Whistleblower
The nurse responded instantly. She followed Cathy outside, took one look at the man slumped in the front seat, and yelled for assistance.
Even with the help of a burly ER physician, they had difficulty pulling Victor out of the car. He had slid sideways, and his arm was wedged under the emergency hand brake.
“Hey, Miss!” the doctor barked at Cathy. “Climb in the other side and free up his arm!”
Cathy scrambled to the driver’s seat. There she hesitated. She would have to manipulate his injured arm. She took his elbow and tried to unhook it from around the brake, but discovered his wristwatch was snagged in the pocket of his windbreaker. After unsnapping the watchband, she took hold of his arm and lifted it over the brake. He responded with a groan of pure agony. The arm slid limply toward the floor.
“Okay!” said the doctor. “Arm’s free! Now, just ease him toward me and we’ll take it from there.”
Gingerly, she guided Victor’s head and shoulders safely past the emergency brake. Then she scrambled back outside to help load him onto the wheeled stretcher. Three straps were buckled into place. Everything became a blur of noise and motion as the stretcher was wheeled through the open double doors into the building.
“What happened?” the doctor barked over his shoulder at Cathy.
“I hit him—on the road—”
“When?”
“Fifteen—twenty minutes ago.”
“How fast were you driving?”
“About thirty-five.”
“Was he conscious when you found him?”
“For about ten minutes—then he sort of faded—”
A nurse said: “Shirt’s soaked with blood. He’s got broken glass in his shoulder.”
In that mad dash beneath harsh fluorescent lights, Cathy had her first clear look at Victor, and she saw a lean, mud-streaked face, a jaw tightly squared in pain, a broad forehead matted damply with light brown hair. He reached out to her, grasping for her hand.
“Cathy—”
“I’m here, Victor.”
He held on tightly, refusing to break contact. The pressure of his fingers in her flesh was almost painful. Squinting through the pain, he focused on her face. “I have to—have to tell you—”
“Later!” snapped the doctor.
“No, wait!” Victor was fighting to keep her in view, to hold her beside him. He struggled to speak, agony etching lines on his face.
Cathy bent close, drawn by the desperation of his gaze. “Yes, Victor,” she whispered, stroking his hair, longing to ease his pain. This link between their hands, their gazes, felt forged in timeless steel. “Tell me.”
“We can’t delay!” barked the doctor. “Get him in the room.”
All at once, Victor’s hand was wrenched away from her as they whisked him into the trauma suite, a nightmarish room of stainless steel and blindingly bright lights. He was lifted onto the surgical table.
“Pulse 110,” said a nurse. “Blood pressure eight-five over fifty!”
The doctor ordered, “Let’s get two IVs in. Type and cross six units of blood. And get hold of a surgeon. We’re going to need help….”
The machine-gun fire of voices, the metallic clang of cabinets and IV poles and instruments was deafening. No one seemed to notice Cathy standing in the doorway, watching in horrified fascination as a nurse pulled out a knife and began to tear off Victor’s bloody clothing. With each rip, more and more flesh was exposed, until the shirt and windbreaker were shredded off, revealing a broad chest thickly matted with tawny hair. To the doctors and nurses, this was just another body to labor over, another patient to be saved. To Cathy, this was a living, breathing man, a man she cared about, if only because they had shared those last harrowing moments. The nurse shifted her attention to his belt, which she quickly unbuckled. With a few firm tugs, she peeled off his trousers and shorts and threw them into a pile with the other soiled clothing. Cathy scarcely noticed the man’s nakedness, or the nurses and technicians shoving past her into the room. Her shocked gaze had focused on Victor’s left shoulder, which was oozing fresh blood onto the table. She remembered how his whole body had resonated with pain when she’d grabbed that shoulder; only now did she understand how much he must have suffered.
A sour taste flooded her throat. She was going to be sick.
Struggling against the nausea, she somehow managed to stumble away and sink into a nearby chair. There she sat for a few minutes, oblivious to the chaos whirling around her. Looking down, she noted with instinctive horror the blood on her hands.
“There you are,” someone said. A nurse had just emerged from the trauma room, carrying a bundle of the patient’s belongings. She motioned Cathy over to a desk. “We’ll need your name and address in case the doctors have any more questions. And the police will have to be notified. Have you called them?”
Cathy shook her head numbly. “I—I guess I should…”
“You can use this phone.”
“Thank you.”
