“Lily. Lillian Dorinda Cassidy. A mouthful for such a tiny woman.” He smiled. “She was about five foot one, maybe ninety pounds sopping wet. It used to scare me, how small she always seemed. Almost breakable. Especially toward the end, when she’d lost all that weight. It seemed as if she’d shrunk down to nothing but a pair of big brown eyes.”
“She must have been young when she died.”
“Only thirty-eight. It seemed so unfair. All her life, she’d done everything right. Never smoked, hardly ever touched a glass of wine. She even refused to eat meat. After she was diagnosed, we kept trying to figure out how it could’ve happened. Then it occurred to us what might have caused it. She grew up in a small town in Massachusetts. Directly downwind from a nuclear power plant.”
“You think that was it?”
“One can never be sure. But we asked around. And we learned that, just in her neighborhood, at least twenty families had someone with leukemia. It took four years and a class-action suit to force an investigation. What they found was a history of safety violations going back all the way to the plant’s opening.”
Cathy shook her head in disbelief. “And all those years they allowed it to operate?”
“No one knew about it. The violations were hushed up so well even the federal regulators were kept in the dark.”
“They shut it down, didn’t they?”
He nodded. “I can’t say I got much satisfaction, seeing the plant finally close. By that time Lily was gone. And all the families, well, we were exhausted by the fight. Even though it sometimes felt as though we were banging our heads against a wall, we knew it was something we had to do. Somebody had to do it, for all the Lilys of the world.” He looked up, at the spotlights shining above. “And here I am again, still banging my head against walls. Only this time, it feels like the Great Wall of China. And the lives at stake are yours and mine.”
Their gazes met. She sat absolutely still as he lightly stroked down the curve of her cheek. She took his hand, pressed it to her lips. His fingers closed over hers, refusing to release her hand. Gently he tugged her close. Their lips met, a tentative kiss that left her longing for more.
“I’m sorry you were pulled into this,” he murmured. “You and Sarah and those other Cathy Weavers. None of you asked to be part of it. And somehow I’ve managed to hurt you all.”
“Not you, Victor. You’re not the one to blame. It’s this windmill you’re tilting at. This giant, dangerous windmill. Anyone else would have dropped his lance and fled. You’re still going at it.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice.”
“But you did. You could have walked away from your friend’s death. Turned a blind eye to whatever’s going on at Viratek. That’s what Jack would have done.”
“But I’m not Jack. There are things I can’t walk away from. I’d always be thinking of the Lilys. All the thousands of people who might get hurt.”
At the mention once again of his dead wife, Cathy felt some unbreachable barrier form between them—the shadow of Lily, the wife she’d never met. Cathy drew back, at once aching from the loss of his touch.
“You think that many people could die?” she asked.
“Jerry must have thought so. There’s no way to predict the outcome. The world’s never seen the effects of all-out biological warfare. I like to think it’s because we’re too smart to play with our own self-destruction. Then I think of all the crazy things people have done over the years and it scares me….”
“Are viral weapons that dangerous?”
“If you alter a few genes, make it just a little more contagious, raise the kill ratio, you’d end up with a devastating strain. The research alone is hazardous. A single slip-up in lab security and you could have millions of people accidentally infected. And no means of treatment. It’s the kind of worldwide disaster a scientist doesn’t want to think about.”
“Armageddon.”
He nodded, his gaze frighteningly sane. “If you believe in such a thing. That’s exactly what it’d be.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand why these things are allowed.”
“They aren’t. By international agreement, they’re outlawed. But there’s always some madman lurking in the shadows who wants that extra bit of leverage, that weapon no one else has.”
A madman. That’s what one would have to be, to even think of unleashing such a weapon on the world. She thought of a novel she’d read, about just such a plague, how the cities had lain dead and decaying, how the very air had turned poisonous. But those were only the nightmares of science fiction. This was real.
From somewhere in the building came the sound of whistling.
