Page 7 of Without a Trace

  Slowly Michael relaxed and let his eyes drift closed. The bed cradled him in warmth. Sarah. What was he going to do about her? So much depended on the outcome of this trip, his whole future. He wished this journey into his past was over—over and done with, forever buried.

  Buried.

  Michael's thoughts gradually became disjointed, float­ing in a thick, swirling mist. He felt his muscles relaxing, and for an instant, he resisted. Then he deliberately let go. In the far reaches of his mind, he knew there were secrets awaiting him if only he had the courage to face them. Se­crets. The mist around him reminded him of the fog in an old London horror movie, constantly moving, heavy, im­penetrable. He slipped through it, straining to see, afraid something would leap out at him.

  "Little boy!" a man's voice called. "Over here, kiddo. Look this way!"

  Michael spun around. A man's distorted face loomed above him, half his features hidden behind a black box with a silver circle attached to its top. Light exploded in Michael's eyes. Blinded, he fell back, blinking to see. Then another man leaped from the mist, and another black box exploded light in Michael's face. Panicked, he tried to run, but everywhere he turned, men with black boxes emerged from the fog....

  At eight o'clock the next morning, Sarah lowered her­self gingerly onto her office chair, holding a mug in one hand and a portfolio in the other. Her bottom panged as it touched the chair cushion, making her wonder if she hadn't landed rump first last night when the car hit her. Taking a careful sip of coffee, she pressed the surge-control switch with her toe to turn on her computer terminal and typed in the call letters of a file. The computer screen flashed, No such file exists. Would you like to open a new one?

  She choked, staring incredulously. "What do you mean, no such file exists? Of course it exists." The words had no sooner left her mouth than she rolled her eyes. Since when had she begun talking to inanimate objects and expecting replies?

  Retyping the call letters, she hit return, quite sure she'd hear the usual ker-whunk and clickety-click as a file was pulled from a hard disk. Nothing? She froze with her mug halfway to her mouth. There it was again. No such file ex­ists. She no longer needed caffeine to stimulate her: panic did the job. She requested the computer directory to review her files. There weren't any files? The hard disk was empty? A tingle of alarm ran up her spine.

  She flew from her chair. "Molly!"

  "Yes?" Molly appeared in the doorway with record speed, waving her freshly painted fingernails. "What's the matter?"

  "My computer's been erased."

  "I didn't do it." Molly's pencil-lined eyes widened with alarm. "Honest, Sarah, this time I'm innocent."

  "I wasn't accusing you. Just bring me the back-up disks." Sarah noticed Molly's face go pale. Suddenly worried, Sarah asked, "What do you mean, this time?"

  Molly gnawed her bottom lip, looking nervous. "I, um, I was going to tell you Sarah—honest, I was—just as soon as I replaced everything."

  "Tell me what?" Sarah asked. "What do you have to re­place?"

  Molly replied. "I spilled a soft drink yesterday."

  Sarah frowned. "What does that have to do with—"

  "Into one of my drawers," Molly interjected. "The drawer was stuck. I was jerking on it, and when it came open the cup toppled. Cola got all over the back-up disks."

  Sarah felt her stomach twist into knots. It took all her self-control to keep from saying something she would re­gret. After a long, unnaturally quiet moment, she heaved a sigh. "I don't believe this. We're talking major disaster. I can't run this place without my files."

  "I did use the computer late yesterday, just for a few minutes," Molly admitted. "But I was super careful. I've learned my lesson."

  Sarah certainly hoped so. "Now all we have to work with is hard copy, and half that's gone since the burglary." Turning to glare at the scarred file cabinet, Sarah tapped her front teeth with her fingertip. "Wait a minute, wait just one damned minute. Think, Molly. What's all this point to?"

  Molly lifted one shoulder, her expression vague. "That I'm incompetent?"

  "No, the break-in! Don't you get the connection? The burglar only took hard copy the first time. He must have realized how futile that was, so he came back and finished the job."

  "Last night? But nobody broke in last night."

  "Wanna bet." Sarah swept past Molly into the main of­fice, making a beeline for the windows on the left side of the room. "Check on that side. Look for gouges in the paint where someone might have used a crowbar."

