Never Say Die / Whistleblower

by Tess Gerritsen

  Cathy rose wearily to her feet. “At this point I’ll do anything.” She slipped past Jack and headed up the stairs. “Anything I have to to stay alive.”

  The two men listened to her footsteps recede along the hall. Then they regarded each other in silence.

  “Well,” said Jack with forced cheerfulness. “What’s next on the agenda? Scrabble?”

  “Try solitaire,” said Victor, hauling himself off the couch. He was in no mood to share pleasantries with Jack Zuckerman. The man was slick and self-centered and he obviously went through women the way most men went through socks. Victor had a hard time imagining what Cathy had ever seen in the man. That is, aside from Jack’s good looks and obvious wealth. There was no denying the fact he was a classic hunk, with the added attraction of money thrown in. Maybe it was that combination that had dazzled her.

  A combination I’ll certainly never possess, he thought.

  He crossed the room, then stopped and turned. “Zuckerman?” he asked. “Do you still love your wife?”

  Jack looked faintly startled by the question. “Do I still love her? Well, let me see. No, not exactly. But I suppose I have a sentimental attachment, based on ten years of marriage. And I respect her.”

  “Respect her? You?”

  “Yes. Her talents. Her technical skill. After all, she’s my number-one makeup artist.”

  That’s what she meant to him. An asset he could use. Thinking of himself, the jerk. If there was anyone else Victor could turn to, he would. But the one man he would’ve trusted—Jerry—was dead. His other friends might already be under observation. Plus, they weren’t in the sort of tax brackets that allowed private little hideaways in the woods. Jack, on the other hand, had the resources to spirit Cathy away to a safe place. Victor could only hope the man’s sentimental attachment was strong enough to make him watch out for her.

  “I have a proposition,” said Victor.

  Jack instantly looked suspicious. “What might that be?”

  “I’m the one they’re really after. Not Cathy. I don’t want to make things any more dangerous for her than I already have.”

  “Big of you.”

  “It’s better if I go off on my own. If I leave her with you, will you keep her safe?”

  Jack shifted, looked down at his feet. “Well, sure. I guess so.”

  “Don’t guess. Can you?”

  “Look, we start shooting a film in Mexico next month. Jungle scenes, black lagoons, that sort of stuff. Should be a safe-enough place.”

  “That’s next month. What about now?”

  “I’ll think of something. But first you get yourself out of the picture. Since you’re the reason she’s in danger in the first place.”

  Victor couldn’t disagree with that last point. Since the night I met her I’ve caused her nothing but trouble.

  He nodded. “I’m out of here tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  “Take care of Cathy. Get her out of the city. Out of the country. Don’t wait.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Something about the way Jack said it, his hasty, whatever-you-say tone, made Victor wonder if the man gave a damn about anyone but himself. But at this point Victor had no choice. He had to trust Jack Zuckerman.

  As he climbed the stairs to the guest rooms, it occurred to him that, come morning, it would be goodbye. A quiet little bond had formed between them. He owed his life to her and she to him. That was the sort of link one could never break.

  Even if we never see each other again.

  In the upstairs hall, he paused outside her closed door. He could hear her moving around the room, opening and closing drawers, squeaking bedsprings.

  He knocked on the door. “Cathy?”

  There was a pause. Then, “Come in.”

  One dim lamp lit the room. She was sitting on the bed, dressed in a ridiculously huge man’s shirt. Her hair hung in damp waves to her shoulders. The scent of soap and shampoo permeated the shadows. It reminded him of his wife, of the shower smells and feminine sweetness. He stood there, pierced by a sense of longing he hadn’t felt in over a year, longing for the warmth, the love, of a woman. Not just any woman. He wasn’t like Jack, to whom a soft body with the right equipment would be sufficient. What Victor wanted was the heart and soul; the package they came wrapped in was only of minor importance.

  His own wife Lily hadn’t been beautiful; neither had she been unattractive. Even at the end, when the ravages of illness had left her shrunken and bruised, there had been a light in her eyes, a gentle spirit’s glow.

