Whistleblower

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 roorri, 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 7

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.