Whistleblower

your warrant!'

'Move!' snapped Victor.

Cathy lowered herself onto the trellis. Branches clawed her face as she scrambled down the vine. An instant after she landed on the dew-soaked grass, Victor dropped beside her.

At once they were on their feet and sprinting for the cover of shrubbery. Just as they rolled behind the azalea bushes, they heard a second-floor window slide open, and then Jack's voice complaining loudly: 'I know my rights! This is an illegal search! I'm going to call my lawyer!'

Don't let him see us! prayed Cathy, burrowing frantically into the bush. She felt Victor's body curl around her back, his arms pulling her tightly to him, his breath hot and ragged against her neck. For an eternity they lay shivering in the grass as mist swirled around them.

'You see?' they heard Jack say. 'There's no one here but me. Or would you like to check the garage?'

The window slid shut.

Victor gave Cathy a little push. 'Go,' he whispered. 'The end of the hedge. We'll run from there.'

On hands and knees she crawled along the row of azalea bushes. Her soaked jeans were icy and her palms scratched and bleeding, but she was too numbed by terror to feel any pain. All her attention was focused on moving forward. Victor was crawling close behind her. When she felt him bump up against her hip, it occurred to her what a ridiculous view he had, her rump swaying practically under his nose.

She reached the last bush and stopped to shove a handful of tangled hair off her face. 'That house next?' she asked.

'Go for it!'

They both took off like scared rabbits, dashing across the twenty yards of lawn between houses. Once they reached the cover of the next house, they didn't stop. They kept running, past parked cars and early-morning pedestrians. Five blocks later, they ducked into a coffee shop. Through the front window, they glanced out at the street, watching for signs of pursuit. All they saw was the typical Monday morning bustle: the stop-and-go traffic, the passersby bundled up in scarves and overcoats.

From the grill behind them came the hiss and sizzle of bacon. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted from the counter burner. The aromas were almost painful; they reminded Cathy that she and Victor probably had a total of forty dollars between them. Damn it, why hadn't she begged, borrowed or stolen some cash from Jack?

'What now?' she asked, half hoping he'd suggest blowing the rest of their cash on breakfast.

He scanned the street. 'Let's go on.'

'Where?'

'Hickey's studio.'

'Oh.' She sighed. Another long walk, and all on an empty stomach.

Outside, a car passed by bearing the bumper sticker: Today is the First Day of the Rest of Your Life.

Lord, I hope it gets better than this, she thought. Then she followed Victor out the door and into the morning chill.

Field Supervisor Larry Dafoe was sitting at his desk, pumping away at his executive power chair. Upper body strength, he always said, was the key to success as a man.

Bulk out those muscles pull!, fill out that size forty-four jacket pull! , and what you got was a pair of shoulders that'd impress any woman, intimidate any rival. And with this snazzy 700-buck model, you didn't even have to get out of your chair.

Sam Polowski watched his superior strain at the system of wires and pulleys and thought the device looked more like an exotic instrument of torture.

'What you gotta understand,' gasped Dafoe, 'is that there are other pull! issues at work here. Things you know nothing about.'

'Like what?' asked Polowski.

Dafoe released the handles and looked up, his face sheened with a healthy sweat. 'If I was at liberty to tell you, don't you think I already would've?'

Polowski looked at the gleaming black exercise handles, wondering whether he'd benefit from an executive power chair. Maybe a souped-up set of biceps was what he needed to get a little respect around this office.

'I still don't see what the point is,' he said. 'Putting Victor Holland in the hot seat.'

'The point,' said Dafoe, 'is that you don't call the shots.'

'I gave Holland my word he'd be left out of this mess.'

'He's part of the mess! First he claims he has evidence, then he pulls a vanishing act.'

'That's partly my fault. I never made it to the rendezvous.'

'Why hasn't he tried to contact you?'

'I don't know.' Polowski sighed and shook his head. 'Maybe he's dead.'

'Maybe we just need to find him.' Dafoe reached for the exercise handles. 'Maybe you need to get to work on the Lanzano file. Or maybe you should just go home. You look terrible.'

'Yeah. Sure.' Polowski turned. As he left the office, he could hear Dafoe once again huffing and puffing. He went to his desk, sat down and contemplated his collection of cold capsules, aspirin and cough syrup. He took a double dose of each. Then he reached in his briefcase and pulled out the Viratek file.

It was his own private collection of scrambled notes and phone numbers and news clippings. He sifted through them, stopping to ponder once again the link between Holland and the woman Catherine Weaver. He'd first seen her name on the hospital admission sheet, and had later been startled to hear of her connection to the murdered Garberville woman. Too many coincidences, too many twists and turns. Was there something obvious here he was missing? Might the woman have an answer or two?

He reached for the telephone and dialed the Garberville police department. They would know how to reach their witness. And maybe she would know how to find Victor Holland. It was a long shot but Sam Polowski was an inveterate horseplayer. He had a penchant for long shots.

The man ringing his doorbell looked like a tree stump dressed in a brown polyester suit. Jack opened the door and said, 'Sorry, I'm not buying today.'

'I'm not selling anything, Mr. Zuckerman,' said the man. 'I'm with the FBI.'

Jack sighed. 'Not again.'

'I'm Special Agent Sam Polowski. I'm trying to locate a woman named Catherine Weaver, formerly Zuckerman. I believe she—'

'Don't you guys ever know when to quit?'

'Quit what?'

'One of your agents was here this morning. Talk to him!'

The man frowned. 'One of our agents?'

'Yeah. And I just might register a complaint against him. Barged right in here without a warrant and started tramping all over my house.'

'What did he look like?'

'Oh, I don't know! Dark hair, terrific build. But he could've used a course in charm school.'

'Was he about my height?'

'Taller. Skinnier. Lots more hair.'

'Did he give you his name? It wasn't Mac Braden, was it?'

'Naw, he didn't give me any name.'

Polowski pulled out his badge. Jack squinted at the words: Federal Bureau of Investigation. 'Did he show you one of these?' asked Polowski.

'No. He just asked about Cathy and some guy named Victor Holland. Whether I knew how to find them.'