Without a Trace

by Catherine Anderson

  "If you'd seen his home, you'd know why. With that kind of money and the will being made public, he's probably had hundreds of people lay claim to the inheritance. More than likely, he wanted to do a little detective work before he en­couraged me." He shrugged. "I can't say I blame him. I'd do the same, I think."

  She nodded. "Yeah, I suppose I would, too. When you visited him, you weren't even positive of the relationship."

  "But I am now." He glanced up and smiled at the wait­ress, taking the two menus she proffered. "We'd like two coffees, please." Returning his gaze to Sarah, he said, "You know, maybe I should call him. After this La Grande thing breaks, I may not have a chance."

  She tried her best to share in his enthusiasm. "It would be neat if you could have at least one visit with him as a mem­ber of the family." An ache of tears crept up the back of her throat. "Family's important. It would be nice to have some information about your dad—maybe even some family pictures."

  Spying a pay phone across the cafe, he slid out of the booth. "Why not, I'm gonna call him. All he can say is no, right?"

  "Right."

  His eyes searched hers. "Will you go to his house with me?"

  Sarah knew she should say no, but her time with him was running so short, she didn't want to waste any of it. "Sure, if you're not ashamed to take me."

  He glanced at her clothes and grinned at the atrocious color combination. "Never. Besides, look at me. I'm not exactly at my best."

  She watched him stride away. The waitress brought the coffee, and Sarah took a sip, closing her eyes to savor the taste. When Michael returned, she cracked an eyelid and said, "Now this is coffee."

  "You won't believe it, but St. John not only agreed to see me, he's been trying to contact me for days. He did some checking and says he's satisfied that I'm his brother's child. Isn't that fantastic?"

  She smiled over the rim of her cup. "It's wonderful."

  "And not only that, he's sending a car to take us out to his house for dinner."

  "Should we do that? What about the marshals?"

  "They can tail us. No way was I going to pass up the in­vitation. Would you? This might be my one and only chance to learn about my real father."

  She set her cup in her saucer. "It sounds fun. Better than cockroaches and smoke-stained paint. I've never been in a three-million-dollar house. It'll be an experience." Glanc­ing down at her outfit, she rolled her eyes. "It'd be nice to dress up but I've got nothing to change into."

  He checked his watch. "He said the car would be here in twenty minutes or so. That's not enough time to shop so let's go ahead and have a snack. I'm starved."

  "Good idea. Otherwise, I may faint before we get there."

  Sarah was just finishing a piece of the most delicious lemon meringue pie she had ever tasted when a man in a blue suit slid into the booth beside her. Because she and Michael were expecting Marcus St. John to send someone for them, she wasn't alarmed until she turned her head and recognized her companion as the heavyset gunman who had broken into their hotel room last night.

  She froze with her fork suspended halfway to her mouth, her gaze fastened in horrified disbelief on his face. In her peripheral vision, she saw another man slide into the booth beside Michael. It was the other gunman, the tall, thin one who had been clobbered with the coffeepot. One side of his face was an angry red where he had been scalded.

  "Don't make a scene," the heavy man hissed, jabbing something into her ribs.

  Her gaze slid to Michael. From the taut set of his fea­tures, she knew there was a weapon being poked in his ribs, too. Remembering his gun phobia, she knew his heart was probably slamming even harder than hers. She lowered her fork to her plate, reminding herself that the marshals were right outside. There was no reason for her to feel so fright­ened.

  "This is the plan, people," the thin man sneered. "We're gonna get up, real slow and natural and walk out the door. Do what you're told and you won't get hurt." He rose and motioned them out of the booth with the gun he had hid­den under his jacket. "We're just taking you for a nice lit­tle drive."

  Sure, Sarah thought. After what had happened to Molly, she doubted they were going on a scenic tour of Chicago's Magnificent Mile. Her legs felt like half-cooked noodles. Michael moved close to her, settling his hand at her waist. She was surprised he wasn't shaking. When she looked up at him, she was even more surprised to see him wink at her. That wink meant the world to her. If Michael, who was ter­rified of guns, could overcome his fear and have faith in the marshals, then so could she.

