Page 6 of Without a Trace

  Sarah closed the file drawer, flashing him a smile that felt as stiff as a dried facial mask. She walked with him from her office, standing near the door to bid him goodbye. "You'll be cautious? Don't give anyone information about your dad."

  He paused with his hand on the doorknob. "I'm not stu­pid, Sarah. I realize what the implications are. You're not the only one who can make inquiries without giving much away. I just won't use my real last name."

  She shrugged. "I'm sorry if I sound like a broken re­cord. It's just that I'd hate to see you do anything you might regret."

  "I won't. I'm aiming for a clean slate, not regrets." His mouth twisted into a smile and he lifted a hand as if to touch her hair. At the last second, he hesitated and dropped his arm. "I'll be in touch."

  "You do that."

  He opened the door and stepped outside, letting it swing closed behind him. Again Sarah went over to the window to watch him. There was a dark green sedan parked a short distance up the street in front of an office space that was currently up for lease. After business hours, very few cars parked along this section of Thirteenth Avenue

  because everything was closed. She peered through the gold letter­ing on her window at the automobile. The dark silhouette of a man sat on the driver's side. Probably a Realtor wait­ing to show the offices to a potential client, she decided. Why else would someone be sitting there at six-thirty in the evening?

  The next morning at 7:38, the tail of the Boeing 737 sank lower to the ground as the engines revved up to full power for takeoff. Weary from a sleepless night due to a recur­rence of his nightmare, Michael leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. Was it cold in Chicago in early September? When he arrived there, would his memory be jogged? Would he unlock the secrets of his past? God, he hoped so. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life wak­ing from a dead sleep in an empty bed, terrified and drenched in sweat.

  Forcing his eyes open, Michael leaned forward. At his feet sat the hatbox from his closet shelf. The teddy bear inside was his one concrete link to the past. He'd feel like a damned fool carrying it around, showing it to everyone. But it was something he had to do. Reading the reactions on people's faces was his expertise, a talent he had honed during coun­seling sessions. If he flashed that bear and rattled some­one's cage, he'd know he was one step closer to solving the mystery of his nightmare.

  The bear had a blood stain on its ear. He felt certain of that now. Whose blood, though? In a few hours, he'd be able to call Eleanora Miller and make an appointment to see her. Perhaps she'd tell him something to shed some light on everything. It would be so much easier to accept if his nightmare stemmed from before his adoption. So much easier to discover his dad was uninvolved.

  Eleanora Miller answered the telephone with her usual cheerful hello, expecting her husband, Darrell, to be on the line. Instead an unfamiliar male voice rasped in her ear. "Hello, Nora. It's been a long time."

  A shiver raised gooseflesh on her arms. "Who is this?"

  "An echo from your past. I'm only going to say this once, so you'd better listen close. Years ago, you had an illegiti­mate son, a son you've kept secret from everyone. If he should contact you, or if anyone should do so in his behalf to set up a meeting, do it at your own risk. You do love your husband, don't you, Nora?"

  "Who the hell are you?"

  "Your conscience, Nora. I wonder what your hubby would say if I sent him a long letter and accompanying evi­dence that you weren't quite as lily white when he married you as you led him to believe?"

  Nora squeezed her eyes closed and leaned against the wall. "What are you getting at? My husband is—You can't do this. It'd break his heart. How did you find out? Who are you? What is it you want?"

  "Ah, you're quick. I like that."

  "Damn you, stop playing with me! What do you want? Money?"

  "Nora, Nora, you insult me. Money is the last thing on my mind. All I want is a favor. Nothing big, love. Just your cooperation in a small matter. Are you game? Or should I put this little packet in the mail to your hubby's office?"

  "My husband isn't well. A shock like that could kill him. I—I was only sixteen, for heaven's sake. It was a stupid mistake—nothing more—just one stupid mistake."

  "We have to pay for our mistakes, though, don't we, Nora?"

