Read Online Whistleblower by Tess Gerritsen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tess Gerritsen
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tirelessly, leading her down side streets, avoiding busy intersections. She let him do the thinking and navigating. Her terror slowly gave way to numbness and a disorienting sense of unreality. The city itself seemed little more than a dreamscape, asphalt and streetlights and endless twists and turns of concrete. The only reality was the man striding close beside her, his gaze alert, his movements swift and sure. She knew he too must be afraid, but she couldn't see his fear.
He took her hand; the warmth of that grasp, the strength of those fingers, seemed to flow into her cold, exhausted limbs.
She quickened her pace. "I think there's a police substation down that street," she said. "If we go a block or two further—"
"We're not going to the police."
"What?" She stopped dead, staring at him.
"Not yet. Not until I've had a chance to think this through."
"Victor," she said slowly. "Someone is trying to kill us. Trying to kill me. What do you mean, you need time to think this through? "
"Look, we can't stand around talking about it. We have to get off the streets." He grabbed her hand again. "Come on."
"Where?"
"I have a room. It's only a few blocks away."
She let him drag her only a few yards before she mustered the will to pull free. "Wait a minute. Just wait."
He turned, his face a mask of frustration, and confronted her. "Wait for what? For that maniac to catch up? For the bullets to start flying again?"
"For an explanation!"
"I'll explain it all. When we're safe."
She backed away. "Why are you afraid of the police?"
"I can't be sure of them."
"Do you have a reason to be afraid? What have you done?"
With two steps he closed the gap between them and grabbed her hard by the shoulders. "I just pulled you out of a death trap, remember? The bullets were going through your window, not mine!"
"Maybe they were aimed at you!"
"Okay!" He let her go, let her back away from him. "You want to try it on your own? Do it. Maybe the police'll be a help. Maybe not. But I can't risk it. Not until I know all the players behind this."
"You—you're letting me go?"
"You were never my prisoner."
"No." She took a breath—it misted in the cold air. She glanced down the street, toward the police substation. "It's...the reasonable thing to do," she muttered, almost to reassure herself. "That's what they're there for."
"Right."
She frowned, anticipating what lay ahead. "They'll ask a lot of questions."
"What are you going to tell them?"
She looked at him, her gaze unflinchingly meeting his. "The truth."
"Which'll be at best, incomplete. And at worst, unbelievable."
"I have broken glass all over my apartment to prove it."
"A drive-by shooting. Purely random."
"It's their job to protect me."
"What if they don't think you need protection?"
"I'll tell them about you! About Sarah."
"They may or may not take you seriously."
"They have to take me seriously! Someone's trying to kill me!" Her voice, shrill with desperation, seemed to echo endlessly through the maze of streets.
Quietly he said, "I know."
She glanced back toward the substation. "I'm going."
He said nothing.
"Where will you be?" she asked.
"On my own. For now."
She took two steps away, then stopped. "Victor?"
"I'm still here."
"You did save my life. Thank you."
He didn't respond. She heard his footsteps slowly walk away. She stood there thinking, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Of course she was. A man afraid of the police—with a story as paranoid as his was—had to be dangerous.
But he saved my life.
And once, on a rainy night in Garberville, she had saved his.
She replayed all the events of the last week. Sarah's murder, never explained. The other Catherine Weaver, shot to death on her front doorstep. The film canister that Sarah had retrieved from the car, the one Cathy had slipped into her bathrobe pocket...
Victor's footsteps had faded.
In that instant she realized she'd lost the only man who could help her find the answers to
He took her hand; the warmth of that grasp, the strength of those fingers, seemed to flow into her cold, exhausted limbs.
She quickened her pace. "I think there's a police substation down that street," she said. "If we go a block or two further—"
"We're not going to the police."
"What?" She stopped dead, staring at him.
"Not yet. Not until I've had a chance to think this through."
"Victor," she said slowly. "Someone is trying to kill us. Trying to kill me. What do you mean, you need time to think this through? "
"Look, we can't stand around talking about it. We have to get off the streets." He grabbed her hand again. "Come on."
"Where?"
"I have a room. It's only a few blocks away."
She let him drag her only a few yards before she mustered the will to pull free. "Wait a minute. Just wait."
He turned, his face a mask of frustration, and confronted her. "Wait for what? For that maniac to catch up? For the bullets to start flying again?"
"For an explanation!"
"I'll explain it all. When we're safe."
She backed away. "Why are you afraid of the police?"
"I can't be sure of them."
"Do you have a reason to be afraid? What have you done?"
With two steps he closed the gap between them and grabbed her hard by the shoulders. "I just pulled you out of a death trap, remember? The bullets were going through your window, not mine!"
"Maybe they were aimed at you!"
"Okay!" He let her go, let her back away from him. "You want to try it on your own? Do it. Maybe the police'll be a help. Maybe not. But I can't risk it. Not until I know all the players behind this."
"You—you're letting me go?"
"You were never my prisoner."
"No." She took a breath—it misted in the cold air. She glanced down the street, toward the police substation. "It's...the reasonable thing to do," she muttered, almost to reassure herself. "That's what they're there for."
"Right."
She frowned, anticipating what lay ahead. "They'll ask a lot of questions."
"What are you going to tell them?"
She looked at him, her gaze unflinchingly meeting his. "The truth."
"Which'll be at best, incomplete. And at worst, unbelievable."
"I have broken glass all over my apartment to prove it."
"A drive-by shooting. Purely random."
"It's their job to protect me."
"What if they don't think you need protection?"
"I'll tell them about you! About Sarah."
"They may or may not take you seriously."
"They have to take me seriously! Someone's trying to kill me!" Her voice, shrill with desperation, seemed to echo endlessly through the maze of streets.
Quietly he said, "I know."
She glanced back toward the substation. "I'm going."
He said nothing.
"Where will you be?" she asked.
"On my own. For now."
She took two steps away, then stopped. "Victor?"
"I'm still here."
"You did save my life. Thank you."
He didn't respond. She heard his footsteps slowly walk away. She stood there thinking, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Of course she was. A man afraid of the police—with a story as paranoid as his was—had to be dangerous.
But he saved my life.
And once, on a rainy night in Garberville, she had saved his.
She replayed all the events of the last week. Sarah's murder, never explained. The other Catherine Weaver, shot to death on her front doorstep. The film canister that Sarah had retrieved from the car, the one Cathy had slipped into her bathrobe pocket...
Victor's footsteps had faded.
In that instant she realized she'd lost the only man who could help her find the answers to
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