It rang eight times before anyone answered. The voice that greeted her was raspy with sleep. Obviously, Garberville provided little late-night stimulation, even for the local police. The desk officer took down Cathy’s report and told her he’d be in touch with her later, after they’d checked the accident scene.
The nurse had opened Victor’s wallet and was flipping through the various ID cards for information. Cathy watched her fill in the blanks on a patient admission form: Name: Victor Holland. Age: 41. Occupation: Biochemist. Next of kin: Unknown.
So that was his full name. Victor Holland. Cathy stared down at the stack of ID cards and focused on what appeared to be a security pass for some company called Viratek. A color photograph showed Victor’s quietly sober face, its green eyes gazing straight into the camera. Even if she had never seen his face, this was exactly how she would have pictured him, his expression unyielding, his gaze unflinchingly direct. She touched her palm, where he had kissed her. She could still recall how his beard had stung her flesh.
Softly, she asked, “Is he going to be all right?”
The nurse continued writing. “He’s lost a lot of blood. But he looks like a pretty tough guy….”
Cathy nodded, remembering how, even in his agony, Victor had somehow dredged up the strength to keep moving through the rain. Yes, she knew just how tough a man he was.
The nurse handed her a pen and the information sheet. “If you could write your name and address at the bottom. In case the doctor has any more questions.”
Cathy fished out Sarah’s address and phone number from her purse and copied them onto the form. “My name’s Cathy Weaver. You can get hold of me at this number.”
“You’re staying in Garberville?”
“For three weeks. I’m just visiting.”
“Oh. Terrific way to start a vacation, huh?”
Cathy sighed as she rose to leave. “Yeah. Terrific.”
She paused outside the trauma room, wondering what was happening inside, knowing that Victor was fighting for his life. She wondered if he was still conscious, if he would remember her. It seemed important that he did remember her.
Cathy turned to the nurse. “You will call me, won’t you? I mean, you’ll let me know if he…”
The nurse nodded. “We’ll keep you informed.”
Outside, the rain had finally stopped and a belt of stars twinkled through a parting in the clouds. To Cathy’s weary eyes, it was an exhilarating sight, that first glimpse of the storm’s end. As she drove out of the hospital parking lot, she was shaking from fatigue. She never noticed the car parked across the street or the brief glow of the cigarette before it was snuffed out.
CHAPTER TWO
BARELY a minute after Cathy left the hospital, a man walked into the emergency room, sweeping the smells of a stormy night in with him through the double doors. The nurse on duty was busy with the new patient’s admission papers. At the sudden rush of cold air, she looked up to see a man approach her desk. He was about thirty-five, gaunt-faced, silent, his dark hair lightly feathered by gray. Droplets of water sparkled on his tan Burberry raincoat.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked, focusing on his eyes, which were as black and polished as pebbles in a pond.
Nodding, he said quietly, “Was there a man brought in a short time ago? Victor Holland?”
The nurse glanced down at the papers on her desk. That was the name. Victor Holland. “Yes,” she said. “Are you a relative?”
“I’m his brother. How is he?”
“He just arrived, sir. They’re working on him now. If you’ll wait, I can check on how he’s doing—” She stopped to answer the ringing telephone. It was a technician calling with the new patient’s laboratory results. As she jotted down the numbers, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that the man had turned and was gazing at the closed door to the trauma room. It suddenly swung open as an orderly emerged carrying a bulging plastic bag streaked with blood. The clamor of voices spilled from the room:
“Pressure up to 110 over 70!”
“OR says they’re ready to go.”
“Where’s that surgeon?”
“On his way. He had car trouble.”
“Ready for X rays! Everyone back!”
Slowly the door closed, muffling the voices. The nurse hung up just as the orderly deposited the plastic bag on her desk. “What’s this?” she asked.
“Patient’s clothes. They’re a mess. Should I just toss ’em?”
“I’ll take them home,” the man in the raincoat cut in. “Is everything here?”
The orderly flashed the nurse an uncomfortable glance. “I’m not sure he’d want to…I mean, they’re kind of…uh, dirty….”
The nurse said quickly, “Mr. Holland, why don’t you let us dispose of the clothes for you? There’s nothing worth keeping in there. I’ve already collected his valuables.” She unlocked a drawer and pulled out a sealed manila envelope labeled: Holland, Victor. Contents: Wallet, Wristwatch. “You can take these home. Just sign this receipt.”
The man nodded and signed his name: David Holland. “Tell me,” he said, sliding the envelope in his pocket. “Is Victor awake? Has he said anything?”
