Without a Trace

by Catherine Anderson

  He pressed his fingers across her lips. "Don't, Sarah. I want to remember you smiling." Moisture crept into his eyes, too, and he blinked, chuckling at himself. "We made it through the night without getting drippy. Let's not blow it the last five minutes."

  Sarah nodded and took a deep, bracing breath. Trying desperately to think of something safe to say, she asked, "What about your house and car and office?"

  "I don't know. I would think everything would be sold and the proceeds sent to me, but you never know. I've read about people on the Witness Protection Program who started over in a new city with nothing but a new identity and enough money to set up housekeeping."

  "Oh, Michael... everything you've worked for... you'd be starting from scratch."

  "Exactly, which is why I'm not arguing with you about your decision to stay behind. I don't even know if I'll be able to practice in my field. I've nothing to offer you. Isn't that ironic. I find I'm the heir to a fortune, but circumstances prevent me from claiming a cent. Marcus's son, Tim, will get it all I suppose. Oh, well. Perhaps that's only fair."

  "I wouldn't mind the financial insecurity. It's leaving my real mom, my little sister Beth, all the others. I've become so fond of them. Never seeing them again would be hard enough, but never even writing them a letter? I have to think of the effect on them, too. I don't know, Michael. I love you so much, but—"

  "Hush. The decision's been made. Don't agonize over it. I've tried to imagine never seeing Papa again, never hear­ing from him, never knowing if he was sick or well. I don't think I could willingly cut myself off from him, either. I understand. This is best for you. Ten years down the road, you'll be glad it happened this way."

  "And what about you?"

  A knock sounded on the door, making both of them jump. Her heart squeezed with pain, and she instinctively hugged his waist more tightly, not certain she could bear having him leave. He bent his head, brushing his lips across her cheek.

  "Time to go!" Paddao called.

  Michael tensed, vising his arms around her one last time before pulling away. Cupping the side of her face in his hand, he traced her features with shimmering eyes, his smile shaky. "I'll remember you always," he whispered. "Ti amo." Touching his mouth to hers, he added, "Ieri, oggi, domani."

  She caught hold of his hand and clung to his fingers, dreading the moment when the warmth of his touch would be gone. "Goodbye, Michael. God be with you."

  He drew back, his eyes riveted to hers. Then he pulled his hand from hers and walked across the room for his suit­case. Turning to look at her, he flashed her one last smile. And then he was gone.

  Sarah stood there, so racked with the pain of losing him that she felt numb to everything else. She could hear Paddao outside the room, bidding Michael goodbye. Then Michael called farewell, his voice fading as he walked farther away from the room. She turned to the window, pressing her palms against the glass to look down onto the street. A black limousine was parked at the curb. Tealson stood on the sidewalk, leaning one hip against the front passenger door. He turned his head continuously, looking up and down the street, over his shoulder, alert to everything around him.

  It seemed to her an eternity passed before Michael ap­peared on the sidewalk below, flanked by two security men. Tealson opened the rear door of the limousine, smiling. Michael handed over his suitcase to the man on his left so it could be stowed in the trunk, then strode toward the car. Sarah saw Giorgio Santini lean forward and smile.

  Her last look... She moved closer to the glass, gazing down, memorizing every detail of Michael's appearance. In the brown slacks and tweed jacket, he looked so wonder­fully handsome, broad shoulders tapering to lean hips and powerful long legs. He placed a hand on the roof of the car to climb in, and then paused, glancing back over his shoul­der at the hotel. She saw him searching and tried to smile as his gaze settled on her. His expression was so empty as he lifted his hand to her in a final farewell. She waved back, swallowing down a sob. Michael, I love you, her heart cried.

  Then he turned away and climbed inside the limousine. Tealson stepped forward, closing the door. She clamped a hand over her eyes, unable to hold back the ragged sobs any longer. Why did it have to be this way? she asked herself. Losing him was like dying. But if she went with him, what kind of life would she have? She dropped her hand, watch­ing the car pull away from the curb, carrying Michael away from her, not just for a month or a year, but forever. He'd disappear and she'd never be able to find him—never. Not even the marshals would tell her where he was.

  A small snag in traffic brought the limousine to a halt a half block up the street. She stared at the tinted black win­dow of the car, trying desperately to tell which man within was Michael. And suddenly she saw herself as she would be years from now, walking down city streets, looking at every dark-haired man she passed, at every bronzed face, won­dering if it might be him. She heard the voices of her nieces and nephews asking, "Aunt Sarah, why didn't you ever get married and have kids? Weren't you ever in love?" Yes, she would say, I was in love once, a very long time ago.

  The limousine inched forward another car length. Panic rose in her throat as she watched it. Roots were important— she desperately wanted a feeling of family—but was the past that important? Couldn't she begin her own roots, her own family? She stared at her reflection in the window, remem­bering all the times she'd looked in the mirror as a kid, ask­ing herself who she really was. Could she handle having that feeling the rest of her life?

