Erica Spindler - Cause for Alarm

Julianna scanned the article. It had happened November sixteenth. The senator, the paper reported, was found shot to death in his Washington hotel room. He had been shot at point blank range; he died instantly. At the time the article was written, the police had no suspects though they were following several leads.

Julianna stared at the screen, her vision blurring with tears, her teeth beginning to chatter. She hugged herself. Something didn't sound right, she thought. Why had Billy been in a hotel room? Sure, he lived with his family in Virginia, but whenever he was in town he stayed with her mother.

"Are you all right?"

Julianna lifted her gaze. The librarian had returned and was looking at her with concern. "I'm sorry," Julianna whispered, "what did you say?"

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No, I-" Her tears threatened to spill over, and she fought them back. "You said I could make a copy of this?"

"That's right. They're a quarter a page."

Julianna dug two quarters out of her purse, one for the front page and headline about Billy's murder, the second for the rest of the story, buried at the back of the paper. She handed them to the woman, who made the copies for her.

Julianna thanked the librarian and left, clutching the copies to her chest. She made it home, though she had no recollection of climbing into her car, let alone driving, and raced to the phone. Heart thundering, she dialed her mother. The phone rang once. Then twice. While she waited, she told herself over and over that her mother was safe and unharmed. That Billy's death had nothing to do with her or her mother, nothing to do with John.

On the third ring a recording informed her that the number was no longer in service. The receiver still clutched in her hands, Julianna sank to her knees. It couldn't be, she thought. She had dialed incorrectly; that was all. She tried it again, paying closer attention this time.

The same recording rang in her ears.

Fighting complete hysteria, Julianna dialed long distance information and asked for a listing for Sylvia Starr. The operator informed her there was no such listing in the

D.C. area.

No listing for her mother. Billy was dead.

Julianna bent at her waist, phone cradled to her cheek. Dear God, what did she do now? She had to make sure her mother was all right. She had to find her.

Clark Russell. Of course.

Swiping at her tears, she called information, then dialed the CIA in Langley, Virginia.

"CIA. How may I direct your call?"

"Please, could you…" Julianna whispered, choked with tears. "I need to speak-"

"You'll have to speak up," the woman said, "I can't understand you."

She cleared her throat. "Clark Russell. Please."

"May I tell him who's calling."

"Julianna Starr."

There was a moment's silence on the other end of the line, then a series of clicking sounds. A moment later a man came on the line. "This is Todd Bishop. May I help you?"

"I was…I need to speak with Clark Russell, please."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Russell is no longer with the Agency. May I help you?"

"No longer with-" Julianna struggled for an even breath. "But where…when did he-"

"He retired this past January, the lucky guy. Is there something I can-"

Julianna slammed down the receiver, a low moan escaping her lips. She sank to the floor, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She pressed her face to her knees and rocked, struggling to get a grip on herself, on her fear.

Billy was dead. Murdered just three weeks after she had run away. Clark was no longer with the CIA. Her mother was missing.

John was cleaning house. He was exacting revenge.

Her mother was dead, too.

No. She brought her hands to her ears as if by doing so she could block out the sound of her own thoughts. It wasn't true. Her mother was fine, living on a yacht with that Arab millionaire, the one she had met shortly before Julianna left, the one she hadn't been able to stand. He had made himself more attractive to her mother by sweetening the pot. It had happened before.

That was it. Julianna swiped at the tears on her cheeks. Her mother had ended her relationship with Billy, taken the millionaire's offer and closed up the brownstone. That's why Billy had been staying in a hotel. That's why her mother's number was no longer in service. As for Clark Russell, he had retired, just as that man had said.

It all made sense. More sense than believing John was out exacting revenge on anyone who had known her.

Calm stole over her. She smiled and stood, chiding herself for letting her imagination run away with her. Learning of Billy's death had been a shock, of course, but from now on, she would keep her attention fixed firmly on Richard and the future they would have together.

As Richard drove home that evening, his thoughts were on the girl he had interviewed in the morning. He had thought about her on and off all day, though he couldn't say for certain why.

She had given a good interview, no doubt about it. She was as qualified as anyone else he had interviewed; he liked her determination and ambition, appreciated the hunger for the job he had heard in her voice, the hint of desperation.

He had decided against her anyway. She was too young for the job, too pretty, too inexperienced.

But still, he couldn't stop thinking about her. And the more he thought, the more he wavered in his original decision against her. She possessed a kind of determination that he hadn't seen in the other applicants, a kind that made him believe she would do a good job, a better job than the others he had interviewed.

She also possessed a kind of social confidence and savvy that suggested a woman older than her years, one who had seen more of the world than one would expect of a twenty-two year old.

Richard turned onto Gerard Street, heading toward the lake. He smiled to himself, remembering the way she had looked at him, the way she had looked up to him. As if she believed in him one hundred percent. As if she didn't have a doubt about his abilities or the fact that he would win the race for D.A.-or any race he ran in, for that matter.

He shook his head, amused with his own thoughts. When she'd looked at him that way, he had been reminded of the young man he had been back at Tulane. Unstoppable. Cocky and without doubts-about himself, his abilities or his golden future. He had been reminded of the way it had felt to snap his fingers and whatever he had desired would be his.

Richard grimaced. A pretty young thing, one more than ten years his junior, gazed up at him in awe and he'd puffed up like some damn peacock.

Reason enough not to hire her.

He sobered, remembering her surprise and devastation at learning of Senator Jacobson's death. Poor kid, she'd been really upset. He had felt bad for her.

He drew to a stop as the light ahead turned red, his thoughts drifting to Kate. She used to look at him the way Julianna had today-as if she believed he not only hung the moon, but that he could do no wrong as well. She used to make him feel all puffed up and invincible.

He drew his eyebrows together in thought. When had she stopped? he wondered. When had he ceased being a hero to her?

The baby, he thought, unable to quell a stab of resentment. Since Emma nothing had been the same between them.

The light changed, and he turned onto Lakeshore Drive. He waved at their next-door neighbor, out pruning her crepe myrtles, as he swung into his drive. Kate sat on the upper balcony, reading while the baby slept in her swing. He pulled his car to a stop, collected his briefcase and climbed out. Kate saw him and called a greeting.

That was it, he realized as he waved to his wife. Something about Julianna Starr reminded him of Kate, though they looked nothing alike. Kate possessed a classic, quiet kind of beauty. Julianna Starr reminded him of the super-models made so popular by designers like Calvin Klein- waif-Madonnas, somehow childlike and sensual. Despite those differences, he saw something in Julianna's manner that reminded him of his wife-the way she moved and spoke, her smile.