Cathy and Victor both sat up straight. The melody traveled along the hall, closer and closer, until it stopped right outside Hickey’s door. They heard a rustling, then the slap of magazines hitting the floor.
“It’s here!” said Cathy, leaping to her feet.
Victor was right behind her as she hurried into the front room. She spotted it immediately, sitting atop the pile: a padded envelope, addressed in her handwriting. She scooped it up and ripped the envelope open. Out slid the roll of film. The note she’d scribbled to Hickey fluttered to the floor. Grinning in triumph, she held up the canister. “Here’s your evidence!”
“We hope. Let’s see what we’ve got on the roll. Where’s the darkroom?”
“Next to the dressing room.” She handed him the film. “Do you know how to process it?”
“I’ve done some amateur photography. As long as I’ve got the chemicals I can—” He stopped and glanced over at the desk.
The phone was ringing.
Victor shook his head. “Ignore it,” he said and turned for the darkroom.
As they left the reception room, they heard the answering machine click on. Hickey’s voice, smooth as silk, spoke on the recording. “This is the studio of Hickman Von Trapp, specializing in tasteful and artistic images of the female form….”
Victor laughed. “Tasteful?”
“It depends on your taste,” said Cathy as she followed him up the hall.
They had just reached the darkroom when the recording ended and was followed by the message beep. An agitated voice rattled from the speaker. “Hello? Hello, Cathy? If you’re there, answer me, will you? There’s an FBI agent looking for you—some guy named Polowski—”
Cathy stopped dead. “It’s Jack!” she said, turning to retrace her steps toward the front room.
The voice on the speaker had taken on a note of panic. “I couldn’t help it—he made me tell him about Hickey. Get out of there now!”
The message clicked off just as Cathy grabbed the receiver. “Hello? Jack?”
She heard only the dial tone. He’d already hung up. Hands shaking, she began to punch in Jack’s phone number.
“There’s no time!” said Victor.
“I have to talk to him—”
He grabbed the receiver and slammed it down. “Later! We have to get out of here!”
She nodded numbly and started for the door. There she halted. “Wait. We need money!” She turned back to the reception desk and searched the drawers until she found the petty cash box. Twenty-two dollars was all it contained. “Always keep just enough for decent coffee beans,” Hickey used to say. She pocketed the money. Then she reached up and yanked one of Hickey’s old raincoats from the door hook. He wouldn’t miss it. And she might need it for concealment. “Okay,” she said, slipping on the coat. “Let’s go.”
They paused only a second to check the corridor. From another suite came the faint echo of laughter. Somewhere above, high heels clicked across a wooden floor. With Victor in the lead, they darted down the hall and out the front door.
The midday sun seemed to glare down on them like an accusing eye. Quickly they fell into step with the rest of the lunch crowd, the businessmen and artists, the Union Street chic. No one glanced their way. But even with people all around her, Cathy felt conspicuous. As though,
in this bright cityscape of crowds and concrete, she was the focus of the painter’s eye.
She huddled deeper into the raincoat, wishing it were a mantle of invisibility. Victor had quickened his pace, and she had to run to keep up.
“Where do we go now?” she whispered.
“We’ve got the film. Now I say we head for the bus station.”
“And then?”
“Anywhere.” He kept his gaze straight ahead. “As long as it’s out of this city.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THAT PESKY FBI agent was ringing his doorbell again.
Sighing, Jack opened the front door. “Back already?”
“Damn right I’m back.” Polowski stamped in and shoved the door closed behind him. “I want to know where to find ’em next.”
“I told you, Mr. Polowski. Over on Union Street there’s a studio owned by Mr. Hickman—”
“I’ve been to Von Whats-his-name’s studio.”
Jack swallowed. “You didn’t find them?”
“You knew I wouldn’t. You warned ’em, didn’t you?”
“Really, I don’t know why you’re harrassing me. I’ve tried to be—”
“They left in a hurry. The door was wide open. Food was still lying around. They left the empty cash box just sitting on the desk.”
