Without a Trace

by Catherine Anderson

  She shivered. "I don't think the men we're dealing with would hesitate killing a child."

  "No, I'm afraid not." Scenes from his last nightmare spun through his mind again. As a child, he hadn't recog­nized the blue-black thing the man in his dream had car­ried, but now he knew what it had been: a machine gun with an ammunition belt. "Men like that can kill without a thought."

  "You are going back to Chicago, aren't you?" Thinking about Michael flying into danger made it hard to breathe. "Oh, Michael."

  "I have no choice. The only way to stop all this is to find out who's behind it and sic the law on them." He looked at her, his expression solemn. "There is one change in plans. I want you to go with me. I can't risk leaving you here, not since hearing about Molly. Before I figured they were just after me and my dad, that once I was gone, you'd be safe. Now I know better."

  She nodded. "I know who you are. Who you really are."

  "Which explains your computer erasure. Eliminate you, Molly and the computer files, and I'm plain old Michael De Lorio. If my father and I wind up dead, there's no way to trace who did it. It makes sense in a spine chilling sort of way."

  "But who? And why?"

  "That's what we have to find out. Are you game? Your investigative knowledge may come in handy." He arched an inquisitive brow at her. "I figure we'll have to spend sev­eral more days here while I get my strength back. We can call from the store to see how Molly is and make plane reserva­tions."

  "There's no way I'd let you leave me behind." She tried to smile and her mouth quivered. "I'm the one who gave Molly a job. No matter what you say, what happened to her is my responsibility. If we don't stop whoever is behind all this, she won't be safe once she leaves the hospital. She knows who you really are, so they can't leave her alive. You have your reasons for going to Chicago; now I have mine. After all, calling the police wouldn't do any good. They're convinced Molly was a random victim. And besides, I've watched too many scary movies to make that mistake. The person left behind always gets it."

  Fear and terror and waiting. Sarah learned to live with each as constant companions. Long, quiet days before a warm hearth with only the sounds of the wind whispering through dense woods. Lonely nights in an even lonelier bed, only a few feet away from the man who was slowly becom­ing the nucleus of her life. They'd made two phone calls: one to Sarah's neighbor, Mrs. Tyson, to ask the woman to care for Moses, the other to the hospital. Molly's condition remained critical, but the prognosis for recovery was now much better. Aside from that, they made contact with no one. Not even with Sarah's birth mother, whom she knew would be frantic with worry by now. Too risky, Michael said. The less the woman knew, the safer she was. As much as Sarah wanted to phone her family, she knew Michael was right.

  She lived through the hours as a dying woman might, treasuring every brush of Michael's hand against hers, every smile, every semblance of normalcy, for she knew with dead certainty that each minute, no matter how serene it seemed on the surface, could be their last. With mounting anxiety, she watched Michael regaining his strength. Each mile­stone he passed toward recovery took them that much closer to Chicago. She understood how frantic he felt. He was worried about his father. But sometimes she wanted to put her fingers on the hands of the clock and physically stop time from ticking away.

  The day of departure from their haven in the woods came quickly. Or so it seemed to Sarah. A week of solitude with Michael, when she had longed for a lifetime, seemed piti­fully brief. She almost hoped something would go wrong during their drive to Eugene, something that would send them scurrying back to their hiding place. Nothing did. The quick stop at her house for her clothes went uneventfully. Then they drove to Michael's.

  Sarah sat on the hearth, waiting while he packed. She stared at the rifled rolltop desk, wishing they were still back at the ski lodge. The future yawned ahead of them as dark as the soot-blackened firebox behind her. She was afraid for herself and for Michael, and nothing seemed to ease her mind.

  Michael emerged from the hall, gripping a brown suit­case. His eyes met hers. "I'm ready."

  She rose and wiped her hands on her slacks. She'd changed clothes at her place. "Are you sure you aren't for­getting anything?"

  "I even got cash out of the safe. We're all set."

  They had left the car parked up the street and sneaked in the back way just in case someone was watching the house. She hoped that the exercise wouldn't sap too much of Michael's newly recovered strength.