  The heavyset man led the way, the thin man bringing up the rear. She glanced out the window, scanning the build­ing fronts across the street for any sign of the marshals. A man in a gray overcoat leaned against a light pole, reading a newspaper. He wore a hat pulled low over his eyes. Tealson? She couldn't tell. People scurried along the side­walks, heads bent, shoulders hunched. None of them looked like lawmen. How did the marshals plan to rescue them? Would there be shooting?

  The gunman in the lead stepped out onto the sidewalk, holding the door ajar. Michael moved his hand to Sarah's hip, drawing her closer to his side as they stepped across the threshold. His warmth and the strong support of his arm reassured her as the cool breeze touched her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a blue Pontiac parked several spaces up the street. The front doors of the automobile opened and two men climbed out. The next second, the air exploded with gunfire. For a moment, Sarah didn't feel afraid, believing the men to be U.S. marshals. Then she saw the heavyset man grab his stomach and stagger. The next instant, he crumpled onto the sidewalk. Surely the mar­shals wouldn't shoot a man with no warning.

  "Rudd! Are you okay?" the thin man cried.

  "They got me," the older man grunted.

  The thin man dived forward and flattened himself on the concrete, reaching for his injured partner to drag him back to the door of the cafe. "Who's shooting?"

  Sarah shrank against Michael, her heart slamming. One of the men by the Pontiac had his arms locked in front of him, the Uzi in his hands aimed directly at her. She noted his sharp features and gray hair. The man she had seen in the Eugene airport? Michael cursed and jerked her clear off her feet as he dived into the gutter between two parked cars. Sarah's shoulder no sooner hit the asphalt than she felt herself rolling, Michael shoving her from behind. The rough texture of the pavement dug into her back, tearing at her shirt.

  "Keep flat, Sarah," he whispered.

  Down the street, in the opposite direction from the Pontiac, she heard Tealson yell, "Freeze!" The rat-a-tat-tat of another gun split the air. Everything became disjointed. Footsteps. Men yelling. People screaming. Rubber grab­bing pavement. Michael swore and stuffed Sarah under one of the cars, slithering in after her. She lay there on her belly, her mouth pressed to her fists, eyes lifted to peer out from under the car at the street. The blue Pontiac sped past, tires squealing as it rounded the corner.

  Michael wasted not a second. Crab walking from under the automobile, dragging Sarah behind him, he staggered to his feet. Throwing a glance both right and left, he lunged across the intersection, angling the opposite direction from the way the Pontiac had gone.

  "But Michael—" She flailed one arm, trying to grab his to make him to stop. "The m-marshals! What about the marshals."

  "Forget the marshals," he yelled over his shoulder, never breaking stride, his arm stretched out behind him to hold her hand. "Come on, Sarah, kick it in gear."

  She threw a frantic look behind them. If they ran, they wouldn't have the marshals to protect them. On the other hand, though, if they stayed, they could end up dead. She decided to kick it in gear.

  They ran as if a monster breathed down their necks—not normal running, but flat-out, legs extended, heels jarring against the concrete. With her hand in Michael's grip, trying to keep up with his longer stride, there were moments when she felt airborne.

  Several blocks later, a black car swerved in at the curb. A man poked his head out t
he window and yelled, "Hurry! Pile in."

  "The marshals," Michael gasped, veering for the limo.

  The rear door opened for them as if by magic. She glanced up the street, her heart thudding, then jumped in­side the car. Michael flew in behind her and slammed the door. "What took you so long? We almost got our heads blown off!"

  The man who had opened the door for them turned side­ways in the seat, his knee touching Sarah's thigh. She saw something in his right hand and lowered her gaze. A gun? Her stomach dropped and she glanced at the men up front. The one on the passenger side sat crosswise in his seat, his back to the door, the muzzle of his .38 pointing directly at her head. She recognized him instantly. Pascal, Giorgio Santini's thug.

  "Don't do anything foolish, Mr. Santini," the man next to Sarah told Michael in a soft, persuasive tone. "Your lit­tle friend's life depends on your cooperative behavior." Pulling two black hoods from his pocket, he handed one to each of them. "Please, draw those over your heads. Com­pliments of your host, Brian La Grande."

