Without a Trace

  Michael took a seat on the sofa, and his gaze drifted thoughtfully around the room. "I always waited in here for Father when I was a kid so I could walk over to the sacristy with him to dress for Mass. Funny how some things never change."

  Sarah looked at the Spartan furnishings through new eyes, trying to envision Michael as a small boy. His tone when he spoke of Father O'Connell was filled with warmth and fondness. Moments later, the priest stepped across the threshold. He was a tall, heavyset man with bushy gray eyebrows, lively blue eyes and a broad smile that looked so sincere Sarah couldn't help responding in kind. In a boom­ing, melodious brogue, he cried, "Michael, me boy, it's a pleasure to be seein' ye, it is. How've ye been?"

  Michael leaped to his feet to receive a quick hug from the older man. "Pretty good, Father. And you?"

  "Fit as a fiddle. I wish ye'd called and I'd have changed into street clothes. I know how ye hate the black."

  "Don't worry about it. We can't stay that long."

  O'Connell directed his attention to Sarah. "And who might this fair lass be? Ah, Michael, it's clear ye've not lost yer eye for the ladies."

  Sarah felt a flush rise to her cheeks as she stood and ex­tended her hand. "Hello, Father."

  Father O'Connell noted her pink cheeks and gave her a sly wink. "Even starvation diets don't deny ye a look at the menu."

  Michael's eyes twinkled with laughter, resting warmly on Sarah as he went through the formal introductions. "Sarah's a genealogist, Father. She's trying to help me find my parents."

  "We spoke on the phone a few days back," Sarah in­serted.

  The priest's grasp on her fingers tightened. She flashed him a glance, noting that his glorious smile suddenly seemed strained. "Ah, yes, I remember. Ye were wantin' Michael's baptismal certificate, weren't ye?" A frown creased his forehead. "Ye know, I can't seem to come up with it for ye."

  Michael's eyebrows lifted. "It's lost?"

  "Oh, certainly not that." Father O'Connell released his grip on Sarah's hand. "It'd be unheard of for the church to lose a document. No, Michael, I just can't come up with it. I'll be givin' it to ye, but as I explained to your friend days back, it may take me a wee while."

  Michael's brown eyes shifted to catch Sarah's gaze, transmitting a message she couldn't quite read. "A week, a month? You wouldn't be waiting until my father is no longer around to object?"

  Father O'Connell clasped his hands together in a gesture of delightful anticipation. "Tell me, have ye had yer lunch? Bessie makes sauerbraten that's the closest thing to heaven this side of the hereafter. And she always makes enough for me and ten others." He gestured toward the door. "Shall we? It'll be gettin' cold, and there's no wrath on earth comparin' to Bessie's if ye're late to her table."

  Sarah fought to keep her grin hidden as she watched Michael's expressions, bewilderment and disbelief giving way to discomfiture. He had just been told, ever so po­litely, to eat or leave. He clearly respected the old man far too much to press him. "Um, we've eaten, thank you."

  "Oh, what a shame." Placing his left hand on Sarah's shoulder to give her an affectionate squeeze, Father prof­fered his right to Michael. "Ye'll come again soon? It's been a disgracefully long while since I've seen ye. Ye're attendin' Mass regularly?"

  Michael pumped his hand, smiling stiffly. "Yes, Father."

  "There's a good boy. And volunteerin' yer time, of course, and goin' to confession as ye should?"

  "Yes, Father." Glancing at Sarah, Michael said, "Well, we'd better get going before Bessie skins him alive."

  With a theatrical sigh, the priest escorted them to the front door. "She has no reverence, does Bessie, not when it comes to runnin' her kitchen. Goodbye now, God be with ye."

  As the door of the rectory closed behind them, Sarah couldn't suppress a giggle. She touched her fingers to her lips, glancing apologetically at Michael, not at all sure he'd take kindly to being laughed at. For a moment, he scowled darkly. Then a grin crept across his face. "Not very mas­terful, am I?"

  "Not very. I'm afraid confronting him didn't work."

  Michael sighed and draped his arm across her shoulders, shaking his head as they walked down the steps. "Any sec­ond, I expected him to quiz me on my catechism. Child­hood conditioning. You'd think that I, of all people, would be able to overcome it, but it's easier said than done."