  He led her through the house to the back door carrying his suitcase with his good arm. She stepped around him to open the door. Just as she touched the knob, a knock sounded out front. She whirled to stare at the atrium. She could see the silhouettes of two men through the sidelights in the entry.

  "Mr. De Lorio?" a voice called.

  She and Michael bolted outside and dived into the bushes beside the back porch. She worried about Michael. He wasn't up to much running. Luckily the car wasn't far. "You all right?"

  He motioned for her to lead the way, glancing back over his shoulder as they went. She circled the garage and eased her head around the corner. She was surprised to see a brown car parked in the driveway instead of the green one she'd expected. "It's not them."

  "Wanna bet your life on it? They could have switched cars." Michael nudged her forward, moving abreast of her so that his body was between her and the men on his front porch. "Go for it."

  Darting through the terraced garden that bordered the driveway, she threw a fearful glance at the house. The two men heard them and turned. Her heart skipped a beat.

  "Hey!" one of the men barked. "De Lorio! Hey!"

  "Don't stop." Michael fell in behind her to shield her as they raced up the street toward the Ford. "Hurry, Sarah, hurry. Get your keys ready."

  She dug her hand into her jacket pocket. At any mo­ment, she expected bullets to whiz past her or, worse yet, to thud into Michael's back. She could hear the two men run­ning down the driveway.

  "De Lorio, wait!"

  She and Michael threw themselves into the car and slammed their doors at precisely the same second. Sarah jammed the key into the ignition; the engine roared to life. She put the car in gear and tromped on the gas pedal. The Ford surged forward into the street.

  "If they get in your way, drive right over them."

  "Don't worry. I stopped playing nice over a week ago."

  They both fully expected the two men to pull guns from beneath their suit jackets and open fire. When the car swept past the house and nothing happened, there was almost a feeling of anticlimax.

  "Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but why didn't they shoot?" She whizzed through a stop sign, screeched around a corner, then sped along a main drag leading to Eighteenth. "We were sitting ducks."

  "Too many witnesses. Step on it, Sarah. They'll be on our tail all the way to the airport if we don't lose them."

  She flashed him a grin. "Now you see me, now you don't. I am quickly becoming the world's worst driver."

  Back at Michael's house, two U.S. marshals dashed for their car. Peeling out of the driveway, they streaked up the street after the Ford, staying on its tail all the way through Eugene. They knew De Lorio was booked for a flight to Chicago, but they had hoped to head him off before he reached the airport. The man in the passenger seat groaned when it became apparent they couldn't outrace De Lorio's companion. "Now what?"

  With a grim scowl, the other man peered through the windshield at the fleeing car. "Why did he run? Doesn't he know we're his only hope?"

  "You saw the Montague woman's office. They're prob­ably so panicked, they don't know which end's up."

  "We could call in the Feds and have them apprehended at the boarding gate."

  "If we let them know where De Lorio's headed, you can bet La Grande will hear. We can't tip him off. He'll have thugs all over the airport. If De Lorio makes it that far, we have to let him board. We'll just notify the Chicago office, and after that, he's not our problem." />
  "And what if somebody messes up making the pinch?"

  "They won't. The idea is to nail La Grande, not the lid of De Lorio's coffin."

  Chapter Twelve

  Sarah exited Highway 99 onto Airport Road

  , driving west toward the Mahlon Sweet Airport. Glancing into her rear- view mirror, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. "Michael, there's a green car on our tail."

  He twisted in his seat to look out the back window. "Damn! Step on it, Sarah."

  His voice sounded unsteady. She looked sideways at him as she accelerated, noting the whiteness of his lips. He couldn't do many more hundred-yard dashes. He had re­gained a lot of his strength in the week at the cabin, but he wasn't up to this.

  A feeling of unreality washed over her. How many men were chasing them? She could see two in the automobile behind them. There had also been two back at Michael's house. They had been hiding an entire week, and they'd been so careful not to be seen when they returned to Eugene. Whoever these men were, they were outguessing her and Michael at every turn. She felt like a dim-witted rat wan­dering in a researcher's maze.

