Tess Gerritsen - Whistleblower

“Shut up!” she snapped and steered straight for a clump of bushes. With a quick turn of the wheel, she circled behind the shrubbery and cut her lights.

It was just in time. Seconds later, two patrol cars, lights flashing, sped right past the concealing bushes. She sat frozen, listening as the sirens faded in the distance. Then, in the darkness, she heard Milo say softly, “Her name is Bond. Jane Bond.”

Half laughing, half crying, Cathy turned as Victor scrambled beside her, onto the front seat. At once she was in his arms, her tears wetting his shirt, her sobs muffled in the depths of his embrace. He kissed her damp cheeks, her mouth. The touch of his lips stilled her tremors.

From the back came the sound of a throat being cleared. “Uh, Gersh?” inquired Ollie politely. “Don’t you think we ought to get moving?”

Victor’s mouth was still pressed against Cathy’s. Reluctantly he broke contact but his gaze never left her face. “Sure,” he murmured, just before he pulled her back for another kiss. “But would somebody else mind driving…?”

“Here’s where things get dangerous,” said Polowski. He was at the wheel now, as they headed south toward San Francisco. Cathy and Victor sat in front with Polowski; in the back of the van, Milo and Ollie lay curled up asleep like two exhausted puppies. From the radio came the soft strains of a country western song. The dials glowed a vivid green in the darkness.

“We’ve finally got the evidence,” said Polowski. “All we need to hang ’em. They’ll be desperate. Ready to try anything. From here on out, folks, it’s going to be a game of cat and mouse.”

As if it wasn’t already, thought Cathy as she huddled closer to Victor. She longed for a chance to be alone with him. There had been no time for tearful reunions, no time for any confessions of love. They’d spent the last two hours on a harrowing journey down backroads, always avoiding the police. By now the break-in at Viratek would have been reported to the authorities. The state police would be on the lookout for a van with frontal damage.

Polowski was right. Things were only getting more dangerous.

“Soon as we hit the city,” said Polowski, “we’ll get those vials off to separate labs. Independent confirmation. That should wipe any doubts away. You know names we can trust, Holland?”

“Fellow alum back in New Haven. Runs the hospital lab. I can trust him.”

“Yale? Great. That’ll have clout.”

“Ollie has a pal at UCSF. They’ll take care of the second vial.”

“And when those reports get back, I know a certain journalist who loves to have a little birdie chirp in his ear.” Polowski gave the steering wheel a satisfied slap. “Viratek, you are dead meat.”

“You enjoy this, don’t you?” said Cathy.

“Workin’ the right side of the law? I say it’s good for the soul. It keeps your mind sharp and your feet on their toes. It helps you stay young.”

“Or die young,” said Cathy.

Polowski laughed. “Women. They just never understand the game.”

“I don’t understand it, at all.”

“I bet Holland here does. He just had the adrenaline high of his life. Didn’t you?”

Victor didn’t answer. He was gazing ahead at the blacktop stretching before their headlights.

“Well, wasn’t it a high?” asked Polowski. “To claw your way to hell and back again? To know you made it through on nothing much more than your wits?”

“No,” said Victor quietly. “Because it’s not over yet.”

Polowski’s grin faded. He turned his attention back to the road. “Almost,” he said. “It’s almost over.”

They passed a sign: San Francisco: 12 Miles.

Four in the morning. The stars were mere pinpricks in a sky washed out by streetlights. In a North Beach doughnut shop, five weary souls had gathered around steaming coffee and cheese Danish. Only one other table was occupied, by a man with bloodshot eyes and shaking hands. The girl behind the counter sat with her nose buried in a paperback. Behind her, the coffee machine hissed out a fresh brew.

“To the Old Coots,” said Milo, raising his cup. “Still the best ensemble around.”

They all raised their cups. “To the Old Coots!”

“And to our newest and fairest member,” said Milo. “The beautiful-the intrepid-”

“Oh, please,” said Cathy.

Victor wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Relax and be honored. Not everyone gets into this highly selective group.”

“The only requirement,” said Ollie, “is that you have to play a musical instrument badly.”

“But I don’t play anything.”

“No problem.” Ollie fished out a piece of waxed paper from the pile of Danishes and wrapped it around his pocket comb. “Kazoo.”

“Fitting,” said Milo. “Since that was Lily’s instrument.”

“Oh.” She took the comb. Lily’s instrument. It always came back to her, the ghost who would forever be there. Suddenly the air of celebration was gone, as though swept away by the cold wind of dawn. She glanced at Victor. He was looking out the window, at the garishly lit streets. What are you thinking? Are you wishing she was here? That it wasn’t me being presented this silly kazoo, but her?

She put the comb to her lips and hummed an appropriately out-of-tune version of “Yankee Doodle.” Everyone laughed and clapped, even Victor. But when the applause was over, she saw the sad and weary look in his eyes. Quietly she set the kazoo down on the table.

Outside, a delivery truck roared past. It was 5:00 a.m.; the city was stirring.

“Well, folks,” said Polowski, slapping down a dollar tip. “We got a hotshot reporter to roust outta bed. And then you and I-” he looked at Victor “-have a few deliveries to make. When’s United leave for New Haven?”

“At ten-fifteen,” said Victor.

“Okay. I’ll buy you the plane tickets. In the meantime, you see if you can’t grow yourself a new mustache or something.” Polowski glanced at Cathy. “You’re going with him, right?”

“No,” she said, looking at Victor.

She was hoping for a reaction, any reaction. What she saw was a look of relief. And, strangely, resignation.

He didn’t try to change her mind. He simply asked, “Where will you be going?”

She shrugged. “Maybe I should stick to our original plan. You know, head south. Hang out with Jack for a while. What do you think?”

It was his chance to stop her. His chance to say, No, I want you around. I won’t let you leave, not now, not ever. If he really loved her, that’s exactly what he would say.

Her heart sank when he simply nodded and said, “I think it’s a good idea.”

She blinked back the tears before anyone could see them. With an indifferent smile she looked at Ollie. “So I guess I’ll need a ride. When are you and Milo heading home?”

“Right now, I guess,” said Ollie, looking bewildered. “Seeing as our job’s pretty much done.”

“Can I hitch along? I’ll catch the bus at Palo Alto.”

“No problem. In fact, you can sit in the honored front seat.”

“Long as you don’t let her behind the wheel,” grumbled Milo. “I want a nice, quiet drive home if you don’t mind.”

Polowski rose to his feet. “Then we’re all set. Everyone’s got a place to go. Let’s do it.”

Outside, on a street rumbling with early-morning traffic, with their friends standing only a few yards away, Cathy and Victor said their goodbyes. It wasn’t the place for sentimental farewells. Perhaps that was all for the best. At least she could leave with some trace of dignity. At least she could avoid hearing, from his lips, the brutal truth. She would simply walk away and hold on to the fantasy that he loved her. That in their brief time together she’d managed to work her way, just a little, into his heart.