Kitabı oku: «Whistleblower»

International bestselling author Tess Gerritsen gave up a career as a practising physician to write full time. She draws upon her experiences to bring all the tension and terrors of her thrillers to life. She lives in Camden, Maine, with her physician husband and two sons.

Also available from MIRA Books and Tess Gerritsen

CALL AFTER MIDNIGHT

UNDER THE KNIFE

IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS

PRESUMED GUILTY

NEVER SAY DIE

MURDER & MAYHEM

STOLEN

TESS GERRITSEN

WHISTLE BLOWER

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To Fiens and Frans

PROLOGUE

BRANCHES whipped his face, and his heart was pounding so hard he thought his chest would explode, but he couldn’t stop running. Already, he could hear the man gaining on him, could almost imagine the bullet slicing through the night and slamming into his back. Maybe it already had. Maybe he was trailing a river of blood; he was too numb with terror to feel anything now, except the desperate hunger to live. The rain was pouring down his face, icy, blinding sheets of it, rattling on the dead leaves of winter. He stumbled through a pool of darkness and found himself sprawled flat on his belly in the mud. The sound of his fall was deafening. His pursuer, alerted by the sharp crack of branches, altered course and was now headed straight for him. The thud of a silencer, the zing of a bullet past his cheek, told him he’d been spotted. He forced himself to his feet and made a sharp right, zigzagging back toward the highway. Here in the woods, he was a dead man. But if he could flag down a car, if he could draw someone’s attention, he might have a chance.

A crash of branches, a coarse oath, told him his pursuer had stumbled. He’d gained a few precious seconds. He kept running, moving only by an instinctive sense of direction. There was no light to guide his way, nothing except the dim glow of the clouds in the night sky. The road had to be just ahead. Any second now, his feet would hit pavement.

And then what? What if there’s no car to flag down, no one to help me?

Then, through the trees ahead, he saw a faint flickering, two watery beams of light.

With a desperate burst of speed, he sprinted toward the car. His lungs were on fire, his eyes blinded by the lash of branches and rain. Another bullet whipped past him and thudded into a tree trunk, but the gunman behind him had suddenly lost all importance. All that mattered was those lights, beckoning him through the darkness, taunting him with the promise of salvation.

When his feet suddenly hit the pavement, he was shocked. The lights were still ahead, bobbing somewhere beyond the trees. Had he missed the car? Was it already moving away, around a curve? No, there it was, brighter now. It was coming this way. He ran to meet it, following the bend of the road and knowing all the time that here in the open, he was an easy target. The sound of his shoes slapping the wet road filled his ears. The lights twisted toward him. At that instant, he heard the gun fire a third time. The force of the impact made him stumble to his knees, and he was vaguely aware of the bullet tearing through his shoulder, of the warmth of his own blood dribbling down his arm, but he was oblivious to pain. He could focus only on staying alive. He struggled back to his feet, took a stumbling step forward…

And was blinded by the onrush of headlights. There was no time to throw himself out of the way, no time even to register panic. Tires screamed across the pavement, throwing up a spray of water.

He didn’t feel the impact. All he knew was that he was suddenly lying on the ground and the rain was pouring into his mouth and he was very, very cold.

And that he had something to do, something important.

Feebly, he reached into the pocket of his windbreaker, and his fingers curled around the small plastic cylinder. He couldn’t quite remember why it mattered so much, but it was still there and he was relieved. He clutched it tightly in his palm.

Someone was calling to him. A woman. He couldn’t see her face through the rain, but he could hear her voice, hoarse with panic, floating through the buzz in his head. He tried to speak, tried to warn her that they had to get away, that death was waiting in the woods. But all that came out was a groan.

CHAPTER ONE

THREE miles out of Redwood Valley, a tree had fallen across the road, and with the heavy rains and backed-up cars, it took Catherine Weaver nearly three hours to get past the town of Willits. By then it was already ten o’clock and she knew she wouldn’t reach Garberville till midnight. She hoped Sarah wouldn’t sit up all night waiting for her. But knowing Sarah, there’d be a supper still warm in the oven and a fire blazing in the hearth. She wondered how pregnancy suited her friend. Wonderfully, of course. Sarah had talked about this baby for years, had chosen its name—Sam or Emma—long before it was conceived. The fact she no longer had a husband was a minor point. “You can only wait around so long for the right father,” Sarah had said. “Then you have to take matters into your own hands.”

