Tess Gerritsen - Whistleblower

She rose to a half crouch and turned.

Matt Tyrone stood before her.

“Victor!” she sobbed.

Victor, his face a mask of soot and sweat, turned to meet Tyrone’s gaze. Neither man said a word. They both knew the game had been played out. Now the time had come to finish it.

Tyrone raised his gun.

Just as he did, they heard the loud crack of splintering wood. Tyrone glanced up as one of the rafters sagged, spilling a shower of burning tinder.

That brief distraction was all the time Cathy needed. In an act of sheer desperation she lunged at Tyrone’s legs, knocking him backward. The gun flew from his grasp and slid off beneath a row of seats.

At once Tyrone was back on his feet. He aimed a savage kick at her. The blow hit her in the ribs, an impact so agonizing she hadn’t the breath to cry out. She simply sprawled in the aisle, stunned and utterly helpless to ward off any other blows.

Through the darkness gathering before her eyes, she saw two figures struggling. Victor and Tyrone. Framed against a sea of fire, they grappled for each other’s throats. Tyrone threw a punch; Victor staggered back a few paces. Tyrone charged him like a bull. At the last instant Victor sidestepped him and Tyrone met only empty air. He stumbled and sprawled forward, onto the smoldering carpet. Enraged, he rose to his knees, ready to charge again.

The crack of collapsing timber made him glance skyward.

He was still staring up in astonishment as the beam crashed down on his head.

Cathy tried to cry out Victor’s name but no sound escaped. The smoke had left her throat too parched and swollen. She struggled to her knees. Polowski was lying beside her, groaning. Flames were everywhere, shooting up from the floor, clambering up the last untouched drapes.

Then she saw him, stumbling toward her through that vision of hellfire. He grabbed her arm and shoved her toward the exit.

Somehow, they managed to tumble out the door, dragging Polowski behind them. Coughing, choking, they pulled him across the street to the far sidewalk. There they collapsed.

The night sky suddenly lit up as an explosion ripped through the theater. The roof collapsed, sending up a whoosh of flames so brilliant they seemed to reach to the very heavens. Victor threw his body over Cathy’s as the windows in the building above shattered, raining splinters onto the sidewalk.

For a moment there was only the sound of the flames, crackling across the street. Then, somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed.

Polowski stirred and groaned.

“Sam!” Victor turned his attention to the wounded man. “How you doing, buddy?”

“Got…got one helluva stitch in my side…”

“You’ll be fine.” Victor flashed him a tense grin. “Listen! Hear those sirens? Help’s on the way.”

“Yeah.” Polowski, eyes narrowed in pain, stared up at the flame-washed sky.

“Thanks, Sam,” said Victor softly.

“Had to. You…too damn stupid to listen…”

“We got her back, didn’t we?”

Polowski’s gaze shifted to Cathy. “We-we did okay.”

Victor rubbed a hand across his smudged and weary face. “But we’re back to square one. I’ve lost the evidence-”

“Milo…”

“It’s all in there.” Victor stared across at the flames now engulfing the old theater.

“Milo has it,” whispered Sam.

“What?”

“You weren’t looking. Gave it to Milo.”

Victor sat back in bewilderment. “You mean you took them? You took the vials?”

Polowski nodded.

“You-you stupid son of a-”

“Victor!” said Cathy.

“He stole my bargaining chip!”

“He saved our lives!”

Victor stared down at Polowski.

Polowski returned a pained grin. “Dame’s got a head on her shoulders,” he murmured. “Listen to her.”

The sirens, which had risen to a scream, suddenly cut off. Men’s shouts at once sliced through the hiss and roar of the flames. A burly fireman loped over from the truck and knelt beside Polowski.

“What’ve we got here?”

“Gunshot wound,” said Victor. “And a wise-ass patient.”

The fireman nodded. “No problem, sir. We can handle both.”

By the time they’d loaded Polowski into an ambulance, the Saracen Theater had been reduced to little more than a dying bonfire. Victor and Cathy watched the taillights of the ambulance vanish, heard the fading wail of the siren, the hiss of water on the flames.

He turned to her. Without a word he pulled her into his arms and held her long and hard, two silent figures framed against a sea of smoldering flames and chaos. They were both so weary neither knew which was holding the other up. Yet even through her exhaustion, Cathy felt the magic of that moment. It was eerily beautiful, that last sputtering glow, the reflections dancing off the nearby buildings. Beautiful and frightening and final.

“You came for me,” she murmured. “Oh, Victor, I was so afraid you wouldn’t…”

“Cathy, you knew I would!”

“I didn’t know. You had your evidence. You could have left me-”

“No, I couldn’t.” He buried a kiss in her singed hair. “Thank God I wasn’t already on that plane. They’d have had you, and I’d have been two thousand miles away.”

Footsteps crunched toward them across the glass-littered pavement. “Excuse me,” a voice said. “Are you Victor Holland?”

They turned to see a man in a rumpled parka, a camera slung over his shoulder, watching them.

“Who are you?” asked Victor.

The man held out his hand. “Jay Wallace. San Francisco Chronicle. Sam Polowski called me, said there’d be some fireworks in case I wanted to check it out.” He gazed at the last remains of the Saracen Theater and shook his head. “Looks like I got here a little too late.”

“Wait. Sam called you? When?”

“Maybe two hours ago. If he wasn’t my ex-brotherin-law, I’d a hung up on him. For days he’s been dropping hints he had a story to spill. Never followed through, not once. I almost didn’t come tonight. You know, it’s a helluva long drive down here from the city.”

“He told you about me?”

“He said you had a story to tell.”

“Don’t we all?”

“Some stories are better than others.” The reporter glanced around, searching. “So where is Sam, anyway? Or didn’t the Bozo show up?”

“That Bozo,” said Victor, his voice tight with anger, “is a goddamn hero. Stick that in your article.”

More footsteps approached. This time it was two police officers. Cathy felt Victor’s muscles go taut as he turned to face them.

The senior officer spoke. “We’ve just been informed that a gunshot victim was taken to the ER. And that you were found on the scene.”

Victor nodded. His look of tension suddenly gave way to one of overwhelming exhaustion. And resignation. He said, quietly, “I was present. And if you search that building, you’ll find three more bodies.”

“ Three? ” The two cops glanced at each other.

“Musta been some fireworks,” muttered the reporter.

The senior officer said, “Maybe you’d better give us your name, sir.”

“My name…” Victor looked at Cathy. She read the message in those weary eyes: We’ve reached the end. I have to tell them. Now they’ll take me away from you, and God knows when we’ll see each other again …

She felt his hand tighten around hers. She held on, knowing with every second that passed that he would soon be wrenched from her grasp.

His gaze still focused on her face, he said, “My name is Victor Holland.”

“Holland… Victor Holland?” said the officer. “Isn’t that…”

And still Victor was looking at her. Until they’d clapped on the handcuffs, until he’d been pulled away, toward a waiting squad car, his gaze was locked on her.