  "Just pull into temporary parking," Michael said when she got to the airport. "The car's in Pete's name. They'll contact him and I'll settle with him later."

  If there is a later.

  Sarah's eyes burned with tears as she whipped the car into a slot. Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw the green sedan approaching the parking area. A Chrysler, she real­ized. Being able to identify the automobile's make told her it was dangerously close.

  Grabbing their bags, they darted back and forth between parked cars, then made a dash into the building. Unlike large airports, Mahlon Sweet consisted of one central lobby where tickets from various airlines could be purchased. They ran to American Airlines, where they had reservations. Michael guarded Sarah's back while she got their tickets and seat assignments. So far, so good. No sign of anyone sus­picious. It was 12:27. Flight 168 should be boarding any second.

  Racing across the airport, they joined a line to pass through the metal detector. Oh, dear God, please hurry, Sarah prayed as the queue inched forward. A cowboy wearing a gigantic belt buckle set the detector off. Every­one came to a halt. Sarah's heart began to slam. She felt Michael's arm grow tense under her hand. She wanted to shove her way up to the front and rip the stupid belt off the man.

  And then it hit her. Even after they passed through the detector and were admitted to the boarding area, they wouldn't be safe. The boarding area was transparent glass on all four sides. Passengers exited from there to cross the blacktop to their planes, all within clear view of nonpas- sengers inside the airport. She and Michael would be as de­fenseless as fish in a bowl.

  A strange feeling slithered up her back. Glancing uneas­ily over her shoulder, she saw a man elbowing his way through the crowd toward them. She guessed him to be in his early fifties, medium height with steel-gray hair and hawkish features. The word predatory came to mind. "Michael, they've spotted us."

  Sarah crowded in front of a large woman in a blue pant- suit, to put her purse and bag on the conveyor belt to go through the detector.

  "Well, I never—" the woman sputtered.

  Goose bumps peppered Sarah's arms. Her scalp tingled. Michael placed his suitcase on the conveyor as well and stepped in close behind her, his hands at her waist, his broader frame between her and the man watching them. Once again, moisture filmed Sarah's eyes. Michael might still be weak, but a coward, never. The agent took their tickets, thanking them for flying American.

  "Don't look back," Michael whispered. "Keep walking. Get over there in that cluster of people so he can't get a clear shot."

  Tension knotted her neck as she stepped through the doorway. The man on the other side of the glass would have an unobstructed view of them until they were inside the plane. "I'm scared."

  "Just keep walking."

  Sarah slipped into a group of people, Michael right on her heels. Two men broke off talking, staring down at her. "Nice day for flying, isn't it?" she chirped. Neither man made a reply. "We're heading for Chicago. How about you?"

  The older man gave a nervous cough. "Dallas."

  Sarah could see the gray-haired man staring at them through the glass. "You'll be on our plane then. Do you live there?"

  Michael smiled. "My wife's a little nervous about the flight. Her first, you know."

  The younger man laughed. "Oh, nothing to it. You'll love it once you're up there. Ah, it's time to board."

  Sarah was so frightened she could scarcely breathe as she and Michael walked across the asphalt. At any moment, she expected a bullet to slam into one of them. When at last they were aboard the jet, she heard Michael sigh in relief and knew just how he felt.

  "We made it," he whispered.

  Her legs felt as if they might dissolve and run into her shoes. "Not all of us. My stomach's still back in the board­ing enclosure."

  Michael chuckled and took the window seat, asking if she'd mind handing him a pillow from the overhead com­partment after she stowed their bags. It wasn't until she sank into the space beside him that she realized they were on the airport side of the plane and that Michael was still a target. He gave her a sly wink and covered his window with the pil­low, leaning his head against it.

  Her heart gave a peculiar little twist. A hundred thoughts crowded into her mind, foremost the fervent wish that he wouldn't be so noble all the time. If he kept it up, she was going to do something really stupid, like fall in love with him. She stared at the squared heel of his hand against the crisp white pillow, at the fine black hair that dusted his bronze skin. As she well knew, those long fingers had an incredible grip, yet could be soft as down when they brushed her skin. Her throat tightened at the thought.

