Whistleblower

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 upstairs—”

“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—”