Cause For Alarm (4 page)

Finally, all the preparations for the next morning had been made, and she'd punched out. As Julianna reached for the door, Lorena stepped in front of it, blocking Julianna's way. The other three waitresses came up beside Lorena, flanking her, their expressions tight and angry. “Not so fast, Miss Priss. We've got a bone to pick with you.”

Julianna stopped, glancing nervously from one to the other of the women. “Is something wrong?”

Lorena, obviously having been voted the leader of the pack, took a step toward her. “You could say that. We're sick and tired of your attitude. Of you thinking you're better than the rest of us. And we're sick and tired of having to cover for your lazy butt.”

At the animosity in the older woman's tone and expression, Julianna inched backward, glancing over her shoulder, looking for Buster. He was nowhere to be seen.

“Where do you get off, thinkin' you're so much better than us?” Lorena took another step; the others followed. “Just 'cause you went and got yourself knocked up, you think you don't have to work? You think a bun in the oven makes you special or somethin'?”

Another one of the girls, Suzi, pointed a long, bloodred fingernail at her. “When you show up late, we've gotta cover your tables. That means we're working our tails off and getting crappy tips all around.”

“And we're sick of it,” Jane said.

“I overslept,” Julianna said stiffly. “I didn't do it on purpose, for Pete's sake.”

That, obviously, wasn't the response they wanted, because angry color flooded Lorena's round face. She looked like a bleached blond balloon about to pop. “I've got a question for you, princess. One we've all wondered about. If you're so frickin' high and mighty, why're you working in a dive like this? And if yours is so special it don't stink, where's your old man? Why'd he go and dump you the moment you got knocked up?”

“Yeah,” Suzi added. “Or do you even know who the baby's father is?”

“Bet she doesn't,” Jane taunted, before Julianna could jump to her own defense. “She's just a little slut who likes to put on airs.”

Lorena laughed. “You're pathetic, you know that? I feel sorry for you. We all do.” She leaned closer, smelling of Juicy Fruit gum and drugstore perfume. “You're not going to make it, you know that? You or your little bastard. Come on, girls.”

With that, the three turned and flounced out of the restaurant.

Julianna watched them go, tears welling in her eyes, threatening to spill over. Is that what they thought of her? What everyone thought of her? She brought her hands to her belly, self-conscious, humiliated. That she was pathetic? A woman rejected and without options? Lower, worse off than they were?

It had never occurred to her that others would look at her that way. That they would feel sorry for her.

Nobody had ever felt sorry for her before. She caught her breath and dropped her hands from her belly. She had never felt sorry for
herself
before. Not this way, not to the very core of her being.

She closed her eyes and thought of Washington, of the fine restaurants where she had dined on a daily basis, of the day spa where she'd had massages and facials and manicures, of her pretty apartment and closet overflowing with expensive dresses.

But mostly, she thought of John. She brought a trembling hand to her mouth.

Could he really be the monster her mother said he was?

From the kitchen, she heard Buster and the cook finishing up, preparing to lock up for the day. Not wanting them to catch her near tears, she hurried out of the restaurant and into the chill, late afternoon.

Julianna pulled her coat tighter around her. The sidewalks were crowded with workers heading home after the long work day. The St. Charles Avenue streetcar rumbled to a stop at the curb before her. Sun glinted off the glass, momentarily blinding her. A cloud drifted over the sun; the streetcar passed.

And she saw John.

He had found her.

She caught her breath, and took an involuntary step backward, panicked. He stood directly across the street from her, his head turned slightly away, as if gazing up St. Charles Avenue, looking for someone or something.

For her. Or for a place to take her and kill her.

Julianna froze, uncertain what to do—able to do little but stare, her heart pounding so heavily in her chest, she could hardly breathe.

The way it had fourteen years ago, when she had met him for the very first time. He'd been the most handsome man she had ever seen, tall and strong-looking and young, not shriveled and prunelike the way Senator Paxton was or fat and bald like Justice Lambert.

John hadn't been like any of her mother's other men friends.

Her mother had introduced her to him, calling her softly forward, letting her Alabama roots show in her gentle drawl.

 

“This is my baby,” she said. “My Julianna.”

