, he reared back on his knees to scope out the windows in both directions. "If we can sneak back in, maybe we can take them by surprise."

  Rising carefully to his feet, he offered her a hand. Mov­ing inch by inch, they worked their way along the steeply slanted shakes toward an old-fashioned double-hung win­dow. Then it happened. She took a step and her foot flew out from under her. When she fell, her momentum jerked Michael off his feet. She saw the edge of the roof coming up fast and clenched her teeth to keep from screaming. Oh, please, God, no. She clawed frantically at the shakes with her free hand, and tried to dig in her toes for a foothold, all to no avail.

  At the last moment, Michael stopped his own descent by shoving his heel against the drainpipe along the eave. Sarah shot past him, a cry escaping her lips as she felt herself pitching off into nothingness. Michael tightened his grip on her hand, jerking her up short, praying that both the drain­pipe and his newly healed shoulder held up under their combined weights. She hung there, the edge of the roof digging into her abdomen, her legs dangling.

  "Oh, my God, Michael—"

  "I've got you," he grunted. "Swing a leg up."

  She hooked a knee over the gutter, sobbing with fear. Her arm felt as if it were being pulled from its socket. The sound of metal tearing from wood filled her with panic. "Michael!"

  "It's all right. Slow and easy." He began pulling her up­ward. The gutter groaned and separated from the eave a little more. "Don't lose your head. Just get your knee on the roof. That's right."

  With her right hand, she clawed at the shakes, helping him as much as she could. Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, she got both knees onto the rooftop again. She lay there, panting for air, so terrified she couldn't even think, her fin­gers vised on the rough wood.

  "Don't move," he whispered, prying his hand from hers to get a locked grip on her wrist. "I've got you. Let me get to my feet, then I'll help you up, okay?"

  She nodded, pinning her gaze on him to keep from look­ing down. His hand felt won
derfully strong around hers as he crouched, then slowly stood, teetering to keep his bal­ance.

  "Okay, sweetheart, now it's your turn. You can do it."

  She had to do it. She clutched his hand, her breath com­ing in shrill, uneven gasps as she rose to her knees. One wrong move, just one, and she knew they'd both slide off and plunge three stories to the driveway below. If the fall didn't kill them, they still had to face the dogs. Her legs shook as she stood.

  "Okay, I'll go first, then you." He took a careful step up the roof, paused to get his balance, and then nodded to her. "Your turn."

  "I—I can't." She froze.

  Michael tightened his hand on her wrist, staring at her pinched features. The outdoor lights reflected off the shakes onto her skin, giving it a cast that was almost green. He'd seen Sarah rally in a lot of terrifying situations, but this time, her fear of heights was undermining her usual gutsiness. He'd never seen that blank look in her eyes or felt her shake like this. As much as he had always admired her spunk, this moment of weakness endeared her to him more than anything.

  "Sarah, look at me."

  Her wide eyes clung to his, shimmering with tears. Her mouth trembled.

  "Do you trust me?" he whispered.

  "Y-yes."

  "Then look at me—no, not down—look into my eyes. Now step toward me. I've got you."

  "M-Michael, I—"

  "I won't let you fall." He hoped he could keep that promise. "Come on, Sarah. You've got to do it."

  She dug her fingernails into his wrist and took a shaky step. When she didn't slide, she laughed rather hysterically and nodded. "I—I'm okay."

  "Sure you are." He moved another pace upward. "Okay, your turn again."

  He led her the remainder of the way up the roof. When they reached the window, he grabbed the sill with one hand and pulled her against him with his other arm. She clung to him, shaking violently until her fear subsided.

  "Hold the sill," he whispered.

  She didn't need to be told twice. She grabbed the wood in a death grip. Keeping his arm around her, he placed the heel of his other hand on the lower sash bar of the window and shoved upward. A sliding sound filled her with relief. It wasn't locked. Throwing a leg over the sill, he crawled through, never releasing his hold on her. She followed, dropping softly beside him onto thick carpet. Never had she been so glad to feel level floor under her feet.