Erica Spindler - Cause for Alarm

They weren't now. How was he going to face her? he wondered, looking up at the starless sky, feeling small and gutless. Hardly half a man, let alone a whole one. He'd had the perfect life, the ideal marriage. He had blown it all to hell.

No. He hadn't blown it. If he wanted her back, their marriage back, by God, he would have it. She was his wife; she would forgive him. He deserved that much from her. After all the things he had given her and the way she had shut him out these past months, she owed him this one little mistake. She owed him forgiveness.

He took his cellular phone from his pocket and punched in their home number as he angled across the small patch of lawn to his car. She answered on the first ring, her voice gravelly with sleep or tears, he wasn't sure which.

"Kate, it's me. Don't hang up, I-"

"I've got nothing to say to you."

The phone went dead as she hung up on him. He made a sound of surprise. And anger. She was his wife, by damn, and she would talk to him. He pressed redial, but before he hit Send, a figure separated from the shadows beside the house.

"You've taken something that belongs to me," the man said softly. "And I want it back."

Richard strained to see the man's face, still cloaked in shadow. What he could make out didn't strike a chord of recognition in him. "You're confused, buddy," he said, annoyed. "Get lost."

The man took a step closer, emerging from the darkness. "You took my sweet flower and soiled her. Now you have to pay."

Richard expelled a sharp breath. "I don't know you. I didn't take this ‘flower' you're talking about. I'd suggest you go sleep it off. Now, get the hell away from me."

Instead, the man came closer, his movements nearly soundless. Richard saw that he had light hair and eyes as flat and cold as death.

A prickle of unease moved over him. "Didn't you hear me? I said to get the fuck away from me before I-"

"What?" The man laughed. "Call the cops? It'll be all over with before they get here." He eased closer. "Let me tell you a story. About a beautiful young girl. And the man who loved her. She was the world," he murmured, glancing toward Julianna's door. "His everything. He protected and cherished her. He taught her about loyalty and trust. In return, he gave her all that she desired.

"But she was susceptible to evil, to outside forces, ones intent on extinguishing her sweet, bright light. Ones who would turn her into a common whore."

Julianna, Richard realized. He was talking about Julianna. This must be the man she had told him about, the one she feared from her past.

Richard narrowed his eyes. "If you're talking about Julianna, I'm telling you now, it's over between you two. She doesn't want to see you. Not ever."

This time it was Richard who took a step closer, hoping to intimidate. "Leave her alone. If you don't, I'll have you slapped with a restraining order so fast it'll make your head spin. You got that, you freak?"

John smiled. "Self-righteous son of a bitch, aren't you? I look at you and I see the slime of the earth, a man without honor. Without loyalty." He swept his icy gaze over Richard, his contempt all but palpable. "What of your beautiful wife and baby daughter, alone in that big old house? Who's protecting them while you're off fucking my Julianna? Who's taking care of them?"

Richard's blood ran cold at the implied threat to his family. This man knew about his family, where they lived, that they were alone and vulnerable.

Fear choked him, and he took a step backward. "I'm calling the police," he said, punching 911 on his cell phone. "If I were you, I'd-"

Richard heard a loud pop, like a firecracker exploding, then felt a burning sensation in his chest. He lifted a hand to the spot, then brought it away wet.

Blood.

Dear Jesus, Kate.

Head swimming, he lifted his disbelieving gaze to the man's. The man smiled. And pulled the trigger again.

Kate opened her eyes slowly. Her head pounded; her eyes burned. She glanced around her, momentarily disoriented. Then she remembered. Richard's betrayal. Nick Winters' frightening visit. Curling up beside the crib, shotgun clutched to her chest.

The pounding in her head became louder, more insistent. Kate realized someone was at her door. She eased herself into a sitting position, then stood, wincing as her joints and muscles screamed in protest. Her entire body ached from sleeping on the nursery's wooden floor. She felt like a prize fighter's punching bag.

"I'm coming," she muttered, peering at her wristwatch, wondering who would be calling so early. It wasn't Richard, she knew. Not only did he have a key, he was arrogant enough to think using it would be okay.

Emma stirred, but didn't waken. Thank God. She would take care of whoever was at the door, then make herself a pot of strong, black coffee. Maybe then she would feel halfway human.

She reached the front door and glanced out the sidelight. Two men she didn't know stood on her porch. Both wore suit jackets and dark sunglasses. Like a couple of guys out of a bad TV show.

She cracked open the door. "Can I help you?"

"Mrs. Ryan?"

"That's right."

"Mandeville police." The man on her right held up his shield. "I'm Detective Owens. This is Detective Dober. Could we have a few minutes of your time?"

Kate moved her gaze from one to the other of them, heart in her throat. She swallowed hard, past the fear. "What's this about?"

"May we come in?"

She shook her head. "Not until you tell me what this is about."

The men exchanged glances. "Mrs. Ryan, do you know where your husband is?"

A half an hour later, Kate was on her way to the morgue to identify her husband. She sat in the back seat of the detectives' Ford, silent, shaking hands clasped in her lap. Emma was with the next-door neighbor. The woman had taken one look at Kate and had agreed without questions to watch the child.

Kate turned her face to the window and watched the world go by, the sights familiar but foreign. She struggled to keep from falling apart, struggled to come to grips with what the detectives had told her. It looked like a robbery, the police had said. Richard's wallet, watch and wedding band were missing. He had been found beside his Mer-cedes, cell phone in his hand. He had been shot twice, at point-blank range.

The police had questioned her extensively about the last time she had seen her husband, about his whereabouts and the last weeks of his life. Did she know of anyone who might want him dead?

As humiliating as it had been, she had been completely honest with them. About discovering his infidelity. Their fight. That she had told him not to come home.

She had seen their expressions change as she talked, sympathy becoming suspicion. She had a motive, she realized. No alibi. A hysterical laugh passed her lips, and she saw the detective who was driving-she couldn't remember whether he was Owens or Dober-glance at her in the rearview mirror. Dear God, her husband had been murdered, and she had to deal with finding a lawyer.

As if in a waking nightmare, Kate followed the detectives into the morgue. She was aware of a strong odor, like apples fermenting in a cellar. An antiseptic, she realized. Or formaldehyde. Masking the scent of death. Mixing with it.

One of the detectives slid out the refrigerated drawer. She stood dumbly by, waiting for him to lift the white sheet, sweat beading on her upper lip and slipping between her breasts. Down her spine.

He did. A cry rose to her throat. She brought her hand to her mouth, holding it and her sickness back. She nodded and spun away, breath coming in short, shallow pants.

The detective with the gentle voice led her out of the room, then the building and into the bright fall day. There, she sank to a step, dropped her head into her hands and wept.