  Michael took a cab directly from O'Hare International to the Chicago Hilton and Towers on Michigan Avenue

  . Immediately after checking in, he took an elevator to the eighth floor and followed the numbered arrows to his room. As he let himself in the door, he was vaguely aware that he'd chosen his accommodations well. It was a beautiful place, tastefully decorated, with luxurious carpeting. He tested the mattress on one queen-sized bed as he set the hatbox and his suitcase on it. Then he strode across the sitting room to gaze out the window at Grant Park and the lakeshore. Images of Sarah's face drifted through his mind.

  Nothing seemed familiar to him. Ever since getting off the plane, he'd felt like one insignificant speck in a tumultuous sea of bodies. Eugene wasn't that small a place, but it was miniscule compared to Chicago. From his window seat on the 737, Michael had had an aerial view of some of the downtown area as the plane came in for its landing. He had half expected something to strike a chord in his memory, but nothing had.

  Sighing, he turned from the window to eye the telephone on the nightstand. After thirty-five years, he was finally going to hear his mother's voice. Fear coiled in his gut, a cold irrational fear that made it feel like his legs had turned to water. What forgotten memories lurked in his subcon­scious that he could feel so terrified about dialing a phone number? When he finally recalled those memories, would the fear subside? Or would it be worse?

  Striding over to the nightstand, he lifted the phone re­ceiver, dialed to get an outside line and pulled the paper Sarah had given him from his jacket pocket. With a trem­bling finger, he pressed the digits of Eleanora Miller's number, then held his breath, waiting. A second later, a woman's tremulous voice came over the wire.

  "Hello, is this Eleanora Miller?" Michael heard the quiver in his own voice and swallowed, trying to regain his composure.

  "Who is this?"

  "My name is Michael—um Michael Smith. I, um, I was given your number by Sarah Montague, the genealogist."

  There followed a long and heavy silence.

  "You are Eleanora Miller?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I think I may be your son."

  Another silence. "I doubt that."

  Those three words hit Michael like a well-placed blow in the pit of his stomach. "I—I'm sorry. I was under the impression you wanted me to contact you."

  The woman cleared her throat. "At first, maybe I did. But once I had time to think about it, I realized it'd just complicate my life, open me up to a lot of questions. The past is over. I want to keep it that way."

  "Would you at least see me?"

  "No, I'm sorry." Her voice rang with tension. "If you had definite proof, maybe I'd risk it, but you don't. The Montague woman admitted it herself. My child dropped out of sight. There's no way to be positive where he is. You're grasping at straws."

  "I think I can get the proof. If we both request it, I be­lieve we can review the adoption records. Won't you at least listen to what I've got to say?"

  "No. Just...just leave me alone, okay? It's been too many years, Michael, far too many. You understand? I have other children, a husband who doesn't know I had an illegitimate child, a life that can't include you. Please, don't rip it apart. Even if you were my boy, the cost of seeing you would be too dear. Stay away from me. Please."

  Just before the phone clicked and went dead, Michael heard Eleanora Miller sob. He sat there on the bed, staring at the variegated carpet, letting the phone receiver dangle between his knees. If his mother had been thrilled at the thought of seeing him when she talked to Sarah, she'd had a drastic change of heart. As hard as it was to accept, though, he understood. He didn't want to rip her life apart. He j
ust wanted to fit the pieces of his together.

  Sighing, he dialed to get an outside line again and punched the number for Roots in Eugene. After four rings, the message recorder answered. Michael listened to the greeting, waited for the beep and then said, "Just Michael. I'll get back to you."

  Hanging up the phone, he glanced at his watch. It would be three minutes after five in Oregon. Sarah must have left the office already. She was probably on her way home. He'd give her half an hour and then call her at her house.

  Five-twenty. Sarah coasted her ten-speed around the cor­ner onto Elm, a tree-lined residential street. Leaning her head back to catch the breeze, she took a deep breath and exhaled. Since saying goodbye to Michael last night, he'd been constantly in her thoughts. She could only hope a strenuous bike ride home would clear her head so she'd get a decent night's sleep.

  A dark green car passed. Sarah hugged the curb to get out of its path, then lifted her hand to wave at a little boy who was racing down his driveway on a shiny new two-wheeler with training wheels. He looked so proud. His bike wob­bled dangerously when he attempted to wave back, causing Sarah to smile. She could still remember the rush of excite­ment she had felt when she finally learned to balance her Schwinn without her dad holding her steady.

