Erica Spindler - Cause for Alarm

The perfect family, Julianna thought with a wistfulness that surprised her. The one she had dreamed of for herself as a child. The one she had hoped for with John.

She looked up and found Ellen's gaze sympathetically on hers. Julianna thought of her confrontation with the other waitresses and of the word they had used to describe her. Pathetic.

Was that how this woman saw her, too?

Julianna stiffened her spine. Nobody needed to feel sorry for her. Whether they could see it or not, she had everything going for her. Everything.

"How do I pick them? Is it like an interview or a lineup, or something?"

A smile tugged at the social worker's mouth. "You can meet with the couple you choose, but that comes much later. Our couples complete extensive questionnaires. About their likes, dislikes, views on love, marriage, raising children. About their background, their families and childhoods. They put together a photo album of themselves and their family.

"From all that, we put together a packet about each couple. Each includes the couple's photo album, their essays and our synopsis, if you will, of the drier, more factual information about them. No identifying information is exchanged, and by that I mean last names, addresses and so forth. When you're ready, we select the couples who fit what you've told us you're looking for and give you their packets. You can take them home, study them, think it over. We won't rush you to make a quick decision. We know how important it is and above all, we want you to feel comfortable and happy with the family you choose."

Julianna thought for a moment, finding herself being drawn into the idea. "What if none of the couples you choose-"

"Seem right? You can look at all the packets, of course."

She went on to explain open and closed adoption. Julianna was stunned to learn it was she, not the adopting couple or the agency, who made the decision of how much interaction there would be between her and the adoptive couple-anything from an initial visit or two before the baby was born, to continuing visits with the family after placement and for years to come. She could even choose a totally closed adoption, one that allowed no contact of any kind, not even the exchange of photographs and letters. It was completely up to her.

Of course, the couple would have to be comfortable with whatever arrangement she preferred, but Ellen assured her that if one couple didn't feel comfortable with a certain level of openness, another would.

"Perhaps you want to think all this over?" Ellen suggested, smiling gently. "I know it's a lot to absorb."

"No, thanks. I'm ready to do it."

"It's a big step. The emotional repercussions-"

Julianna looked her dead in the eyes. "There's nothing to think over. Getting pregnant was a huge mistake. I have no desire to be a mother. None. And it's too late for me to have an abortion."

"I understand."

"Good." Julianna took a deep breath, feeling completely in control now. "One more question. Dr. Samuel said the agency would be able to help with my medical expenses?"

"Absolutely. If you're without insurance."

"I am."

"We want, insist, really, that you have the best medical care. Whether you give your baby up for adoption or decide to parent, if you're in our program, you're guaranteed medical care. If you liked Dr. Samuel, you may continue seeing him. He's one of our regular obstetricians."

"I liked him fine." Julianna cleared her throat. "He also said you…the agency sometimes helps with living expenses."

Julianna had thought the woman would balk at the question, that she might look at Julianna as a greedy opportunist. But she didn't. She answered the question as if she had been asked it many, many times before.

"We're able to help with living expenses, although to what extent and in what ways is not as clearly delineated as with medical assistance. Why don't you tell me what's going on with you in that area, then I can tell you what we might be able to do."

Julianna did. "I have no family to help me. Right now, I'm working as a waitress at Buster's Big Po'boys downtown. It's okay, I'm getting by right now. But some days I'm so tired. I'm afraid when I get farther along, I won't be able to keep up. And there's no way my boss is going to cut me any slack. He told me the minute I can't cut it, I'm out."

Ellen Ewing smiled at her. "If everything you've told me checks out, I don't see any reason we won't be able to help you. That's what we're here for, Julianna. We care about you and your baby."

Julianna smiled, feeling almost carefree. "So, what do we do next?"

Washington, D.C., January 1999

Only those of the stoutest constitution had braved the outdoor café today, a collection of nearly deserted wrought iron tables huddled together just off Georgetown's busy Thirty-fourth street. Though the sun shone brightly, the breeze was stiff, cold and damp.

Condor made his way to where Tom Morris sat, sipping a latté. A benign-looking man, with round spectacles and balding pate, he reminded Condor of his slightly daffy uncle Fred. In actuality, as director of the operations branch of the CIA, the arm of the Agency responsible for all covert maneuvers including clandestine intelligence collection and covert paramilitary operations, Tom Morris was one of the shrewdest, most powerful and feared men in Washington.

"Morning, Tom."

The man looked up. Condor saw himself reflected in the other man's Ray●Bans, ones that were near replicas of his own.

Morris motioned to the chair across from his. "Have a seat." Condor did, and the man didn't waste time getting to the point of the morning's meeting. "John Powers has become a problem."

"How so?"

"He's a loose canon. The Agency's at risk." Morris added a packet of artificial sweetener to his latté. "We have to be able to control him."

"Then keep him busy."

"Easier said then done."

Condor made a sound of disgust. "The man's a trained hunter, you can't expect him to suddenly become a lapdog. It doesn't work that way."

"Times have changed. You know that." Morris frowned into the distance. "Besides, we're beyond that."

"He's been freelancing a long time. Why the sudden concern?"

Morris took an manila envelope out of his briefcase and handed it to Condor. "Take a look."

Condor opened the flap and slid out two eight-by-ten glossies. Full color. A man and a woman. Very dead. Blood and other assorted gore sprayed across the wall and bed.

"Senator Jacobson," Morris supplied. "And his lover."

Condor studied the photos. "A professional job?"

"It appears so."

"Powers?"

"Possibly."

"Who ordered the hit?"

"I don't know. Maybe nobody."

Morris had his attention now. "I don't follow."

Morris sipped the coffee, made a sound of appreciation and set down the over-size cup. "There's a connection. Powers and the woman were once involved."

"Could be a coincidence." Condor dropped the photographs into the envelope.

"True. But there's more. Russell's dead. A blow to the back of the head, the kidneys and larynx. Definitely professional."

"Powers?" Morris lifted a shoulder. "Shit." Condor looked away, then back. "What's the connection?"

"Woman and Russell were also once…involved."

Condor frowned. "You think this is personal?"

"Yes. But we need to know for sure. A United States senator is dead. So is one of our division chiefs. If it was a hit, we have to know who ordered it. If it wasn't, and Powers was involved, we have a problem to be taken care of."

"What do you want from me?"

"Find him. Find out what we need to know. If need be, explain the Agency's position to him." He met Condor's gaze evenly. "Make certain he understands."