And she had. With her biological clock furiously ticking its last years away, Sarah had driven down to visit Cathy in San Francisco and had calmly selected a fertility clinic from the yellow pages. A liberal-minded one, of course. One that would understand the desperate longings of a thirty-nine-year-old single woman. The insemination itself had been a coolly clinical affair, she’d said later. Hop on the table, slip your feet into the stirrups, and five minutes later, you were pregnant. Well, almost. But it was a simple procedure, the donors were certifiably healthy, and best of all, a woman could fulfill her maternal instincts without all that foolishness about marriage.

Yes, the old marriage game. They’d both suffered through it. And after their divorces, they’d both carried on, albeit with battle scars.

Brave Sarah, thought Cathy. At least she has the courage to go through with this on her own.

The old anger washed through her, still potent enough to make her mouth tighten. She could forgive her ex-husband Jack for a lot of things. For his selfishness. His demands. His infidelity. But she could never forgive him for denying her the chance to have a child. Oh, she could have gone against his wishes and had a baby anyway, but she’d wanted him to want one as well. So she’d waited for the time to be right. But during their ten years of marriage, he’d never been “ready,” never felt it was the “right time.”

What he should have told her was the truth: that he was too self-centered to be bothered with a baby.

I’m thirty-seven years old, she thought. I no longer have a husband. I don’t even have a steady boyfriend. But I could be content, if only I could hold my own child in my arms.

At least Sarah would soon be blessed.

Four months to go and then the baby was due. Sarah’s baby. Cathy had to smile at that thought, despite the rain now pouring over her windshield. It was coming down harder now; even with the wipers thrashing at full speed, she could barely make out the road. She glanced at her watch and saw it was already eleven-thirty; there were no other cars in sight. If she had engine trouble out here, she’d probably have to spend the night huddled in the backseat, waiting for help to arrive.

Peering ahead, she tried to make out the road’s dividing line and saw nothing but a solid wall of rain. This was ridiculous. She really should have stopped at that motel in Willits, but she hated the thought of being only fifty miles from her goal, especially when she’d already driven so far.

She spotted a sign ahead: Garberville, 10 Miles. So she was closer than she’d thought. Twenty-five miles more, then there’d be a turnoff and a five-mile drive through dense woods to Sarah’s cedar house. The thought of being so close fueled her impatience. She fed the old Datsun some gas and sped up to forty-five miles an hour. It was a reckless thing to do, especially in these conditions, but the thought of a warm house and hot chocolate was just too tempting.

The road curved unexpectedly; startled, she jerked the wheel to the right and the car slid sideways, tobogganing wildly across the rain-slicked pavement. She knew enough not to slam on the brakes. Instead, she clutched the wheel, fighting to regain control. The tires skidded a few feet, a heart-stopping ride that took her to the very edge of the road. Just as she thought she’d clip the trees, the tires gripped the pavement. The car was still moving twenty miles an hour, but at least it was headed in a straight line. With clammy hands, she managed to negotiate the rest of the curve.

What happened next caught her completely by surprise. One instant she was congratulating herself for averting disaster, the next, she was staring ahead in disbelief.

The man had appeared out of nowhere. He was crouched in the road, captured like a wild animal in the glare of her headlights. Reflexes took over. She slammed on the brakes, but it was already too late. The screech of her tires was punctuated by the thud of the man’s body against the hood of her car.

For what seemed like eternity, she sat frozen and unable to do anything but clutch the steering wheel and stare at the windshield wipers skating back and forth. Then, as the reality of what she’d just done sank in, she shoved the door open and dashed out into the rain.

At first she could see nothing through the downpour, only a glistening strip of blacktop lit by the dim glow of her taillights. Where is he? she thought frantically. With water streaming past her eyes, she traced the road backward, struggling to see in the darkness. Then, through the pounding rain, she heard a low moan. It came from somewhere off to the side, near the trees.

Shifting direction, she plunged into the shadows and sank ankle-deep in mud and pine needles. Again she heard the moan, closer now, almost within reach.

“Where are you?” she screamed. “Help me find you!”