  Chapter Fifteen

  A half an hour later, Sarah and Michael were dragged out of the car and told to remove their hoods. Sarah withdrew the black cloth from her head and blinked to accustom her eyes to the sudden light. Before her loomed the biggest house she had ever seen, a Spanish design white stucco with a red-tile roof, surrounded by gorgeous terraced gardens.

  Pascal grabbed her arm, leading her up a stone path into a courtyard. When she lagged, the cold flash of his blue eyes told her he would just as soon kill her as look at her if she didn't cooperate. She heard Michael shuffling along be­hind her, offering no resistance. After the threat on her life, she wasn't surprised.

  As Pascal pulled her through the front door, the toe of one of her sneakers caught on the threshold, sending her into a headlong sprawl. He pulled on her arm and snarled a curse, but he didn't really hurt her. The moment she re­gained her footing he drew back his hand and slapped her. The impact of his palm against her cheek carried little force, but as his hand connected, he shoved her, making it look as if the blow had sent her reeling. Again he gave her arm a tug.

  Michael jerked away from the men who held him, launching himself at Pascal and knocking him against the balustrade on one side of the hall. Their combined weights broke a baluster.

  She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming, watching in horror as Michael's hands closed around Pascal's throat. Pascal's face flushed crimson and his eyes began to bulge. Michael didn't seem to feel the other two men pulling at his arms, trying desperately to break his hold.

  "Michael! Michael, please!"

  One of the men pulled his gun out from under his jacket, raising it high to slam the butt into Michael's skull.

  "Meeks!" a commanding voice barked. "Injure him and you're fired."

  The stocky blond lowered the gun, his pale blue eyes shifting uncertainly to Pascal's mottled face. "But he's gonna kill him."

  "Which he richly deserves for manhandling the woman."

  Sarah glanced over her shoulder and spied a tall, white- haired gentleman in a nearby doorway. He inclined his head, his blue eyes alight with laughter. "Please, Ms. Montague, call him off? Pascal is a little rough around the edges, but he's loyal."

  She whirled back toward Michael, only to find he had al­ready stopped choking Pascal and now stood with his hands braced on the bottom rail of the balustrade, head dropped. Pascal was crumpled on the floor, holding his throat and gagging.

  "Michael?"

  He glanced up at her, breathing heavily. "Are you all right?"

  She took hold of his arm. "I—I'm fine. He didn't really hurt me."

  Shaking free of her grasp, Michael turned to square off with their host. The older man in the doorway chuckled and stepped forward, extending a manicured hand. "Gino, this is a rare pleasure indeed. You are a chip off the old block if ever I saw one. The Santini temper in all its glory."

  Swiping his sleeve across his mouth, Michael looked at the man's outstretched palm with ill-concealed distaste. "That wasn't temper, La Grande, that was rage." Reaching for Sarah, Michael pulled her into the protective circle of his arm. "Your man should pick on someone his own size."

  "Ah, so you know who I am?"

  "I've been reading about you in old newspapers. And your worms used your name a few times during our little ride."

  La Grande's lips thinned but he maintained his smile as he lowered his arm. Gesturing toward the room he'd just left, he said, "Please, come in by the fire."

  He led the way into a gorgeous sitting room, inclining his head toward a velvet settee. Sarah glanced back to see that two of the men, Meeks and Axtell, had followed and were standing just inside the door, their gun hands under their jackets. The back of her neck crawled as she sat beside Michael. She heard the front door open and then slam closed. Pascal? Judging by the force with which he shut the door, she assumed he had gone outside to walk off his tem­per. A frown creased her brow. It puzzled her how lightly he had slapped her—almost as if he had been trying not to hurt her.

  Her heartbeat provided a steady backdrop for Michael's and La Grande's voices as she scanned the room, looking for an escape route. The only way out, aside from the guarded doorway, was through lace-covered French doors that opened onto a courtyard. She knew the grounds were well guarded. Even blinded by the hood she had been able to tell that. The car they had come in had stopped at a gate and she had heard someone ask the driver to identify him­self before they were admitted. Even if she and Michael managed to flee the house, they'd probably be caught.

  "So to what do we owe this honor?" Michael asked La Grande sarcastically. "Isn't one Santini enough?"