  Indecision held her paralyzed. Wouldn't she always have her family, no matter where she went? Perhaps not in a physical sense, but they would be with her in her heart. Her sense of identity had been what she missed as a child. That couldn't be snatched away from her now. She knew who she was.

  She was Sarah—Michael's Sarah.

  A knock sounded and she jumped. Paddao, who had a key to the room, opened the door a crack and poked his head inside. "Anything I can get you? Coffee, some break­fast? They have great doughnuts."

  She stared at him. Paddao. The name had a definite Latin flavor. "Are you Italian?"

  He looked nonplussed. "Half."

  "What does ti amo and ieri, oggi, domani mean?"

  He frowned, trying to make sense of her clumsy pronun­ciation, then his mouth quirked in a silly grin. "It means I love you, yesterday, today, tomorrow. Why?"

  Sarah smiled through her tears and ran across the room. "I've got to stop that car!"

  Paddao fell back to get out of her way, watching incred­ulously as she sped up the hall. "Hey, wait! You can't leave! They're already gone. Ms. Montague, come back here! You forgot your suitcase!"

  Sarah didn't care. She rode the elevator down, feeling as if every second lasted hours, then she burst out into the lobby. Michael. Nothing else mattered to her. If people stared, so what. She shoved her way through the revolving doors out onto the sidewalk, whirling in the direction of the limousine. Her throat tightened to call Michael's name so he'd have the driver pull over.

  The light had just turned green, and the limousine was third in line to make it through the sluggish intersection. She sprang into a run, waving her arms in the air. "Michael! Michael, stop! I've changed my mind!"

  She was still almost a block behind them, too far away for them to hear her voice. Fear clogged her throat. If the car drove out of sight, she doubted the marshals would break security to tell her where Michael had gone. With all the speed she could muster Sarah shoved through the pedes­trians who blocked her way, her gaze riveted on the black car as it swung around the corner. Oh, God, please, don't let them drive off without seeing me.

  "Michael! Michael! Mi—" She watched the black car disappear behind the corner of a building and she stag­gered to a stop, the rest of his name trailing off her lips in a whisper.

  He was gone.

  People bumped into her. A few shoved her. A man cursed and called her a name. She just stood there, staring at the traffic, her insides twisting with unbearable pain. The worst
part was, she had no one to blame but herself. She could have gone with him. Staying behind had been her own choice.

  An irrevocable choice.

  She glanced back at the hotel, then closed her eyes. Would Paddao break the rules? Just once? What was she going to do if he wouldn't?

  "Sarah?" a faint voice called. For a moment, she thought she'd imagined it and didn't look. "Sarah?"

  Her heart caught and her eyes snapped open. She saw a black head bobbing toward her. "Michael?"

  Shouldering her way through the crowd, she started to laugh. It was Michael. She could see his face now as he ran toward her, turning sideways to slip by pedestrians, his tie flying in the wind. When he drew close, she launched her­self into his arms, hugging him with all her might, forget­ting all about his sore shoulder.

  "What are you doing out here?" he cried.

  "I changed my mind. I don't care where I go or what my name is, just as long as I'm with you!"

  His arms tightened around her. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes, yes, I'm positive. You're my roots. We'll make our own family."

  He lifted her off her feet, swirling her in a circle. "When I saw you running up the sidewalk, I thought I was imag­ining it. I wanted you to be there so much."

  "Oh, Michael, I thought I'd lost you."

  He set her on her feet and tugged her toward the limou­sine. "We can have Moses shipped." He flashed a sheepish grin. "I asked—just in case you decided to come. Tealson says the Portland office can put the cat in a kennel cage and fly it here. He'll send Moses on to us wherever we are."

  "Great! Where are we going?"

  He drew up beside the limousine, winking at Tealson who stood at the curb, looking none too pleased with their fool­ishness. "Someplace warm," he answered.

  "Sounds wonderful."

  As she slid into the rear seat of the limousine, her smile grew tense. Across from her, Paddao sat beside two old men, both of them dead ringers for Giorgio Santini. She wasn't sure which was the real Giorgio. They looked so much alike. Her gaze slid to the one on her left. He looked pale and tired.

  Michael climbed in beside her, pulling the door closed. He grinned from ear to ear. "Papa, I want you to meet Sarah. Sarah, my father. Given his predilection for changing his name, you may as well call him Papa from the start and save yourself a lot of trouble."

  The man on Sarah's left leaned forward to gaze intently at her face, not smiling, not speaking for an endless mo­ment. She was afraid he disapproved. At last, his brown eyes began to twinkle. Slapping Giorgio on the knee, he said, "Mamma mia! It has finally happened. My Michael is get­ting married. This old man is going to have grandbabies af­ter all."

  Sarah smiled and inched closer to Michael, glancing out the window as they pulled away from the curb. The car picked up speed, taking them she knew not where. But it didn't matter, not if she was with Michael. She knew her mother would understand that.

  "Are you sure, Sarah?" he asked.

  There was no need to answer. Her kiss said it all. The limousine rounded a corner, merging with the heavy Chicago traffic. Then it disappeared without a trace.