Erica Spindler - Cause for Alarm

John slipped the bill into his pocket, the call a reminder of the other reason he had tracked Julianna here. His book. It contained information that was important to him. Names and dates. Places. Amounts. He had kept the record as a bargaining chip, a sort of "Get Out of Jail Free" card.

Quite a number of people would love to get their hands on it, including his former buddies at the Agency. He wanted it back.

When he had discovered the book missing, his fury had known no bounds. He'd been furious at her for her willfulness and at himself for underestimating her. For trusting her too much.

He wouldn't make that mistake again.

John began his search, starting with the desk and living room, then moving on to the kitchen and bathroom. He worked methodically, checking both the obvious places and those she might consider clever. He inched along the baseboards, looking for one that was loose, the same with the floorboards; he went through the contents of her freezer, the pantry; he checked the toilet's water tank and between the stack of bath towels on the rack above it.

He finally reached her bedroom. He searched from one end to the other, saving the dresser for last. He worked from the bottom up; he opened the top drawer and froze. It contained sheer nighties and skimpy underwear. He stared at them, disoriented, light-headed. He lifted a pair of the thong panties. Made of black nylon and polyester lace, they were the type worn by a woman who fucked freely, indiscriminately. The kind of woman who's soul had been fouled, her light extinguished.

Not his Julianna. Not the sweet girl he had loved so well and for so long.

He curled his fingers into the fabric, the blood pounding, drumlike in his head. It made him sick, the thought of her, his special girl, in these whore's clothes. And if she wore them, who did she wear them for?

Rage swelled inside him, stealing his breath, his ability to reason, to think. One by one, he destroyed the offensive garments, using his teeth and hands to snap elastic and lace, to tear flimsy nylon.

She had not learned from his lesson that last night. He would have to give her another. He would show her the error of her ways. Every child chafed under the restraints of the older and wiser. This was her rebellion.

He drew a calming breath, flexing his fingers, steadying himself. He would punish her and they would go on as before. Better than before.

He would wait. Bide his time. Toy with her; rock the safe little world she had created for herself.

But first, a gift.

He went to the bed and pulled back the coverlet and top sheet. He knelt on the edge, unzipped his pants and took himself in his hand. Closing his eyes, he stroked himself, imagining, remembering-skin, as smooth and white as new silk; tiny buds of breasts, pink-tipped and tender, a pubis as smooth and moist and new as the rest of her. He stroked faster, harder, his breath coming in pants. With a groan, he ejaculated on her sheets.

He fastened back up, then extracted a folding knife from his pocket. He swung open the blade, honed to a razor sharp edge. Without flinching, he ran the blade across the top of his hand. The skin parted, a line of red chased the tip of the blade.

Satisfied, he held his hand out, watching the blood trickle from his hand to the bed-blood meeting sperm, mingling with it. Life. And death. Beginnings and endings. Now and forever.

She would understand.

"What do you have for me?" Tom Morris asked Condor without preamble.

They sat on a bench in the main hall of D.C.'s busy Union Station. People streamed by, commuters and tourists and businessmen like themselves. The sound of so much bustling humanity echoed through the great hall, bouncing off the spectacular ninety-foot barrel-vaulted ceiling.

"Not much," Condor answered, brushing at a cookie crumb that had landed on his lap. A vendor in the food court one level below sold the best chocolate chip cookies on earth. Condor had bought himself a dozen of them.

He held the bag out to Morris. "Cookie?"

The man eyed the bag, then helped himself. "Thanks."

"Powers hasn't been back to his apartment," Condor continued, scanning the faces of the people around him. "He hasn't traveled under any of his known aliases. I've made all the right inquiries and come up with nothing. The man's gone under."

"I don't think so."

Condor glanced at the older man. "No?"

"No." Morris broke off a piece of the cookie. "A call came in to the Agency a couple months ago. Caller identified herself as Julianna Starr. She was looking for Clark Russell."

"Julianna Starr," Condor repeated. "Any relation to the stiff?"

"Her daughter. I would have passed this along sooner, but the agent who took the call was new, and it fell through the cracks."

"What did she want with Russell?"

"Good question. One I'd like the answer to." Morris cleared his throat. "Here's the interesting part. This Julianna didn't show for her mother's funeral, and she hasn't collected her inheritance. None of her mother's neighbors or acquaintances have seen her for a while. Curious, considering the circumstances."

Condor drew his eyebrows together in thought. "Could be she doesn't know her mother's dead. Or, could be she saw her mother and the senator get whacked and is running for her life. Called Russell for help. Or information."

"My thoughts exactly."

"A couple months is a long time. This Julianna could be to hell and gone by now." Condor tipped back his head and squinted up at the magnificent ceiling. "You got an address?"

"And a picture." Morris handed him a manila envelope. "Ever been to southern Louisiana?"

"As a matter of fact, I just got back."

"I hope you liked the weather, my friend, you're making a return visit."

Julianna unlocked her apartment door and hurried inside. She and Richard had managed to sneak away for a leisurely lunch. Lunch at her apartment. In bed. But first they would make slow, delicious love.

She closed the door behind her but didn't bother to lock it-Richard was only minutes behind her, charged with the job of stopping for sandwiches at the café down the street.

She would be waiting for him in bed, she had decided. Naked, trembling with excitement and anticipation.

These past three weeks as Richard's lover had been perfect. Everything she had dreamed of and planned for. He treated her like a woman and as an equal. He encouraged her to express her opinions and wasn't angry when those opinions differed from his own.

The sex had been glorious. Hot. Fulfilling. Unlike anything she had experienced with John. At first she had been hesitant to tell him what she desired. But now she knew he enjoyed when she took charge, when she boldly explored his body, when she called out to him, and when she told him how she wanted him to touch her.

It was so freeing. She felt alive and for the first time in her life, like a real woman. She initiated lovemaking everywhere, anytime she thought they could get away with it-in his office between meetings, parked in his car at the lakefront, the windows open to let in the cool fall air, in a restaurant's bathroom, once in his and Kate's bed while Kate was out.

When they were together, they didn't talk about Kate. Or Emma. They didn't talk about his marriage or what the future would bring. That was okay with her, for now. Her mother had taught her well, and she knew better than to rush him. He needed to come to the realization that he couldn't live without her on his own.

Besides, she didn't need to talk about something she already knew the outcome to. She and Richard were meant to be together. And they would be. Forever.

Crossing to the bed, Julianna stripped down to her bra and thong panties. She jerked back the coverlet and sheet, then stopped dead, a small sound of surprise slipping past her lips. She stared at the gory-looking mess in the center of her bed, her stomach rising to her throat.