“Here…” The answer was so weak she barely heard it, but it was all she needed. Turning, she took a few steps and practically stumbled over his crumpled body in the darkness. At first, he seemed to be only a confusing jumble of soaked clothes, then she managed to locate his hand and feel for his pulse. It was fast but steady, probably steadier than her own pulse, which was skipping wildly. His fingers suddenly closed over hers in a desperate grip. He rolled against her and struggled to sit up.

“Please! Don’t move!” she said.

“Can’t—can’t stay here—”

“Where are you hurt?”

“No time. Help me. Hurry—”

“Not till you tell me where you’re hurt!”

He reached out and grabbed her shoulder in a clumsy attempt to rise to his feet. To her amazement, he managed to pull himself halfway up. For an instant they wobbled against each other, then his strength seemed to collapse and they both slid to their knees in the mud. His breathing had turned harsh and irregular and she wondered about his injuries. If he was bleeding internally he could die within minutes. She had to get him to a hospital now, even if it meant dragging him back to the car.

“Okay. Let’s try again,” she said, grabbing his left arm and draping it around her neck. She was startled by his gasp of agony. Immediately she released him. His arm left a sticky trail of warmth around her neck. Blood.

“My other side’s okay,” he grunted. “Try again.”

She shifted to his right side and pulled his arm over her neck. If she weren’t so frantic, it would have struck her as a comical scene, the two of them struggling like drunkards to stand up. When at last he was on his feet and they stood swaying together in the mud, she wondered if he even had the strength to put one foot in front of the other. She certainly couldn’t move them both. Though he was slender, he was also a great deal taller than she’d expected, and much more than her five-foot-five frame could support.

But something seemed to compel him forward, a kindling of some hidden reserves. Even through their soaked clothes, she could feel the heat of his body and could sense the urgency driving him onward. A dozen questions formed in her head, but she was breathing too hard to voice them. Her every effort had to be concentrated on getting him to the car, and then to a hospital.

Gripping him around the waist, she latched her fingers through his belt. Painfully they made their way to the road, struggling step by step. His arm felt taut as wire over her neck. It seemed everything about him was wound up tight. There was something desperate about the way his muscles strained to move forward. His urgency penetrated right through to her skin. It was a panic as palpable as the warmth of his body, and she was suddenly infected with his need to flee, a need made more desperate by the fact they could move no faster than they already were. Every few feet she had to stop and shove back her dripping hair just to see where she was going. And all around them, the rain and darkness closed off all view of whatever danger pursued.

The taillights of her car glowed ahead like ruby eyes winking in the night. With every step the man grew heavier and her legs felt so rubbery she thought they’d both topple in the road. If they did, she wouldn’t have the strength to haul him back up again. Already, his head was sagging against her cheek and water trickled from his rain-matted hair down her neck. The simple act of putting one foot in front of the other was so automatic that she never even considered dropping him on the road and backing the car to him instead. And the taillights were already so close, just beyond the next veil of rain.

By the time she’d guided him to the passenger side, her arm felt ready to fall off. With the man on the verge of sliding from her grasp, she barely managed to wrench the door open. She had no strength left to be gentle; she simply shoved him inside.

He flopped onto the front seat with his legs still hanging out. She bent down, grabbed his ankles, and heaved them one by one into the car, noting with a sense of detachment that no man with feet this big could possibly be graceful.

As she slid into the driver’s seat, he made a feeble attempt to raise his head, then let it sink back again. “Hurry,” he whispered.

At the first turn of the key in the ignition, the engine sputtered and died. Dear God, she pleaded. Start. Start! She switched the key off, counted slowly to three, and tried again. This time the engine caught. Almost shouting with relief, she jammed it into gear and made a tire-screeching takeoff toward Garberville. Even a town that small must have a hospital or, at the very least, an emergency clinic. The question was: could she find it in this downpour? And what if she was wrong? What if the nearest medical help was in Willits, the other direction? She might be wasting precious minutes on the road while the man bled to death.

Suddenly panicked by that thought, she glanced at her passenger. By the glow of the dashboard, she saw that his head was still flopped back against the seat. He wasn’t moving.

“Hey! Are you all right?” she cried.

The answer came back in a whisper. “I’m still here.”

