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"Wait!" she yelled over it all, and when Tracy McCaffrey used the entire timber of her magnificent voice, others listened. She stumbled to her feet, held out a hand, while the other hand clutched her head, as the build rushed through her numbed mind. Her eyes sought the frantically thrashing Prissy.

"Who is Arnest?" she said, deep, low, catching everyone's attention.

Prissy closed her mouth tightly and started walking with the security people. Tracy dashed to the door.

"No, don't take her away. Answer me, lady. Who is Arnest?" she felt her courage and her anger surfacing in rigid waves lacking self-control. She had to do this, she had to know, this Arnest had to be found. It was imperative, the most important thing that had ever happened to her in this past year of pain and animosity.

"Is Arnest downstairs?" George cried, and then raced out of the room and slammed open the stairwell doors to go thundering down them.

Prissy screamed and slumped to the ground, her eyes rolling back in her head, and the happily oblivious Candice, who had spilled the beans in the first place, began to look worried.

One of the security people yelled for a medic, and hotel staff began pouring in from other regions. Assistants to assistants raced around, securing parts of their clients' suites that might be unprotected, people opened doors and peered out, and Tracy stood in the hall...

I have to get control here. I need to make a few calls. I must find Arnest, follow this up, talk to authorities, do it right. She saw a police officer step out of the elevator. Her red-rimmed eyes focused.

"Sir!" she addressed this man calmly amid the chaos. His eyes immediately explored hers. Recognition flashed on his part, and he addressed her squarely. "Let me explain." Tracy said. He ushered her back into the suite they had just emerged from, and where Prissy and Candice were now being held. She told in clipped and quick words how she'd requested the two protestors to come up and tell her their reasons for protesting and in the telling an important clue to the arsonist who had killed her late husband and child was dropped. She explained that the older woman knew this and tried to escape as quickly as possible.

"I cannot hold these two on grounds of this accusation." The officer said rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "But I can see that you truly have a right to understand the statement made. It would be better if you all came down to our offices for questioning. I realize that it will be inconvenient for you, Miss McCaffrey, but it will be a better option than doing it here. We are a more secure facility and have better resources for this sort of thing."

Tracy nodded, still feeling shaky inside, but a lot better for trying hard to be calm. "Let me make a few calls." The officer nodded, told Candice to stop her blubbering, and ascertained that Prissy wasn't hurt, but was dramatically pretending to be incoherent, to avoid further questioning.

Her dad picked up on the first ring, his cheery voice turned icy when he heard her words. He promised to arrive in hours, and they clicked off. Jules also answered on the first ring, and his promise of protection was immediate as well. But it was her sister, Anne who was closest and who said she'd be there in minutes to care for the children. They weren't close, had never had time to become close, but right now, the call of blood was thicker than water, and Anne pledged to be right there.

Tracy allowed the officer to usher her down the back stairs. George joined them there, holding several more protestors in custody, but they were all female and all had smug expressions and yelled obscenities as Tracy was rushed through the crowd to a waiting vehicle.

The next hour was spent filling out paperwork, identifying herself and her children, talking to detectives and asking for extradition orders, for the five American women and one man who had been outside the hotel.

She didn't see any of the protestors again and in fact had no idea if they were being held, or questioned. Her father and Julian arrived, entering like whirlwinds with attorney's at hand, and Tracy felt like she'd been punched in the stomach, watching from afar as questions she wanted to be asking were answered by others, to others.

It seemed like hours had passed when she saw George again and this time managed to catch his attention in the midst of several people talking to her at the same time.

"I've released a statement to the press." George said calmly as he approached her. Tracy disentangled herself wearily from the melee, excused herself to a less crowded hallway.

"What did you tell them?" she asked, running a hand through her hair, seeing Jules across another hall and inside a glass partitioned room.

"That you and I are dating, and that the children are all mine and that I killed your late band member and was..." he laughed and ran a hand through his hair as well. "Today wasn't quite what I had planned, but I was wondering if..." and now he glanced at his watch. "... if you are still planning on attending the screening, and if so, would you care to accompany me, or do you have plans?"

"It would just be poetic justice, wouldn't it? If I were to be incapacitated by this little spectacle?" she sighed. "I'd like to go see the kids, talk to my Dad and Jules, and then yeah, after a shower and a massage... is that possible here do you think? After that I'd probably be happy to go. Fuel the fires so to speak."

George grinned, a spectacular grin and patted her shoulder. "I'll make the arrangements." He said and flipped open his cell phone once again. Tracy turned to that glass window, and jerked her head in Julian's direction. She saw him nod solicitously at whoever was talking to him and then excuse himself with all the aplomb of his English gentility by way of California upbringing: He nodded, waved two fingers nonchalantly, and left.

