Without a Trace

by Catherine Anderson

  Tiptoeing across the room, he led her to a door. They eased out into a hall. Ahead of them, she saw the attic room. They passed it and rounded a corner to the stairs, descend­ing one flight. Voices drifted up to them from the entry hall below.

  He leaned over the banister, cocking his head. "They're in the library. We need a distraction to draw them out of here so I can jump St. John from behind."

  She gave him a thumbs-up. Together they crept down the remaining stairs. Glancing around the entry, she spied an extremely expensive-looking vase perched on an ornate ta­ble. Michael pressed his back against the wall next to the li­brary door, nodding his head as she curled her fingers around the porcelain. Lifting her arms high, she heaved the vase at the floor and dived toward Michael. An ear- shattering crash resounded throughout the lofty hall. The murmur of voices within the library stopped. Footsteps thudded. The door opened.

  Sarah held her breath, melting against the wall like a pat of butter on a hot roll. The butler charged out, sliding to a halt when he saw the broken vase. No St. John? Blood thundered in her temples. She stared in horror at the butler as he slowly turned toward them. The next second, St. John stepped into the doorway, his gun pointed straight at Michael.

  "I see you've saved Shuelle a trip upstairs to get you," St. John said softly. "Please, come into the library and enjoy the fire. Shuelle will be back anytime. He called a few mo­ments ago to say your marshal friends were guarding Ms. Montague and he couldn't get to her. He was extremely pleased to discover she was here."

  "You won't get away with this, you know," Michael said softly as they entered the library. "The marshals know we're here, and they have all the photocopies about my father and his will. They know Sarah suspected you of being the one who tried to kill me."

  "I'll say you left. They can't prove otherwise." St. John waved them toward a sofa adjacent to the hearth, keeping his back to the fire, the gun aimed straight at them as they sat down. Snider, the butler, stood off to one side. "Shuelle is very good at what he does. La Grande has the more ob­vious reason for wanting you dead. It will be assumed it was him."

  "Why?" Michael asked. "All I ever wanted was to know who my father was. I didn't want your money."

  St. John stared at Michael for an endless moment, then shifted his gaze to Snider. In a conversational tone, he said, "All my life, my brother Adam was always the one who got everything. Snider will testify to that. Now that Adam's dead, it's my turn." Tapping his chest with his finger, he smiled. "My turn."

  Sarah had never seen a man who looked more sane, and somehow that emphasized his madness. What frightened her most was the look in his eyes that reflected his absolute cer­tainty that he was doing the right thing.

  "You'd kill your own flesh and blood for money?" she whispered.

  As if the question had been posed in a foreign language, St. John frowned down at her, his eyes clouding with con­fusion. Something flickered in his expression—a moment of sanity, perhaps?—and his mouth twisted.

  "I don't want to hurt anyone. But he didn't give me a choice." He slumped against the marble fireplace, the gun wavering. Michael eased forward in his seat, watching him. "I can't let you take it all from me," he continued in a plaintive whine. "I've worked my fingers to the bone, dou­bled the corporate holdings. Adam always thought he was so smart. Well, I showed him." He fastened glazed eyes on Michael's face. "You're nothing but a worthless bastard. Your own mother didn't even fight for you. One phone call from me, that's all it took, and she backed off. I planned for everything. I couldn't let you come back and take it all. It's mine! I won't hand it over to you, no matter what his will says. What about my son, Tim? I suppose he should live a pauper's existence?"

  "I don't want your money."

  "You're a liar! Of course you do. Who wouldn't?" He made a wild arc with the gun at the richly appointed room. "And even if you didn't, he bequeathed it all to you. It was my sweat that made it what it is—years and years of my life—but he didn't care. Didn't leave me a lousy dime. The only way I stood to inherit was if you never came back."

  Sarah's heart was slamming, marking off the seconds. She knew that Shuelle might arrive anytime. She and Michael had to do something, and do it fast. A trickle of cold sweat ran between her breasts. She felt Michael's body coil to spring, saw him ease forward on the sofa.

  "So you decided to be sure I didn't come back," Michael said softly.