  Sarah chuckled. "Give yourself a break. You love him; it's as clear as the nose on your face."

  He gave the appendage in question a swipe with his knuckles. "That's pretty darned clear with a honker like mine." He groaned. "I can't believe I let him get away with that."

  "No big deal. We'll simply proceed with the search using the name Santini."

  His fingers curled on her upper arm, his thumb making tiny, maddening circles on the sleeve of her jacket. "A name isn't much for you to go on."

  "Think positive." Casting him a quizzical glance as they drew up at the car, she said, "Can I ask a question I've no right asking? How can a born and raised Catholic hate black?"

  "It's a phobia of mine." A distant look clouded his eyes as he released her to open the passenger door. "You know, that's the first time Father's ever lied to me."

  She placed her hand on his arm. "Don't be so hard on him. He didn't actually say he couldn't find the record, he said he couldn't come up with it. That could have meant something or someone prevented him from handing it over. Like your father, perhaps?"

  He rasped his finger along her cheek, his eyes softening with some emotion she couldn't define. "You're a very special lady to understand that, you know it?" Running his finger under her chin, he raised her face, a smile quirking his mouth as he whispered, "And as usual, Father's right. Molto bella!"

  Not sure what he had just said, she slid into the car, choosing to ignore his comment. "You agree? It was prob­ably your dad."

  His expression grew serious. "I'm afraid so. The ques­tion is why? What is it my father is so afraid I'll discover?"

  "I don't know the answer to that yet, but give me a few days."

  He snapped his fingers, leaning down to poke his head inside the car so she could hear him above the sounds of passing traffic. "Which reminds me, I had another dream. Wherever I came from, I think it was a large city that got heavy snowfall."

  As he circled the car to climb in on the driver's side, Sarah jotted that bit of information in her notebook so it wouldn't slip her mind, then she glanced at her watch. It was nearly two o'clock. By the time they made the three-and-a-half hour drive to Eugene, it would be early evening. She'd just have enough time to run downtown for an Italian dictionary, get dinner, do the dishes and wade through some paper­work before she crawled into bed. Ah, yes, an Italian dictionary. If her experiences thus far with the De Lorio men were any indication, she was going to need one. Molto bella? She hoped the meaning of those two words was as roman­tic as Michael's deep voice had made it sound.

  The flashlight flickered unsteadily on the pale gray carpet as the man pressed the office door of Roots closed behind him. Wheezing for air after his sprint up the side­walk, he shoved his pry bar into the deep pocket of his raincoat and switched the flashlight off to peer out the win­dow into the street. He half expected a patrol car to round the corner. Nothing. Not a soul in sight this hour of the morning. Broken glass crunched beneath the soles of his shoes as he stepped across the entry onto the rug. It was so dark, he couldn't see two feet ahead of him.

  Flipping the light back on, he fanned the beam along the walls. Brass end tables. A desk. He strode swiftly across the room and sat in the desk chair to drag open the top left drawer. He found a half-eaten candy bar, three bottles of fingernail polish and a wire brush with wads of dark brown hair caught in the bristles. With a muffled curse, he slammed the drawer closed and quickly searched the oth­ers. Nothing. On the desktop, he noticed a sheaf of papers. Pulling them toward him, he spotlighted the top page. Car­toon sketches?

  Rolling the chair back on its castors, he rose and trailed the light aroun
d the room again, starting to feel panicky. If he couldn't find the files this would all be for nothing. Spying another door, he hurried toward it and entered a small interior office. His light beam bathed the gray-green side of a metal cabinet. Pay dirt.

  His lungs still whining, he seized the top drawer handle and pulled. Locked. Cursing again, he laid the flashlight on the cabinet and retrieved the pry bar from his pocket. The light beam shining in his eyes blinded him. He had to feel with his fingertips to insert the bar into the crack above the drawer. Then it took all his weight as leverage to break the catch. Metal groaned. The lock finally gave with a re­sounding pop. He froze for a second, listening. Except for the irregular pounding of his heart, the place was as quiet as a tomb. He jerked the drawer open and grabbed his light, scanning the alphabetical letter tabs until he came to the D. And there it was—the De Lorio file. He smiled and lifted it from the runners.