  The same glow he’d seen in Catherine Weaver’s eyes the night she’d saved his life. The same glow he saw now.

  She sat with her back propped up on pillows. Her gaze was silently expectant, maybe a little fearful. She was clutching a handful of tissues. Why were you crying? he wondered.

  He didn’t approach; he stood just inside the doorway. Their gazes locked together in the gloom. “I’ve just talked with Jack,” he said.

  She nodded but said nothing.

  “We both agree. It’s better that I leave as soon as possible. So I’ll be taking off in the morning.”

  “What about the film?”

  “I’ll get it. All I need is Hickey’s address.”

  “Yes. Of course.” She looked down at the tissues in her fist.

  He could tell she wanted to say something. He went to the bed and sat down. Those sweet woman smells grew intoxicating. The neckline of her oversized shirt sagged low enough to reveal a tempting glimpse of shadow. He forced himself to focus on her face.

  “Cathy, you’ll be fine. Jack said he’d watch out for you. Get you out of the city.”

  “Jack?” What sounded like a laugh escaped her throat.

  “You’ll be safer with him. I don’t even know where I’ll be going. I don’t want to drag you into this—”

  “But you already have. You’ve dragged me in over my head, Victor. What am I supposed to do now? I can’t just—just sit around and wait for you to fix things. I owe it to Sarah—”

  “And I owe it to you not to let you get hurt.”

  “You think you can hand me over to Jack and make everything be fine again? Well, it won’t be fine. Sarah’s dead. Her baby’s dead. And somehow it’s not just your fault. It’s mine as well.”

  “No, it’s not. Cathy—”

  “It is my fault! Did you know she was lying there in the driveway all night? In the rain. In the cold. There she was, dying, and I slept through the whole damn thing….” She dropped her face in her hands. The guilt that had been tormenting her since Sarah’s death at last burst through. She began to cry, silently, ashamedly, unable to hold back the tears any longer.

  Victor’s response was automatic and instinctively male. He pulled her against him and gave her a warm, safe place to cry. As soon as he felt her settle into his arms, he knew it was a mistake. It was too perfect a fit. She felt as if she belonged there, against his heart, felt that if she ever pulled away there would be left a hole so gaping it could never be filled. He pressed his lips to her damp hair and inhaled her heady scent of soap and warm skin. That gentle fragrance was enough to drown a man with need. So was the softness of her face, the silken luster of that shoulder peeking out from beneath the shirt. And all the time he was stroking her hair, murmuring inane words of comfort, he was thinking: I have to leave her. For her sake I have to abandon this woman. Or I’ll get us both killed.

  “Cathy,” he said. It took all the willpower he could muster to pull away. He placed his hands on her shoulders, made her look at him. Her gaze was confused and brimming with tears. “We have to talk about tomorrow.”

  She nodded and swiped at the tears on her cheeks.

  “I want you out of the city, first thing in the morning. Go to Mexico with Jack. Anywhere. Just keep out of sight.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’m going to take a look at that roll of film, see what kind of evidence it has.”

  “And the
n?”

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll take it to the newspapers. The FBI is definitely out.”

  “How will I know you’re all right? How do I reach you?”

  He thought hard, fighting the distraction of her scent, her hair. He found himself stroking the bare skin of her shoulder, marveling at how smooth it felt beneath his fingers.

  He focused on her face, on the look of worry in her eyes. “Every other Sunday I’ll put an ad in the Personals. Los Angeles Times. It’ll be addressed to, let’s say, Cora. Anything I need to tell you will be there.”

  “Cora.” She nodded. “I’ll remember.”

  They looked at each other, a silent acknowledgment that this parting had to be. He cupped her face and pressed a kiss to her mouth. She barely responded; already, it seemed, she had said her goodbyes.

  He rose from the bed and started for the door. There he couldn’t resist asking, one more time: “You’ll be all right?”

  She nodded, but it was too automatic. The sort of nod one gave to dismiss an unimportant question. “I’ll be fine. After all, I’ll have Jack to watch over me.”