Julianna curtsied, keeping her eyes downcast, the way her mama had taught her.

“Julianna, honey, say hello to Mr. Powers.”

“How do you do,” she said, her cheeks growing hot, wanting more than anything to really look at him.

“Hello, Julianna,” he said, “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

She dared a bold peek up at him, then another. She made a small sound of surprise. “Your hair's white,” she said. “Like snow.”

“Yes, it is.”

“But how come?” She drew her eyebrows together, confused. “You're not old and wrinkly like Dr. Walters and he has white hair.” She tilted her head. “You've got lots more than him, too.”

Her mother gasped, and Julianna knew she had made a mistake. But John Powers wasn't angry. He laughed, the sound deep and rich and really…nice. She decided she liked him better than all her mother's other friends.

He squatted down before her and gazed into her eyes—in a way none of her mother's other friends ever had. In a way no one ever had.

As if she were as important as a grown-up. As if she were special.

“It turned white overnight,” he said. “I was on a mission. I almost died.”

She widened her eyes. “You almost died?”

“That's right.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I survived by eating bugs.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Bugs?”

“Mmm. Big, ugly ones.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Someday. Someday I'll tell you all about it.”

“Okay,” Julianna said, hanging her head, disappointed.

He gathered her hands in his and for long moments simply gazed at her, his expression serious. Then he smiled. “I have a feeling about us, Julianna. Do you want to know what it is?” She nodded eagerly, and he continued. “I have the feeling that you and I are going to be the very best of friends. Would you like that?”

She glanced up at her mother, saw that she looked pleased, then back at John Powers. “Yes, Mr. Powers. I'd like that very much.”

 

The best of friends. The father she'd never had. Her protector. Her lover.

John Powers had become her everything.

And now he wanted her dead.

A horn ripped through air, followed by a shouted epithet. Julianna blinked, startled out of her reverie. She looked around her, disoriented. People, anxious to get home after a long day of work, streamed around her, a few sending her curious glances. John, if that had really been him, was gone.

Gone.
She blinked again, despair rising up in her, stealing her breath.
The past, her former life. John. All gone.

Pulling her coat tighter around her, she turned and walked away.

J
ulianna awakened with a start. She opened her eyes, instantly alert, though she couldn't say why. She darted her gaze around the dark room, looking for the shape that didn't belong, the one that moved slightly, listening for a breath, a stirring.

For the monster.

John. That had been him on the street. He had found her. He was with her now.
Fear took her breath; it became a living thing inside her.

Inside her.
She brought her hands to her swollen belly, half expecting to find it split wide, intestines and fetus and gore spilling out of her and onto the white sheets. Instead, she found herself intact, her belly round and hard and full.

Thank God…thank God…
She closed her eyes and struggled to slow her ragged breathing. If John had been here, he would have killed her. He would have cut her open, punishment for her disobedience. Her defiance.

The way he had cut those other people open, the ones from Clark Russell's photographs.

“Don't cross me again, Julianna,” John had warned. “You won't like the consequences.”

She brought her fists to her eyes. He hadn't found her; how could he have? She had done almost everything Clark had advised her to do—she had run far from D.C., never stopping too long in one place; she hadn't used her credit cards for fear of leaving a paper trail, hadn't called or written home. She'd even had her car repainted in Louisville.

But not everything.
He had advised her to change her name, take on a new identity. But that had been impossible. She'd tried, but hotels wanted identification; she needed a driver's license in case she was pulled over; Buster had demanded a social security number as a prerequisite for employment.

Julianna shook her head. It didn't matter that she hadn't changed her name—John was not going to find her, not all the way down here. That man on the street had been a trick of her imagination, just like the woman in the bathroom at Buster's.

Shuddering, Julianna fought to free herself from the sheets, tangled around her legs, encumbered by her ungainly size. She rested her head against the headboard. A part of her still couldn't believe John was a killer. Not John, who had showered her with affection, with gifts and attention and love. John who had held and stroked her, who had told her she was different, special, not silly, weak and stupid like so many other people.

A part of her couldn't believe it even after the nightmare of their last meeting.

