Without a Trace

  It's so real. So detailed. I can actually hear the blood dripping on the floor, smell it, feel the cold tiles against my skin.

  Her throat tightened. There was a key phrase in there she hadn't picked up on earlier. A person couldn't smell the blood in a dream. See it, hear it, yes. But actually smell it?

  A chill slithered up her spine. If Father O'Connell was Robert De Lorio's confessor, which he probably was, he'd be bound by his vow of silence. He wouldn't divulge the confidences of one of his parishioners.

  A little boy hiding under a bed. Blood on the floor. The recollection of another name. Had Michael witnessed a violent crime? And worse yet, had Robert De Lorio commit­ted it? Oh, Sarah, what have you gotten yourself into this time?

  Chapter Two

  As the sun sank behind the mountains, the room grew dark. Michael changed positions in the vinyl recliner, his mind drifting between consciousness and sleep as he nestled his cheek against the cool plastic upholstery. At first he could still feel the evening newspaper loosely grasped in his hands, hear it rustling when he moved, but second by second, he slipped deeper into slumber, losing touch with the room around him. As he did, his surroundings subtly altered. The cool vinyl pressing against his cheek changed to yellow tile— and he was afraid, afraid to move, to cry, to breathe. He peered out at a room through the blood-soaked fringe of his bedspread.

  "Gino, come on, son. Don't be afraid. We must say goodbye to Helen, eh?"

  Michael shook his head, shrinking away from the hand that reached under the bed for him. He didn't want to see Helen, didn't want to say goodbye. Through the fringe of the bedspread, he could see people in black clothing. They were standing in a line, shuffling slowly forward, taking turns—one by one—to look inside a long box. Michael didn't want a turn, didn't want to look. The hand grasped him by the arm and pulled him from beneath the bed. He wanted to scream, to fight, but he was too frightened.

  Suddenly the scene changed and he found himself out­side, walking on a sidewalk. He clung to the hand as he hurried to keep pace with legs much longer than his own. The city street had huge piles of dirty snow down its center where snowplows had made way for traffic. A string of black cars drove up, parking beside the curb. The car doors opened and people in black clothing piled out, walking up steep steps to join a line that trailed into a tall building. Glancing down at himself, Michael saw that he, too, was wearing black. The hand drew him relentlessly forward. Michael knew why. He had to go look in the box.

  "It is okay, Gino. It is only Helen, eh? Nothing to be afraid of."

  Michael shook his head, struggling to escape the hand as it pulled him inside the building, up a narrow aisle, closer to the box. It wasn't Helen in there. He knew it wasn't. He tried to say so, but no sound would come from his throat. He stared at the box, his heart pounding harder and harder when he saw blood running in streams down its sides. They had to run. They had to get away.

  With all his might, Michael tugged free of the hand and escaped, running out the doors and down the steep steps. He looked back over his shoulder to see if anyone had chased him. His horror increased when he saw that blood oozed from under the doors, spilling in scarlet rivers down the steps after him.

  Run, he had to run. His legs felt heavy and slow. Look­ing down, he saw the snow was so deep it reached to his hips. The farther he ran, the deeper it got, reaching to his waist, then to his chest. And behind him, drawing ever closer, was the blood.

  He flailed his arms to keep from sinking, knowing if he sank he'd never resurface. Bright lights flashed in his eyes, blinding him. The hand, where was the hand? He scram­bled for safety, turning, searching. Help me. Someone, please, help me.

  "Michael?" a soft voice called. "I'll help you."

  He whirled to see Sarah Montague standing above him, strangely untouched by the blood and snow that engulfed him. Her pretty face softened in a serene, reassuring smile, and she leaned forward, stretching out her palm to him. Michael windmilled his arms, trying desperately to get to her. She looked so beautiful, so comforting, so safe. She would help him. He reached up, catching hold of her fin­gertips. Could she pull him out or was he too heavy? After all, he was no longer a small boy but a full-grown man, much too heavy for such a slender woman to lift. He tried desperately to get a better grip on her, but her small hand slipped slowly from his. He felt himself falling, and the sensation so terrified him, he woke up with a start. "No!"

