Тесс Герритсен - Whistleblower стр 13.

He was so busy debating what to tell her that he didnt notice the police cars until well after hed rounded the roads bend. Suddenly he froze, confronted by three squad cars-probably the entire police fleet of Garberville-parked in front of a rustic cedar house. A half-dozen neighbors lingered in the gravel driveway, shaking their heads in disbelief. Good God, had something happened to Catherine?

Swallowing the urge to turn and flee, Victor propelled himself forward, past the squad cars and through the loose gathering of onlookers, only to be stopped by a uniformed officer.

Im sorry, sir. No ones allowed past this point.

Dazed, Victor stared down and saw that the police had strung out a perimeter of red tape. Slowly, his gaze moved beyond the tape, to the old Datsun parked near the carport. Was that Catherines car? He tried desperately to remember if shed driven a Datsun, but last night it had been so dark and hed been in so much pain that he hadnt bothered to pay attention. All he could remember was that it was a compact model, with scarcely enough room for his legs. Then he noticed the faded

parking sticker on the rear bumper: Parking Permit, Studio Lot A.

I work for an independent film company, shed told him last night.

It was Catherines car.

Unwillingly, he focused on the stained gravel just beside the Datsun, and even though the rational part of him knew that that peculiar brick red could only be dried blood, he wanted to deny it. He wanted to believe there was some other explanation for that stain, for this ominous gathering of police.

He tried to speak, but his voice sounded like something dragged up through gravel.

What did you say, sir? the police officer asked.

What-what happened?

The officer shook his head sadly. Woman was killed here last night. Our first murder in ten years.

Murder? Victors gaze was still fixed in horror on the bloodstained gravel. But- why?

The officer shrugged. Dont know yet. Maybe robbery, though I dont think he got much. He nodded at the Datsun. Car was the only thing broken into.

If Victor said anything at that point, he never remembered what it was. He was vaguely aware of his legs carrying him back through the onlookers, past the three police cars, toward the road. The sunshine was so brilliant it hurt his eyes and he could barely see where he was going.

I killed her, he thought. She saved my life and I killed her

Guilt slashed its way to his throat and he could scarcely breathe, could barely take another step for the pain. For a long time he stood there at the side of the road, his head bent in the sunshine, his ears filled with the sound of blue jays, and mourned a woman hed never known.

Guilt slashed its way to his throat and he could scarcely breathe, could barely take another step for the pain. For a long time he stood there at the side of the road, his head bent in the sunshine, his ears filled with the sound of blue jays, and mourned a woman hed never known.

When at last he was able to raise his head again, rage fueled the rest of his walk back to the highway, rage against Catherines murderer. Rage at himself for having put her in such danger. It was the film the killer had been searching for, and hed probably found it in the Datsun. If he hadnt, the house would have been ransacked, as well.

Now what? thought Victor. He dismissed the possibility that his briefcase-with most of the evidence-might still be in his wrecked car. That was the first place the killer would have searched. Without the film, Victor was left with no evidence at all. It would all come down to his word against Virateks. The newspapers would dismiss him as nothing more than a disgruntled ex-employee. And after Polowskis double cross, he couldnt trust the FBI.

At that last thought, he quickened his pace. The sooner he got out of Garberville, the better. When he got back to the highway, hed hitch another ride. Once safely out of town, he could take the time to plan his next move.

He decided to head south, to San Francisco.

CHAPTER THREE

From the window of his office at Viratek, Archibald Black watched the limousine glide up the tree-lined driveway and pull to a stop at the front entrance. Black snorted derisively. The cowboy was back in town, damn him. And after all the mans fussing about the importance of secrecy, about keeping his little visit discreet, the idiot had the gall to show up in a limousine-with a uniformed driver, no less.

Black turned from the window and paced over to his desk. Despite his contempt for the visitor, he had to acknowledge the man made him uneasy, the way all so-called men of action made him uneasy. Not enough brains behind all that muscle. Too much power in the hands of imbeciles, he thought. Is this an example of who we have running the country?

The intercom buzzed. Mr. Black? said his secretary. A Mr. Tyrone is here to see you.

Send him in, please, said Black, smoothing the scorn from his expression. He was wearing a look of polite deference when the door opened and Matthew Tyrone walked into the office.