She closed her eyes and remembered how it had been with them, not that last night, when John's face had been pinched and white with rage, his touch rough, his cruelty incomprehensible to her. No, she remembered how it had always been with them before, how gentle he had been as he held and petted her, how patient with her, how he had promised her the world.

For nothing more than being his good little girl.

His good little girl.
Docile and sweet. The child who looked up to him as one would a parent, trusting, never questioning. The child who accepted his bidding as law.

Tears flooded her eyes. John had been her everything for as long as she could remember. Her tears spilled over and slipped down her cheeks. She needed him. To love her. To take care of her. The way he always had.

This was all a mistake; the events of the last months just a terrible nightmare. She could get rid of the baby, she thought, breath catching on a sob. As he had demanded she do. Go home and beg his forgiveness. For disobeying him. For taking his things. For going to her mother and believing her and Clark over him. She could promise to be his good girl again. He would forgive her, he would. He—

No, she thought. He wouldn't. He was angry with her. Furious. Julianna rubbed at her wet cheeks, shuddering, remembering that last night, the night he had discovered her pregnancy. He had been away on business for several weeks. She had meant to tell him that night, had planned every moment of the evening, wanting their reunion to be special, wanting to set the perfect stage for her announcement.

She had been so excited, so certain John would be thrilled with her news. Instead, he had become a man she hadn't recognized, coldly furious and cruel.

As was their custom, she had arrived at his apartment early so she could be waiting in bed for him, curled up under the covers like a sleepy child. Julianna leaned her head back, resting it against the cool plaster wall, remembering. She hadn't chosen a sexy, sheer nightie or provocative underwear to please her lover, but a long, pink floral gown with a high neck and white ruffle at the throat, wrists and hem.

The kind of gown a little girl would wear.

John's little girl….

 

She wiggled down under the covers more, and her soft flannel gown rubbed against her legs, fuzzy and reassuring. She acknowledged excitement. Anticipation. Nerves.

She worked to quell the latter, though without much luck. Her heart beat almost out of control, her mind raced with what she would say to John and how he would respond, with thoughts about the future, their future.

Pregnant. Twelve weeks and one day.
Though she had deliberately stopped taking her birth control pills in the hopes this would happen, she could hardly believe it was true.

She was a woman now, finally.

Julianna squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath, willing her runaway heart to slow. That's why she had stopped taking her pills without telling him. She was tired of being his little girl. She wanted to be a woman, was ready and anxious to have what other women had. She was certain she had done the right thing.

John would give her what she wanted. He always had.

She pressed a hand to her nearly flat stomach, imagining the future. She wanted her and John to be a real couple, like the ones she saw on TV. Real lovers, the way men and women were lovers in books and in movies. Passionate and committed. And…and adult.

Julianna didn't know how to put her finger on what she wanted, what was missing from her relationship with John. It wasn't simply that she and John lived apart. It wasn't the difference in their ages or that he was the only man she had ever been with. It wasn't that she didn't love him—she did, with all her heart.

She rolled onto her left side and again the soft fabric of her gown tickled her legs. Sudden tears stung her eyes. She had prowled through the lingerie sections of the department stores, longing to wear the sexy, sheer clothes most women wore for their lovers; she had gazed with hunger at other men and women, other lovers, and the way they looked at and touched each other.

John treated her differently than that. Gently. With love, respect and tenderness. Which was good. But still…She wanted more. She wanted passion. Lust. Even the occasional argument.

She heard John at the front door. Quickly, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, rhythmically, feigning sleep.

This was part of their game. One they had been acting out ever since the first time, so many years ago.

Only then, it hadn't been a game. It hadn't been an act.

Her bedroom door opened; light fell across the bed. A moment later the mattress dipped as he sat on its edge.

For long seconds he said nothing, and she knew he simply gazed at her. As always, she fought the urge to open her eyes and look at him, fought the urge to attempt to read what he was thinking in his eyes.

“Julianna,” he said softly, “it's me, my sweet. It's John.”

“John?” she whispered, letting her lashes flutter up, feigning sleepy confusion. “You're back?”

“Yes, love. I'm back.”

“I missed you,” she murmured and smiled at him. “Did you come to tuck me in?”

