Tess Gerritsen - Whistleblower

He pocketed the article. Then he saw the purse, lying on the floor near the shattered window.

Bingo.

He emptied the contents on the coffee table. Out tumbled a wallet, checkbook, pens, loose change, and…an address book. He opened it to the B s. There he found the name he was looking for: Sarah Boylan.

He now knew this was the Catherine Weaver he’d been seeking. What a shame he’d wasted his time hunting down the other two.

He flipped through the address book and spotted a half dozen or so San Francisco listings. The woman may have been clever enough to slip away from him this time. But staying out of sight was a more difficult matter. And this little book, with its names of friends and relatives and colleagues, could lead him straight to her.

Somewhere in the distance, a police siren was wailing.

It was time to leave.

Savitch took the address book and the woman’s wallet and headed out the door. Outside, his breath misted in the cold air as he walked at a leisurely pace down the street,

He could afford to take his time.

But for Catherine Weaver and Victor Holland, time was running out.

There was no time to rest. They jogged for the next six blocks, miles and miles, it seemed to Cathy. Victor moved tirelessly, leading her down side streets, avoiding busy intersections. She let him do the thinking and navigating. Her terror slowly gave way to numbness and a disorienting sense of unreality. The city itself seemed little more than a dreamscape, asphalt and streetlights and endless twists and turns of concrete. The only reality was the man striding close beside her, his gaze alert, his movements swift and sure. She knew he too must be afraid, but she couldn’t see his fear.

He took her hand; the warmth of that grasp, the strength of those fingers, seemed to flow into her cold, exhausted limbs.

She quickened her pace. “I think there’s a police substation down that street,” she said. “If we go a block or two further-”

“We’re not going to the police.”

“What?” She stopped dead, staring at him.

“Not yet. Not until I’ve had a chance to think this through.”

“Victor,” she said slowly. “Someone is trying to kill us. Trying to kill me. What do you mean, you need time to think this through? ”

“Look, we can’t stand around talking about it. We have to get off the streets.” He grabbed her hand again. “Come on.”

“Where?”

“I have a room. It’s only a few blocks away.”

She let him drag her only a few yards before she mustered the will to pull free. “Wait a minute. Just wait.”

He turned, his face a mask of frustration, and confronted her. “Wait for what? For that maniac to catch up? For the bullets to start flying again?”

“For an explanation!”

“I’ll explain it all. When we’re safe.”

She backed away. “Why are you afraid of the police?”

“I can’t be sure of them.”

“Do you have a reason to be afraid? What have you done?”

With two steps he closed the gap between them and grabbed her hard by the shoulders. “I just pulled you out of a death trap, remember? The bullets were going through your window, not mine!”

“Maybe they were aimed at you!”

“Okay!” He let her go, let her back away from him. “You want to try it on your own? Do it. Maybe the police’ll be a help. Maybe not. But I can’t risk it. Not until I know all the players behind this.”

“You-you’re letting me go?”

“You were never my prisoner.”

“No.” She took a breath-it misted in the cold air. She glanced down the street, toward the police substation. “It’s… the reasonable thing to do,” she muttered, almost to reassure herself. “That’s what they’re there for.”

“Right.”

She frowned, anticipating what lay ahead. “They’ll ask a lot of questions.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

She looked at him, her gaze unflinchingly meeting his. “The truth.”

“Which’ll be at best, incomplete. And at worst, unbelievable.”

“I have broken glass all over my apartment to prove it.”

“A drive-by shooting. Purely random.”

“It’s their job to protect me.”

“What if they don’t think you need protection?”

“I’ll tell them about you! About Sarah.”

“They may or may not take you seriously.”

“They have to take me seriously! Someone’s trying to kill me!” Her voice, shrill with desperation, seemed to echo endlessly through the maze of streets.

Quietly he said, “I know.”

She glanced back toward the substation. “I’m going.”

He said nothing.

“Where will you be?” she asked.

“On my own. For now.”

She took two steps away, then stopped. “Victor?”

“I’m still here.”

“You did save my life. Thank you.”

He didn’t respond. She heard his footsteps slowly walk away. She stood there thinking, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Of course she was. A man afraid of the police-with a story as paranoid as his was-had to be dangerous.

But he saved my life.

And once, on a rainy night in Garberville, she had saved his.

She replayed all the events of the last week. Sarah’s murder, never explained. The other Catherine Weaver, shot to death on her front doorstep. The film canister that Sarah had retrieved from the car, the one Cathy had slipped into her bathrobe pocket…

Victor’s footsteps had faded.

In that instant she realized she’d lost the only man who could help her find the answers to all those ques tions, the one man who’d stood by her in her darkest moment of terror. The one man she knew, by some strange intuition, she could trust. Facing that deserted street, she felt abandoned and utterly friendless. In sudden panic, she whirled around and called out: “Victor!”

At the far end of the block, a silhouette stopped and turned. He seemed an island of refuge in that crazy, dangerous world. She started toward him, her legs moving her faster and faster, until she was running, yearning for the safety of his arms, the arms of a man she scarcely knew. Yet it didn’t feel like a stranger’s arms gathering her to his chest, welcoming her into his protective embrace. She felt the pounding of his heart, the grip of his fingers against her back, and something told her that this was a man she could depend upon, a man who wouldn’t fold when she needed him most.

“I’m right here,” he murmured. “Right here.” He stroked through her windblown hair, his fingers burying deep in the tangled strands. She felt the heat of his breath against her face, felt her own quick and shuddering response. And then, all at once, his mouth hungrily sought hers and he was kissing her. She responded with a kiss just as desperate, just as needy. Stranger though he was, he had been there for her and he was still here, his arms sheltering her from the terrors of the night.

She burrowed her face against his chest, longing to press ever deeper, ever closer. “I don’t know what to do! I’m so afraid, Victor, and I don’t know what to do…”

“We’ll work this out together. Okay?” He cupped her face in his hands and tilted it up to his. “You and I, we’ll beat this thing.”

She nodded. Searching his eyes, connecting with that rock-solid gaze, she found all the assurance she needed.

A wind gusted down the street. She shivered in its wake. “What do we do first?” she whispered.

“First,” he said, pulling off his windbreaker and draping it over her shoulders, “We get you warmed up. And inside.” He took her hand. “Come on. A hot bath, a good supper, and you’ll be operating on all cylinders again.”

It was another five blocks to the Kon-Tiki Motel. Though not exactly a five-star establishment, the Kon-Tiki was comfortingly drab and anonymous, one of a dozen on motel row. They climbed the steps to Room 214, overlooking the half-empty parking lot. He unlocked the door and motioned her inside.