“Dear God. For a minute I thought…” She looked back at the road, her heart pounding. “There’s got to be a clinic somewhere—”

“Near Garberville—there’s a hospital—”

“Do you know how to find it?”

“I drove past it—fifteen miles…”

If he drove here, where’s his car? she thought. “What happened?” she asked. “Did you have an accident?”

He started to speak but his answer was cut off by a sudden flicker of light. Struggling to sit up, he turned and stared at the headlights of another car far behind them. His whispered oath made her look sideways in alarm.

“What is it?”

“That car.”

She glanced in the rearview mirror. “What about it?”

“How long’s it been following us?”

“I don’t know. A few miles. Why?”

The effort of keeping his head up suddenly seemed too much for him, and he let it sink back down with a groan. “Can’t think,” he whispered. “Christ, I can’t think…”

He’s lost too much blood, she thought. In a panic, she shoved hard on the gas pedal. The car seemed to leap through the rain, the steering wheel vibrating wildly as sheets of spray flew up from the tires. Darkness flew at dizzying speed against their windshield. Slow down, Slow down! Or I’ll get us both killed.

Easing back on the gas, she let the speedometer fall to a more manageable forty-five miles per hour. The man was struggling to sit up again.

“Please, keep your head down!” she pleaded.

“That car—”

“It’s not there anymore.”

“Are you sure?”

She looked at the rearview mirror. Through the rain, she saw only a faint twinkling of light, but nothing as definite as headlights. “I’m sure,” she lied and was relieved to see him slowly settle back again. How much farther? she thought. Five miles? Ten? And then the next thought forced its way into her mind: He might die before we get there.

His silence terrified her. She needed to hear his voice, needed to be reassured that he hadn’t slipped into oblivion. “Talk to me,” she urged. “Please.”

“I’m tired….”

“Don’t stop. Keep talking. What—what’s your name?”

The answer was a mere whisper: “Victor.”

“Victor. That’s a great name. I like that name. What do you do, Victor?”

His silence told her he was too weak to carry on any conversation. She couldn’t let him lose consciousness! For some reason it suddenly seemed crucial to keep him awake, to keep him in touch with a living voice. If that fragile connection was broken, she feared he might slip away entirely.

“All right,” she said, forcing her voice to remain low and steady. “Then I’ll talk. You don’t have to say a thing. Just listen. Keep listening. My name is Catherine. Cathy Weaver. I live in San Francisco, the Richmond district. Do you know the city?” There was no answer, but she sensed some movement in his head, a silent acknowledgement of her words. “Okay,” she went on, mindlessly filling the silence. “Maybe you don’t know the city. It really doesn’t matter. I work with an independent film company. Actually, it’s Jack’s company. My ex-husband. We make horror films. Grade B, really, but they turn a profit. Our last one was Reptilian. I did the special-effects makeup. Really gruesome stuff. Lots of green scales and slime…” She laughed—it was a strange, panicked sound. It had an unmistakable note of hysteria.

She had to fight to regain control.

A wink of light made her glance up sharply at the rearview mirror. A pair of headlights was barely discernible through the rain. For a few seconds she watched them, debating whether to say anything to Victor. Then, like phantoms, the lights flickered off and vanished.

“Victor?” she called softly. He responded with an unintelligible grunt, but it was all she needed to be reassured that he was still alive. That he was listening. I’ve got to keep him awake, she thought, her mind scrambling for some new topic of conversation. She’d never been good at the glib sort of chitchat so highly valued at filmmakers’ cocktail parties. What she needed was a joke, however stupid, as long as it was vaguely funny. Laughter heals. Hadn’t she read it somewhere? That a steady barrage of comedy could shrink tumors? Oh sure, she chided herself. Just make him laugh and the bleeding will miraculously stop….

But she couldn’t think of a joke, anyway, not a single damn one. So she returned to the topic that had first come to mind: her work.

“Our next project’s slated for January. Ghouls. We’ll be filming in Mexico, which I hate, because the damn heat always melts the makeup….”

She looked at Victor but saw no response, not even a flicker of movement. Terrified that she was losing him, she reached out to feel for his pulse and discovered that his hand was buried deep in the pocket of his windbreaker. She tried to tug it free, and to her amazement he reacted to her invasion with immediate and savage resistance. Lurching awake, he blindly lashed at her, trying to force her away.

