Tess Gerritsen - Whistleblower

“I have a proposition,” said Victor.

Jack instantly looked suspicious. “What might that be?”

“I’m the one they’re really after. Not Cathy. I don’t want to make things any more dangerous for her than I already have.”

“Big of you.”

“It’s better if I go off on my own. If I leave her with you, will you keep her safe?”

Jack shifted, looked down at his feet. “Well, sure. I guess so.”

“Don’t guess. Can you?”

“Look, we start shooting a film in Mexico next month. Jungle scenes, black lagoons, that sort of stuff. Should be a safe-enough place.”

“That’s next month. What about now?”

“I’ll think of something. But first you get yourself out of the picture. Since you’re the reason she’s in danger in the first place.”

Victor couldn’t disagree with that last point. Since the night I met her I’ve caused her nothing but trouble.

He nodded. “I’m out of here tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“Take care of Cathy. Get her out of the city. Out of the country. Don’t wait.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Something about the way Jack said it, his hasty, whatever-you-say tone, made Victor wonder if the man gave a damn about anyone but himself. But at this point Victor had no choice. He had to trust Jack Zuckerman.

As he climbed the stairs to the guest rooms, it occurred to him that, come morning, it would be goodbye. A quiet little bond had formed between them. He owed his life to her and she to him. That was the sort of link one could never break.

Even if we never see each other again.

In the upstairs hall, he paused outside her closed door. He could hear her moving around the room, opening and closing drawers, squeaking bedsprings.

He knocked on the door. “Cathy?”

There was a pause. Then, “Come in.”

One dim lamp lit the room. She was sitting on the bed, dressed in a ridiculously huge man’s shirt. Her hair hung in damp waves to her shoulders. The scent of soap and shampoo permeated the shadows. It reminded him of his wife, of the shower smells and feminine sweetness. He stood there, pierced by a sense of longing he hadn’t felt in over a year, longing for the warmth, the love, of a woman. Not just any woman. He wasn’t like Jack, to whom a soft body with the right equipment would be sufficient. What Victor wanted was the heart and soul; the package they came wrapped in was only of minor importance.

His own wife Lily hadn’t been beautiful; neither had she been unattractive. Even at the end, when the ravages of illness had left her shrunken and bruised, there had been a light in her eyes, a gentle spirit’s glow.

The same glow he’d seen in Catherine Weaver’s eyes the night she’d saved his life. The same glow he saw now.

She sat with her back propped up on pillows. Her gaze was silently expectant, maybe a little fearful. She was clutching a handful of tissues. Why were you crying? he wondered.

He didn’t approach; he stood just inside the doorway. Their gazes locked together in the gloom. “I’ve just talked with Jack,” he said.

She nodded but said nothing.

“We both agree. It’s better that I leave as soon as possible. So I’ll be taking off in the morning.”

“What about the film?”

“I’ll get it. All I need is Hickey’s address.”

“Yes. Of course.” She looked down at the tissues in her fist.

He could tell she wanted to say something. He went to the bed and sat down. Those sweet woman smells grew intoxicating. The neckline of her oversized shirt sagged low enough to reveal a tempting glimpse of shadow. He forced himself to focus on her face.

“Cathy, you’ll be fine. Jack said he’d watch out for you. Get you out of the city.”

“Jack?” What sounded like a laugh escaped her throat.

“You’ll be safer with him. I don’t even know where I’ll be going. I don’t want to drag you into this-”

“But you already have. You’ve dragged me in over my head, Victor. What am I supposed to do now? I can’t just-just sit around and wait for you to fix things. I owe it to Sarah-”

“And I owe it to you not to let you get hurt.”

“You think you can hand me over to Jack and make everything be fine again? Well, it won’t be fine. Sarah’s dead. Her baby’s dead. And somehow it’s not just your fault. It’s mine as well.”

“No, it’s not. Cathy-”

“It is my fault! Did you know she was lying there in the driveway all night? In the rain. In the cold. There she was, dying, and I slept through the whole damn thing…” She dropped her face in her hands. The guilt that had been tormenting her since Sarah’s death at last burst through. She began to cry, silently, ashamedly, unable to hold back the tears any longer.

Victor’s response was automatic and instinctively male. He pulled her against him and gave her a warm, safe place to cry. As soon as he felt her settle into his arms, he knew it was a mistake. It was too perfect a fit. She felt as if she belonged there, against his heart, felt that if she ever pulled away there would be left a hole so gaping it could never be filled. He pressed his lips to her damp hair and inhaled her heady scent of soap and warm skin. That gentle fragrance was enough to drown a man with need. So was the softness of her face, the silken luster of that shoulder peeking out from beneath the shirt. And all the time he was stroking her hair, murmuring inane words of comfort, he was thinking: I have to leave her. For her sake I have to abandon this woman. Or I’ll get us both killed.

“Cathy,” he said. It took all the willpower he could muster to pull away. He placed his hands on her shoulders, made her look at him. Her gaze was confused and brimming with tears. “We have to talk about tomorrow.”

She nodded and swiped at the tears on her cheeks.

“I want you out of the city, first thing in the morning. Go to Mexico with Jack. Anywhere. Just keep out of sight.”

“What will you do?”

“I’m going to take a look at that roll of film, see what kind of evidence it has.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll take it to the newspapers. The FBI is definitely out.”

“How will I know you’re all right? How do I reach you?”

He thought hard, fighting the distraction of her scent, her hair. He found himself stroking the bare skin of her shoulder, marveling at how smooth it felt beneath his fingers.

He focused on her face, on the look of worry in her eyes. “Every other Sunday I’ll put an ad in the Personals. Los Angeles Times. It’ll be addressed to, let’s say, Cora. Anything I need to tell you will be there.”

“Cora.” She nodded. “I’ll remember.”

They looked at each other, a silent acknowledgment that this parting had to be. He cupped her face and pressed a kiss to her mouth. She barely responded; already, it seemed, she had said her goodbyes.

He rose from the bed and started for the door. There he couldn’t resist asking, one more time: “You’ll be all right?”

She nodded, but it was too automatic. The sort of nod one gave to dismiss an unimportant question. “I’ll be fine. After all, I’ll have Jack to watch over me.”

He didn’t miss the faint note of irony in her reply. Jack, it seemed, didn’t inspire confidence in either of them. What’s my alternative? Drag her along with me as a moving target?

He gripped the doorknob. No, it was better this way. He’d already ripped her life apart; he wasn’t going to scatter the pieces as well.

As he was leaving, he took one last backward glance. She was still huddled on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest. The oversized shirt had slid off one bare shoulder. For a moment he thought she was crying. Then she raised her head and met his gaze. What he saw in her eyes wasn’t tears. It was something far more moving, something pure and bright and beautiful.