  Losing this would stop her dead. Tugging a large plastic bag from his pocket, he began pulling all the files from the top drawer. When those were in the bag, he opened the sec­ond drawer and took several others at random. There'd be no way for the cops to trace him with so many names miss­ing.

  Satisfied, he stepped away, searching the rest of the room to be sure there wasn't another file cabinet. His light re­flected off what appeared to be a television screen. One of those word processors. Damned newfangled gadgets.

  Going back into the front office, he placed his bag and light on the desk. Montague would probably guess who had done this. That suited him just fine. He had to show her he meant business. If this didn't stop her, he'd think of some­thing that would

  Chapter Three

  Michael turned his face into his pillow, frowning at the steady, monotonous pitter-patter of raindrops hitting glass. Or was it rain? Maybe it was snow. He decided to get out of bed and look. Running to the window, he put his hands on the sill and stood on his tiptoes, straining to see out. His nose pressed against the cold glass, his breath steaming an aureole around his face. Yes, it was snow. Big, fat flakes. Tonight, Papa would help him roll a snowball.

  His heart skipped with excitement. There came Papa now, pulling up in front of the house in a very long, black car, the same kind of car he and Mamma had been driven away in that morning. Michael gripped the windowsill, his mouth spreading in a gigantic grin that soon turned to a frown. None of those men were his Papa. And his Mamma wasn't there, either.

  "Gino! Holy Mother, protect us."

  Michael turned to stare at the woman who came running up behind him, her black rubber-soled shoes going squeak- squeak with every step she took. As she swooped down on him, she looked so huge in her black dress and frilly white apron that he fell back to gape at her. Before he could move, she grabbed him, knocking the wind out of him as her fat arms cinched tight around his tummy.

  "Under the bed, Gino, you hear? You are not to make a sound, not a single sound until Helen tells you."

  "No! It's dark under there. I want my mamma. Mi lasci in pace. Vada via!"

  Helen gave him a shake that snapped his head back so hard it hurt his neck. Her blue eyes looked wild and scary. "You will mind me, Gino. Not a sound! One whimper and I'll spank you."

  The floor beneath the bed was cold and hard. Michael rubbed his eyes, then blinked. He could see Helen's black shoes through the bedspread fringe at the foot of his bed. Silence. The room was so quiet, he could even hear Helen breathing. Then a crashing sound startled him. Footsteps thundered, shaking the floor. Another crash. He heard Helen whimper, a soft, uneven sound that turned his skin to ice. Then she whispered, "Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry f—"

  A loud popping sound erupted and Helen gave a strange grunt. Then his bed went boom above him, the metal spring supports smacking his shoulder. He saw his teddy bear fall on the floor. Footsteps, everywhere footsteps. Doors crashed open. Something popped again, ugly sounds fol­lowed by hard thunks hitting the walls. Michael stared out at the room through the border of his bedspread. Helen's shoes were gone.

  And then he saw it. Something thick and red, running down a strand of the yellow bedspread fringe. Blood.

  With a scream, Michael jolted awake, jackknifing into a sitting position. His throat convulsed around a single word. "Helen! Helen..."

  Sweat ran down his face in rivers and his chest heaved for air. With bulging eyes, he stared into the darkness around him, his heart slamming. Inside his head, a terrified wom­an's voice whispered, "Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry..." He clamped his hands over his ears, lunging to his feet.

  "Oh, Lord, please..." The sound of his own voice re­verberated around him, hoarse, ragged, a man's voice. Only a moment ago, he had been a child. Groping for the wall switch, he threw the lights on and stared at his bedroom window, relieved to see a modern metal frame instead of an old-fashioned wooden sash. Rain pelted the glass. Leaning against the wall, he squeezed his eyes closed, forcing him­self to breathe deeply and evenly. He was Michael, not Gino. It had only been a nightmare.

  The electronic beep of the alarm clock badgered the edges of Sarah's consciousness until she stirred and threw out an arm to grope for the nightstand, slapping the beeper off. Throwing her legs over the edge of the bed, she felt with her feet for her fuzzy slippers. Once those were on, she rose and wove her way from the bedroom to the kitchen, palms skimming along the white enamel walls to keep her on course. Coffee.

  Just as she reached the automatic coffee maker, which had been preset the night before, the phone had the audac­ity to ring. She groped her way down the cupboards, blink­ing to see. Her ankle bumped Moses's dish as she grabbed the receiver, and the next instant, she felt cold water slosh onto her foot and trickle between her toes. "Hello?"

