Whistleblower

The woman reacted as though he'd slapped her. She stared up at him with the eyes of a terrified animal. 'What?' she said.

'Are you okay? Looked to me like he hit you pretty hard.'

She nodded.

'How 'bout you, Gramps?'

The woman glanced at her companion. It seemed to O'Hanley that there was a lot being said in that glance, a lot he wasn't privy to.

'We're both fine,' the woman said quickly. 'Come on, Pop. We'll miss our bus.'

'Can I give you a hand with him?'

'That's mighty kind of you, officer, but we'll do fine.' The woman smiled at O'Hanley. Something about that smile wasn't right As he watched the pair shuffle off toward bus number fourteen, O'Hanley kept trying to figure it out. Kept trying to put his finger on what was wrong with that pair of travelers.

He turned away and almost tripped over the fallen case. The woman had forgotten it. He snatched it up and started to run for the bus. Too late; the number fourteen to Palo Alto was already pulling away. O'Hanley stood helplessly on the curb, watching the taillights vanish around the corner.

Oh, well.

He turned in the makeup case at Lost and Found. Then he stationed himself once again at the entrance. Seven o'clock already and still no sighting of the suspect Victor Holland.

O'Hanley sighed. What a waste of a policeman's time.

Five minutes out of San Francisco, aboard the number fourteen bus, the old man turned to the woman in the raincoat and said, 'This beard is killing me.'

Laughing, Cathy reached up and gave the fake whiskers a tug. 'It did the trick, didn't it?'

'No kidding. We practically got a police escort to the getaway bus.' He scratched furiously at his chin. 'Geez, how do those actors stand this stuff, anyway? The itch is driving me up a wall.'

'Want me to take it off?'

'Better not. Not till we get to Palo Alto.'

Another hour, she thought. She sat back and gazed out at the highway gliding past the bus window. 'Then what?' she asked softly.

'I'll knock on a few doors. See if I can dig up an old friend or two. It's been a long time, but I think there are still a few in town.'

'You used to live there?'

'Years ago. Back when I was in college.'

'Oh.' She sat up straight. 'A Stanford man.'

'Why do you make it sound just a tad disreputable?'

'I rooted for the Bears, myself.'

'I'm consorting with the arch enemy?'

Giggling, she burrowed against his chest and inhaled the warm, familiar scent of his body. 'It seems like another lifetime. Berkeley and blue jeans.'

'Football. Wild parties.'

'Wild parties?' she asked. 'You?'

'Well, rumors of wild parties.'

'Frisbee. Classes on the lawn...'

'Innocence,' he said softly.

They both fell silent.

'Victor?' she asked. 'What if your friends aren't there any longer? Or what if they won't take us in?'

'One step at a time. That's how we have to take it. Otherwise it'll all seem too overwhelming.'

'It already does.'

He squeezed her tightly against him. 'Hey, we're doing okay. We made it out of the city. In fact, we waltzed out right under the nose of a cop. I'd call that pretty damn impressive.'

Cathy couldn't help grinning at the memory of the earnest young Patrolman O'Hanley. 'All policemen should be so helpful.'

'Or blind,' Victor snorted. 'I can't believe he called me Gramps.'

'When I set out to change a face, I do it right.'

'Apparently.'

She looped her arm through his and pressed a kiss to one scowling, bewhiskered cheek. 'Can I tell you a secret?'

'What's that?'

'I'm crazy about older men.'

The scowl melted away, slowly reformed into a dubious smile. 'How much older are we talking about?'

She kissed him again, this time full on the lips. 'Much older.'

'Hm. Maybe these whiskers aren't so bad, after all.' He took her face in his hands. This time he was the one kissing her, long and deeply, with no thought of where they were or where they were going. Cathy felt herself sliding back against the seat, into a space that was inescapable and infinitely safe.

Someone behind them hooted: 'Way to go, Gramps!'

Reluctantly, they pulled apart. Through the flickering shadows of the bus, Cathy could see the twinkle in Victor's eyes, the gleam of a wry smile.

She smiled back and whispered, 'Way to go, Gramps.'

The posters with Victor Holland's face were plastered all over the bus station.

Polowski couldn't help a snort of irritation as he gazed at that unflattering visage of what he knew in his gut was an innocent man. A damn witchhunt, that's what this'd turned into. If Holland wasn't already scared enough, this public stalking would surely send him diving for cover, beyond the reach of those who could help him. Polowski only hoped it'd also be beyond the reach of those with less benign intentions.

With all these posters staring him in the face, Holland would've been a fool to stroll through this bus depot. Still, Polowski had an instinct about these things, a sense of how people behaved when they were desperate. If he were in Holland's shoes, a killer on his trail and a woman companion to worry about, he knew what he'd do—get the hell out of San Francisco. A plane was unlikely. According to Jack Zuckerman, Holland was operating on a thin wallet. A credit card would've been out of the question. That also knocked out a rental car. What was left? It was either hitchhike or take the bus.

Polowski was betting on the bus.

His last piece of info supported that hunch. The tap on Zuckerman's phone had picked up a call from Cathy Weaver. She'd arranged some sort of drop-off at a site Polowski couldn't identify at first. He'd spent a frustrating hour asking around the office, trying to locate someone who'd not only seen Zuckerman's forgettable film, Cretinoid, but could also pinpoint where the last scene was filmed. The Mission District, some movie nut file clerk had finally told him. Yeah, she was sure of it. The monster came up through the manhole cover right at the corner of Fifth and Mission and slurped down a derelict or two just before the hero smashed him with a crated piano. Polowski hadn't stayed to hear the rest; he'd made a run for his car.

By that time, it was too late. Holland and the woman were gone, and Zuckerman had vanished. Polowski found himself cruising down Mission, his doors locked, his windows rolled up, wondering when the local police were going to clean up the damn streets.

That's when he remembered the bus depot was only a few blocks away.

Now, standing among the tired and slack-jawed travelers at the bus station, he was beginning to think he'd wasted his time. All those wanted posters staring him in the face. And there was a cop standing over by the coffee machine, taking furtive sips from a foam cup.