“Hell, lady,” said Wallace, laughing. “The man is now a genuine hero.”
A hero. But she didn’t care what they called him, as long as he was safe.
She took a deep breath of bitingly chill air. “Do you have a car, Mr. Wallace?” she asked.
“It’s parked right around the corner.”
“Then you can give me a ride.”
“Where to?”
“To…” She paused, wondering where to go, where Victor would look for her. Of course. Milo’s. “To a friend’s house,” she said. “I want to be there when Victor calls.”
Wallace pointed the way to the car. “I hope it’s a long drive,” he said. “I got a lot of gaps to fill in before this story goes to press.”
VICTOR didn’t call.
For four days she sat waiting near the phone, expecting to hear his voice. For four days, Milo and his mother brought her tea and cookies, smiles and sympathy. On the fifth day, when she still hadn’t heard from him, those terrible doubts began to haunt her. She remembered that day by the lake bed, when he’d tried to send her away with Ollie. She thought of all the words he could have said, but never had. True, he’d come back for her. He’d knowingly walked straight into a trap at the Saracen Theater. But wouldn’t he have done that for any of his friends? That was the kind of man he was. She’d saved his life once. He remembered his debts, and he paid them back. It had to do with honor.
It might have nothing to do with love.
She stopped waiting by the phone. She returned to her flat in San Francisco, cleaned up the glass, had the windows replaced, the walls replastered. She took long walks and paid frequent visits to Ollie and Polowski in the hospital. Anything to stay away from that silent telephone.
She got a call from Jack. “We’re shooting next week,” he whined. “And the monster’s in terrible shape. All this humidity! Its face keeps melting into green goo. Get down here and do something about it, will you?”
She told him she’d think about it.
A week later she decided. Work was what she needed. Green goo and cranky actors—it was better than waiting for a call that would never come.
She reserved a one-way flight from San José to Puerto Vallarta. Then she packed, throwing in her entire wardrobe. A long stay, that’s what she planned, a long vacation.
But before she left, she would drive down to Palo Alto. She had promised to pay Sam Polowski one last visit.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
(AP) Washington.
Administration spokesman Richard Jungkuntz repeated today that neither the President nor any of his staff had any knowledge of biological weapons research being conducted at Viratek Industries in California. Viratek’s Project Cerberus, which involved development of genetically altered viruses, was clearly in violation of international law. Recent evidence, gathered by reporter Jay Wallace of the San Francisco Chronicle, has revealed that the project received funds directly authorized by the late Matthew Tyrone, a senior aide to the Secretary of Defense.
In today’s Justice Department hearings, delayed four hours because of heavy snowstorms, Viratek president Archibald Black testified for the first time, promising to reveal, to the best of his knowledge, the direct links between the Administration and Project Cerberus. Yesterday’s testimony, by former Viratek employee Dr. Victor Holland, has already outlined a disturbing tale of deception, cover-ups and possibly murder.
The Attorney General’s office continues to resist demands by Congressman Leo D. Fanelli that a special prosecutor be appointed…
CATHY put down the newspaper and smiled across the hospital solarium at her three friends. “Well, guys. Aren’t you lucky to be here in sunny California and not freezing your you-know-what’s off in Washington.”
“Are you kidding?” groused Polowski. “I’d give anything to be in on those hearings right now. Instead of hooked up to all these—these doohickeys.” He gave his intravenous line a tug, clanging a bottle against the pole.
“Patience, Sam,” said Milo. “You’ll get to Washington.”
“Ha! Holland’s already told ’em the good stuff. By the time they get around to hearing my testimony, it’ll be back-page news.”
“I don’t think so,” said Cathy. “I think it’ll be front-page news for a long time to come.” She turned and looked out the window at the sunshine glistening on the grass. A long time to come. That’s how long it would be before she’d see Victor again. If ever. Three weeks had already passed since she’d last laid eyes on him. Via Jay Wallace in Washington, she’d heard that it was like a shark-feeding whenever Victor appeared in public, mobs of reporters and federal attorneys and Justice Department officials. No one could get near him.
Not even me, she thought.
It had been a comfort, having these three new friends to talk to. Ollie had bounced back quickly and was discharged—or kicked out, as Milo put it—a mere eight days after being shot. Polowski had had a rougher time of it. Post-operative infections, plus a bad case of smoke inhalation, had prolonged his stay to the point that every day was another trial of frustration for him. He wanted out. He wanted back on the beat.
He wanted a real, honest-to-God cheeseburger and a cigarette.
One more week, the doctors said.
At least there’s an end to his waiting in sight, Cathy thought. I don’t know when I’ll see or hear from Victor again.
