Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney #2)(96)

That was Blake’s cue to smile, to break the tension between them, but he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead he watched, stony-faced, as Tracy rode back down the hill and out of sight.

DANIEL COOPER PRESSED HIS hands to his temples.

He had a terrible headache.

Jeff Stevens’s screams were starting to get to him.

The path to righteousness is lined with suffering, he reminded himself as he turned up the voltage on the machine that was delivering electric shocks to Stevens’s wrists and ankles. Think of our Lord in Gethsemane. Even He felt abandoned.

Tracy should have been here by now.

Where is she? Didn’t she get my message?

It was hard to keep faith. But Daniel Cooper trusted in the Lord.

BLAKE CARTER HAD JUST put Nick to bed and was about to make himself some supper when the phone rang. Tracy had left for Europe that morning and Blake was home alone.

“Schmidt residence.”

“Blake. How are you?” Jean Rizzo’s voice was the last sound on earth Blake wanted to hear. “It’s Jean Rizzo here. Tracy’s friend.”

“I know who you are.”

“I’m sorry to call so late but I need to speak to Tracy. I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”

“Well, you can’t speak to her.”

“I’m sorry?”

The old cowboy’s anger crackled down the line. “Why don’t you just crawl on back to wherever it is you came from and leave Tracy the hell alone?”

“You don’t understand . . .”

“No, mister. YOU don’t understand. She’s not here. She flew to Europe this morning. Now, why don’t you tell me what business that lady has in Europe? With her son and her life back here? You put her up to this, Rizzo! If anything happens to that woman I swear to God—”


Jean interrupted him. “Where did she fly to, Blake?”

Carter didn’t answer.

With an effort, Jean controlled his temper. “It’s vitally important that you tell me what you know.”

Blake recognized the note of panic in Jean’s voice. He was doing his best to sound calm, but he was worried. So I was right. Tracy really is in danger. If she hasn’t even confided in Rizzo, it could be serious. “Italy. That’s what she told me. Rome. But I don’t know if she was telling the truth. She’s been lying a lot lately. All I know for sure is that she got in a cab to Denver Airport this morning.”

“Did she say anything else? Anything at all?”

“She said she was trying to help a friend. Someone who’d saved her life once. She said she’d be back in a week. That’s it. Now, are you going to tell me what’s happening?”

“I wish I could,” said Jean, and hung up.

Jean stood in his apartment with the phone in his hand, frozen, for almost a minute. Blake Carter’s words had hit him like a glass of acid in the face. He’d been afraid that Tracy might do this. That she might be crazy enough to try to confront Daniel Cooper on her own, if she believed Jeff Stevens’s life might depend on it. Had something in Cooper’s letter, in the riddle, convinced her that it did? Jean had hoped that some sense of self-preservation, and concern for her son, would kick in at the last minute and pull Tracy back from the brink.

No such luck. Tracy Whitney always had been impulsive. Apparently the leopard hadn’t changed its spots.

Jean had to find her before she found Cooper.

If anything happened to Tracy, Jean thought, Blake Carter wouldn’t need to kill me. Jean Rizzo would never be able to live with the guilt. He’d already failed his sister, and his wife, and his children and all those poor, dead, murdered women. If he lost Tracy too . . .

Think, Jean. Think! Where is she?

He picked up the phone and started to dial.

JEFF DRIFTED IN AND out of consciousness.

It couldn’t be long now. His body would shut down. The pain would end.

It had to. The alternative was unthinkable.

He felt something damp and soft being pressed against his lips.

A sponge?

He sucked weakly, desperate for water, but the liquid wasn’t water. It was bitter. Narcotic. He drank anyway, pushing the horrors of what he knew was to come from his mind.

The lamb.

Death on a cross.

The pain had stopped for now. Idly Jeff wondered whether anyone would come to his rescue. Was anybody even looking for him? The police? Interpol? The FBI? Cooper was obsessed with Tracy. But Tracy wouldn’t come. How could she? Tracy knew nothing about any of this.

Besides, Tracy didn’t love him anymore.

Tracy hadn’t loved him for a long time.

The bitter liquid worked its magic.

Jeff slept.

JEAN RIZZO WAS READY to cry with frustration.

“There must be something. Have we checked passenger lists for every airline?”

His colleague sighed. “Out of Denver yesterday? Yeah. We have. No Tracy Schmidt. No Tracy Whitney.”

“How about domestic flights? Maybe she had a stopover in another city.”

“If she did, she used a different ID. She’s a con artist, right?”

Retired, thought Jean.

“She probably has a lot of passports. You released her picture?”

Jean grunted. He had given the photograph of Tracy that Interpol had on file to the staff at Denver Airport and had it mass–e-mailed to law enforcement agencies across the United States and in a string of major European cities, along with Jeff Stevens’s image. The problem, in both cases, was that the pictures were about fifteen years old. Why the hell didn’t I take Tracy’s picture when we were together in New York? I had all that time. He could have asked Blake Carter for a more up-to-date image, but he knew such a request would only cause the old man to panic. The last thing Jean needed was for Tracy’s disappearance to go public.