“Victor, it’s all right!” she cried, fighting to steer the car and protect herself at the same time. “It’s all right! It’s me, Cathy. I’m only trying to help!”

At the sound of her voice, his struggles weakened. As the tension eased from his body, she felt his head settle slowly against her shoulder. “Cathy,” he whispered. It was a sound of wonder, of relief. “Cathy…”

“That’s right. It’s only me.” Gently, she reached up and brushed back the tendrils of his wet hair. She wondered what color it was, a concern that struck her as totally irrelevant but nonetheless compelling. He reached for her hand. His fingers closed around hers in a grip that was surprisingly strong and steadying. I’m still here, it said. I’m warm and alive and breathing. He pressed her palm to his lips. So tender was the gesture, she was startled by the roughness of his unshaven jaw against her skin. It was a caress between strangers, and it left her shaken and trembling.

She returned her grip to the steering wheel and shifted her full attention back to the road. He had fallen silent again, but she couldn’t ignore the weight of his head on her shoulder or the heat of his breath in her hair.

The torrent eased to a slow but steady rain, and she coaxed the car to fifty. The Sunnyside Up cafe whipped past, a drab little box beneath a single streetlight, and she caught a glimpse of Victor’s face in the brief glow of light. She saw him only in profile: a high forehead, sharp nose, a jutting chin, and then the light was gone and he was only a shadow breathing softly against her. But she’d seen enough to know she’d never forget that face. Even as she peered through the darkness, his profile floated before her like an image burned into her memory.

“We have to be getting close,” she said, as much to reassure herself as him. “Where a cafe appears, a town is sure to follow.” There was no response. “Victor?” Still no response. Swallowing her panic, she sped up to fifty-five.

Though they’d passed the Sunnyside Up over a mile ago, she could still make out the streetlight winking on and off in her mirror. It took her a few seconds to realize it wasn’t just one light she was watching but two, and that they were moving—a pair of headlights, winding along the highway. Was it the same car she’d spotted earlier?

Mesmerized, she watched the lights dance like twin wraiths among the trees, then, suddenly, they vanished and she saw only darkness. A ghost? she wondered irrationally. Any instant she expected the lights to rematerialize, to resume their phantom twinkling in the woods. She was watching the mirror so intently that she almost missed the road sign:

Garberville, Pop, 5,750

Gas—Food—Lodging

A half mile later streetlights appeared, glowing a hazy yellow in the drizzle; a flatbed truck splashed by, headed in the other direction. Though the speed limit had dropped to thirty-five, she kept her foot firmly on the gas pedal and for once in her life prayed for a police car to give chase.

The Hospital road sign seemed to leap out at her from nowhere. She braked and swerved onto the turnoff. A quarter mile away, a red Emergency sign directed her up a driveway to a side entrance. Leaving Victor in the front seat, she ran inside, through a deserted waiting room, and cried to a nurse sitting at her desk: “Please, help me! I’ve got a man in my car….”

The nurse responded instantly. She followed Cathy outside, took one look at the man slumped in the front seat, and yelled for assistance.

Even with the help of a burly ER physician, they had difficulty pulling Victor out of the car. He had slid sideways, and his arm was wedged under the emergency hand brake.

“Hey, Miss!” the doctor barked at Cathy. “Climb in the other side and free up his arm!”

Cathy scrambled to the driver’s seat. There she hesitated. She would have to manipulate his injured arm. She took his elbow and tried to unhook it from around the brake, but discovered his wristwatch was snagged in the pocket of his windbreaker. After unsnapping the watchband, she took hold of his arm and lifted it over the brake. He responded with a groan of pure agony. The arm slid limply toward the floor.

“Okay!” said the doctor. “Arm’s free! Now, just ease him toward me and we’ll take it from there.”

Gingerly, she guided Victor’s head and shoulders safely past the emergency brake. Then she scrambled back outside to help load him onto the wheeled stretcher. Three straps were buckled into place. Everything became a blur of noise and motion as the stretcher was wheeled through the open double doors into the building.

“What happened?” the doctor barked over his shoulder at Cathy.

“I hit him—on the road—”

“When?”

“Fifteen—twenty minutes ago.”

“How fast were you driving?”

“About thirty-five.”

“Was he conscious when you found him?”