The silence was to be expected, Polowski had told her. Sequestration of witnesses. Protective custody. The Justice Department wanted an airtight case, and for that it would keep its star witness incommunicado. For the rest of them, depositions had been sufficient. Cathy had given her testimony two weeks before. Afterward, they’d told her she was free to leave town any time she wished.
Now she had a plane ticket to Mexico in her purse.
She was through with waiting for telephone calls, through with wondering whether he loved her or missed her. She’d been through this before with Jack, the doubts, the fears, the slow but inevitable realization that something was wrong. She knew enough not to be hurt again, not this way.
At least, out of all this pain, I’ve discovered three new friends. Ollie and Polowski and Milo, the most unlikely trio on the face of the earth.
“Look, Sam,” said Milo, reaching into his backpack. “We brought ya something.”
“No more hula-girl boxer shorts, okay? Caught hell from the nurses for that one.”
“Naw. It’s something for your lungs. To remind you to breathe deep.”
“Cigarettes?” Polowski asked hopefully.
Milo grinned and held up his gift. “A kazoo!”
“I really needed one.”
“You really do need it,” said Ollie, opening up his clarinet case. “Seeing as we brought our instruments today and we weren’t about to leave you out of this particular gig.”
“You’re not serious.”
“What better place to perform?” said Milo, giving his piccolo a quick and loving rubdown. “All these sick, depressed patients lying around, in need of a bit of cheering up. Some good music.”
“Some peace and quiet!” Polowski turned pleading eyes to Cathy. “They’re not serious.”
She looked him in the eye and took out her kazoo. “Dead serious.”
“Okay, guys,” said Ollie. “Hit it!”
Never before had the world heard such a rendering of “California, Here I Come!” And, if the world was lucky, never again. By the time they’d played the last note, nurses and patients had spilled into the solarium to check on the source of that terrible screeching.
“Mr. Polowski!” said the head nurse. “If your visitors can’t behave—”
“You’ll throw ’em out?” asked Polowski hopefully.
“No need,” said Ollie. “We’re packing up the pipes. By the way, folks, we’re available for private parties, birthdays, cocktail hours. Just get in touch with our business manager—” at this, Milo smiled and waved “—to set up your own special performance.”
“Not yet,” said the nurse. “You need the extra stimulation.” Then, with a sly wink at Ollie, she turned and whisked out of the room.
“Well,” said Cathy. “I think I’ve done my part to cheer you up. Now it’s time I hit the road.”
Polowski looked at her in astonishment. “You’re leaving me with these lunatics?”
“Have to. I have a plane to catch.”
“Where you going?”
“Mexico. Jack called to say they’re shooting already. So I thought I’d get on down there and whip up a few monsters.”
“What about Victor?”
“What about him?”
“I thought—that is—” Polowski looked at Ollie and Milo. Both men merely shrugged. “He’s going to miss you.”
“I don’t think so.” She turned once again to gaze out the window. Below, in the walkway, an old woman sat in a wheelchair, her wan face turned gratefully to the sun. Soon Cathy would be enjoying that very sunshine, somewhere on a Mexican beach.
By their silence, she knew the three men didn’t know what to say. After all, Victor was their friend, as well. They couldn’t defend or condemn him. Neither could she. She simply loved him, in ways that made her decision to leave all the more right. She’d been in love before, she knew that the very worst thing a woman can sense in a man is indifference.
She didn’t want to be around to see it inVictor’s eyes.
Gathering up her purse, she said, “Guys, I guess this is it.”
Ollie shook his head. “I really wish you’d hang around. He’ll be back any day. Besides, you can’t break up our great little quartet.”
“Sam can take my place on the kazoo.”
“No way,” said Polowski.
She planted a kiss on his balding head. “Get better. The country needs you.”
Polowski sighed. “I’m glad somebody does.”
“I’ll write you from Mexico!” She slung her purse over her shoulder and turned. One step was all she managed before she halted in astonishment.
Victor was standing in the doorway, a suitcase in hand. He cocked his head. “What’s this about Mexico?”
She couldn’t answer. She just kept staring at him, thinking how unfair it was that the man she was trying so hard to escape should look so heartbreakingly wonderful.
“You got back just in time,” said Ollie. “She’s leaving.”
“What?” Victor dropped his suitcase and stared at her in dismay. Only then did she notice his wrinkled clothes, the day-old growth of beard shadowing his face. The toe of a sock poked out from a corner of the closed suitcase.
“You can’t be leaving,” he said.
She cleared her throat. “It was unexpected. Jack needs me.”
“Did something happen? Is there some emergency?”