  "I regret inconveniencing you," La Grande replied, "but you are—how shall I put it?—necessary to me. I must make good on an old debt to your father, you see, and I'm hop­ing he will come forward if you are my houseguest."

  "You already have my father," Michael accused. "You abducted him over a week ago."

  Sarah entwined her fingers with Michael's, watching him in silent admiration. No one would ever guess that he had already been briefed by Tealson on everything La Grande was telling him.

  La Grande frowned. "I had hoped to keep this a pleas­ant interchange, truly I had. Must we be testy? It was the marshals who took your father, not I."

  "I tend to get testy when someone's trying to murder me."

  "Come now, a ride in a limousine isn't exactly life threatening."

  "And what about the Uzi?"

  La Grande's brows drew together in a scowl. "Yes, I was told about that. I assure you, I had nothing to do with it. One of my own men was badly hurt."

  Michael snorted with disgust. "Who else would be trying to kill us?"

  "A very good question, one that I have my people checking into. But be assured, you are far more useful to me alive. At least for now." La Grande turned to open a brass box on the mantel. Taking out a cigar, he rolled one end in his mouth, biting off the tip. Leaning over to spit it out in the fireplace, he threw Michael a glare. "Your father put my son behind bars. For that, he must pay. It's nothing per­sonal. I will try to make your stay here as pleasant as pos­sible."

  "Until you don't need us anymore and decide to kill us?"

  A wreath of smoke encircled La Grande's face. "Your fate is as yet undecided."

  Sarah tensed, staring out the French doors. What was going on? Pascal was skulking around out there, darting behind lawn furniture as if he didn't want to be seen. Her fingers tightened convulsively on Michael's. Was Pascal the inside contact Tealson had mentioned? Were there mar­shals out there? A shiver of fear ran over her. She shifted her gaze to La Grande and kept it there, not wanting to give Pascal away by watching his approach. He had been trying not to hurt her. When he had slammed out of the house, he must have gone to admit the marshals through the gate, and now he was leading them up to the house.

  Michael flicked her a puzzled glance, but she didn't dare respond to the question in his eyes.
A second later, she heard the front door burst open. Then the glass in the French doors shattered. She threw herself forward onto the floor, pulling Michael down beside her.

  "Freeze! U.S. marshals," Tealson yelled, leaping into the room from the courtyard. When Meeks reached for his gun, Tealson barked, "Don't do it, friend."

  Sarah turned her head to see Meeks and Axtell raise their hands high. Michael stared toward the French doors at Pascal, scarcely crediting his eyes as the man stepped into the room in Tealson's wake. Pascal's gaze met his, lighting with laughter. Lifting his hands, he said, "It was a ques­tion of loyalty, eh? Giorgio is like a father."

  "You betrayed me?" La Grande threw his cigar into the fire, his face contorted. "You'll pay for this, Pascal, that's a promise."

  "If you can find me, only if you can find me. After I tes­tify against you, I will disappear, eh?"

  Tealson and Paddao frisked Meeks and Axtell, relieving them of their weapons. Sarah and Michael rose from the floor, straightening their clothes. Glancing over her shoul­der, Sarah was surprised to see La Grande calmly selecting another cigar, one shoulder propped against the mantel. He was one cool cookie, she'd say that for him. When Tealson approached him with cuffs, La Grande smiled and said, "I had nothing to do with any shooting. It's the truth. One of my own men was hurt. Even Pascal will tell you I just wanted to speak to Santini's son."

  Tealson jerked on La Grande's arm, smiling none too pleasantly. "Maybe you've made too many enemies. It wouldn't be the first syndicate killing in Chicago."

  La Grande stumbled, shaking his head in disgust as Tealson steered him forward. "I'm telling you, it had noth­ing to do with me! I have no enemies. You're making a mistake, Tealson. I wanted Santini, not his boy."

  "All snakes have enemies, La Grande," Tealson sneered. "Comes with bein' a viper."

  Michael stepped toward Pascal. "I think I owe you an apology."

  "Not at all. You did exactly what I hoped, just with a lit­tle more enthusiasm than expected." Pascal grasped the knot of his tie and stretched his neck, grinning. "I wanted it to look as if I were out of commission for a while, and you played your part almost too well. I suffered no permanent damage, though. I hope your lady can say the same."