Tess Gerritsen - Whistleblower

With a knowing touch, she slid her hands down his shirt, undoing buttons, stroking her way through the dense hair of his chest, to the top of his trousers. There she paused, feeling his startled intake of breath, knowing that he too was past retreat.

Together they fumbled at buttons and zippers, both of them suddenly feverish to be free. It all fell away in a tumult of cotton and lace. And when the last scrap of clothing was shed, when nothing came between them but the velvet darkness, she reached up and pulled him to her, on her.

It was a joyful filling, as if, in that first deep thrust within her, he also reached some long-empty hollow in her soul.

“Please,” she murmured, her voice breaking into a whimper.

He fell instantly still. “Cathy?” he asked, his hands anxiously cupping her face. “What-”

“Please. Don’t stop…”

His soft laughter was all the reassurance she needed. “I have no intention of stopping,” he whispered. “None whatsoever…”

And he didn’t stop. Not until he had taken her with him all the way, higher and further than any man ever could, to a place beyond thought or reason. Only when release came, wave flooding upon wave, did she know how very high and far they had climbed.

A sweet exhaustion claimed them.

Outside, in the grayness of dawn, a bird sang. Inside, the silence was broken only by the sound of their breathing.

She sighed into the warmth of his shoulder. “Thank you.”

He touched her face. “For what?”

“For making me feel…wanted again.”

“Oh, Cathy.”

“It’s been such a long time. Jack and I, we-we stopped making love way before the divorce. It was me, actually. I couldn’t bear having him…” She swallowed. “When you don’t love someone anymore, when they don’t love you, it’s hard to let yourself be…touched.”

He brushed his fingers down her cheek. “Is it still hard? Being touched?”

“Not by you. Being touched by you is like…being touched the very first time.”

By the window’s pale light she saw him smile. “I hope your very first time wasn’t too awful.”

Now she smiled. “I don’t remember it very well. It was such a frantic, ridiculous thing on the floor of a college dorm room.”

He reached out and patted the carpet. “I see you’ve come a long way.”

“Haven’t I?” she laughed. “But floors can be terribly romantic places.”

“Goodness. A carpet connoisseur. How do dorm room and living room floors compare?”

“I couldn’t tell you. It’s been such a long time since I was eighteen.” She paused, hovering on the edge of baring the truth. “In fact,” she admitted, “it’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone.”

Softly he said, “It’s been a long time for both of us.”

She let that revelation hang for a moment in the semi-darkness. “Not-not since Lily?” she finally asked.

“No.” A single word, yet it revealed so much. The three years of loyalty to a dead woman. The grief, the loneliness. How she wanted to fill that womanless chasm for him! To be his savior, and he, hers. Could she make him forget? No, not forget; she couldn’t expect him ever to forget Lily. But she wanted a space in his heart for herself, a very large space designed for a lifetime. A space to which no other woman, dead or alive, could ever lay claim.

“She must have been a very special woman,” she said.

He ran a strand of her hair through his fingers. “She was very wise, very aware. And she was kind. That’s something I don’t always find in a person.”

She’s still part of you, isn’t she? She’s still the one you love.

“It’s the same sort of kindness I find in you,” he said.

His fingers had slid to her face and were now stroking her cheek. She closed her eyes, savoring his touch, his warmth. “You hardly know me,” she whispered.

“But I do. That night, after the accident, I survived purely on the sound of your voice. And the touch of your hand. I’d know them both, anywhere.”

She opened her eyes and gazed at him. “Would you really?”

He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Even in my sleep.”

“But I’m not Lily. I could never be Lily.”

“That’s true. You can’t be. No one can.”

“I can’t replace what you lost.”

“What makes you think that’s what I want? Some sort of replacement? She was my wife. And yes, I loved her.” By the way he said it, his answer invited no exploration.

She didn’t try.

From somewhere in the house came the jingle of a telephone. After two rings it stopped. Faintly they heard Milo’s voice murmuring upstairs.

Cathy sat up and reached automatically for her clothes. She dressed in silence, her back turned to Victor. A new modesty had sprung up between them, the shyness of strangers.

“Cathy,” he said. “People do move on.”

“I know.”

“You’ve gotten over Jack.”

She laughed, a small, tired sound. “No woman ever really gets over Jack Zuckerman. Yes, I’m over the worst of it. But every time a woman falls in love, really falls in love, it takes something out of her. Something that can never be put back.”

“It also gives her something.”

“That depends on who you fall in love with, doesn’t it?”

Footsteps thumped down the stairs, creaked across the dining room. A wide-awake Milo stood in the doorway, his uncombed hair standing out like a brush. “Hey, you two!” he hissed. “Get up! Hurry.”

Cathy rose to her feet in alarm. “What is it?”

“That was Ollie on the phone. He called to say some guy’s in the area, asking questions about you. He’s already been down to Bach’s neighborhood.”

“What?” Now Victor was on his feet and hurriedly stuffing his legs into his trousers.

“Ollie figures the guy’ll be knocking around here next. Guess they know who your friends are.”

“Who was asking the questions?”

“Claimed he was FBI.”

“Polowski,” muttered Victor, pulling his shirt on. “Has to be.”

“You know him?”

“The same guy who set me up. The guy who’s been tailing us ever since.”

“How did he know we’re here?” said Cathy. “No one could’ve followed us-”

“No one had to. They have my profile. They know I have friends here.” Victor glanced at Milo. “Sorry, buddy. Hope this doesn’t get you into trouble.”

Milo’s laugh was distinctly tense. “Hey, I didn’t do nothin’ wrong. Just harbored a felon.” The bravado suddenly melted away. He asked, “Exactly what kind of trouble should I expect?”

“Questions,” said Victor, quickly buttoning his shirt. “Lots of ’em. Maybe they’ll even take a look around. Just keep cool, tell ’em you haven’t heard from me. Think you can do it?”

“Sure. But I don’t know about Ma-”

“Your Ma’s no problem. Just tell her to stick to Chinese.” Victor grabbed the envelope of photos and glanced at Cathy. “Ready?”

“Let’s get out of here. Please.”

“Back door,” Milo suggested.

They followed him through the kitchen. A glance told them the way was clear. As he opened the door, Milo added, “I almost forgot. Ollie wants to see you this afternoon. Something about those photos.”

“Where?”

“The lake. Behind the boathouse. You know the place.”

They stepped out into the chill dampness of morning. Fog-borne silence hung in the air. Will we ever stop running? thought Cathy. Will we never stop listening for footsteps?

Victor clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Thanks, Milo. I owe you a big one.”

“And one of these days I plan to collect!” Milo hissed as they slipped away.

Victor held up his hand in farewell. “See you around.”