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Authors: Tess Gerritsen
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she didn't move. She pressed her face against the rung, so hard she felt the rough edge bite into her flesh.
"You're okay, Cathy!" he said. "Come on."
The pain became all-encompassing, blocking out the dizziness, even the fear. When she opened her eyes again, the world had steadied. On rubbery legs, she descended the ladder, pausing on the third floor landing to wipe her sweaty palms on her jeans. She continued downward, to the second-floor landing. It was still a good fifteen-foot drop to the ground. She unlatched the extension ladder and started to slide it down, but it let out such a screech that Victor immediately stopped her.
"Too noisy. We have to jump!"
"But—"
To her astonishment, he scrambled over the railing and dropped to the ground. "Come on!" he hissed from below. "It's not that far. I'll catch you."
Murmuring a prayer, she lowered herself over the side and let go.
To her surprise he did catch her—but held on only for a second. The bullet wound had left his injured shoulder too weak to hold on. They both tumbled to the ground. She landed smack on top of him, her legs astride his hips, their faces inches apart. They stared at each other, so stunned they could scarcely breathe.
Upstairs, a window slid open and someone yelled, "Hey, you bums! If you don't clear out this instant, I'm calling the cops!"
Instantly Cathy rolled off Victor, only to stagger into a trash can. The lid fell off and slammed like a cymbal against the sidewalk.
"That's it for rest stops," Victor grunted and scrambled to his feet. "Move it."
They took off at a wild dash down the street, turned up an alley, and kept running. It was a good five blocks before they finally stopped to catch their breath. They glanced back.
The street was deserted.
They were safe!
* * *
Nicholas Savitch stood beside the neatly made bed and surveyed the room. It was every inch a woman's room, from the closet hung with a half-dozen simple but elegant dresses, to the sweetly scented powders and lotions lined up on the vanity table. It took only a single circuit around the room to tell him about the woman whose bedroom this was. She was slim, a size seven dress, size six-and-a-half shoe. The hairs on the brush were brown and shoulder-length. She owned only a few pieces of jewelry, and she favored natural scents, rosewater and lavender. Her favorite color was green.
Back in the living room, he continued to gather information. The woman subscribed to the Hollywood trade journals. Her taste in music, like her taste in books, was eclectic. He noticed a scrap of newspaper lying on the floor. He picked it up and glanced at the article. Now this was interesting. The death of Catherine Weaver I had not gone unnoticed by Catherine Weaver III.
He pocketed the article. Then he saw the purse, lying on the floor near the shattered window.
Bingo.
He emptied the contents on the coffee table. Out tumbled a wallet, checkbook, pens, loose change, and...an address book. He opened it to the Bs . There he found the name he was looking for: Sarah Boylan.
He now knew this was the Catherine Weaver he'd been seeking. What a shame he'd wasted his time hunting down the other two.
He flipped through the address book and spotted a half dozen or so San Francisco listings. The woman may tiave been clever enough to slip away from him this time. But staying out of sight was a more difficult matter. And this little book, with its names of friends and relatives and colleagues, could lead him straight to her.
Somewhere in the distance, a police siren was wailing.
It was time to leave.
Savitch took the address book and the woman's wallet and headed out the door. Outside, his breath misted in the cold air as he walked at a leisurely pace down the street,
He could afford to take his time.
But for Catherine Weaver and Victor Holland, time was running out.
Chapter 4
There was no time to rest. They jogged for the next six blocks, miles and miles, it seemed to Cathy. Victor moved
"You're okay, Cathy!" he said. "Come on."
The pain became all-encompassing, blocking out the dizziness, even the fear. When she opened her eyes again, the world had steadied. On rubbery legs, she descended the ladder, pausing on the third floor landing to wipe her sweaty palms on her jeans. She continued downward, to the second-floor landing. It was still a good fifteen-foot drop to the ground. She unlatched the extension ladder and started to slide it down, but it let out such a screech that Victor immediately stopped her.
"Too noisy. We have to jump!"
"But—"
To her astonishment, he scrambled over the railing and dropped to the ground. "Come on!" he hissed from below. "It's not that far. I'll catch you."
Murmuring a prayer, she lowered herself over the side and let go.
To her surprise he did catch her—but held on only for a second. The bullet wound had left his injured shoulder too weak to hold on. They both tumbled to the ground. She landed smack on top of him, her legs astride his hips, their faces inches apart. They stared at each other, so stunned they could scarcely breathe.
Upstairs, a window slid open and someone yelled, "Hey, you bums! If you don't clear out this instant, I'm calling the cops!"
Instantly Cathy rolled off Victor, only to stagger into a trash can. The lid fell off and slammed like a cymbal against the sidewalk.
"That's it for rest stops," Victor grunted and scrambled to his feet. "Move it."
They took off at a wild dash down the street, turned up an alley, and kept running. It was a good five blocks before they finally stopped to catch their breath. They glanced back.
The street was deserted.
They were safe!
* * *
Nicholas Savitch stood beside the neatly made bed and surveyed the room. It was every inch a woman's room, from the closet hung with a half-dozen simple but elegant dresses, to the sweetly scented powders and lotions lined up on the vanity table. It took only a single circuit around the room to tell him about the woman whose bedroom this was. She was slim, a size seven dress, size six-and-a-half shoe. The hairs on the brush were brown and shoulder-length. She owned only a few pieces of jewelry, and she favored natural scents, rosewater and lavender. Her favorite color was green.
Back in the living room, he continued to gather information. The woman subscribed to the Hollywood trade journals. Her taste in music, like her taste in books, was eclectic. He noticed a scrap of newspaper lying on the floor. He picked it up and glanced at the article. Now this was interesting. The death of Catherine Weaver I had not gone unnoticed by Catherine Weaver III.
He pocketed the article. Then he saw the purse, lying on the floor near the shattered window.
Bingo.
He emptied the contents on the coffee table. Out tumbled a wallet, checkbook, pens, loose change, and...an address book. He opened it to the Bs . There he found the name he was looking for: Sarah Boylan.
He now knew this was the Catherine Weaver he'd been seeking. What a shame he'd wasted his time hunting down the other two.
He flipped through the address book and spotted a half dozen or so San Francisco listings. The woman may tiave been clever enough to slip away from him this time. But staying out of sight was a more difficult matter. And this little book, with its names of friends and relatives and colleagues, could lead him straight to her.
Somewhere in the distance, a police siren was wailing.
It was time to leave.
Savitch took the address book and the woman's wallet and headed out the door. Outside, his breath misted in the cold air as he walked at a leisurely pace down the street,
He could afford to take his time.
But for Catherine Weaver and Victor Holland, time was running out.
Chapter 4
There was no time to rest. They jogged for the next six blocks, miles and miles, it seemed to Cathy. Victor moved
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