Whistleblower Page 5

  “I’ve gone over his personnel file. He’s forty-one years old, born and raised in San Diego. Entered the seminary but dropped out after a year. Went on to Stanford, then MIT. Doctorate in biochemistry. He was with Viratek for four years. One of our most promising researchers.”

  “What about his personal life?”

  “His wife died three years ago of leukemia. Keeps pretty much to himself these days. Quiet kind of guy, likes classical jazz. Plays the saxophone in some amateur group.”

  Tyrone laughed. “Your typical nerd scientist.” It was just the sort of moronic comment an ex-marine like Tyrone would make. It was an insult that grated on Black. Years ago, before he created Viratek Industries, Black too had been a research biochemist.

  “He should be a simple matter to dispose of,” said Tyrone. “Inexperienced. And probably scared.” He reached for his briefcase. “Mr. Savitch is an expert on these matters. I suggest you let him take care of the problem.”

  “Of course.” In truth, Black didn’t think he had any choice. Nicholas Savitch was like some evil, frightening force that, once unleashed, could not be controlled.

  The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Gregorian’s here from the photo lab,” said the secretary.

  “Send him in.” Black glanced at Tyrone. “The film’s been developed. Let’s see just what Martinique managed to photograph.”

  Gregorian walked in carrying a bulky envelope. “Here are those contact prints you requested,” he said, handing the bundle across the desk to Black. Then he cupped his hand over his mouth, muffling a sound suspiciously like laughter.

  “Yes, Mr. Gregorian?” inquired Black.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  Tyrone cut in, “Well, let’s see them!”

  Black removed the five contact sheets and lay them out on the desk for everyone to see. The men stared.

  For a long time, no one spoke. Then Tyrone said, “Is this some sort of joke?”

  Gregorian burst out laughing.

  Black said, “What the hell is this?”

  “Those are the negatives you gave me, sir,” Gregorian insisted. “I processed them myself.”

  “These are the photos you got back from Victor Holland?” Tyrone’s voice started soft and rose slowly to a roar. “Five rolls of naked women?”

  “There’s been a mistake,” said Black. “It’s the wrong film—”

  Gregorian laughed harder.

  “Shut up!” yelled Black. He looked at Tyrone. “I don’t know how this happened.”

  “Then the roll we want is still out there?”

  Black nodded wearily.

  Tyrone reached for the phone. “We need to clean things up. Fast.”

  “Who are you calling?” asked Black.

  “The man who can do the job,” said Tyrone as he punched in the numbers. “Savitch.”

  IN HIS motel room on Lombard Street, Victor paced the avocado-green carpet, wracking his brain for a plan. Any plan. His well-organized scientist’s mind had already distilled the situation into the elements of a research project. Identify the problem: someone is out to kill me. State your hypothesis: Jerry Martinique uncovered something dangerous and he was killed for it. Now they think I have the information—and the evidence. Which I don’t. Goal: Stay alive. Method: Any damn way I can!

  For the last two days, his only strategy had consisted of holing up in various cheap motel rooms and pacing the carpets. He couldn’t hide out forever. If the feds were involved, and he had reason to believe they were, they’d soon have his credit card charges traced, would know exactly where to find him.

  I need a plan of attack.

  Going to the FBI was definitely out. Sam Polowski was the agent Victor had contacted, the one who’d arranged to meet him in Garberville. No one else should have known about that meeting. Sam Polowski had never shown up.

  But someone else had. Victor’s aching shoulder was a constant reminder of that near-disastrous rendezvous.

  I could go to the newspapers. But how would he convince some skeptical reporter? Who would believe his stories of a project so dangerous it could kill millions? They would think his tale was some fabrication of a paranoid mind.

  And I am not paranoid.

  He paced over to the TV and switched it on to the five o’clock news. A perfectly coiffed anchorwoman smiled from the screen as she read a piece of fluff about the last day of school, happy children, Christmas vacation. Then her expression sobered. Transition. Victor found himself staring at the TV as the next story came on.

  “And in Garberville, California, there have been no new leads in the murder investigation of a woman found slain Wednesday morning. A houseguest found Sarah Boylan, 39, lying in the driveway, dead of stab wounds to the neck. The victim was five months pregnant. Police say they are puzzled by the lack of motive in this terrible tragedy, and at the present time there are no suspects. Moving on to national news…”

  No, no, no! Victor thought. She wasn’t pregnant. Her name wasn’t Sarah. It’s a mistake….

  Or was it?

  My name is Catherine, she had told him.

  Catherine Weaver. Yes, he was sure of the name. He’d remember it till the day he died.

  He sat on the bed, the facts spinning around in his brain. Sarah. Cathy. A murder in Garberville.

  When at last he rose to his feet, it was with a swelling sense of urgency, even panic. He grabbed the hotel room phone book and flipped to the Ws. He understood now. The killer had made a mistake. If Cathy Weaver was still alive, she might have that roll of film—or know where to find it. Victor had to reach her.

  Before someone else did.