  St. John laughed, making another wild gesture with the gun. "I'd be crazy to just stand by and lose my life's work. Would you?"

  With no warning, Michael lunged off the sofa. Crooking one elbow around St. John's neck, he grabbed for the gun. Sarah saw the butler step forward and she jumped up to bar his way. He stopped and blinked, clearly unaccustomed to violence, physical or otherwise. She quickly deduced she had nothing to fear from him and glanced over her shoulder to see Michael slamming St. John's gun hand against the mantel. The weapon flew from St. John's stunned fingers, thudding onto the carpet. Sarah ran to pick it up before Snider could, whirling to aim it at St. John who had crum­pled against the fireplace, his face contorted, shoulders shaking.

  Michael straightened, breathing heavily. Not taking his eyes off St. John, he said, "We have to get them tied before Shuelle gets here. Find some rope, Sarah."

  Running over to the butler, she dug into his jacket pocket to get the attic room key. Giving Michael the gun, she sped from the room. Over her shoulder, she cried, "Call Tealson."

  She raced up the stairs, knowing full well Tealson would never get there in time. She and Michael had to save them­selves. How? That was the question. She unlocked the attic room and snatched rope off the trunk, returning to the li­brary at breakneck speed. Michael handed her the gun, looking glad to be rid of it, and bound both men, shoving them into the library closet and locking the door.

  Turning to look at her, he said, "Now what? Tealson said he'd be at least thirty minutes. We have to think fast. One gun against three won't cut it, that's for sure. Our only chance is to catch them off guard before they know what hits them."

  If that was their only chance, they were in trouble. She couldn't envision herself doing a football tackle. And Michael couldn't take three men by himself, especially not with an injured shoulder. With a touch of despair, she said, "We could feed them to the Dobermans."

  He snapped his fingers. "Hey, maybe you've got some­thing there. The kitchen! Hurry, Sarah."

  "Are you out of your mind? Those dogs will probably tear us up if we go anywhere near them."

  He ran down the entry hall, tossing open doors until he spied the dining room. Sarah stuffed the pistol into the waistband of her slacks and raced after him. He pushed through a set of swinging doors into a huge kitchen, then tore from cupboard to cupboard looking for something. At last, he smiled and pulled a can of nonstick spray off a shelf. "Good for zippers that stick, drawers that catch, doors that hang up."

  "So?" She threw him an incredulous look. "Michael, those men are killers."

  "And this may even the odds a little."

  He hurried back to the entry, Sarah right on his heels. Bending at the waist, he began to spray the glossy tile with a sweeping motion of his arm, starting in front of the door, stepping back a pace at a time as he made his way toward the library.

  "This will never work!"

  He smiled. "Run back to the kitchen and go through the fridge. Find some meat—anything a Doberman might find tasty."

  Her eyes widened as she began to see a method to his madness. She did as she was told, returning a moment later with two packages of sirloin steak. He grinned, making one last sweep with the can of nonstick spray, which had cov­ered several square yards of tile. Taking care not to fall, he padded the length of the hall in his stocking feet, closing all the doors.

  "Okay, now give me the gun," he said softly.

  She handed him the weapon, following him to the li­brary, the cold packs of meat cradled in one arm. He went directly to the closet, unlocking the doo
r to grab St. John and press the tip of the gun to his temple.

  "Will the dogs attack without a command?" he asked in a conversational voice.

  Sweat trickled down St. John's nose. Casting Michael a horrified glance, he said, "I'm your uncle. You wouldn't kill me."

  "Try me." Michael jerked on the man's collar. "Re­member that girl you ordered killed in Eugene? She's a friend of mine. You're not related to me, not in any way that counts. My dad is twice the man you are."

  "But she didn't die. She's recovering, Michael. I called this evening and checked." As if he sensed Sarah's relief, St. John threw her an imploring glance. "I never meant to hurt anyone. Please believe that. I didn't have a choice."

  Michael looked disgusted. "So why did you call the hos­pital? To see if Shuelle needed to go back and finish his job? Lucky for Molly, that's one order you aren't going to be giving. Just tell me about the dogs, you sniveling coward."

