Tess Gerritsen - Whistleblower

“You think that was it?”

“One can never be sure. But we asked around. And we learned that, just in her neighborhood, at least twenty families had someone with leukemia. It took four years and a class-action suit to force an investigation. What they found was a history of safety violations going back all the way to the plant’s opening.”

Cathy shook her head in disbelief. “And all those years they allowed it to operate?”

“No one knew about it. The violations were hushed up so well even the federal regulators were kept in the dark.”

“They shut it down, didn’t they?”

He nodded. “I can’t say I got much satisfaction, seeing the plant finally close. By that time Lily was gone. And all the families, well, we were exhausted by the fight. Even though it sometimes felt as though we were banging our heads against a wall, we knew it was something we had to do. Somebody had to do it, for all the Lilys of the world.” He looked up, at the spotlights shining above. “And here I am again, still banging my head against walls. Only this time, it feels like the Great Wall of China. And the lives at stake are yours and mine.”

Their gazes met. She sat absolutely still as he lightly stroked down the curve of her cheek. She took his hand, pressed it to her lips. His fingers closed over hers, refusing to release her hand. Gently he tugged her close. Their lips met, a tentative kiss that left her longing for more.

“I’m sorry you were pulled into this,” he murmured. “You and Sarah and those other Cathy Weavers. None of you asked to be part of it. And somehow I’ve managed to hurt you all.”

“Not you, Victor. You’re not the one to blame. It’s this windmill you’re tilting at. This giant, dangerous windmill. Anyone else would have dropped his lance and fled. You’re still going at it.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice.”

“But you did. You could have walked away from your friend’s death. Turned a blind eye to whatever’s going on at Viratek. That’s what Jack would have done.”

“But I’m not Jack. There are things I can’t walk away from. I’d always be thinking of the Lilys. All the thousands of people who might get hurt.”

At the mention once again of his dead wife, Cathy felt some unbreachable barrier form between them-the shadow of Lily, the wife she’d never met. Cathy drew back, at once aching from the loss of his touch.

“You think that many people could die?” she asked.

“Jerry must have thought so. There’s no way to predict the outcome. The world’s never seen the effects of all-out biological warfare. I like to think it’s because we’re too smart to play with our own self-destruction. Then I think of all the crazy things people have done over the years and it scares me…”

“Are viral weapons that dangerous?”

“If you alter a few genes, make it just a little more contagious, raise the kill ratio, you’d end up with a devastating strain. The research alone is hazardous. A single slip-up in lab security and you could have millions of people accidentally infected. And no means of treatment. It’s the kind of worldwide disaster a scientist doesn’t want to think about.”

“Armageddon.”

He nodded, his gaze frighteningly sane. “If you believe in such a thing. That’s exactly what it’d be.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand why these things are allowed.”

“They aren’t. By international agreement, they’re outlawed. But there’s always some madman lurking in the shadows who wants that extra bit of leverage, that weapon no one else has.”

A madman. That’s what one would have to be, to even think of unleashing such a weapon on the world. She thought of a novel she’d read, about just such a plague, how the cities had lain dead and decaying, how the very air had turned poisonous. But those were only the nightmares of science fiction. This was real.

From somewhere in the building came the sound of whistling.

Cathy and Victor both sat up straight. The melody traveled along the hall, closer and closer, until it stopped right outside Hickey’s door. They heard a rustling, then the slap of magazines hitting the floor.

“It’s here!” said Cathy, leaping to her feet.

Victor was right behind her as she hurried into the front room. She spotted it immediately, sitting atop the pile: a padded envelope, addressed in her handwriting. She scooped it up and ripped the envelope open. Out slid the roll of film. The note she’d scribbled to Hickey fluttered to the floor. Grinning in triumph, she held up the canister. “Here’s your evidence!”

“We hope. Let’s see what we’ve got on the roll. Where’s the darkroom?”

“Next to the dressing room.” She handed him the film. “Do you know how to process it?”

“I’ve done some amateur photography. As long as I’ve got the chemicals I can-” He stopped and glanced over at the desk.

The phone was ringing.

Victor shook his head. “Ignore it,” he said and turned for the darkroom.

As they left the reception room, they heard the answering machine click on. Hickey’s voice, smooth as silk, spoke on the recording. “This is the studio of Hickman Von Trapp, specializing in tasteful and artistic images of the female form…”

Victor laughed. “Tasteful?”

“It depends on your taste,” said Cathy as she followed him up the hall.

They had just reached the darkroom when the recording ended and was followed by the message beep. An agitated voice rattled from the speaker. “Hello? Hello, Cathy? If you’re there, answer me, will you? There’s an FBI agent looking for you-some guy named Polowski-”

Cathy stopped dead. “It’s Jack!” she said, turning to retrace her steps toward the front room.

The voice on the speaker had taken on a note of panic. “I couldn’t help it-he made me tell him about Hickey. Get out of there now!”

The message clicked off just as Cathy grabbed the receiver. “Hello? Jack? ”

She heard only the dial tone. He’d already hung up. Hands shaking, she began to punch in Jack’s phone number.

“There’s no time!” said Victor.

“I have to talk to him-”

He grabbed the receiver and slammed it down. “Later! We have to get out of here!”

She nodded numbly and started for the door. There she halted. “Wait. We need money!” She turned back to the reception desk and searched the drawers until she found the petty cash box. Twenty-two dollars was all it contained. “Always keep just enough for decent coffee beans,” Hickey used to say. She pocketed the money. Then she reached up and yanked one of Hickey’s old raincoats from the door hook. He wouldn’t miss it. And she might need it for concealment. “Okay,” she said, slipping on the coat. “Let’s go.”

They paused only a second to check the corridor. From another suite came the faint echo of laughter. Somewhere above, high heels clicked across a wooden floor. With Victor in the lead, they darted down the hall and out the front door.

The midday sun seemed to glare down on them like an accusing eye. Quickly they fell into step with the rest of the lunch crowd, the businessmen and artists, the Union Street chic. No one glanced their way. But even with people all around her, Cathy felt conspicuous. As though, in this bright cityscape of crowds and concrete, she was the focus of the painter’s eye.

She huddled deeper into the raincoat, wishing it were a mantle of invisibility. Victor had quickened his pace, and she had to run to keep up.

“Where do we go now?” she whispered.

“We’ve got the film. Now I say we head for the bus station.”

“And then?”

“Anywhere.” He kept his gaze straight ahead. “As long as it’s out of this city.”