“Yes.” He cupped her face and looked deeply into her eyes. “I love you, Julianna. I always have. Since the first time I met you. Did you know that?”

Even now, after all these years of playacting, she experienced a moment of alarm. A tiny explosion of panic in the pit of her stomach.

He bent closer and pressed his lips to her temple. “I brought you something.”

“You did?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Feigning childish excitement, she scooted up in the bed. “What is it?”

He laid his hands on her shoulders. “Were you a good girl while I was gone?”

She nodded, the past and the present blending, creating a weird sensation of fear and excitement, discomfort and pleasure deep in her gut.

“Are you my good little girl now?”

She nodded again, beginning to tremble.

“I can't stay away, Julianna.” He stroked her hair. “I've tried but I can't, not anymore. You're mine. You always have been. Always will be. Do you understand?”

“What…do you mean?”

“You'll understand. Soon.” A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You will, I promise.”

He carefully drew the covers away, murmuring his satisfaction. “Pretty,” he whispered, rubbing the fuzzy fabric between his fingers. “So pretty and sweet.”

“John?” she said, working to sound young and frightened.

“It's all right, love. Show John how much you love him.” He applied gentle pressure, forcing her back to the mattress. “Show him what a good girl you can be.”

So, she did. She lay absolutely still, the way he liked it, as he ran his hands over her, gently at first, then with more urgency.

He didn't undress himself; he wouldn't penetrate her, she knew. He rarely did. Instead, he concentrated on gentling and pleasuring her, first with his hands, then his mouth.

Only when she had climaxed, arching up, crying out as with stunned uncertainty, then falling back to the bed and whimpering meekly like a kitten, did he press himself against her. He was sweating and short of breath, as if he had just finished a ten-mile run. He quivered with the force of his own unfulfilled needs, with excitement.

“My sweet, sweet Julianna. What would I do without you?”

She turned her face to his and kissed him, thinking of their baby, allowing herself a moment's fantasy about how John would take her news. “I love you, John.” She smiled and kissed him again. “I love you.”

“Show me how much, love.” He caught her hand and brought it to his erection. “Show me.”

Julianna did. She rubbed and stroked and massaged him, curling her hand around his penis, pumping him to orgasm.

 

Julianna jumped as a burst of raucous laughter came from the apartment next door. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, then realized she had to go to the bathroom. Had to go so badly she wondered if she was going to be able to make it.

She dragged herself out of bed and padded to the john, the wooden floor cold and gritty beneath her bare feet. The mirror above the vanity was cloudy with age, a crack ran diagonally through its center, warping her reflection by causing the two sides of her face to not quite fit together.

She stared at her misshapen image, breath catching, hardly recognizing herself. She turned to the side, bringing her hands to her swollen belly. Pathetic, she thought, recalling what the other waitresses had said earlier that day. Rejected. Without options.

“You're not going to make it. You or your little bastard.”

It hurt to look at herself, and Julianna turned away from her reflection. Why was she doing this? Why was she here, alone and pregnant? She didn't want to be a mother, did she? She didn't want to be one of those hollow-eyed women who came into Buster's, the ones who were always chasing after their children and wiping their running noses, the ones who always looked so tired. That's not why she had gotten pregnant.

Yet that's what lay before her.

She brought a hand to her mouth, realizing the truth. She should have done as John demanded, gotten rid of the baby. Even her mother had wondered if Julianna was certain she was making the right decision. Being on her own, keeping a step ahead of John, would be difficult enough without an infant to care for. She had offered to accompany her daughter to a clinic where the problem would be taken care of.

But Julianna had still been starry-eyed about the pregnancy. About being a grown-up. About her future.

With a moan, Julianna sank to the floor. She rested her cheek against the vanity's doors, the faux wood cracked and peeling. She didn't have any starry-eyed notions anymore. She saw the future—and it frightened her. Almost as much as the past.

She squeezed her eyes shut, tumbling back once more, back to that last night she and John had spent together….

 

They had lain facing each other on the bed, talking quietly. John had asked her about how she had spent the weeks he had been away. She had filled him in, barely able to catch her breath, going into great detail about the watercolor class she was taking and about her jazzercize group—when all she could think of, all she wanted to discuss, was her pregnancy.