  Dragging her gaze away from him, she riveted her atten­tion on the passengers who were still boarding as she fas­tened her seat belt. A darling old woman in a prim black suit and pillbox hat made her way down the aisle. Next came a stewardess, leading a small boy by the hand. Then two men boarded, one in a gray suit, the other in blue. Mutt and Jeff, she thought, one tall and skinny, the other short and ro­tund. She could have sworn they stared at her as they passed. She considered telling Michael, but when she glanced over at him, he looked so pale she decided against it. Even if the men were staring, what could Michael do, tell them to stop? At least she knew they couldn't have brought weapons on board.

  She leaned forward to pull an airlines publication from the pocket in the seat ahead of her. As she leafed through the magazine, she pretended to have a coughing attack. Turning her head away from Michael, she covered her mouth, darting a look at the men. They were two rows back, one engrossed in a newspaper, the other already napping. She smiled at her own silliness. Her nerves were strung so taut, she would be leaping at her own shadow if she didn't watch it.

  At the exact same moment that Sarah settled back in her seat, the hawklike features of the man she'd seen in the air­port twisted into an angry snarl. He stepped to a pay phone and punched out a phone number. When the operator broke in to inquire about the charges, he snapped, "Collect, from Shuelle."

  While he waited for his call to go through, Shuelle ran his thumb and index finger up and down the armored tele­phone cord, his touch caressingly light as he imagined it wrapped around the Montague woman's neck. At last a fa­miliar, precise voice came over the wire, saying, "Yes?"

  "Yeah, Shuelle here. We followed them clear to the boarding gate, but we didn't dare shoot. They're on flight 168, due at O'Hare about ten-twenty tonight. There's not another flight to Chicago until tomorrow, so we're stuck here."

  A long, tension-packed silence ensued. "Did you ever discover where they were hiding out?"

  "No. But we heard when they made the plane reserva­tions."

  "If you knew they had made reservations, why on Earth didn't you make some as well so we wouldn't have a twenty- four hour delay?"

  "Because we didn't intend for them to get o
n the plane. We staked out the road coming to the airport. Would'a stopped them, but the Montague woman was drivin' like a bat outa hell. We couldn't catch up."

  "I thought I made it clear that I wanted the matter han­dled on that end?"

  "We tried."

  "Trying isn't what I'm paying you to do. I want results. I'll arrange for Lund to be at O'Hare when they land and have him follow them so we can keep their whereabouts pinpointed. Meanwhile, get on the first flight back so you can get this job done."

  Hours later, Sarah and Michael arrived in Chicago. O'Hare International was so big and busy it boggled her mind. To add to her discomfiture, the two men who had seemed to be staring at them on the airplane had followed them outside. She tried to tell herself she was only imagin­ing that they were watching her every move, but it did little to ease her mind when she turned and caught the thin man's gaze on her again. He looked away immediately, pretend­ing interest in a blond punk rocker stuffed into tight black leather, but Sarah wasn't convinced. He had been staring at her; she felt sure of it. She didn't peg him as the black leather type. He looked too grim and straight laced.

  She couldn't find a cab fast enough. While the cabbie stowed their luggage in the trunk, she opened the rear door for Michael, stepping back so he could get in first. He was favoring his shoulder again. As Sarah slid onto the seat be­side him, she touched her hand to his. "Are you okay?"

  He looked past her at the throng of people pouring out the doors. "The worse off they think I am, the sloppier they'll be."

  Her heart lifted when she saw how alert and clear his eyes were. "You saw them, too?"

  He turned his hand palm up and curled his fingers around hers. "I'm a little weak, Sarah, not blind."

  "Have they come out?"

  "Not that I've seen." He shrugged one shoulder. "Maybe we're being paranoid."

  Glancing over at her, Michael could see tension in every line of her slender body. It amazed him that she was still able to smile. Most of the women he knew would have been hys­terical five days back—most of the men he knew would have been! She was some special lady. He wished he hadn't in­volved her in this mess. If something happened to her, he didn't know how he would live with it.