Never Say Die / Whistleblower

by Tess Gerritsen

  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—”

  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-brother-in-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.

  She was left anchorless, shivering among the dying embers.

  “Ma’am, you’ll have to come with us.”

  She looked up, dazed, at the policeman. “What?”

  “Hey, she doesn’t have to!” cut in Jay Wallace. “You haven’t charged her with anything!”

  “Shut up, Wallace.”

  “I’ve had the court beat. I know her rights!”

  Quietly Cathy said, “It doesn’t matter. I’ll come with you, officer.”

  “Wait!” said Wallace. “I wanna talk to you first! I got just a few questions—”

  “She can talk to you later,” snapped the policeman, taking Cathy by the arm. “After she talks to us.”

  The policemen were polite, even kind. Perhaps it was her docile acceptance of the situation, perhaps they could sense she was operating on her last meager reserves of strength. She answered all their questions. She let them examine the rope burns on her wrists. She told them about Ollie and Sarah and the other Catherine Weavers. And the whole time, as she sat in that room in the Palo Alto police station, she kept hoping she’d catch a glimpse of Victor. She knew he had to be close by. Were they, at that very moment, asking him these same questions?

  At dawn, they released her.

  Jay Wallace was waiting outside near the front steps. “I have to talk to you,” he said as she walked out.

  “Please. Not now. I’m tired….”

  “Just a few questions.”

  “I can’t. I need to—to—” She stopped. And there, standing on that cold and empty street, she burst into tears. “I don’t know what to do,” she sobbed. “I don’t know how to help him. How to reach him.”

  “You mean Holland? They’ve already taken him to San Francisco.”

  “What?” She raised her startled gaze to Wallace.

  “An hour ago. The big boys from the Justice Department came down as an escort. I hear tell they’re flying him straight to Washington. First-class treatment all the way.”

  She shook her head in bewilderment. “Then he’s all right—he’s not under arrest—”

  “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.