Tess Gerritsen - Whistleblower

Cathy scrambled off the stage. On unsteady legs, she moved up the aisle, toward the circle of the spotlight, toward Victor. He pulled her into his arms. Only by the thud of his racing heart did she know how close he was to panic.

“Your turn, Holland,” called Tyrone.

“Go,” Victor whispered to her. “Get out of here.”

“Victor, he has two other men-”

“Let’s have it!” yelled Tyrone.

Victor hesitated. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a cigarette case. “They’ll be watching me,” he whispered. “You move for the door. Go on. Do it.”

She stood paralyzed by indecision. She couldn’t leave him to die. And she knew the other two gunmen were somewhere in the darkness, watching their every move.

“She stays where she is!” said Tyrone. “Come on, Holland. The vials!”

Victor took a step further, then another.

“No further!” commanded Tyrone.

Victor halted. “You want it, don’t you?”

“Put it down on the floor.”

Slowly Victor set the cigarette case down by his feet.

“Now slide it to me.”

Victor gave the case a shove. It skimmed down the aisle and came to a rest in the orchestra pit.

Tyrone dropped from the stage.

Victor began to back away. Taking Cathy’s hand, he edged her slowly up the aisle, toward the exit.

As if on cue, the click of pistol hammers being snapped back echoed through the theater. Reflexively, Victor spun around, trying to sight the other gunmen. It was impossible to see anything clearly against the glare of the spotlight.

“You’re not leaving yet,” said Tyrone, reaching down for the case. Gingerly he removed the lid. In silence he stared at the contents.

This is it, thought Cathy. He has no reason to keep us alive, now that he has what he wants…

Tyrone’s head shot up. “Double cross,” he said. Then, in a roar, “ Double cross! Kill them! ”

His voice was still reverberating through the far reaches of the theater when, all at once, the lights went out. Blackness fell, so impenetrable that Cathy had to reach out to get her bearings.

That’s when Victor pulled her sideways, down a row of theater seats.

“Stop them!” screamed Tyrone in the darkness.

Gunfire seemed to erupt from everywhere at once. As Cathy and Victor scurried on hands and knees along the floor, they could hear bullets thudding into the velvet-backed seats. The gunfire quickly became random, a blind spraying of the theater.

“Hold your fire!” yelled Tyrone. “Listen for them!”

The gunfire stopped. Cathy and Victor froze in the darkness, afraid to give away their position. Except for the pounding of her own pulse, Cathy heard absolute silence. We’re trapped. We make a single move and they’ll know where we are.

Scarcely daring to breathe, she reached back and pulled off her shoe. With a mighty heave, she threw it blindly across the theater. The clatter of the shoe’s landing instantly drew a new round of gunfire. In the din of ricocheting bullets, Victor and Cathy scurried along the remainder of the row and emerged in the side aisle.

Again, the gunfire stopped.

“No way out, Holland!” yelled Tyrone. “Both doors are covered! It’s just a matter of time…”

Somewhere above, in a theater balcony, a light suddenly flickered on. It was Dafoe, holding aloft a cigarette lighter. As the flame leapt brightly, casting its terrible light against the shadows, Victor shoved Cathy to the floor behind a seat.

“I know they’re here!” shouted Tyrone. “See ’em, Dafoe?”

As Dafoe moved the flame, the shadows shifted, revealing new forms, new secrets. “I’ll spot ’em any second. Wait. I think I see-”

Dafoe suddenly jerked sideways as a shot rang out. The flame’s light danced crazily on his face as he wobbled for a moment on the edge of the balcony. He reached out for the railing, but the rotten wood gave way under his weight. He pitched forward, his body tumbling into a row of seats.

“Dafoe!” screamed Tyrone. “Who the hell-”

A tongue of flame suddenly slithered up from the floor. Dafoe’s lighter had set fire to the drapes! The flames spread quickly, dancing their way along the heavy velvet fabric, toward the rafters. As the first flames touched wood, the fire whooshed into a roar.

By the light of the inferno, all was revealed: Victor and Cathy, cowering in the aisle. Savitch, standing near the entrance, semiautomatic at the ready. And onstage, Tyrone, his expression demonic in the fire’s glow.

“They’re yours, Savitch!” ordered Tyrone.

Savitch aimed. This time there was no place for them to hide, no shadows to scurry off to. Cathy felt Victor’s arm encircle her in a last protective embrace.

The gun’s explosion made them both flinch. Another shot; still she felt no pain. She glanced at Victor. He was staring at her, as though unable to believe they were both alive.

They looked up to see Savitch, his shirt stained in a spreading abstract of blood, drop to his knees.

“Now’s your chance!” yelled a voice. “ Move, Holland! ”

They whirled around to see a familiar figure silhouetted against the flames. Somehow, Sam Polowski had magically appeared from behind the drapes. Now he pivoted, pistol clutched in both hands, and aimed at Tyrone.

He never got a chance to squeeze off the shot.

Tyrone fired first. The bullet knocked Polowski backward and sent him sprawling against the smoldering velvet seats.

“Get out of here!” barked Victor, giving Cathy a push toward the exit. “I’m going back for him-”

“Victor, you can’t!”

But he was on his way. Through the swirling smoke she could see him moving at a half crouch between rows of seats. He needs help. And time’s running out…

Already the air was so hot it seemed to sear its way into her throat. Coughing, she dropped to the floor and took in a few breaths of relatively smoke-free air. She still had time to escape. All she had to do was crawl up the aisle and out the theater door. Every instinct told her to flee now, while she had the chance.

Instead, she turned from the exit and followed Victor into the maelstrom.

She could just make out his figure, scrambling before a solid wall of fire. She raised her arm to shield her face against the heat. Squinting into the smoke, she crawled forward, moving ever closer to the flames. “Victor!” she screamed.

She was answered only by the fire’s roar, and by a sound even more ominous: the creak of wood. She glanced up. To her horror she saw that the rafters were sagging and on the verge of collapse.

Panicked, she scurried blindly forward, toward where she’d last spotted Victor. He was no longer visible. In his place was a whirlwind of smoke and flame. Had he already escaped? Was she alone, trapped in this blazing tinderbox?

Something slapped against her cheek. She stared, at first uncomprehending, at the human hand dangling before her face. Slowly she followed it up, along the bloodied arm, to the lifeless eyes of Dafoe. Her cry of terror seemed to funnel into the fiery cyclone.

“ Cathy? ”

She turned at the sound of Victor’s shout. That’s when she saw him, crouching in the aisle just a few feet away. He had Polowski under the arms and was struggling to drag him toward the exit. But the heat and smoke had taken its toll; he was on the verge of collapse.

“The roof’s about to fall!” she screamed.

“Get out!”

“Not without you!” She scrambled forward and grabbed Polowski’s feet. Together they hauled their burden up the aisle, across carpet that was already alight with sparks. Step by step they neared the top of the aisle. Only a few yards to go!

“I’ve got him,” gasped Victor. “Go-open the door-”