  The windows on Sarah's side of the office showed no sign of tampering. She circled Molly's desk and went to the back door, opening it to examine both sides of the door frame for any telltale scratches.

  "I don't see anything," Molly called.

  "Me neither." Sarah stepped across the carpet, nibbling thoughtfully on the end piece of her reading glasses. "Well, if no one broke in, there's only one other possibility." "Me?" Molly forgot her wet nails and wrung her hands. "I should have known not to major in secretarial science. Why did my mom insist I be a secretary, anyway? I'm no good at this stuff, no good at all."

  The distress in Molly's voice caught at Sarah's heart. As incompetent as the girl was, Sarah knew she tried. "Non­sense, it takes a string command to erase the main ter­minal."

  "If it wasn't me, then what?"

  "I'll bet you ten bucks it's the computer. Electronic wonders do screw up on occasion."

  Two hours later, Sarah owed Molly ten dollars. Accord­ing to the repairman, there was nothing wrong with the computer.

  "I can't believe it."

  The repairman smiled down at her. "You just punched a series of wrong buttons, the way it looks. Have you taken your free classes to learn how to operate your computer?"

  "No, I didn't need them."

  His eyebrows lifted a fraction. "Yes, well, they certainly can't hurt, you know. It'd save you having to go through retrieving all your data when an erasure occurs."

  Her mind stuck on the word retrieve. "You mean I can get it back?"

  "With the proper software. It's tedious, but it works. Come out to the shop and we'll get you fixed up in no time."

  She walked the repairman to the door, still dubious. "You're positive it wasn't a malfunction?"

  "Not a mechanical one." His blue eyes twinkled into hers. "Take the computer classes. They're great."

  The bell jangled as he let himself out onto the sidewalk. She stood there a moment, staring at the door handle. No break-in, no computer malfunction, which left only one possibility. Either she or Molly had made a fatal keyboard error.

  "I knew it," Molly moaned. "It was me, wasn't it?"

  Sarah turned on her heel to stare at Molly's angelic fea­tures. It was frightening to think anyone who looked so harmless could be so catastrophic. By all rights, Sarah knew what she should do, but knowing and doing it were two dif­ferent things. Molly truly did mean well. And she needed this job. No one else was likely to give her one, after all.

  "All's well that ends well. It just means extra work."

  Molly sprang from her desk. "I'll do it, Sarah. I'll even work overtime for free."

  Sarah cringed at the thought of Molly fiddling with the computer. She pasted a smile on her face and headed for her office. "Nonsense. Who's to say I didn't erase the files? I'll go get the necessary software and you man the phone. Sound fair? We're at a standstill for a couple of days, that's all. I'm sure it won't be fun trying to retrieve the files, but it could have been far worse."

  Molly tagged along to Sarah's desk. "I can go get the software if you have things to do.''

  "I can't do anything until I get the files back," Sarah re­minded her. "I won't be long." On the way out the door, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. "By the way, Molly, the repairman spoke to me about some free computer classes. They're one night a week, I think. It wouldn't be a bad idea for you to take them."

  "See? You do think it was me that messed up. You won't say it, but you're thinking
it just the same. Oh, Sarah, why don't you just get it over with and fire me?"

  Sarah rolled her eyes rather than answer, but Molly's question couldn't be put to rest quite that easily. All the way to the computer shop, she skirted the issue. Why did she keep Molly when the girl was so completely incompetent? Not even her Aunt Janelle would blame Sarah if she let Molly go after this fiasco. It took a string of commands to erase the computer hard disk. Surely Molly hadn't done it deliberately. But how else could it have happened?

  Michael's legs quivered as he studied the ornate brass chime beside Giorgio Santini's front door. After spending four years of his life searching, he knew he should be de­lighted to be here, moments away from speaking to a man who claimed to be the brother of Angelo Santini. So why wasn't he?

  He depressed the door chime button with his thumb and took a step back, tightening his arm around the box he car­ried and shoving his other hand into his slacks pocket. He gave the front of the house a quick once-over. The massive brick exterior was impressive. He knew money when he saw it and this house oozed greenbacks from its mortar.