She was waiting for him. He approached, and her eyes swam seconds before he locked her in a bone crushing embrace, burying his face in her hair and enfolding her in familiarity. There was no one like Jules, his stupid California T-shirt, his saggy jeans, his skinny little butt, his rock hard iron- hewed early twenties "guy" arms. His hair, a little long now, straggled, dark dirty blonde and brushed her cheek as she leaned back, and his eyes, penetrating, and extremely familiar searched hers. She was crying, couldn't help it, this was Jules. Her guard was never up with Jules. It wouldn't have mattered if they had simply had a media dispute over a hot dog, he was to the rescue and she was crying. She might have been strong once, in fact, many times, but never when he held her those first few minutes of let down, right now. Her hands clenched in the t-shirt, clutching unashamedly. It wouldn't be the first time pictures were plastered everywhere of them in deep embrace.

He never really let her go. One look and she was pressed once again fiercely to his chest, her nose buried in his neck, the smell of him intrinsically Jules, always Jules. "I love you." He whispered. "You're okay." She nodded against him, trying to regain composure.

"They found the guy, this Arnest McConnell Fillinger. Three names, Jules. Like Mark David Harmon." She said, pain filling her and overflowing. It had been a stupid comparison, and she knew it, but only stupid things were coming to mind right now.

"I know." He said, knowing she referred to his father's killer, the man who had shot John Lennon.

She felt his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "But they don't know anything. They're going to question all of the stupid protestors, and see if they can extradite, so they can be held as suspects, all of them. Right now, Detective whatever his name is... over there, the French one that speaks English.... That guy.... He says it is looking pretty good."

"Let's go in and hear what he has to say then. I believe that's where your dad is." Julian released her to stand by herself, and then ushered her into another glass-walled room after knocking and receiving permission to enter. None of the protestors were in attendance, but Paul was standing to one side of the room, his dark suit attesting to the nature of the meeting, his hair ruffled, as usual, from running hands through it as he tried to piece together stories he'd heard recently. Tracy went to stand by her father, her arm around his middle, drawing him close to her. She felt his hand link with hers.

"Well, honey. Commissioner Rousseau has decided to give you a rundown of what the state department has come up with. Are you ready to listen?" Paul said as the man in question looked up from his laptop computer, and spoke quickly to a woman beside him, then they both looked up at Julian, Tracy and Paul. He cleared his throat.

"Well, Miss McCaffrey, I can see you've had quite a day, and been here quite long enough." His English was broken, but strongly accented.

Tracy nodded. "Can you tell us what is being done now to interrogate the man who was implicated?"

The detective nodded and finally stood up, since the rest of them were standing already. "All of the six people we picked up are members of an American-based organization called Faith to Return, it's labeled in your country a cult, with no particular denomination, or statute of worship articles. These people go around the world protesting events or situations they feel to be unjust, and they've been linked to several larger scaled riots, and smaller scale protests, including perhaps harassments." He took a deep breath eyeing them for any adverse reactions. All three remained professionally stoic. "Your lawyers have filed that these six return to America to face an inquiry, and it looks as if they've hooked up with an ongoing inquiry already."

"Yes, but is there any evidence so far that these people really did have anything to do with my husband's death, or the fire in our home in California?"

"The two women that you asked to speak with earlier are being held on drug charges, however, the man that was with them, Arnest Fillinger, was not intoxicated, or in any way impaired. I would agree that after interviewing him, which he submitted to willingly that he did have something to do with the fire in your home. He was an army special services explosives expert until his desertion in 1984. However, it is likely that he won't be found fit to stand trial. He's also diagnosed with several mental disorders, and wears a bracelet attesting to that fact and that he needs to be medicated."

Tracy's mouth dropped open. "He's insane? Are you kidding?"

The detective was shaking his head. "No, he's certifiable. He doesn't drive, doesn't work... he simply turns up in strange places doing strange things, and someone comes to get him from his family. However, in the last two years, his family hasn't seen him, or heard from him. Apparently, his followers have kept him hidden because of his real involvement in criminal activity, namely the deaths of your husband and child."

Tracy felt her face flame, a surge of wild, forensic anger passed through her, and she knew the hostility build was beyond what she could handle by herself. She reached out for Julian blindly.

"Trace?!" he grabbed her before she could fall, and she stumbled into the table in front of her, leaning over it, trying to press the wood into her suddenly pain wracked head.

"Outside." She said.

"We really appreciate all you've done, detective. We'll be in touch, you have my number?" Julian had lifted Tracy into his arms, and was now hurrying out the door. Everyone who saw them was confused, concerned, there were cries of help, and someone was sending for paramedics.

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