Whistleblower

by Tess Gerritsen

  “We don’t have a choice. Not if they’ve blockaded the front gate—”

  “We do have a choice!” said Cathy, scrambling forward into the driver’s seat.

  “What the hell are you doing?” demanded Polowski.

  “Giving him a fighting chance. If we don’t—”

  They all fell instantly silent as a transmission suddenly hissed over the receiver. “Looks like I got myself in a bind, guys. Don’t see a way out. You copy?”

  Ollie snatched up the microphone. “Copy, Gersh. What’s your situation?”

  “Bad.”

  “Specify.”

  “Front gate’s blocked and lit up like a football field. Big time alarms going off. They just brought in the dogs—”

  “Can you get over the fence?”

  “Negative. It’s electrified. Low voltage, but more than I can handle. You guys better hit the road without me.”

  Polowski grabbed the microphone and barked, “Did you get the stuff?”

  Cathy turned and snapped: “Forget that! Ask him where he is. Ask him!”

  “Holland?” said Polowski. “Where are you?”

  “At the northeast perimeter. Fence goes all the way around. Look, get moving. I’ll manage—”

  “Tell him to head for the east fence!” Cathy said. “Near the midpoint!”

  “What?”

  “Just tell him!”

  “Go to the east fence,” Polowski said into the microphone. “Midpoint.”

  “I copy.”

  Polowski looked up at Cathy in puzzlement. “What the hell are you thinking of?”

  “This is a getaway car, right?” she muttered as she turned on the engine. “I say we put it to its intended use!” She threw the van into gear and spun it around, onto the road.

  “Hey, you’re going the wrong way!” yelled Milo.

  “No, I’m not. There’s a fire road, just off to the left somewhere. There it is.” She made a sharp turn, onto what was little more than a dirt track. They bounced along, crashing through tree branches and shrubs, a ride so violently spine-shaking it was all they could do to hang on.

  “How did you find this wonderful road?” Polowski managed to ask.

  “It was on the map. I saw it when we were studying the plans for Viratek.”

  “Is this a scenic route? Or does it go somewhere?”

  “The east fence. Used to be the construction entrance for the compound. I’m hoping it’s still clear enough to get through….”

  “And then what happens?”

  Ollie sighed. “Don’t ask.”

  Cathy steered around a bush that had sprung up in her path and ran head-on into a sapling. Her passengers tumbled to the floor. “Sorry,” she muttered. Reversing gear, she spun them back on the road. “It should be just ahead….”

  A barrier of chain link suddenly loomed before them. Instantly she cut the lights. Through the darkness, they could hear dogs barking, moving in. Where was he?

  Then they saw him, flitting through the moonlight. He was running. Somewhere off to the side, a man shouted and gunfire spat the ground.

  “Brace yourselves!” yelled Cathy. She snapped on her seatbelt and gripped the steering wheel. Then she stepped on the gas.

  The van jerked forward like a bronco, barreled through the underbrush, and slammed into the fence. The chain link sagged; electrical sparks hissed in the night. Cathy threw the gears into reverse, backed up, and hit the gas again.

  The fence toppled; barbed wire scraped across the windshield.

  “We’re through!” said Ollie. He yanked open the sliding door and yelled: “Come on, Gersh! Come on!”

  The running figure zigzagged across the grass. All around him, gunfire exploded. He made a last flying leap across the coil of barbed wire and stumbled.

  “Come on, Gersh!”

  Gunfire spattered the van.

  Victor struggled back to his feet. They heard the rip of clothing, then he was reaching up to them, being dragged inside, to safety.

  The door slammed shut. Cathy backed up, wheeled the van around and slammed on the gas pedal.

  They leaped forward, bouncing through the bushes and across ruts. Another round of bullets pinged the van. Cathy was oblivious to it. She focused only on getting them back to the main road. The sound of gunfire receded. At last the trees gave way to a familiar band of blacktop. She turned left and gunned the engine, anxious to put as many miles as possible between them and Viratek.

  Off in the distance, a siren wailed.

  “We got company!” said Polowski.

  “Which way now?” Cathy cried. Viratek lay behind them; the sirens were approaching from ahead.

  “I don’t know! Just get the hell out of here!”

  As yet her view of the police cars was blocked by trees, but she could hear the sirens moving rapidly closer. Will they let us pass? Or will they pull us over?

  Almost too late she spotted a clearing, off to the side. On sudden impulse she veered off the pavement, and the van bounced onto a stubbly field.

  “Don’t tell me,” groaned Polowski. “Another fire road?”

  “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 st
ay 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.

  “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. “Pue
rto 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!”