Tess Gerritsen - Whistleblower

The rush of warmth against her cheeks was delicious. She stood in the center of that utterly charmless space and marveled at how good it felt to be safely surrounded by four walls. The furnishings were spare: a double bed, a dresser, two nightstands with lamps, and a single chair. On the wall was a framed print of some nameless South Pacific island. The only luggage she saw was a cheap nylon bag on the floor. The bedcovers were rumpled, recently napped in, the pillows punched up against the headboard.

“Not much,” he said. “But it’s warm. And it’s paid for.” He turned on the TV. “We’d better keep an eye on the news. Maybe they’ll have something on the Weaver woman.”

The Weaver woman, she thought. It could have been me. She was shivering again, but now it wasn’t from the cold. Settling onto the bed she stared numbly at the TV, not really seeing what was on the screen. She was more aware of him. He was circling the room, checking the windows, fiddling with the lock on the door. He moved quietly, efficiently, his silence a testimony to the dangers of their situation. Most men she knew began to babble nonsense when they were scared; Victor Holland simply turned quiet. His mere presence was overwhelming. He seemed to fill the room.

He moved to her side. She flinched as he took her hands and gently inspected them, palm side up. Looking down, she saw the bloodied scratches, the flakes of rust from the fire escape embedded in her skin.

“I guess I’m a mess,” she murmured.

He smiled and stroked her face. “You could use some washing up. Go ahead. I’ll get us something to eat.”

She retreated into the bathroom. Through the door she could hear the drone of the TV, the sound of Victor’s voice ordering a pizza over the phone. She ran hot water over her cold, numb hands. In the mirror over the sink she caught an unflattering glimpse of herself, her hair a tangled mess, her chin smudged with dirt. She washed her face, rubbing new life, new circulation into those frigid cheeks. Glancing down, she noticed Victor’s razor on the counter. The sight of that blade cast her situation into a new focus-a frightening one. She picked up the razor, thinking how lethal that blade looked, how vulnerable she would be tonight. Victor was a large man, at least six foot two, with powerful arms. She was scarcely five foot five, a comparative weakling. There was only one bed in the next room. She had come here voluntarily. What would he assume about her? That she was a willing victim? She thought of all the ways a man could hurt her, kill her. It wouldn’t take a razor to finish the job. Victor could use his bare hands. What am I doing here? she wondered. Spending the night with a man I scarcely know?

This was not the time to have doubts. She’d made the decision. She had to go by her instincts, and her instincts told her Victor Holland would never hurt her.

Deliberately she set down the razor. She would have to trust him. She was afraid not to.

In the other room, a door slammed shut. Had he left?

Opening the door a crack, she peered out. The TV was still on. There was no sign of Victor. Slowly she emerged, to find she was alone. She began to circle the room, searching for clues, anything that would tell her more about the man. The bureau drawers were empty, and so was the closet. Obviously he had not moved into this room for a long stay. He’d planned only one night, maybe two. She went to the nylon bag and glanced inside. She saw a clean pair of socks, an unopened package of underwear, and a day-old edition of the San Francisco Chronicle. All it told her was that the man kept himself informed and he traveled light.

Like a man on the run.

She dug deeper and came up with a receipt from an automatic teller machine. Yesterday he’d tried to withdraw cash. The machine had printed out the message: Transaction cannot be completed. Please contact your bank. Why had it refused him the cash? she wondered. Was he overdrawn? Had the machine been out of order?

The sound of a key grating in the lock caught her by surprise. She glanced up as the door swung open.

The look he gave her made her cheeks flush with guilt. Slowly she rose to her feet, unable to answer that look of accusation in his eyes.

The door swung shut behind him.

“I suppose it’s a reasonable thing for you to do,” he said. “Search my things.”

“I’m sorry. I was just…” She swallowed. “I had to know more about you.”

“And what terrible things have you dug up?”

“Nothing!”

“No deep dark secrets? Don’t be afraid. Tell me, Cathy.”

“Only…only that you had trouble getting cash out of your account.”

He nodded. “A frustrating state of affairs. Since by my estimate I have a balance of six thousand dollars. And now I can’t seem to touch it.” He sat down in the chair, his gaze still on her face. “What else did you learn?”

“You-you read the newspaper.”

“So do a lot of people. What else?”

She shrugged. “You wear boxer shorts.”

Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Now we’re getting personal.”

“You…” She took a deep breath. “You’re on the run.”

He looked at her a long time without saying a word.

“That’s why you won’t go to the police,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

He turned away, gazing not at her but at the far wall. “There are reasons.”

“Give me one, Victor. One good reason is all I need and then I’ll shut up.”

He sighed. “I doubt it.”

“Try me. I have every reason to believe you.”

“You have every reason to think I’m paranoid.” Leaning forward, he ran his hands over his face. “Lord, sometimes I think I must be.”

Quietly she went to him and knelt down beside his chair. “Victor, these people who are trying to kill me-who are they?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said it might involve people in high places.”

“It’s just a guess. It’s a case of federal money going to illegal research. Deadly research.”

“And federal money has to be doled out by someone in authority.”

He nodded. “This is someone who’s bent the rules. Someone who could be hurt by a political scandal. He just might try to protect himself by manipulating the Bureau. Or even your local police. That’s why I won’t go to them. That’s why I left the room to make my call.”

“When?”

“While you were in the bathroom. I went to a pay phone and called the police. I didn’t want it traced.”

“You just said you don’t want them involved.”

“This call I had to make. There’s a third Catherine Weaver in that phone book. Remember?”

A third victim on the list. Suddenly weak, she sat down on the bed. “What did you say?” she asked softly.

“That I had reason to think she might be in danger. That she wasn’t answering her phone.”

“You tried it?”

“Twice.”

“Did they listen to you?”

“Not only did they listen, they demanded to know my name. That’s when I picked up the cue that something must already have happened to her. At that point I hung up and hightailed it out of the booth. A call can be traced in seconds. They could’ve had me surrounded.”

“That makes three,” she whispered. “Those two other women. And me.”

“They have no way of finding you. Not as long as you stay away from your apartment. Stay out of-”

They both froze in panic.

Someone was knocking on the door.

They stared at each other, fear mirrored in their eyes. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, Victor said: “Who is it?”

“Domino’s,” called a thin voice.

Cautiously, Victor eased open the door. A teenage boy stood outside, wielding a bag and a flat cardboard box.

“Hi!” chirped the boy. “A large combo with the works, two Cokes and extra napkins. Right?”