Whistleblower. Tess Gerritsen
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a few miles. Oak Hill Road.”
“Yep. I go right past it.” The driver pulled back onto the road. The truck spewed black exhaust as they roared down the highway, country music blaring from the radio.
Through the plucked strains of guitar music, Victor heard a sound that made him sit up sharply. A siren. Whipping his head around, he saw a patrol car zooming up fast behind them. That’s it, thought Victor. They’ve found me. They’re going to stop this truck and arrest me….
But for what? For walking away from the hospital? For insulting Miss Redfern? Or had Polowski fabricated some charge against him?
With a sense of impending doom, he waited for the patrol car to overtake them and start flashing its signal to pull over. In fact, he was so certain they would be pulled over that when the police car sped right past them and roared off down the highway, he could only stare ahead in amazement.
“Must be some kinda trouble,” his companion said blandly, nodding at the rapidly vanishing police car.
Victor managed to clear his throat. “Trouble?”
“Yep. Don’t get much of a chance to use that siren of theirs but when they do, boy oh boy, do they go to town with it.”
With his heart hammering against his ribs, Victor sat back and forced himself to calm down. He had nothing to worry about. The police weren’t after him, they were busy with some other concern. He wondered what sort of small-town catastrophe could warrant blaring sirens. Probably nothing more exciting than a few kids out on a joyride.
By the time they reached the turnoff to Oak Hill Road, Victor’s pulse had settled back to normal. He thanked the driver, climbed out, and began the trek to Catherine Weaver’s house. It was a long walk, and the road wound through a forest of pines. Every so often he’d pass a mailbox along the road and, peering through the trees, would spot a house. Catherine’s address was coming up fast.
What on earth should he say to her? Up till now he’d concentrated only on reaching her house. Now that he was almost there, he had to come up with some reasonable explanation for why he’d dragged himself out of a hospital bed and trudged all this way to see her. A simple thanks for saving my life just wouldn’t do it. He had to find out if she had the film canister. But she, of course, would want to know why the damn thing was so important.
You could tell her the truth.
No, forget that. He could imagine her reaction if he were to launch into his wild tale about viruses and dead scientists and double-crossing FBI agents. The FBI is out to get you? I see. And who else is after you, Mr. Holland? It was so absurdly paranoid he almost felt like laughing. No, he couldn’t tell her any of it or he’d end up right back in a hospital, and this time in a ward that would make Miss Redfern’s Three East look like paradise.
She didn’t need to know any of it. In fact, she was better off ignorant. The woman had saved his life, and the last thing he wanted to do was put her in any danger. The film was all he wanted from her. After today, she’d never see him again.
He was so busy debating what to tell her that he didn’t notice the police cars until well after he’d rounded the road’s bend. Suddenly he froze, confronted by three squad cars—probably the entire police fleet of Garberville—parked in front of a rustic cedar house. A half-dozen neighbors lingered in the gravel driveway, shaking their heads in disbelief. Good God, had something happened to Catherine?
Swallowing the urge to turn and flee, Victor propelled himself forward, past the squad cars and through the loose gathering of onlookers, only to be stopped by a uniformed officer.
“I’m sorry, sir. No one’s allowed past this point.”
Dazed, Victor stared down and saw that the police had strung out a perimeter of red tape. Slowly, his gaze moved beyond the tape, to the old Datsun parked near the carport. Was that Catherine’s car? He tried desperately to remember if she’d driven a Datsun, but last night it had been so dark and he’d been in so much pain that he hadn’t bothered to pay attention. All he could remember was that it was a compact model, with scarcely enough room for his legs. Then he noticed the faded parking sticker on the rear bumper: Parking Permit, Studio Lot A.
I work for an independent film company, she’d told him last night.
It was Catherine’s car.
Unwillingly, he focused on the stained gravel just beside the Datsun, and even though the rational part of him knew that that peculiar brick red could only be dried blood, he wanted to deny it. He wanted to believe there was some other explanation for that stain, for this ominous gathering of police.
He tried to speak, but his voice sounded like something dragged up through gravel.
“What did you say, sir?” the police officer asked.
“What—what happened?”
The officer shook his head sadly. “Woman was killed here last night. Our first murder in ten years.”
“Murder?” Victor’s gaze was still fixed in horror on the bloodstained gravel. “But—why?”
The officer shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Maybe robbery, though I don’t think he got much.” He nodded at the Datsun. “Car was the only thing broken into.”
If Victor said anything at that point, he never remembered what it was. He was vaguely aware of his legs carrying him back through the onlookers, past the three police cars, toward the road. The sunshine was so brilliant it hurt his eyes and he could barely see where he was going.
I killed her, he thought. She saved my life and I killed her….
Guilt slashed its way to his throat and he could scarcely breathe, could barely take another step for the pain. For a long time he stood there at the side of the road, his head bent in the sunshine, his ears filled with the sound of blue jays, and mourned a woman he’d never known.
When at last he was able to raise his head again, rage fueled the rest of his walk back to the highway, rage against Catherine’s murderer. Rage at himself for having put her in such danger. It was the film the killer had been searching for, and he’d probably found it in the Datsun. If he hadn’t, the house would have been ransacked, as well.
Now what? thought Victor. He dismissed the possibility that his briefcase—with most of the evidence—might still be in his wrecked car. That was the first place the killer would have searched. Without the film, Victor was left with no evidence at all. It would all come down to his word against Viratek’s. The newspapers would dismiss him as nothing more than a disgruntled ex-employee. And after Polowski’s double cross, he couldn’t trust the FBI.
At that last thought, he quickened his pace. The sooner he got out of Garberville, the better. When he got back to the highway, he’d hitch another ride. Once safely out of town, he could take the time to plan his next move.
He decided to head south, to San Francisco.
CHAPTER THREE
FROM THE WINDOW of his office at Viratek, Archibald Black watched the limousine glide up the tree-lined driveway and pull to a stop at the front entrance. Black snorted derisively. The cowboy was back in town, damn him. And after all the man’s fussing about the importance of secrecy, about keeping his little visit discreet, the idiot had the gall to show up in a limousine—with a uniformed driver, no less.
Black turned from the window and paced over to his desk. Despite his contempt for the visitor, he had to acknowledge the man made him uneasy, the way all so-called men of action made him uneasy. Not enough brains behind all that muscle. Too much power in the hands of imbeciles, he thought. Is this an example of who we have running the country?
The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Black?” said his secretary. “A Mr. Tyrone is here to see you.”
“Send him in, please,” said Black, smoothing the scorn from his