  Glancing at the paned windows to his left, Michael searched for any sign of movement beyond the squares of glass. Was that a footstep approaching? A low cough? He swallowed and lifted his chin. The door swung inward with an accompanying squeak, and a small, dark man stepped into view. He looked so much like Robert De Lorio that Michael blinked. Not a double of his dad, but close. His hair was a little thinner, his brown eyes were more serious and scrutinizing, and he looked a tad younger, but he was undeniably a De Lorio. Or rather a Santini. Michael's stomach tightened. How long would it take before he grew accustomed to his legal last name? If Santini was his last name.

  "You are Michael?"

  Even Santini's voice reminded him of his father's. "Yes, Michael Smith."

  Santini smiled. He obviously didn't believe Michael went by Smith, but he wasn't going to argue the point.

  "I, um, appreciate you seeing me, Mr. Santini. It's very kind of you."

  Giorgio Santini threw the door open wide, gazing up at Michael with a distant expression on his squared, wrinkled face. An ache of sadness crept into his eyes as he regarded each of Michael's features as if comparing them to some long forgotten memory. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug of resigned acceptance. "I cannot say I am glad you came." In a louder voice, he added, "You are our Gino, there is no doubt."

  With a sweep of his arm, he beckoned Michael into a stately foyer, which presented a spiral staircase that stretched to an upstairs landing. The slate floor reminded Michael of Sarah's office entry. A flash vision of her oval face crossed his mind, and a warm, comfortable glow eased the ache of tension in his gut. He wished she were here with him. He could have used a hearty dose of her sense of humor.

  Following Santini through a tasteful gallery into an enor­mous living room, Michael took a seat on the burnt gold sofa, deflecting Santini's speculative look with a smile.

  "Does your papa know you have come?"

  Setting the teddy-bear box on the carpet next to his feet, Michael glanced up at the older man. Genuine affection glowed in Santini's eyes, but displeasure was etched upon his features as well. "No, I'm afraid not."

  Santini darted a quick look toward the foyer, then met Michael's gaze. "So what is it my brother is doing, hmm? His arm is broken, yes? That is why he has never written a letter to his family, why our poor mamma died not know­ing where he had gone away to?" Giorgio lowered himself into a wing chair, waving both hands in agitation as he spoke, another trait Michael recognized as exclusively De Lorio. "You will tell me this is so? I can forgive the scoun­drel if his arm is broken."

  "I was hoping you could answer those questions, Mr. Santini. I've no idea why my father left here, why he hasn't kept in touch."

  "Hmph! Uncle Giorgio, that is my name. You are not sure yet, eh? Well, I may be hitting sixty, but my eyesight is not that bad, my boy. You are our Gino. I would know you anywhere. You used to sit on my knee, making a fine mess with red licorice. You loved it in those days. Do you still?"

  Michael couldn't suppress a grin. "As a matter of fact, I do."

  "Yes, you are our Gino. You have your papa's nose. Strange, that, don't you think? We used to admire you and brag how much you resembled our family, even though you weren't born to us. 'That boy is a Santini.' That is what we used to say."

  Not a De Lorio? Michael tried to get his sense of identity on track. He was Gino Santini, the terrified child in his nightmare. If he broached the subject, would this friendly little man tell him what had happened in his past to cause such a haunting dream? "You're that positive?"

  Santini's reply was to bounce from his chair and step to the coffee table to lift a family album from its surface. He offered it to Michael. "You will decide for yourself, no? Come, come, take it, Gino. Look at the pictures."

  Michael's hands turned slippery with sweat as he propped the album on his knees and opened it. His head spun. He didn't want to see these pictures. He didn't want to talk any longer with Giorgio Santini. He wanted to run.

  The inclination felt foreign. All his life, he'd been taught to face his troubles. Yet here he sat, escape foremost in his mind. And he didn't know why. The first familiar face to stare up at him from the album was that of a slender young woman with dark hair and a gentle smile. "Mamma "

  The word trailed from his lips like a caress.

  Giorgio craned his neck to see, then nodded. "Ah, yes, that is Marcia at your first birthday party. You made a fine mess that day, too. Cake in your hair and everyone else's. Flip the page. There you are. A fine boy, eh? Smart, too. You took after our mamma."

