"I hardly think I need to be told that," Meredith said, forcing herself to sound more amused than angry. "It's—" She broke off as Phyllis rushed in, her face stricken.

"You have an emergency call from MacIntire in New Orleans on line two."

"Hold on, Nolan," Meredith said, "I have an urgent call." Alarm was screaming through every fiber of her body as Meredith answered the phone. Maclntire's voice was taut. "We've had another bomb threat here, Meredith. It was phoned to the police department a few minutes ago. The caller said the bomb is set to go off in six hours. I've ordered the store cleared and the bomb squad is on the way. We're following the usual procedure for evacuation, just as we did last time. I think the call's from the same crank who made the last one."

"It probably is," she said, fighting to keep her voice level and her thoughts clear. "The minute you can get back inside, start putting together a list of anyone at all who might have a reason to want to put us through this. Have your security manager draw up a list of everyone who was detained for shoplifting, and have your credit manager give us a list of everyone denied credit in the last six months. Mark Braden, who heads our security division, will fly down there tomorrow to work with your people. Now, get out of there—just in case it wasn't a crank."

"Right," he said reluctantly.

"Call me from wherever you decide to go and give me your phone number so we can keep in touch."

"Got it," he said. "Meredith," he added, "I'm really sorry about this. I don't know why this store is suddenly a target. I assure you we bend over backward for customers, in keeping with company policy, and—"

"Adam," she interrupted emphatically, "get out of that store!"

"Okay."

Meredith hung up and punched the button for the line where she'd left Wilder on hold. "Nolan," she said, "I don't have time to talk about a board meeting now. The New Orleans store just had another bomb threat."

"This is going to play hell with Christmas profits," he predicted furiously. "Keep me posted, Meredith, you know where to reach me."

Meredith mumbled a distracted promise, and then launched into action. Looking at her secretary, who was hovering anxiously in the doorway, she said, "Have the paging operator give out the emergency code. Hold all my calls unless they're critical, and if they are, put them through to me in the conference room."

When her secretary left, Meredith stood up and began to pace, telling herself this was nothing but a false alarm. On the store's intercom system the emergency code was already beginning to ring—three short bells followed by three long ones—notifying all department heads to assemble immediately in the designated emergency location, which was the conference room adjoining Meredith's office. The last time that emergency code had to be used was two years before, when a shopper had died of a heart attack in the store. Then, like today, the purpose for assembling everyone was primarily to keep them informed and, therefore, prevent a hysterical outbreak of gossip among the employees, and to plan what information would be given to the press. Like most large corporations, Bancroft & Company had an established set of procedures for dealing with emergencies such as personal injuries, fires ... and even bomb scares.

The possibility that a bomb might actually explode in New Orleans and injure people was more than Meredith could bear to contemplate. The thought of a bomb going off after the store was cleared was less horrifying but sickening nonetheless. Like all the Bancroft branch stores, the New Orleans store was beautiful, distinctive, and new. In her mind, Meredith saw its splendid white-pillared façade gleaming in the sunshine, then she saw it exploding and collapsing, and she shuddered. There wasn't a real bomb in it, she told herself, it was another false alarm. A false alarm that would cost the store dearly in lost Christmas profits.

The store's executives were hurrying past her doorway, assembling in the conference room, but Mark Braden, according to established procedure, came straight into her office. "What's happening, Meredith?"

Meredith told him, and he swore under his breath, looking at her in angry consternation. When she finished telling him about the instructions she'd given MacIntire, he nodded. "I'll catch a flight out there in a few hours. We've got a good security man in that store. Between us and the police, maybe we can turn up something that will point to a suspect."

The atmosphere in the crowded conference room was heavy with tension and curiosity. Rather than sitting down at the conference table, Meredith walked to the center of the room, where she could be seen and heard more easily by the men and women who'd assembled there. "We've had another bomb scare in New Orleans," she began. "The bomb squad is on its way there. Since this is the second one we've had, we're going to be hit with a lot of calls from the press. No one ... no one," she emphasized, "is to make any statements. Refer all inquiries from the media to public relations." She glanced at the P.R. director and said, "Ben, you and I can work out a statement after this meeting, and—" She broke off as the phone rang on the conference table. "Excuse me," she said, and picked it up.

The manager of the Dallas store sounded frantic. "We've had a bomb threat, Meredith! The caller told the police that the bomb is set to go off in six hours. The bomb squad is on the way, and we're clearing the store." Meredith automatically gave him the same instructions she'd given the manager of the New Orleans store, then she hung up the phone. For a moment she was unable to think, then she slowly looked at the assembly. "We've had another bomb threat—at the Dallas store. They're clearing it now. The call went to the police, just like the one in New Orleans, and the caller said the bomb is set to go off in six hours."

A flurry of furious exclamations and outraged curses erupted around the room, then died in the shock of the telephone shrilling yet again. The sound made Meredith's heart stop, but she reached out and picked it up. "Miss Bancroft," the policeman's voice said urgently, "this is Captain Mathison over at the First District. We've just received an anonymous phone call from a man who said a bomb has been placed in your store and is set to go off in six hours."

"Hold on," Meredith said, her dazed eyes leveling on Mark Braden as she stretched the receiver out to him. "Mark," she said, automatically following procedure for the Chicago store and handing the matter over to him. "It's Mathison."