Whistleblower. Tess Gerritsen

he was killed.”

      “What do you mean by killed?”

      “The police called it an accident. I think otherwise.”

      “You’re saying he was murdered over a research project?” She shook her head. “Must have been dangerous stuff he was working on.”

      “I know this much. It involves biological weapons. Which makes the research illegal. And incredibly dangerous.”

      “Weapons? For what government?”

      “Ours.”

      “I don’t understand. If this is a federal project, that makes it all legal, right?”

      “Not by a long shot. People in high places have been known to break the rules.”

      “How high are we talking about?”

      “I don’t know. I can’t be sure of anyone. Not the police, not the Justice Department. Not the FBI.”

      Her eyes narrowed. The words she was hearing sounded like paranoid ravings. But the voice—and the eyes—were perfectly sane. They were sea-green, those eyes. They held an honesty, a steadiness that should have been all the assurance she needed.

      It wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

      Quietly she said, “So you’re telling me the FBI is after you. Is that correct?”

      Sudden anger flared in his eyes, then just as quickly, it was gone. Groaning, he sank onto the couch and ran his hands through his hair. “I don’t blame you for thinking I’m nuts. Sometimes I wonder if I’m all there. I thought if I could trust anyone, it’d be you….”

      “Why me?”

      He looked at her. “Because you’re the one who saved my life. You’re the one they’ll try to kill next.”

      She froze. No, no, this was insane. Now he was pulling her into his delusion, making her believe in his nightmare world of murder and conspiracy. She wouldn’t let him! She stood up and started to walk away, but his voice made her stop again.

      “Cathy, think about it. Why was your friend Sarah killed? Because they thought she was you. By now they’ve figured out they killed the wrong woman. They’ll have to come back and do the job right. Just in case you know something. In case you have evidence—”

      “This is crazy!” she cried, clapping her hands over her ears. “No one’s going to—”

      “They already have!” He whipped out a scrap of newspaper from his shirt pocket. “On my way over here, I happened to pass a newsstand. This was on the front page.” He handed her the piece of paper.

      She stared in bewilderment at the photograph of a middle-aged woman, a total stranger. “San Francisco woman shot to death on front doorstep,” read the ac companying headline.

      “This has nothing to do with me,” she said.

      “Look at her name.”

      Cathy’s gaze slid to the third paragraph, which identified the victim.

      Her name was Catherine Weaver.

      The scrap of newsprint slipped from her grasp and fluttered to the floor.

      “There are three Catherine Weavers in the San Francisco phone book,” he said. “That one was shot to death at nine o’clock this morning. I don’t know what’s happened to the second. She might already be dead. Which makes you next on the list. They’ve had enough time to locate you.”

      “I’ve been out of town—I only got back an hour ago—”

      “Which explains why you’re still alive. Maybe they came here earlier. Maybe they decided to check out the other two women first.”

      She shot to her feet, suddenly frantic with the need to flee. “I have to pack my things—”

      “No. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

      Yes, do what he says! an inner voice screamed at her.

      She nodded. Turning, she headed blindly for the door. Halfway there, she halted. “My purse—”

      “Where is it?”

      She headed back, past a curtained window. “I think I left it by the—”

      Her next words were cut off by an explosion of shattering glass. Only the closed curtains kept the shards from piercing her flesh. Pure reflex sent Cathy diving to the floor just as the second gun blast went off. An instant later she found Victor Holland sprawled on top of her, covering her body with his as the third bullet slammed into the far wall, splintering wood and plaster.

      The curtains shuddered, then hung still.

      For a few seconds Cathy was paralyzed by terror, by the weight of Victor’s body on hers. Then panic took hold. She squirmed free, intent on fleeing the apartment.

      “Stay down!” Victor snapped.

      “They’re trying to kill us!”

      “Don’t make it easy for them!” He dragged her back to the floor. “We’re getting out. But not through the front door.”

      “How—”

      “Where’s your fire escape?”

      “My bedroom window.”

      “Does it go to the roof?”

      “I’m not sure—I think so—”

      “Then let’s move it.”

      On hands and knees they crawled down the hall, into Cathy’s unlit bedroom. Beneath the window they paused, listening. Outside, in the darkness, there was no sound. Then, from downstairs in the lobby, came the tinkle of breaking glass.

      “He’s already in the building!” hissed Victor. He yanked open the window. “Out, out!”

      Cathy didn’t need to be prodded. Hands shaking, she scrambled out and lowered herself onto the fire escape. Victor was right behind her.

      “Up,” he whispered. “To the roof.”

      And then what? she wondered, climbing the ladder to the third floor, past Mrs. Chang’s flat. Mrs. Chang was out of town this week, visiting her son in New Jersey. The apartment was dark, the windows locked tight. No way in there.

      “Keep going,” said Victor, nudging her forward.

      Only a few more rungs to go.

      At last, she pulled herself up and over the edge and onto the asphalt roof. A second later, Victor dropped down beside her. Potted plants shuddered in the darkness. It was Mrs. Chang’s rooftop garden, a fragrant mélange of Chinese herbs and vegetables.

      Together, Victor and Cathy weaved their way through the plants and crossed to the opposite edge of the roof, where the next building abutted theirs.

      “All the way?” said Cathy.