  Michael stared at the child in the photo. The features were blurred with baby plumpness, but the nose and mouth were undeniable. In the background, Robert De Lorio stood poised with a cake knife, his face creased in a gigantic grin. A proud young father, Angelo Santini, Robert De Lorio, one and the same.

  "Now you will call me Uncle Giorgio, no? It is so. You can see the truth for yourself." Giorgio returned to his chair, planting his hands on his knees. He glanced toward the foyer again as he leaned forward. "Where is my brother, Gino?"

  "I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

  Something flickered in Santini's eyes. Relief? Sadness? "I am an old man. We don't have many years left. You wouldn't deny me the chance to see him just one more time, my brother, my flesh and blood?"

  Michael closed the album and returned it to the coffee table. "That must be my father's decision. I'm sorry but his health is bad. The shock of hearing from you, if he were unprepared, could kill him. Let me go home. I'll talk to him, break it to him gently. Then if he wants to call you, he can."

  Again something indefinable flickered in Giorgio's eyes. "You plan to walk out the door without giving me a clue where you came from? Out of the blue you call me. I invite you into my home. I welcome you and call you nephew. It is a fine way to repay me. Do you know what it's like to be­lieve your brother is dead, then find out he isn't? I want to see him, Gino. I want to be with him. You can't be so cruel, not to your uncle who loves you."

  "I swear to you, I'll try to convince my dad to get in touch. It's all I can do." Michael felt like a heel. Giorgio clearly loved his brother. "Papa's heart, you understand? After all these years, it'd give him a terrible shock to hear from you if he weren't forewarned. I don't know why he left here, what he was running from, but whatever the reason, he has to be the one to make contact. Please, try to under­stand that. I owe him that much."

  Giorgio's shoulders slumped and he dropped his head to gaze at the carpet. After a long silence, he said, "I suppose you must do what you feel you must."

  "Uncle Giorgio..." The name caught in Michael's throat. "I know I've already asked a lot of you, giving nothing in return, but I have one more thing I need to know."

  "And what is that?"

  Michael lifted the box onto his knees, tossed off the lid and pulled out the teddy bear. Not a muscle in Giorgio's face mo
ved, but Michael felt sure his color faded. "Do you recognize this toy?"

  "No. Should I?"

  "I have a recurring dream." Tension electrified the air as Michael described the horrible nightmare. Giorgio's fea­tures settled into a stony mask. "Do you know why I re­member something so awful? Did it actually happen? There's a stain on the inner seam of this bear's ear. It could be blood. Who was Helen? Why was I hiding under a bed? Whose blood was on the floor?"

  "It sounds like a crazy nightmare to me, nothing more. I don't know any Helen. Blood, you say?" Santini snorted with laughter. "It is a child's bad dream, eh? And you've turned it into a mystery." He shrugged and smiled. "There is nothing, Gino. We are a loving family, the Santinis. If you have come here to slay some sort of dragon, you've wasted your time."

  "Then why did my father leave here? Why did he change his name?"

  Settling back in his chair, Giorgio fixed his gaze on the wall above Michael's head. "That I cannot answer. You ask your papa, no? You tell him Giorgio loves him. You tell him blood is thicker than water. I swear it on our mamma's grave."

  Michael returned the bear to its box and rose from the sofa, clasping the container in his arms. "I'll do that. Thank you for seeing me."

  "I could do nothing else."

  There was an air of resignation in the old man's tone. Extending his hand, Michael forced a smile. "Goodbye, Uncle Giorgio. I'll be in touch. That's a promise."

  Giorgio gave his fingers an affectionate squeeze. "And I will be waiting. You can see yourself out? Like your papa, I am not in good health. This has tired me."

  "I—" Michael searched for words. "Thank you. I'll call or write soon."

  As Michael started from the room, he heard Giorgio Santini whisper, "It might be best if you do not."

  Turning, Michael stared at the old man. Not even by the flicker of an eyelid did Santini indicate that he'd whispered the warning. After a long moment, he nodded toward the door and said, "Go, Gino, go with God's blessing."