  "Hi, lady!" the child called.

  Sarah grinned as she steered around a Honda parked at the curb and turned to wave at the little boy again. She didn't see the green car make a U-turn at the corner. "Hi. Wow, those are fancy wheels. Are they brand-new?"

  "Yup. My dad got it for me yester—"

  The boy broke off and swung down from his bike, turn­ing his head to look up the street. Sarah saw a startled expression cross his freckled face. His mouth twisted to yell something, but his words were drowned out by the acceler­ation of a car engine. Sarah caught movement out of the corner of her eye, whipped her head back around to look and saw a...

  Her mind froze before she could register the message her eyes transmitted to her brain. From that split second on, she saw and heard everything as though it were a video tape being played in freeze-frames: a car coming at her, driving in the wrong lane, a pair of headlights. The click-click of radial tires gripping the asphalt for traction. A whoosh of air gusting against her face.

  Sarah's muscles tensed. She tried to steer her bike out of the car's path, but there wasn't time. She saw it coming one moment and then it was right on top of her. A loud crash filled her head. She felt the jarring impact of a much larger vehicle colliding with hers. And then all she was conscious of was a deluge of pain and a strange cartwheeling sensa­tion as her body pitched skyward.

  Sarah felt herself flying end over end. Then a mind- shattering impact brought her to a dead halt. Her body felt too heavy to respond to the panic nipping at the edges of her consciousness. Blackness, everywhere blackness. Pain jumbled her memory. A little boy, she thought, a little boy, a green car and a loud noise.

  Far, far ahead was a pinpoint of light. Ah, she was in a tunnel. She tried to feel the walls on each side of her, but her arms wouldn't move. She could see the opening ahead, broadening, becoming brighter as she moved toward it. Images spun—sky, grass, people's legs. She moaned.

  Voices ricocheted within her mind like tennis balls bouncing off concrete. "Don't move her! Haven't you had any first aid?" "Oh my God, is she dead?" "Did you see that? He drove right for her." "Don't just stand here. Somebody call an ambulance."

  Sarah licked her lips. I'm okay, she said. Or did she just think it? A hysterical urge to laugh hit her. She really was okay. She just couldn't tell them so. Hands slid up her legs, a man's hands. She tried to push them aside.

  "Just lie still, ma'am. Don't move. Does that hurt? If you feel pain anywhere, just blink your eyes."

  Sarah blinked, not as a signal but to clear her vision. She rolled onto her side. Something prickled her cheek, and she inhaled the sweet, heavy smell of freshly cut grass.

  "No, lady, don't try to move."

  She pushed herself to a sitting position, shaking her head. Everywhere she looked she saw people's legs. "Where's my bike?"

  "Honey, your bike's ruined," a grandmotherly voice crooned. "There, there, you really mustn't be getting up. Ah, that's a girl, just be still."

  Plump, gentle arms encircled Sarah's shoulders, and a kindly hand pressed her face against the bodice of a crisp cotton housedress. She relaxed, vaguely aware of an ap­proaching siren. "I'm really okay. Just get me my bike? Do you have my bike?"

  Tires skidded to a stop next to the curb. Through the fringe of her dark eyelashes, Sarah saw the back doors of a white ambulance fly open. Metal clanked. A deep, com­manding voice said, "Just get back, folks. We'll take it from here."

  She felt herself being lifted, then lowered onto some­thing crisp and firm. A stretcher? "No, wait. I don't need—"

  "It's okay, ma'am. Just relax. You're in good hands."

  The voice was deep and gentle. It reminded her of...? A smile touched her mouth. Michael. Ah, yes, it would be okay if she was with Michael

  Sarah sat on the edge of the examining table and stared at the striped privacy curtain that surrounded her, watch­ing the emergency room doctor jot notes on his clipboard. Beyond the curtain, Sacred Heart Hospital bustled with ac­tivity. Phones rang. People scurried, barking orders. She imagined the policemen who had just been in to question her had caused part of the stir.