  NOTHING could have prepared Cathy for the indescribable sense of gloom she felt upon returning to her flat in San Francisco. She had thought she’d cried out all her tears that night in the Garberville motel, the night after Sarah’s death. But here she was, still bursting into tears, then sinking into deep, dark meditations. The drive to the city had been temporarily numbing. But as soon as she’d climbed the steps to her door and confronted the deathly silence of her second-story flat, she felt overwhelmed once again by grief. And bewilderment. Of all the people in the world to die, why Sarah?

  She made a feeble attempt at unpacking. Then, forcing herself to stay busy, she surveyed the refrigerator and saw that her shelves were practically empty. It was all the excuse she needed to flee her apartment. She pulled a sweater over her jeans and, with a sense of escape, walked the four blocks to the neighborhood grocery store. She bought only the essentials, bread and eggs and fruit. Enough to tide her over for a few days, until she was back on her feet and could think clearly about any sort of menu.

  Carrying a sack of groceries in each arm, she walked through the gathering darkness back to her apartment building. The night was chilly, and she regretted not wearing a coat. Through an open window, a woman called, “Time for dinner!” and two children playing kickball in the street turned and scampered for home.

  By the time Cathy reached her building, she was shivering and her arms were aching from the weight of the groceries. She trudged up the steps and, balancing one sack on her hip, managed to pull out her keys and unlock the security door. Just as she swung through, she heard footsteps, then glimpsed a blur of movement rushing toward her from the side. She was swept through the doorway, into the building. A grocery bag tumbled from her arms, spilling apples across the floor. She stumbled forward, catching herself on the wood banister. The door slammed shut behind her.

  She spun around, ready to fight off her attacker.

  It was Victor Holland.

  “You!” she whispered in amazement.

  He didn’t seem so sure of her identity. He was frantically searching her face, as though trying to confirm he had the right woman. “Cathy Weaver?”

  “What do you think you’re—”

  “Where’s your apartment?” he cut in.

  “What?”

  “We can’t stand around out here.”

  “It’s—it’s up
stairs—”

  “Let’s go.” He reached for her arm but she pulled away.

  “My groceries,” she said, glancing down at the scattered apples.

  He quickly scooped up the fruit, tossed it in one of the bags, and nudged her toward the stairs. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

  Cathy allowed herself to be herded up the stairs and halfway down the hall before she stopped dead in her tracks. “Wait a minute. You tell me what this is all about, Mr. Holland, and you tell me right now or I don’t move another step!”

  “Give me your keys.”

  “You can’t just—”

  “Give me your keys!”

  She stared at him, shocked by the command. Suddenly she realized that what she saw in his eyes was panic. They were the eyes of a hunted man.

  Automatically she handed him her keys.

  “Wait here,” he said. “Let me check the apartment first.”

  She watched in bewilderment as he unlocked her door and cautiously eased his way inside. For a few moments she heard nothing. She pictured him moving through the flat, tried to estimate how many seconds each room would require for inspection. It was a small flat, so why was he taking so long?

  Slowly she moved toward the doorway. Just as she reached it, his head popped out. She let out a little squeak of surprise. He barely caught the bag of groceries as it slipped from her grasp.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Come on inside.”

  The instant she stepped over the threshold, he had the door locked and bolted behind her. Then he quickly circled the living room, closing the drapes, locking windows.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” she asked, following him around the room.

  “We’re in trouble.”

  “You mean you’re in trouble.”

  “No. I mean we. Both of us.” He turned to her, his gaze clear and steady. “Do you have the film?”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, utterly confused by the sudden shift of conversation.

  “A roll of film. Thirty-five millimeter. In a black plastic container. Do you have it?”

  She didn’t answer. But an image from that last night with Sarah had already taken shape in her mind: a roll of film on the kitchen counter. Film she’d thought belonged to her friend Hickey. Film she’d slipped into her bathrobe pocket and later into her purse. But she wasn’t about to reveal any of this, not until she found out why he wanted it. The gaze she returned to him was purposefully blank and unrevealing.

  Frustrated, he forced himself to take a deep breath, and started over. “That night you found me—on the highway—I had it in my pocket. It wasn’t with me when I woke up in the hospital. I might have dropped it in your car.”

  “Why do you want this roll of film?”

  “I need it. As evidence—”

  “For what?”

  “It would take too long to explain.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve got nothing better to do at the moment—”

  “Damn it!” He stalked over to her. Taking her by the shoulders, he forced her to look at him. “Don’t you understand? That’s why your friend was killed! The night they broke into your car, they were looking for that film!”

  She stared at him, a look of sudden comprehension and horror. “Sarah…”

  “Was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The killer must have thought she was you.”

  Cathy felt trapped by his unrelenting gaze. And by the inescapable threat of his revelation. Her knees wobbled, gave way. She sank into the nearest chair and sat there in numb silence.

  “You have to get out of here,” he said. “Before they find you. Before they figure out you’re the Cathy Weaver they’re looking for.”

  She didn’t move. She couldn’t move.

  “Come on, Cathy. There isn’t much time!”

  “What was on that roll of film?” she asked softly.

  “I told you. Evidence. Against a company called Viratek.”

  She frowned. “Isn’t—isn’t that the company you work for?”