  He jerked upright in the recliner, scattering the pages of the paper. His breath came in shallow, painful gasps that whined from his chest into the darkness around him. He leaped to his feet, and staggered across the carpet to grope for the electric switch next to the sliding glass door. Light flooded the room, blinding him just as the lights in his dream had. He threw an arm up to shield his eyes and leaned weakly against the wall.

  "A dream, just a crazy dream," he whispered.

  Even as he said the words, though, he knew it was much more than that. Emotionally he was sinking, and Sarah Montague was his only lifeline. Remembering the strong attraction he had felt toward her that morning, he now had cause to question his motives. Was it Sarah herself who ap­pealed so strongly to him? Or was it the fact that he sub­consciously saw her as his last hope?

  Right before lunch three days later, Sarah's office phone rang. With Robert De Lorio's name hovering foremost in her thoughts, she was taken aback to lift the receiver and hear him introduce himself. She knew Michael hadn't given his dad her number, so only one other person could have: Father O'Connell. By the time she realized that and gath­ered her wits, De Lorio had been talking a full thirty sec­onds, sometimes in emphatic Italian, sometimes in English, with her not registering a word.

  "I'm asking you—please—don't continue with this craziness. For Michael's sake. And for your own."

  Sarah stiffened at the ominous tone of his voice. "Mr. De Lorio, since your son's retained my services, I'm not at lib­erty to dis—''

  "Parla inglese?" he yelled. "You have an obligation to watch out for your client's best interest, do you not?"

  She held the phone away from her ear. "Yes, of course, b—"

  "Then don't go any further with this investigation on Michael's background. Mi lasci in pace!"

  Sarah rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Mr. De Lorio, you're talking to the wrong person, here. If you have a quarrel with your son over his hiring me, perhaps it would be more expedient to discuss it with him."

  "I'm asking you, Miss Montague. I'll pay you. More than my son has offered. Name a price."

  "I, um, couldn't accept money from y—"

  "Haven't you heard anything I said?" The pathetic pleading note in De Lorio's voice altered, growing high- pitched with anger or panic, she wasn't sure which. "You keep on, and both of you may be sorry. Capisce? You un­derstand, lady? Some things are better left buried. This is one of them."

  After that proclamation, Sarah found herself on the frustrating end of a dead phone line. She sat there a mo­ment, their conversation reeling through her mind like a poorly spliced recording. De Lorio's intimations were too alarming to ignore, not so much for her own sake as Michael's.

  "I got it!" The door to Sarah's office swung wide, hit­ting the file cabinet with a loud thunk. Molly dashed in, waving a piece of paper. "Robert De Lorio, born in San Francisco, California. And then I went one step further. I ran a search for Maria De Lorio's record of birth, too. Her maiden name was Ames. Got them both. Bet you can't be­lieve it, huh? That guy you told me to call is really good. I didn't expect results this fast."

  Sarah was indeed amazed, not so much over the speedy comeback but because Molly had gotten the information on her own. Sarah had hired the girl as a favor to her adoptive aunt, Janelle Montague, and had been kicking herself ever since. She reached for the computer readout, dubious but hopeful, scanning the information. Just as Michael had said, both his parents had been born in California.

  "Well, did I do great or what?"

  "Really great, Molly
. I don't suppose you found any other records on the De Lorio's prior to their moving to Ashland? Records of employment, taxes, education, any­thing?"

  "Nope. Weird, huh?"

  "To put it mildly." Sarah worried the end of her pen, staring at the paper she held. The government might lose files, but it was stretching credibility to the maximum to believe it could occur to two people in the same household. This whole mess stank to high heaven. It was time to talk to Michael De Lorio. He needed to be told about his father's phone call. Unless he gave her the go-ahead, she would have no choice but to abort her investigation and mark this case closed.

  Glancing at her watch, Sarah reached for the phone book. After dialing Michael's office number and speaking with the receptionist, his deep voice came over the wire, crisp and businesslike. "Hello, Michael? Sarah Montague here. We need to talk."