  He didn’t miss the faint note of irony in her reply. Jack, it seemed, didn’t inspire confidence in either of them. What’s my alternative? Drag her along with me as a moving target?

  He gripped the doorknob. No, it was better this way. He’d already ripped her life apart; he wasn’t going to scatter the pieces as well.

  As he was leaving, he took one last backward glance. She was still huddled on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest. The oversized shirt had slid off one bare shoulder. For a moment he thought she was crying. Then she raised her head and met his gaze. What he saw in her eyes wasn’t tears. It was something far more moving, something pure and bright and beautiful.

  Courage.

  In the pale light of dawn, Savitch stood outside Jack Zuckerman’s house. Through the fingers of morning mist, Savitch studied the curtained windows, trying to picture the inhabitants within. He wondered who they were, in which room they slept, and whether Catherine Weaver was among them.

  He’d find out soon.

  He pocketed the black address book he’d taken from the woman’s apartment. The name C. Zuckerman and this Pacific Heights address had been written on the inside front cover. Then the Zuckerman had been crossed out and replaced with Weaver. She was a divorcée, he concluded. Under Z, he’d found a prominent listing for a man named Jack, with various phone numbers and addresses, both foreign and domestic. Her ex-husband, he’d confirmed, after a brief chat with another name listed in the book. Pumping strangers for information was a simple matter. All it took was an air of authority and a cop’s ID. The same ID he was planning to use now.

  He gave the house one final perusal, taking in the manicured lawns and shrubbery, the trellis with its vines of winter-dormant wisteria. A successful man, this Jack Zuckerman. Savitch had always admired men of wealth. He gave his jacket a final tug to assure himself that the shoulder holster was concealed. Then he crossed the street to the front porch and rang the doorbell.

  Chapter Six

  At first light, Cathy awakened. It wasn’t a gentle return but a startling jerk back to consciousness. She was instantly aware that she was not in her own bed and that something was terribly wrong. It took her a few seconds to remember exactly what it was. And when she did remember, the sense of urgency was so compelling she rose at once from bed and began to dress in the semidarkness. Have to be ready to run…

  The creak of floorboards in the next room told her that Victor was awake as well, probably planning his moves for the day. She rummaged through the closet, searching for things he might need in his flight. All she came up with was a zippered nylon bag and a raincoat. She searched the dresser next and found a few men’s socks. She also found a collection of women’s underwear. Damn Jack and all his women, she thought with sudden irritation and slammed the drawer shut. The thud was still resonating in the room when another sound echoed through the house.

  The doorbell was ringing.

  It was only seven o’clock, too early for visitors or deliverymen. Suddenly her door swung open. She turned to see Victor, his face etched with tension.

  “What should we do?” she asked.

  “Get ready to leave. Fast.”

  “There’s a back door—”

  “Let’s go.”

  They hurried along the hall and had almost reached the top of the stairs when they heard Jack’s sleepy voice below, grumbling: “I’m coming, dammit! Stop that racket, I’m coming!”

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Don’t answer it!” hissed Cathy. “Not yet—”

  Jack had already opened the door. Instantly Victor snatched Cathy back up the hall, out of sight. They froze with their backs against the wall, listening to the voices below.

  “Yeah,” they heard Jack say. “I’m Jack Zuckerman. And who are you?”

  The visitor’s voice was soft. They could tell only that it was a man.

  “Is that so?” said Jack, his voice suddenly edged with panic. “You’re with the FBI, you say? And what on earth would the FBI want with my ex-wife?”

  Cathy’s gaze flew to Victor. She read the frantic message in his eyes: Which way out?

  She pointed toward the bedroom at the end of the hall. He nodded. Together they tiptoed along the carpet, all the time aware that one misstep, one loud creak, might be enough to alert the agent downstairs.

  “Where’s your warrant?” they heard Jack demand of the visitor. “Hey, wait a minute! You can’t just barge in here without a court order or something!”