  “Used to work for.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They’re involved in some sort of illegal research project. I can’t tell you the particulars.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t know them. I’m not the one who gathered the evidence. A colleague—a friend—passed it to me, just before he was killed.”

  “What do you mean by killed?”

  “The police called it an accident. I think otherwise.”

  “You’re saying he was murdered over a research project?” She shook her head. “Must have been dangerous stuff he was working on.”

  “I know this much. It involves biological weapons. Which makes the research illegal. And incredibly dangerous.”

  “Weapons? For what government?”

  “Ours.”

  “I don’t understand. If this is a federal project, that makes it all legal, right?”

  “Not by a long shot. People in high places have been known to break the rules.”

  “How high are we talking about?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t be sure of anyone. Not the police, not the Justice Department. Not the FBI.”

  Her eyes narrowed. The words she was hearing sounded like paranoid ravings. But the voice—and the eyes—were perfectly sane. They were sea-green, those eyes. They held an honesty, a steadiness that should have been all the assurance she needed.

  It wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

  Quietly she said, “So you’re telling me the FBI is after you. Is that correct?”

  Sudden anger flared in his eyes, then just as quickly, it was gone. Groaning, he sank onto the couch and ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t blame you for thinking I’m nuts. Sometimes I wonder if I’m all there. I thought if I could trust anyone, it’d be you….”

  “Why me?”

  He looked at her. “Because you’re the one who saved my life. You’re the one they’ll try to kill next.”

  She froze. No, no, this was insane. Now he was pulling her into his delusion, making her believe in his nightmare world of murder and conspiracy. She wouldn’t let him! She stood up and started to walk away, but his voice made her stop again.

  “Cathy, think about it. Why was your friend Sarah killed? Because they thought she was you. By now they’ve figured out they killed the wrong woman. They’ll have to come back and do the job right. Just in case you know something. In case you have evidence—”

  “This is crazy!” she cried, clapping her hands over her ears. “No one’s going to—”

  “They already have!” He whipped out a scrap of newspaper from his shirt pocket. “On my way over here, I happened to pass a newsstand. This was on the front page.” He handed her the piece of paper.

  She stared in bewilderment at the photograph of a middle-aged woman, a total stranger. “San Francisco woman shot to death on front doorstep,” read the ac companying headline.

  “This has nothing to do with me,” she said.

  “Look at her name.”

  Cathy’s gaze slid to the third paragraph, which identified the victim.

  Her name was Catherine Weaver.

  The scrap of newsprint slipped from her grasp and fluttered to the floor.

  “There are three Catherine Weavers in the San Francisco phone book,” he said. “That one was shot to death at nine o’clock this morning. I don’t know what’s happened to the second. She might already be dead. Which makes you next on the list. They’ve had enough time to locate you.”

  “I’ve been out of town—I only got back an hour ago—”

  “Which explains why you’re still alive. Maybe they came here earlier. Maybe they decided to check out the other two women first.”

  She shot to her feet, suddenly frantic with the need to flee. “I have to pack my things—”

  “No. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

  Yes, do what he says! an inner voice screamed at her. />
  She nodded. Turning, she headed blindly for the door. Halfway there, she halted. “My purse—”

  “Where is it?”

  She headed back, past a curtained window. “I think I left it by the—”

  Her next words were cut off by an explosion of shattering glass. Only the closed curtains kept the shards from piercing her flesh. Pure reflex sent Cathy diving to the floor just as the second gun blast went off. An instant later she found Victor Holland sprawled on top of her, covering her body with his as the third bullet slammed into the far wall, splintering wood and plaster.

  The curtains shuddered, then hung still.

  For a few seconds Cathy was paralyzed by terror, by the weight of Victor’s body on hers. Then panic took hold. She squirmed free, intent on fleeing the apartment.

  “Stay down!” Victor snapped.

  “They’re trying to kill us!”

  “Don’t make it easy for them!” He dragged her back to the floor. “We’re getting out. But not through the front door.”

  “How—”

  “Where’s your fire escape?”

  “My bedroom window.”

  “Does it go to the roof?”

  “I’m not sure—I think so—”

  “Then let’s move it.”

  On hands and knees they crawled down the hall, into Cathy’s unlit bedroom. Beneath the window they paused, listening. Outside, in the darkness, there was no sound. Then, from downstairs in the lobby, came the tinkle of breaking glass.

  “He’s already in the building!” hissed Victor. He yanked open the window. “Out, out!”

  Cathy didn’t need to be prodded. Hands shaking, she scrambled out and lowered herself onto the fire escape. Victor was right behind her.

  “Up,” he whispered. “To the roof.”

  And then what? she wondered, climbing the ladder to the third floor, past Mrs. Chang’s flat. Mrs. Chang was out of town this week, visiting her son in New Jersey. The apartment was dark, the windows locked tight. No way in there.

  “Keep going,” said Victor, nudging her forward.

  Only a few more rungs to go.

  At last, she pulled herself up and over the edge and onto the asphalt roof. A second later, Victor dropped down beside her. Potted plants shuddered in the darkness. It was Mrs. Chang’s rooftop garden, a fragrant mélange of Chinese herbs and vegetables.