Jack drew himself up in outrage. “Are you calling my ex-wife a petty thief?”
“I’m calling her a desperate woman. And I’m calling you an imbecile for screwing things up. Now where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who would she turn to?”
“No one I know.”
“Think harder.”
Jack stared down at Polowski’s turgid face and marveled that any human being could be so unattractive. Surely the process of natural selection would have dictated against such unacceptable genes?
Jack shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”
It was the truth, and Polowski must have sensed it. After a moment of silent confrontation, he backed off. “Then maybe you can tell me this. Why did you warn them?”
“It—it was—” Jack shrugged helplessly. “Oh, I don’t know! After you left, I wasn’t sure I’d done the right thing. I wasn’t sure whether to trust you. He doesn’t trust you.”
“Who?”
“Victor Holland. He thinks you’re in on some conspiracy. Frankly, the man struck me as just the slightest bit paranoid.”
“He has a right to be. Considering what’s happened to him so far.” Polowski turned for the door.
“Now what happens?”
“I keep looking for them.”
“Where?”
“You think I’d tell you?” He stalked out. “Don’t leave town, Zuckerman,” he snapped over his shoulder. “I’ll be back to see you later.”
“I don’t think so,” Jack muttered softly as he watched the other man lumber back to his car. He looked up and saw there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Smiling to himself, he shut the door.
It would be sunny in Mexico, as well.
SOMEONE had left in a hurry.
Savitch strolled through the rooms of the photo studio, which had been left unlocked. He noted the scraps of a meal on the four-poster bed: crumbs of sourdough bread, part of a salami, an empty pickle jar. He also took note of the coffee cups: there were two of them. Interesting, since Savitch had spotted only one person leaving the studio, a squat little man in a polyester suit. The man hadn’t been there long. Savitch had observed him climb into a dark green Ford parked at a fifteen-minute meter. The meter still had three minutes remaining.
Savitch continued his tour of the studio, eyeing the tawdry photos, wondering if this wasn’t another waste of his time. After all, every other address he’d pulled from the woman’s black book had turned up no sign of her. Why should Hickman Von Trapp’s address be any different?
Still, he couldn’t shake the instinct that he was getting close. Clues were everywhere. He read them, put them together. Today, this studio had been visited by two hungry people. They’d entered through a broken window in the dressing room. They’d eaten scraps taken from the refrigerator. They (or the man in the polyester suit) had emptied the petty cash box.
Savitch completed his tour and returned to the front room. That’s when he noticed the telephone message machine blinking on and off.
He pressed the play button. The string of messages seemed endless. The calls were for someone named Hickey—no doubt the Hickman Von Trapp of the address book. Savitch lazily circled the room, half listening to the succession of voices. Business calls for the most part, inquiring about appointments, asking when proofs would be ready and would he like to do the shoot for Snoop magazine? Near the door, Savitch halted and stooped down to sift through the pile of mail. It was boring stuff, all addressed to Von Trapp. Then he noticed, off to the side, a loose slip of paper. It was a note, addressed to Hickey.
“Feel awful about this, but someone stole all those rolls of film from my car. This was the only one left. Thought I’d get it to you before it’s lost, as well. Hope it’s enough to save your shoot from being a complete waste—”
It was signed “Cathy.”
He stood up straight. Catherine Weaver? It had to be! The roll of film—where the hell was the roll of film?
He rifled through the mail, searching, searching. He turned up only a torn envelope with Cathy Weaver’s return address. The film was gone. In frustration, he began to fling magazines across the room. Then, in mid-toss, he froze.
A new message was playing on the recorder.
“Hello? Hello, Cathy? If you’re there, answer me, will you? There’s an FBI agent looking for you—some guy named Polowski. I couldn’t help it—he made me tell him about Hickey. Get out of there now!”