  St. John's face paled. "They will attack only if one makes a threatening move. Otherwise they've been taught to hold intruders and not harm them."

  Michael gave him another shake. "What constitutes a threatening move. Pulling a gun? Fast!"

  "Yes, a gun would incite them. I—I didn't want them to attack unless there was cause. Lawsuits, you know. A man of my means has far too much to lose. Smart of me, don't you think?" He slid his gaze sideways, clearly terrified by the gun. "I'm much smarter than Adam, you know. You can see that, can't you? Our parents never could. It was al­ways Adam this and Adam that. But I knew I was better. Why, anyone could see. He had everything—everything a man could want—and he drank himself right into the grave while I kept the company together."

  "Save it for the judge." Michael pushed him none too gently into the closet and slammed the door, turning to look at Sarah as he shoved the weapon into his waistband. "You stay in here. If anything goes wrong with the dogs, go out the window and try to make it off the grounds while they're preoccupied."

  "But—"

  He cut her off by pressing his hand to her lips. "Just do it. For me? Please?"

  Though it wasn't what she wanted, she nodded, knowing he would only stand there arguing if she didn't. Taking the meat, he left the library. She followed him, holding the door ajar so she could watch him. Stepping carefully across the oily tile, he opened the front door and whistled for the Dobermans, calling guten tag to them and ripping open packages as they scrambled up on the porch. Dangling sir­loin before their noses, he coaxed them inside, whispering guten tag again and again to keep them calm as they slipped and slid on the slick floor. Sarah was so afraid for Michael that her body quivered as she watched him. When all five dogs had come inside, he threw the meat clear across the hall, then shut the front door and ran for the library. She let him in and slammed the door shut behind him, releasing a pent-up breath.

  "Simple as feeding lions," he said with a laugh. "Now we wait for Shuelle."

  "You're going to sic the dogs on them?" The thought made her feel sick.

  He caught her around the waist, pulling her against him. "You heard St. John. The dogs won't attack unless they pull weapons or do something else threatening. It's them or us. I don't like the thought any more than you do. Maybe less. Remember me, the guy who hates blood?"

  She sighed, laying her cheek against his chest. "Did you hear what he said about Molly, Michael? She's recover­ing."

  "I heard," he whispered. "Prayers do get answered. I don't think I would have ever stopped blaming myself if she had died."

  Sarah knew exactly how he felt. The sound of his heart thrummed softly, soothing her with its even, predictable cadence. The rhythmic ticking of the pendulum clock in one corner of the room mesmerized her as it measured off the minutes. She closed her eyes, wishing she could stay in his arms forever, that Shuelle and his men would never return.

  It was a wish that couldn't come true, of course. All too soon the intercom buzzed. Sarah pressed the gate-release control. Moments later, they heard a car drive up out front. Doors slammed. Voices approached the house. The dogs whined and growled, pacing the entry in eager anticipa­tion. Michael cracked the library door to peer out, whis­pering guten tag to the Dobermans to keep them quiet. A knock came, then another. At last, a voice called, "Hey, St. John, it's me, Shuelle. Let us in!" Muffling his voice with a cupped hand, Michael called, "It's unlocked. We're in the library."

  The door opened. Shuelle stepped into the entry, com­pletely unconcerned about the presence of the dogs, glanc­ing down in surprise when his shoes slid on the tile. "What the—"

  "Welcome, Mr. Shuelle," Michael said, bracing his weight against the door. Shuelle stiffened when he realized it was Michael who had spoken, not St. John. Then he grabbed for his weapon. The Dobermans hesitated for a second, then took offensive stances. Shuelle's attention was on Michael and he failed to notice the warning snarls. He raised his arm, aiming his gun at the library door. That mo­tion was all it took to spur the dogs into an attack.

  Shuelle roared with alarm, rearing back when he saw the dogs leaping at him. His feet slipped out from under him on the slick tile and he crashed to the floor, yelling at his com­panions as he disappeared under a pile of writhing black fur. "Lund, help me!"