  No time left! thought Cathy in panic as she slipped into the last room. They closed the door behind them.

  “The window!” she whispered.

  “You mean jump?”

  “No.” She hurried across the room and gingerly eased the window open. “There’s a trellis!”

  He glanced down dubiously at the tangled vines of wisteria. “Are you sure it’ll hold us?”

  “I know it will,” she said, swinging her leg over the sill. “I caught one of Jack’s blondes hanging off it one night. And believe me, she was a big girl.” She glanced down at the ground far below and felt a sudden wave of nausea as the old fear of heights washed through her. “God,” she muttered. “Why do we always seem to be hanging out of windows?”

  From somewhere in the house came Jack’s outraged shout: “You can’t go up there! You haven’t shown me your warrant!”

  “Move!” snapped Victor.

  Cathy lowered herself onto the trellis. Branches clawed her face as she scrambled down the vine. An instant after she landed on the dew-soaked grass, Victor dropped beside her.

  At once they were on their feet and sprinting for the cover of shrubbery. Just as they rolled behind the azalea bushes, they heard a second-floor window slide open, and then Jack’s voice complaining loudly: “I know my rights! This is an illegal search! I’m going to call my lawyer!”

  Don’t let him see us! prayed Cathy, burrowing frantically into the bush. She felt Victor’s body curl around her back, his arms pulling her tightly to him, his breath hot and ragged against her neck. For an eternity they lay shivering in the grass as mist swirled around them.

  “You see?” they heard Jack say. “There’s no one here but me. Or would you like to check the garage?”

  The window slid shut.

  Victor gave Cathy a little push. “Go,” he whispered. “The end of the hedge. We’ll run from there.”

  On hands and knees she crawled along the row of azalea bushes. Her soaked jeans were icy and her palms scratched and bleeding, but she was too numbed by terror to feel any pain. All her attention was focused on moving forward. Victor was crawling close behind her. When she felt him bump up against her hip, it occurred to her what a ridiculous view he had, her rump swaying practically under his nose.

  She reached the last bush and stopped to shove a handful of tangled hair off her face. “That house next?” she
asked.

  “Go for it!”

  They both took off like scared rabbits, dashing across the twenty yards of lawn between houses. Once they reached the cover of the next house, they didn’t stop. They kept running, past parked cars and early-morning pedestrians. Five blocks later, they ducked into a coffee shop. Through the front window, they glanced out at the street, watching for signs of pursuit. All they saw was the typical Monday morning bustle: the stop-and-go traffic, the passersby bundled up in scarves and overcoats.

  From the grill behind them came the hiss and sizzle of bacon. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the counter burner. The aromas were almost painful; they reminded Cathy that she and Victor probably had a total of forty dollars between them. Damn it, why hadn’t she begged, borrowed or stolen some cash from Jack?

  “What now?” she asked, half hoping he’d suggest blowing the rest of their cash on breakfast.

  He scanned the street. “Let’s go on.”

  “Where?”

  “Hickey’s studio.”

  “Oh.” She sighed. Another long walk, and all on an empty stomach.

  Outside, a car passed by bearing the bumper sticker: Today is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life.

  Lord, I hope it gets better than this, she thought. Then she followed Victor out the door and into the morning chill.

  Field Supervisor Larry Dafoe was sitting at his desk, pumping away at his executive power chair. Upper body strength, he always said, was the key to success as a man. Bulk out those muscles pull!, fill out that size forty-four jacket pull!, and what you got was a pair of shoulders that’d impress any woman, intimidate any rival. And with this snazzy 700-buck model, you didn’t even have to get out of your chair.

  Sam Polowski watched his superior strain at the system of wires and pulleys and thought the device looked more like an exotic instrument of torture.

  “What you gotta understand,” gasped Dafoe, “is that there are other pull! issues at work here. Things you know nothing about.”

  “Like what?” asked Polowski.

  Dafoe released the handles and looked up, his face sheened with a healthy sweat. “If I was at liberty to tell you, don’t you think I already would’ve?”