“For about ten minutes—then he sort of faded—”

A nurse said: “Shirt’s soaked with blood. He’s got broken glass in his shoulder.”

In that mad dash beneath harsh fluorescent lights, Cathy had her first clear look at Victor, and she saw a lean, mud-streaked face, a jaw tightly squared in pain, a broad forehead matted damply with light brown hair. He reached out to her, grasping for her hand.

“Cathy—”

“I’m here, Victor.”

He held on tightly, refusing to break contact. The pressure of his fingers in her flesh was almost painful. Squinting through the pain, he focused on her face. “I have to—have to tell you—”

“Later!” snapped the doctor.

“No, wait!” Victor was fighting to keep her in view, to hold her beside him. He struggled to speak, agony etching lines on his face.

Cathy bent close, drawn by the desperation of his gaze. “Yes, Victor,” she whispered, stroking his hair, longing to ease his pain. This link between their hands, their gazes, felt forged in timeless steel. “Tell me.”

“We can’t delay!” barked the doctor. “Get him in the room.”

All at once, Victor’s hand was wrenched away from her as they whisked him into the trauma suite, a nightmarish room of stainless steel and blindingly bright lights. He was lifted onto the surgical table.

“Pulse 110,” said a nurse. “Blood pressure eight-five over fifty!”

The doctor ordered, “Let’s get two IVs in. Type and cross six units of blood. And get hold of a surgeon. We’re going to need help….”

The machine-gun fire of voices, the metallic clang of cabinets and IV poles and instruments was deafening. No one seemed to notice Cathy standing in the doorway, watching in horrified fascination as a nurse pulled out a knife and began to tear off Victor’s bloody clothing. With each rip, more and more flesh was exposed, until the shirt and windbreaker were shredded off, revealing a broad chest thickly matted with tawny hair. To the doctors and nurses, this was just another body to labor over, another patient to be saved. To Cathy, this was a living, breathing man, a man she cared about, if only because they had shared those last harrowing moments. The nurse shifted her attention to his belt, which she quickly unbuckled. With a few firm tugs, she peeled off his trousers and shorts and threw them into a pile with the other soiled clothing. Cathy scarcely noticed the man’s nakedness, or the nurses and technicians shoving past her into the room. Her shocked gaze had focused on Victor’s left shoulder, which was oozing fresh blood onto the table. She remembered how his whole body had resonated with pain when she’d grabbed that shoulder; only now did she understand how much he must have suffered.

A sour taste flooded her throat. She was going to be sick.

Struggling against the nausea, she somehow managed to stumble away and sink into a nearby chair. There she sat for a few minutes, oblivious to the chaos whirling around her. Looking down, she noted with instinctive horror the blood on her hands.

“There you are,” someone said. A nurse had just emerged from the trauma room, carrying a bundle of the patient’s belongings. She motioned Cathy over to a desk. “We’ll need your name and address in case the doctors have any more questions. And the police will have to be notified. Have you called them?”

Cathy shook her head numbly. “I—I guess I should…”

“You can use this phone.”

“Thank you.”

It rang eight times before anyone answered. The voice that greeted her was raspy with sleep. Obviously, Garberville provided little late-night stimulation, even for the local police. The desk officer took down Cathy’s report and told her he’d be in touch with her later, after they’d checked the accident scene.

The nurse had opened Victor’s wallet and was flipping through the various ID cards for information. Cathy watched her fill in the blanks on a patient admission form: Name: Victor Holland. Age: 41. Occupation: Biochemist. Next of kin: Unknown.

So that was his full name. Victor Holland. Cathy stared down at the stack of ID cards and focused on what appeared to be a security pass for some company called Viratek. A color photograph showed Victor’s quietly sober face, its green eyes gazing straight into the camera. Even if she had never seen his face, this was exactly how she would have pictured him, his expression unyielding, his gaze unflinchingly direct. She touched her palm, where he had kissed her. She could still recall how his beard had stung her flesh.

Softly, she asked, “Is he going to be all right?”

The nurse continued writing. “He’s lost a lot of blood. But he looks like a pretty tough guy….”

Cathy nodded, remembering how, even in his agony, Victor had somehow dredged up the strength to keep moving through the rain. Yes, she knew just how tough a man he was.