  She heard pages rustling. "My calendar's clear after two."

  "Unfortunately mine's not. My mom and sister are stop­ping off for the night en route to an art exhibit in Portland and I have to pick them up at the airport. I could probably sneak away for a few minutes after five. Could you stop by then?"

  "Five-thirty okay?"

  "Perfect, I'll leave them to browse at the city mall and come back here to meet you. Try not to be late?"

  "I'll be there."

  Michael arrived at the office at five-thirty on the dot. Molly was already gone, which was probably just as well. What Sarah had to say was for Michael's ears only, and she wasn't too sure telling him was such a good idea.

  He looked just as she had described him to her sister, Beth, a few minutes ago—tall, dark, a little too intense. Today he wore a light brown sports coat over a cream- colored shirt and camel slacks. Gazing up at him, Sarah re­alized he'd been so much in her thoughts these past few days that she felt as if she'd known him much longer than she actually had. The shiver of excitement she felt at seeing him again set off warning bells in her mind. It wasn't like her to have this strong of a reaction to a man she barely knew.

  "Have a seat, Michael."

  "What's up?" He sank into the chair, his smile hesitant.

  As quickly as she could, she explained that she'd had no luck tracing his folks before their move to Ashland. Then she recounted her phone conversation with Father O'Connell. "To say the temperature dropped when I said your name would be a gross understatement."

  "I can tell by your face, there's more. What is it?"

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about the note that had been left on her door, but she stifled the urge. She had no positive proof, and it went against her grain to make wild accusations. "Your father called me this morning, pleading with me to stop working on your case."

  "Papa? How the hell did he get—"

  "It's obvious, isn't it? Father O'Connell called him. Michael, I'm not a Catholic, but I do know a priest doesn't repeat or inadvertently reveal what he's been told in the confessional. Whatever it is your dad's covering up, I think it's about himself, not about your natural parents."

  "About himself?"

  With a determined lift of her chin, Sarah looked him dead in the eye. "When I was talking with your father, I had the distinct impression he was threatening me."

  For the space of several unnaturally quiet seconds, he stared at her, and then without warning, burst into laugh­ter. Sarah could only gape at him. As his mirth ebbed, he angled forward in the chair, his eyes searching hers. "He threatened you? My dad? You're sure it is my dad we're talking about?"

  "I'm positive. And I fail to see the humor in this."

  "Papa's a plump little baker. When he gets mad, he pul­verizes bread dough, not people."

  Tension tied the muscles along each side of Sarah's neck into painful knots. "I know you love your father, but—"

  He held up a hand to indicate the older De Lorio stood less than shoulder high, his smile broadening. "If you could have seen him while you were talking to him, I think your impression of him would have been completely different. I tell you, Sarah—it is okay if I call you Sarah—my dad's harmless."

  "Let's put it this way. He talks seven feet tall." She lifted an eyebrow. "What does Mi lasci in pace! mean?"

  He winced at her pronunciation and laughed again. "It means leave me alone. I'm really sorry he called you. As for Father O'Connell, the two of them are like this." He held up two tightly pressed fingers. "Father O'Connell was our pastor when I was a kid. He and Papa became best friends. In all the years since, they've kept in touch, and now Father's back on limited duty at St. Jude's until he retires. I should have known this would happen."

  Seeing Michael's reaction to the scenario she had built up in her mind, Sarah was beginning to wonder if she'd over­reacted. "I guess that crack you made about Jack the Ripper made my imagination run away with me. When the priest was so evasive, I thought it could only mean that-—" Heat spiraled to her face. "Oh, well, it doesn't matter now what I thought."

  He sighed. "Ignore my dad, Sarah. He tends to get a lit­tle carried away. As for Father O'Connell, why don't we run down tomorrow and see him? He won't find it so easy to be evasive if we're standing right there, requesting documents I've every right to see. I have a few patients scheduled, but none I can't reschedule. Will your relatives be gone by morning? We could make a day of it, have lunch, then drive back. The grounds are gorgeous."