  Lund jumped into the entry, one leg shooting forward as his shoes slipped on the oil. He yelled, drawing the atten­tion of one of the Dobermans. The animal turned, fangs slashing, saliva frothing its lips. "Down! Down, you stu­pid—" He threw up an arm to protect his face, reeling backward into the wall as the Doberman hurtled into him. "Packer! Do something!"

  Packer, a stocky redhead, drew his weapon and skidded across the tile, staring with indecision at the churning mass of fur. Each time he tried to aim, Lund or Shuelle rolled into his line of fire. It was clear none of the men knew the anti-attack command, guten tag. Only Michael or Sarah could reverse what Shuelle had set in motion. Sarah closed her eyes, but only for a moment. The report of a gun cracked the air. She peered around Michael's shoulder to see the redhead staggering backward, his arm held by powerful ca­nine jaws. His gun fell clattering to the floor. The shot had gone wild.

  Michael stepped out into the hall, skirting the oily area, to retrieve Packer's weapon. Motioning to Sarah, he handed the revolver over to her. "Put your back to the wall," he instructed her. "If they make a wrong move, pull the trig­ger."

  She nodded, retreating slowly, the gun quivering slightly in her hand as she pointed it at the scrambling pile of men. Michael took position on the other side of the melee, yell­ing, "Guten tag." The dogs immediately backed off and three badly lacerated criminals sat up, staring in disbelief at the weapons Sarah and Michael had trained on them.

  Michael smiled broadly. "Mr. Lund, Mr. Shuelle, put down your guns and slide them across the floor. Real slow and easy so I don't get nervous."

  Lund and Shuelle did as they were told. Michael stepped forward, and pushed the guns with his foot to slide them well beyond the criminals' reach.

  "And now we wait," Michael said softly. "The United States marshals will be here anytime."

  Sarah stared at Shuelle. She would have recognized his chiseled features anywhere. He was the man she had seen at the Eugene airport. Predatory, she had thought then. And that impression still held true. There was something so cold, so emotionless about his face that it made her blood freeze. Her finger tightened around the trigger of the gun she held. She envisioned Molly's vague smile and blue eyes, knowing beyond a doubt that it had been Shuelle's knife that had slashed her throat.

  For the first time in her life, she wanted to kill. The urge was like a fire in her gut, raging out of control. Sweat filmed her face. She no longer saw Shuelle, but visions of Molly as she had looked the last time Sarah had seen her, silly, lov­able, harmless Molly. She would have been so frightened right before Shuelle slashed with the knife—frightened and bewildered. No thanks to Shuelle, she was still alive, but she would never be the same naive, trusting girl she had once been. The fearful memories would always haunt her.<
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  "Sarah?" Michael's voice seemed to come from a long way off. "Sarah, look at me."

  She dragged her gaze from Shuelle's hated face and fas­tened her attention on Michael.

  "It's over," he whispered. "Don't let him take you down with him."

  She nodded and relaxed her finger on the trigger. Even if Molly had died, killing Shuelle wouldn't change what had happened. Shattered innocence, but the outcome could have been far worse. Shuelle might have done a more effective job with his knife and Molly might have died there in that alley after he left her. Sarah lowered her weapon, heading for the attic to get more rope with which to tie their captives. Soon Tealson and the other marshals would come. They would see to it that Shuelle paid dearly for what he had done. For her and Michael, the nightmares were finally over.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Dawn broke across the Illinois sky like a promise, turning the dark horizon cotton-candy pink and rose-red. Sarah and Michael stood at the window watching the new day begin, bodies pressed close, arms cinched tight around each other. It was a moment of sweet sadness, sweet because they had savored every second of the night together, sad because each knew their time was swiftly running out. Paddao had knocked on the door twenty-five minutes ago, saying the government car would arrive for Michael in half an hour, much earlier than they had expected.

  "I wish I could say I'll keep in touch," he whispered, "but we both know I won't be able to."

  She nodded, nibbling her lip. "Have you any idea where you might go?"

  He shrugged one shoulder. "Wherever the mood strikes us, I suppose."

  "I wish—" Her eyes filled with tears and her mouth be­gan to tremble.