  Lowering her gaze to her ripped bicycling tights, she touched the ragged edges of the tear to examine the red marks on her thigh. Tomorrow she'd be a mass of bruises and sore as the dickens. Even so, she'd been lucky. Accord­ing to the police, all that had saved her from being killed was a freak flip of her bike upon impact that had thrown her clear of the car.

  "You're an extremely fortunate woman. You realize that, don't you?" The doctor studied her over the dark rims of his glasses, his blue eyes solemn. "We don't see many people walk away from accidents like that. I understand the police think the driver was drunk?"

  "He must have been. I was over by the opposite curb, and he came clear across the centerline. It was almost as if—" She broke off and frowned, wincing as she shrugged one shoulder. "Oh, well, all's well that ends well."

  "Just stay off bikes for a few days, okay?" He tore a slip of paper from his pad and extended it to her. "This is for codeine. You might need it later. Get plenty of rest, take it easy, see your regular doctor if anything unusual crops up. Other than that, I guess you're free to go if you're sure you don't want to stay overnight for observation."

  She shook her head. "I'll rest better at home." I'll also spend less money at home, she thought.

  "If you have any problems during the night, come back in."

  "Mmm, yes, I'll do that."

  Sliding down from the table, she placed a hand at the small of her back and straightened, following the doctor from the curtained area. Parting company with him as they entered the hall, she angled left for the lobby, pushed out through the door and glanced around for a pay phone. She'd have to call a cab. Her three-hundred-dollar bike was totaled.

  Beyond the windows, she could see university students hustling along the sidewalks, heads bent against the swiftly falling darkness, their book bags bulging. They all had places to go, people to meet. Everyone but her. The thought made her inexplicably afraid. She kept remembering that green car, the sound of its revved engine, the click of its tires grabbing asphalt as it swerved straight toward her.

  A green car. She had seen a sedan like it somewhere just recently, but when and where escaped her. In the cul-de-sac where she lived? Near the office? Downtown someplace? Where had she been? Why couldn't she remember? Hyster­ical laughter gathered in her throat, and it took all her self- control to stifle it. It was so insane. Who would want to harm her? She had no enemies, certainly not any who'd wish her dead.

  Taking a deep breath, she leaned her shoulder against the wall and closed her eyes. She should probably call her Aunt Janelle or a friend, but until she got her head cleared
, she hated to. She'd sound crazy if she started ranting about someone trying to kill her, and right now, she wasn't sure she could trust herself not to express the suspicions scream­ing through her mind. If only Michael weren't out of town, she'd call him for a lift home. She missed him. Raising her lashes, she threw another panicked glance out the windows at the swiftly falling darkness, wishing her mother lived in Eugene. She didn't want to be alone, not tonight.

  Chapter Five

  Michael dropped the phone into its cradle and sighed, flop­ping back onto his bed to stare at the sterile white ceiling. How he hated hotels. They were so impersonal, so cold, so lonely. Where was Sarah? He threw his arm over his eyes to shut out the light. She's probably out on a dinner date, you moron. Do you think she's got your name branded on her forehead or something? The feeling that something was wrong niggled at his mind, refusing to be silenced. He rolled onto his side and stared at the telephone. He'd try her one more time in twenty minutes, and if she didn't answer then, he'd quit. He had to get some rest. Last night he'd awak­ened from a nightmare around one o'clock and paced the floor most of the night.

  Glancing at his watch, he resigned himself to an eternity of waiting. Funny how long a minute seemed when you were counting the seconds. So you're getting serious about her, are you, old man? Well, you sure picked one hell of a time for it. Images swirled in his mind of blood dripping from a yellow bedspread. That much blood meant murder. He had no business dragging Sarah into his life right now, no busi­ness even thinking about her.

  To distract himself, he went back over his conversation with Eleanora Miller. Another dead end after traveling so far? Not that he blamed the woman. She had her own life to live, after all, a life that didn't include her adult bastard son.

  He heaved a long, draining sigh. Tomorrow he would visit Giorgio Santini and Marcus St. John. If he gave minimal information about himself and used a fake last name, no one would be able to trace Robert De Lorio through him. He had a right to answers, didn't he? A right to a normal life, knowing who he was and where he came from. If he returned to Eugene too soon, he'd never know the truth and the nightmare would haunt him the rest of his life.