  Her family was leaving right after breakfast. Though she didn't have much hope that a visit with Father O'Connell would prove worthwhile, she couldn't resist the temptation of an entire day in Michael's company. She tried to keep her voice crisp and impersonal as she replied, "Yes, that might be a good idea if you're sure you want to continue with the search."

  "Do I detect some hesitancy?"

  "A little. Your father's dead set against us doing this."

  He rose from the chair. "I'm not backing off, Sarah, not as long as you're still game. Papa must have really laid it on thick. He didn't get too nasty, I hope?"

  She pushed up from the desk and reached for her purse. It would be simple to recount the conversation word for word, but not so easy to impart what had been said be­tween the lines. "Well, he didn't come right out and say anything. It was more insinuation than anything."

  Michael arched an eyebrow but didn't press her for de­tails, for which she was grateful. Glancing down at the handbag she held in the crook of her arm, he said, "If you're leaving now, I'll see you to your car."

  She checked to be sure her computer was off, then went to the fireproof file cabinet to give the top drawer a tug to make sure it was locked. Sidestepping Michael to exit her office, she fished in her bag for her keys as she walked. "I appreciate your waiting. I wouldn't want to get waylaid by a little baker on the way out."

  His response to that was a low laugh. As they walked across the waiting area, his sleeve brushed hers. The con­tact set her skin to tingling. Though he was longer of leg, he matched his stride to hers. The breadth of his shoulders and the masculine way he swung his arms made her feel small and feminine. Sarah tried to imagine what her sister Beth might say if she could meet Michael and decided that the seventeen-year-old would probably sigh and call him a hunk, a fitting description if Sarah's racing pulse was an indication.

  He waited outside on the sidewalk while she locked the front door. The back of her neck prickled because she knew he was studying her. She was glad she hadn't ridden her bike to work this morning. Michael De Lorio was one fellow she didn't want seeing her in riding tights—not that she looked that bad in them, but a knockout, she wasn't.

  As she turned in the direction of her car, he stepped to the outside of the sidewalk to take her arm. It was an old- fashioned, gentlemanly gesture and apparently as instinc­tive to him as breathing. The light touch of his fingertips told her a great deal about the kind of man he was, and a great deal about herself. Her insides rippled with excite­ment. Careful, Sarah.

  Standing at the curb, he watched while she unlocked the car door. "About your dad, Mich
ael, I hope I didn't—"

  "You didn't." His smile tipped up one corner of his mouth, giving his expression a wry twist. His gaze met hers, soft as a caress. "What time would you like to leave tomor­row?"

  For a fleeting instant, Sarah wished the day they had planned wasn't solely for business. "How's nine sound? I have a few things to take care of first, so could you pick me up here?"

  He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. She forced her­self to look away and climbed into the car to start the en­gine. As she let out the clutch and eased away from the curb into the light traffic, his image was caught in her rearview mirror. She heaved a regretful sigh. It was just her luck, wasn't it? A good-looking man like Michael De Lorio, and he had to be a client.

  Michael shoved his hands into his slacks pockets and gazed after the Fiero as it rounded the corner, remember­ing his recent nightmare and his fear that Sarah's appeal to him was fostered more by emotional need than genuine at­traction. He smiled to himself. Seeing her a second time had dispelled his anxiety on that score. She was a beautiful woman, no doubt about it; only a blind man could remain unaffected by her. Even though he knew he shouldn't, he looked forward to spending time with her tomorrow. It was a business trip, after all, not a date. How much trouble could he possibly get into?

  St. Jude's was a beautiful old church of dark stone with velvety green lawns sweeping from its foundations out to the street. As Sarah and Michael walked up the cement path to the rectory, she slowed her pace, smoothing the wrinkles that sitting so long in the car had creased in her skirt. Michael preceded her up the steps to ring the bell, and a moment later, an older woman answered the door, direct­ing them into a sitting room to wait while she went to find Father O'Connell.

  Sarah lowered herself into an ancient but presentable chair, flashing a tense smile at Michael. The delicious aroma of fresh-baked bread permeated the room. Though she and Michael had just finished lunch, her mouth watered; bread hot from the oven was one of her weaknesses.