Tess Gerritsen - Whistleblower

“You’ll be all right?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine. And you?”

“I’ll manage.” He thrust his hands in his pockets and looked off at a bus idling near the corner. “I’ll miss you,” he said. “But I know it doesn’t make sense for us to be together. Not under the circumstances.”

I would stay with you, she thought. Under any circumstances. If I only knew you wanted me.

“Anyway,” he said with a sigh, “I’ll let you know when things are safe again. When you can come home.”

“And then?”

“And then we’ll take it from there,” he said softly.

They kissed, a clumsy, polite kiss, all the more hurried because they knew their friends were watching. There was no passion here, only the cool, dry lips of a man saying goodbye. As they pulled apart, she saw his face blur away through the tears.

“Take care of yourself, Victor,” she said. Then, shoulders squared, she turned and walked toward Ollie and Milo.

“Is that it?” asked Ollie.

“That’s it.” Brusquely she rubbed her hand across her eyes. “I’m ready to go.”

“Tell me about Lily,” she said.

The first light of dawn was already streaking the sky as they drove past the boxy row homes of Pacifica, past the cliffs where sea waves crashed and gulls swooped and dove.

Ollie, his gaze on the road, asked: “What do you want to know?”

“What kind of woman was she?”

“She was a nice person,” said Ollie. “And brainy. Though she never went out of her way to impress people, she was probably the smartest one of all of us. Definitely brighter than Milo.”

“And a lot better-looking than Ollie,” piped a voice from the backseat.

“A real kind, real decent woman. When she and Gersh got married, I remember thinking, ‘he’s got himself a saint.’” He glanced at Cathy, suddenly noticing her silence. “Of course,” he added quickly, “not every man wants a saint. I know I’d be happier with a lady who can be a little goofy.” He flashed Cathy a grin. “Someone who might, say, crash a van through an electrified fence, just for kicks.”

It was a sweet thing to say, a comment designed to lift her spirits. It couldn’t take the edge off her pain.

She settled back and watched dawn lighten the sky. How she needed to get away! She thought about Mexico, about warm water and hot sand and the tang of fresh fish and lime. She would throw herself into working on that new film. Of course, Jack would be on the set, Jack with his latest sweetie pie in tow, but she could handle that now. Jack would never be able to hurt her again. She was beyond that now, beyond being hurt by any man.

The drive to Milo’s house seemed endless.

When at last they pulled up in the driveway, the dawn had already blossomed into a bright, cold morning. Milo climbed out and stood blinking in the sunshine.

“So, guys,” he said through the car window. “Guess here’s where we go our separate ways.” He looked at Cathy. “Mexico, right?”

She nodded. “Puerto Vallarta. What about you?”

“I’m gonna catch up with Ma in Florida. Maybe get a load of Disney World. Wanna come, Ollie?”

“Some other time. I’m going to go get some sleep.”

“Don’t know what you’re missing. Well, it’s been some adventure. I’m almost sorry it’s over.” Milo turned and headed up the walk to his house. On the front porch he waved and yelled, “See you around!” Then he vanished through the front door.

Ollie laughed. “Milo and his ma, together? Disney World’ll never be the same.” He reached for the ignition. “Next stop, the bus station. I’ve got just enough gas to get us there and-”

He didn’t get a chance to turn the key.

A gun barrel was thrust in the open car window. It came to rest squarely against Ollie’s temple.

“Get out, Dr. Wozniak,” said a voice.

Ollie’s reply came out in a bare croak. “What-what do you want?”

“Do it now.” The click of the hammer being cocked was all the coaxing Ollie needed.

“Okay, okay! I’m getting out!” Ollie scrambled out and backed away, his hands raised in surrender.

Cathy, too, started to climb out, but the gunman snapped, “Not you! You stay inside.”

“Look,” said Ollie, “You can have the damn car! You don’t need her-”

“But I do. Tell Mr. Holland I’ll be in contact. Regarding Ms. Weaver’s future.” He went around and opened the passenger door. “You, into the driver’s seat!” he commanded her.

“No. Please-”

The gun barrel dug into her neck. “Need I ask again?”

Trembling, she moved behind the wheel. Her knee brushed the car keys, still dangling from the ignition. The man slid in beside her. Though the gun barrel was still thrust against her neck, it was the man’s eyes she focused on. They were black, fathomless. If any spark of humanity lurked in those depths, she couldn’t see it.

“Start the engine,” he said.

“Where-where are we going?”

“For a drive. Somewhere scenic.”

Her thoughts were racing, seeking some means of escape, but she came up with nothing. That gun was insurmountable.

She turned on the ignition.

“Hey!” yelled Ollie, grabbing at the door. “You can’t do this!”

Cathy screamed, “Ollie, no!”

The gunman had already shifted his aim out the window.

“Let her go!” yelled Ollie. “Let her-”

The gun went off.

Ollie staggered backward, his face a mask of astonishment.

Cathy lunged at the gunman. Pure animal rage, fueled by the instinct to survive, sent her clawing first for his eyes. At the last split second he flinched away. Her nails scraped down his cheek, drawing blood. Before he could shift his aim, she grabbed his wrist, wrenching desperately for control of the gun. He held fast. Not with all her strength could she keep the gun at bay, keep the barrel from turning toward her.

It was the last image she registered: that black hole, slowly turning until it was pointed straight at her face.

Something lashed at her from the side. Pain exploded in her head, shattering the world into a thousand slivers of light.

They faded, one by one, into darkness.

“Victor’s here,” said Milo.

It seemed to take Ollie forever to register their presence. Victor fought the urge to shake him to consciousness, to drag the words out of his friend’s throat. He was forced to wait, the silence broken only by the hiss of oxygen, the gurgle of the suction tube. At last Ollie stirred and squinted through pain-glazed eyes at the three men standing beside his bed. “Gersh. I didn’t-couldn’t-” He stopped, exhausted by the effort just to talk.

“Easy, Ollie,” said Milo. “Take it slow.”

“Tried to stop him. Had a gun…” Ollie paused, gathering the strength to continue.

Victor listened fearfully for the next terrible words to come out. He was still in a state of disbelief, still hoping that what Milo had told him was one giant mistake, that Cathy was, at this very moment, on a bus somewhere to safety. Only two hours ago he’d been ready to board a plane for New Haven. Then he’d been handed a message at the United gate. It was addressed to passenger Sam Polowski, the name on his ticket. It had consisted of only three words: Call Milo immediately.

Passenger “Sam Polowski” never did board the plane.

Two hours, he thought in anguish. What have they done to her in those two long hours?

“This man-what did he look like?” asked Polowski.

“Didn’t see him very well. Dark hair. Face sort of…thin.”

“Tall? Short?”

“Tall.”

“He drove off in your car?”

Ollie nodded.

“What about Cathy?” Victor blurted out, his control shattered. “He-didn’t hurt her? She’s all right?”