Cause For Alarm (8 page)

J
ulianna kept her promise to Dr. Samuel. In fact, she had thought of little else for the next twenty-four hours. The way she saw it, her choices were slim and few. According to the doctor, she had to have this baby. She thought of seeing another doctor, or going to an abortion clinic and lying about the date of her last period. She figured it would be hard for them to tell, after all she wasn't
that
far past twenty-four weeks.

She had driven by one of the clinics, had seen the protesters out front, waving signs and holding up posters. Ones with pictures of mangled baby parts, pictures of bloody appendages and torn, mutilated flesh. The images had made her feel ill. They had frightened her. She had heard horror stories about botched abortions.

She had to have this baby.

But she didn't have to keep it.

So here she sat, in Citywide Charities' comfortable waiting room, hands clenched in her lap, silently rehearsing what she would say to the social worker she had spoken with on the phone.

She wouldn't tell her the truth, of course. Not the whole truth, anyway. She wouldn't tell her about John, or about planning to get pregnant, or about her mother.

No, her story would be a familiar one, one the woman had probably heard dozens of times before. She had slipped up and gotten pregnant; she didn't know who the father was; she had no one to turn to for support and didn't want to be a mother. Period.

“Hi. You must be Julianna Starr.”

Julianna looked up. The woman crossing the room had a perky, if not pretty face and she wore a welcoming smile. Slightly plump and motherly looking, her appearance instantly reassured Julianna.

“I'm Ellen Ewing, Citywide's director.”

“Hi.” Julianna stood.

“Why don't we go to my office and chat?” She motioned toward the hallway directly across from them. “Madeline,” she said to the receptionist, “hold my calls, will you?”

Ellen made small talk, mostly about the weather, as they made their way down the hall. They reached her office, a peach-and-teal affair, and she motioned Julianna to one of the comfy-looking chairs in front of the desk.

“Juice? Soft drink? Bottled water?”

“Orange juice?”

“Got it.” Ellen picked up the phone, buzzed Madeline and asked her to bring an OJ and a Diet Coke, then turned back to Kate. She laughed, only slightly self-consciously. “I'm addicted to Diet Cokes. I drink them all day, I'm afraid. With this figure, you'd think I was drinking the sugared variety.” She sighed. “It sometimes seems that the less I eat, the bigger I get.”

Madeline appeared at the door with the refreshments. While Ellen retrieved them, Julianna looked over the office. It was pretty, soothing and very feminine. The right side of Ellen's desk was heaped high with manila folders, the left with books. By the lamp sat a cut crystal vase filled with a bouquet of cheery flowers. Behind the desk, covering the entire wall, were pictures of children, from infants to school-age.

Ellen handed Julianna her juice, and smiled, following her gaze. “Those are my kids.”

“Your kids?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Ellen took her seat. “They're all Citywide adoptees.”

“All of them?” Julianna moved her gaze over the wall, amazed. “There are so many.”

Ellen smiled, skimming her own gaze over the wall of smiling faces. “They're all special to me. Almost as if they're part mine.” She turned back to Julianna. “We take great pride in our maternity and adoption program, Julianna. Bringing families together is a special and completely rewarding endeavor.”

She popped open her can of soda. “I don't want you to feel pressured. We don't just place children and babies for adoption here. Bringing families together also means helping women decide if they want to parent. If that's what you decide to do, we won't be angry or disappointed. We won't pull our support. Quite the contrary, we will do whatever we can to help you in your decision. We only ask that every step of the way you're honest with us about your feelings and plans.”

“That sounds good to me.” Julianna set her carton of juice on Ellen's desk. “But you don't have to worry, I'm not going to decide to parent.”

“Your mind is made up? You want to give your baby up for adoption?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

A small frown marred Ellen Ewing's brow, then disappeared. “Why don't you tell me a little about yourself.”

So Julianna did, repeating the things she had rehearsed.

“And the baby's father?” Ellen asked when Julianna had finished. “What does he think about your being pregnant?”

“I don't know who the baby's father is.”

Ellen was silent a moment. “You're sure? Because in this state, the father has to sign off on the adoption. Even if the baby's already been placed with a family, if a man shows up claiming and able to prove paternity, he'll have the right to the child. You can imagine how painful, how destructive that would be to all involved.”

Don't defy me again, Julianna. You won't like the consequences.

Their throats slit, gaping and bloody, like perverted smiles.

“Honestly,” Ellen continued, “getting sign-off is usually not a problem. In our experience, the last thing these daddies want is any kind of responsibility, financial or otherwise. And if you're uncomfortable talking to him, we will approach him for you. Take care of everything.”

Julianna stared at the woman a moment, then shook her head. “I told you, I don't know who the father is.”

Ellen narrowed her eyes slightly, studying her. “You're certain? This is important, Julianna.”

“No, I mean…yes, I'm certain. I slept around…a lot.” She hung her head. “I'm not proud of my behavior.”

“It happens, Julianna.” Ellen's voice soothed. “To more girls than you imagine. But let's not focus on the past. The thing that's important now is deciding where you go from here. Deciding what's the best thing for you and your baby.”

Ellen went on to describe how Citywide worked—that they were a national organization funded by private donations, grants and fund-raising efforts. Maternity and adoption services was only one arm of the organization. She also explained what services they provided their birth mothers and how Julianna would choose parents for her baby.

“We work intensely with about a dozen couples a year. To put your mind at ease, we screen them very carefully. First and foremost, they are nice people and committed couples. They all have a great desire to be parents. All are now infertile and cannot conceive on their own, believe me they've tried. It's a painful and heartbreaking journey that brings these couples to us.

“They range in ages, up to forty. Their income level and educational backgrounds vary. We have several couples who are quite well off, a couple of modest means and the rest in between. Our couples all live in the region, though some in the country, some in the city. We have a variety of religious persuasions, women who plan to be stay-at-home moms and others who have demanding careers. Several couples already have one child, either adopted or biological.

“We want to offer our birth moms variety. You tell us what's important to you, what you envision as the perfect family for your baby. And we find them for you.”

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

O
nly 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.”

Condor nodded. “Whereabouts?”

“Unknown.”

“Any specific instructions?”

“Your choice. Keep it low key.”

“Of course.” Condor stood. “By the way, I met with your friend, Luke Dallas.”

“And?”

“I like him. Writes a hell of a book.”

“He's a good guy.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“I think so.” Morris took a sip of his coffee. “You going to talk to him?”

“Maybe.” Condor tossed the envelope onto the table. “I'll be in touch.”