“No, it’s just that they’re filming and, oh, things are a royal mess on the set….” She glanced at her watch, a gesture designed to speed her escape. “Look, I’ll miss my plane. I promise I’ll give you a call when I get to—”
“You’re not his only makeup artist.”
“No, but—”
“He can do the movie without you.”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you want to leave? Is that it?”
She didn’t answer. She could only look at him mutely, the anguish showing plainly in her eyes.
Gently, firmly, he took her hand. “Excuse us, guys,” he said to the others. “The lady and I are going for a walk.”
Outside, leaves blew across the brown winter lawn. They walked beneath a row of oak trees, through patches of sun and shadow. Suddenly he stopped and pulled her around to face him.
“Tell me now,” he said. “What gave you this crazy idea of leaving?”
She looked down. “I didn’t think it made much difference to you.”
“Wouldn’t make a difference? Cathy, I was climbing the walls! Thinking of ways to get out of that hotel room and back to you! You have no idea how I worried. I wondered if you were safe—if this whole crazy mess was really over. The lawyers wouldn’t let me call out, not until the hearings were finished. I did manage to sneak out and call Milo’s house. No one answered.”
“We were probably here, visiting Sam.”
“And I was going crazy. They had me answering the same damn questions over and over again. And all I could think of was how much I missed you.” He shook his head. “First chance I got, I flew the coop. And got snowed in for hours in Chicago. But I made it. I’m here. Just in time, it seems.” Gently he took her by the shoulders. “Now. Tell me. Are you still flying off to Jack?”
“I’m not leaving for Jack. I’m leaving for myself. Because I know this won’t work.”
“Cathy, after what we’ve been through together, we can make anything work.”
“Not—not this.”
Slowly he let his hands drop, but his gaze remained on her face. “That night we made love,” he said softly. “That didn’t tell you something?”
“But it wasn’t me you were making love to! You were thinking of Lily—”
“Lily?” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Where does she come in?”
“You loved her so much—”
“And you loved Jack once. Remember?”
“I fell out of love. You never did. No matter how much I try, I’ll never measure up to her. I won’t be smart enough or kind enough—”
“Cathy, stop.”
“I won’t be her.”
“I don’t want you to be her! I want the woman who’ll hang off fire escapes with me and—and drag me off the `side of the road. I want the woman who saved my life. The woman who calls herself average. The woman who doesn’t know just how extraordinary she really is.” He took her face in his hands and tilted it up to his. “Yes, Lily was a wonderful woman. She was wise and kind and caring. But she wasn’t you. And she and I—we weren’t the perfect couple. I used to think it was my fault, that if I were just a better lover—”
“You’re a wonderful lover, Victor.”
“No. Don’t you see, it’s you. You bring it out in me. All the want and need.” He pulled her face close to his and his voice dropped to a whisper. “When you and I made love that night, it was like the very first time for me. No, it was even better. Because I loved you.”
“And I loved you,” she whispered.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, his fingers burrowing deep into her hair. “Cathy, Cathy,” he murmured. “We’ve been so busy trying to stay alive we haven’t had time to say all the things we should have….”
His arms suddenly stiffened as a startling round of applause erupted above them. They looked up. Three grinning faces peered down at them from a hospital balcony.
“Hit it, boys!” yelled Ollie.
A clarinet, piccolo and kazoo screeched into concert. The melody was doubtful. Still, Cathy thought she recognized the familiar strains of George Gershwin. “Someone to Watch Over Me.”
Victor groaned. “I say we try this again, but with a different band. And no audience.”
She laughed. “Mexico?” “Definitely.” He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward a taxi idling at the curb.
“But, Victor!” she protested. “What about our luggage? All my clothes—”
He cut her off with another kiss, one that left her dizzy and breathless and starved for more.
“Forget the luggage,” she whispered. “Forget everything. “Let’s just go….”
They climbed into the taxi. That’s when the band on the hospital balcony abruptly switched to a new melody, one Cathy didn’t at first recognize. Then, out of the muddy strains, the kazoo screeched out a solo that, for a few notes, was perfectly in tune. They were playing Tannhäuser. Wedding music!
“What the hell’s that terrible noise?” asked the taxi driver.
“Music,” said Victor, grinning down at Cathy. “The most beautiful music in the world.”
&nb
sp; She fell into his arms, and he held her there.
The taxi pulled away from the curb. But even as they drove away, even as they left the hospital far behind them, they thought they could hear it in the distance: the sound of Sam Polowski’s kazoo, playing one last fading note of farewell.
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited,
used under licence.
First published in Great Britain 1994. This edition 2008.
MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,
Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR
© Terry Gerritsen 1992
ISBN: 9781408906804
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Whistleblower Page 22