Savitch stalked over to the answering machine and stared down as the mechanism automatically whirred back to the beginning. He replayed it.
Get out of there now!
There was now no doubt. Catherine Weaver had been here, and Victor Holland was with her. But who was this agent Polowski and why was he searching for Holland? Savitch had been assured that the Bureau was off the case. He would have to check into the matter.
He crossed over to the window and stared out at the bright sunshine, the crowded sidewalks. So many faces, so many strangers. Where, in this city, would two terrified fugitives hide? Finding them would be difficult, but not impossible.
He left the suite and went outside to a pay phone. There he dialed a Washington, D.C., number. He wasn’t fond of asking the Cowboy for help, but now he had no choice. Victor Holland had his hands on the evidence, and the stakes had shot sky-high.
It was time to step up the pursuit.
THE CLERK YELLED, “Next window, please!” and closed the grate.
“Wait!” cried Cathy, tapping at the pane. “My bus is leaving right now!”
“Which one?”
“Number 23 to Palo Alto—”
“There’s another at seven o’clock.”
“But—”
“I’m on my dinner break.”
Cathy stared helplessly as the clerk walked away. Over the PA system came the last call for the Palo Alto express. Cathy glanced around just in time to see the Number 23 roar away from the curb.
“Service just ain’t what it used to be,” an old man muttered behind her. “Get there faster usin’ yer damn thumb.”
Sighing, Cathy shifted to the next line, which was eight-deep and slow as molasses. The woman at the front was trying to convince the clerk that her social security card was an acceptable ID for a check.
Okay, Cathy thought. So we leave at seven o’clock. That puts us in Palo Alto at eight. Then what? Camp in a park? Beg a few scraps from a restaurant? What does Victor have in mind…?
She glanced around and spotted his broad back hunched inside one of the phone booths. Whom could he possibly be calling? She saw him hang up and run his hand wearily through his hair. Then he picked up the receiver and dialed a
nother number.
“Next!” Someone tapped Cathy on the shoulder. “Go ahead, Miss.”
Cathy turned and saw that the ticket clerk was waiting. She stepped to the window.
“Where to?” asked the clerk.
“I need two tickets to…” Cathy’s voice suddenly faded.
“Where?”
Cathy didn’t speak. Her gaze had frozen on a poster tacked right beside the ticket window. The words Have You seen This Man? appeared above an unsmiling photo of Victor Holland. And at the bottom were listed the charges: Industrial espionage and murder. If you have any information about this man, please contact your local police or the FBI.
“Lady, you wanna go somewhere or not?”
“What?” Cathy’s gaze jerked back to the clerk, who was watching her with obvious annoyance. “Oh. Yes, I’m—I’d like two tickets. To Palo Alto.” Numbly she handed over a fistful of cash. “One way.”
“Two to Palo Alto. That bus will depart at 7:00, Gate 11.”
“Yes. Thank you…” Cathy took the tickets and turned to leave the line. That’s when she spotted the two policemen, standing just inside the front entrance. They seemed to be scanning the terminal, searching—for what?
In a panic, her gaze shot to the phone booth. It was empty. She stared at it with a sense of abandonment. You left me! You left me with two tickets to Palo Alto and five bucks in my pocket!
Where are you, Victor?
She couldn’t stand here like an idiot. She had to do something, had to move. She pulled the raincoat tightly around her shoulders and forced herself to stroll across the terminal. Don’t let them notice me, she prayed. Please. I’m nobody. Nothing. She paused at a chair and picked up a discarded San Francisco Chronicle. Then, thumbing through the Want Ads, she sauntered right past the two policemen. They didn’t even glance at her as she went out the front entrance.
Now what? she wondered, pausing amidst the confusion of a busy sidewalk. Automatically she started to walk and had taken only half a dozen steps down the street when she was wrenched sideways, into an alley.
She reeled back against the trash cans and almost sobbed with relief. “Victor!”
“Did they see you?”
Whistleblower Page 11