  "Sarah, we've been robbed! Oh, God, I can't believe it."

  Prying her eyelids open, Sarah blinked three more times in rapid succession, focusing on the refrigerator magnets. The fake fried egg her little sister, Beth, had sent her for her birthday last year stared back at her. "Molly? That you?"

  "Who d'ya think? Dammit, Sarah, I could get murdered standing here! They could still be—oh, God—what do I do?"

  Numb, her brain was numb. Sarah dragged her hair back from her face. "Did you say a robbery? There's no money."

  "They broke in. Broke the door glass, tore the place up."

  Sarah finally came awake enough to think. Fright zig­zagged through her. "Get outside, Molly, on the sidewalk where people can see you. I'll phone the cops."

  Damn, damn, damn. Why, when there was an emergency, did she hit every red light in town and then not find a single parking place? And no Molly out front. Frantic, Sarah scanned the street. A bubble top, thank God. The police were here. After double-parking, too frightened about Molly to care if she got a ticket, Sarah threw open the door of her Fiero and dashed between the parked cars onto the sidewalk. Shards of glass littered the shale-colored tiles in­side the doorway of Roots. She sprinted through it, brak­ing to a halt when she reached the rug.

  Disaster. It was the only word to describe the cyclone ef­fect that greeted her. The broken glass in the door was only a preview. Papers were strewn, tables overturned, garbage dumped, manila envelopes thrown helter-skelter. And poor Molly! Hair awry, mascara running down her cheeks in black rivers, her bottom lip quivering as she responded to a bored police officer's rapid-fire questions. Sarah straight­ened her windbreaker to conceal her pajama top and stepped forward, shoving her tangled hair from her eyes. "Excuse me. I'm Sarah Montague, the owner. Perhaps I can tell you what you need to know."

  The officer skimmed a blue-eyed gaze over her, taking in her water-matted pink fuzzy slippers, her faded blue jeans and the Oregon Ducks windbreaker she hugged around herself. "Did you discover the break-in?"

  "No."

  "Then I'll speak with you in a moment."

  Sarah turned to stare in shock at the mess around her. Why would anyone—She broke off midthought, her gaze riveted to her office door. Placing one numb foot before the other, she walk
ed toward it. Robert De Lorio. He had done this; she was sure of it. Fury kindled in the pit of her stom­ach, flashing outward like jags of lightning to make her whole body tingle. She threw open the door, made a sharp right and stood staring at the empty top drawer of her file. It had been forced open and the D file was gone.

  Returning to the destroyed waiting area, Sarah said, "I think I know who did this."

  The policeman regarded her with solemn-faced curiosity. "Who would that be, ma'am?"

  "A man named Robert De Lorio. He called me the day before yesterday making vague threats. I'm working with his son, trying to find his natural parents. De Lorio objects. I think that—"

  "It looks like kids, ma'am. No serious damage. I see prank written all over it."

  He called this a prank? It'd take an entire day to clean it up, another day to create new hard-copy files, not to men­tion getting someone in to fix the door. Her spine stiffened. Hard copy! Some of it had been stolen. What if...

  With her heart in her throat, Sarah ran back to her office and flipped on her computer, praying her documents hadn't been erased. She called up the De Lorio file, holding her breath, expecting the computer to tell her no such docu­ment existed.

  "Everything okay with the computer?"

  She glanced up, focusing on the officer's crisp blue shirt. "Yes, thank God. He didn't think to sabotage my master files."

  "Trust me, lady, if it had been an adult out to steal in­formation or sabotage you, as you put it, the computer would have been the first thing to get it. It was kids. Last week, we had fourteen taillights busted out in one night. Weekend before, the city mall windows got soaped. Three days before that—"

  "I'm convinced." Sarah held up her hands in surrender. What point was there in arguing? She knew what she knew. "I've got enough troubles without hearing a crime report."

  For the first time, he smiled. "Try a cup of coffee. You'll feel a little more oriented once you wake up." He pulled his clipboard from his belt, jotted something down, then tipped his hat to her. "I'll make out a report. Don't hold your breath for results, though. Finding the kids who do these things is nigh unto impossible. We try but..." With a shrug, he turned on his heel and left.