“I’m afraid not. He was semiconscious when he arrived.”
The man took this information in silence, a silence that the nurse found suddenly and profoundly disturbing. “Excuse me, Mr. Holland?” she asked. “How did you hear your brother was hurt? I didn’t get a chance to contact any relatives….”
“The police called me. Victor was driving my car. They found it smashed up at the side of the road.”
“Oh. What an awful way to be notified.”
“Yes. The stuff of nightmares.”
“At least someone was able to get in touch with you.” She sifted through the sheaf of papers on her desk. “Can we get your address and phone number? In case we need to reach you?”
“Of course.” The man took the ER papers, which he quickly scanned before scrawling his name and phone number on the blank marked Next of Kin. “Who’s this Catherine Weaver?” he asked, pointing to the name and address at the bottom of the page.
“She’s the woman who brought him in.”
“I’ll have to thank her.” He handed back the papers.
“Nurse?”
She looked around and saw that the doctor was calling to her from the trauma room doorway. “Yes?”
“I want you to call the police. Tell them to get in here as soon as possible.”
“They’ve been called, Doctor. They know about the accident—”
“Call them again. This is no accident.”
“What?”
“We just got the X rays. The man’s got a bullet in his shoulder.”
“A bullet?” A chill went through the nurse’s body, like a cold wind sweeping in from the night. Slowly, she turned toward the man in the raincoat, the man who’d claimed to be Victor Holland’s brother. To her amazement, no one was there. She felt only a cold puff of night air, and then she saw the double doors quietly slide shut.
“Where the hell did he go?” the orderly whispered.
For a few seconds she could only stare at the closed doors. Then her gaze dropped and she focused on the empty spot on her desk. The bag containing Victor Holland’s clothes had vanished.
“WHY DID the police call again?”
Cathy slowly replaced the telephone receiver. Even though she was bundled in a warm terry-cloth robe, she was shivering. She turned and stared across the kitchen at Sarah. “That man on the road—they found a bullet in his shoulder.”
In the midst of pouring tea, Sarah glanced up in surprise. “You mean—someone shot him?”
Cathy sank down at the kitchen table and gazed numbly at the cup of cinnamon tea that Sarah had just slid in front of her. A hot bath and a soothing hour of sitting by the fireplace had made the night’s events seem like nothing more than a bad dream. Here in Sarah’s kitchen, with its chintz curtains and its cinnamon and spice smells, the violence of the real world seemed a million miles away.
Sarah leaned toward her. “Do they know what happened? Has he said anything?”
“He just got out of surgery.” She turned and glanced at the telephone. “I should call the hospital again—”
“No. You shouldn’t. You’ve done everything you possibly can.” Sarah gently touched her arm. “And your tea’s getting cold.”
With a shaking hand, Cathy brushed back a strand of damp hair and settled uneasily in her chair. A bullet in his shoulder, she thought. Why? Had it been a random attack, a highway gunslinger blasting out the car window at a total stranger? She’d read about it in the newspapers, the stories of freeway arguments settled by the pulling of a trigger.
Or had it been a deliberate attack? Had Victor Holland been targeted for death?
Outside, something rattled and clanged against the house. Cathy sat up sharply. “What was that?”
“Believe me, it’s not the bogeyman,” said Sarah, laughing. She went to the kitchen door and reached for the bolt.
“Sarah!” Cathy called in panic as the bold slid open. “Wait!”
“Take a look for yourself.” Sarah opened the door. The kitchen light swung across a cluster of trash cans sitting in the carport. A shadow slid to the ground and scurried away, trailing food wrappers across the driveway. “Raccoons,” said Sarah. “If I don’t tie the lids down, those pests’ll scatter trash all over the yard.” Another shadow popped its head out of a can and stared at her, its eyes glowing in the darkness. Sarah clapped her hands and yelled, “Go on, get lost!” The raccoon didn’t budge. “Don’t you have a home to go to?” At last, the raccoon dropped to the ground and ambled off into the trees. “They get bolder every year,” Sarah sighed, closing the door. She turned and winked at Cathy. “So take it easy. This isn’t the big city.”
“Keep reminding me.” Cathy took a slice of banana bread and began to spread it with sweet butter. “You know, Sarah, I think it’ll be a lot nicer spending Christmas with you than it ever was with old Jack.”
“Uh-oh. Since we’re now speaking of ex-husbands—” Sarah shuffled over to a cabinet “—we might as well get in the right frame of mind. And tea just won’t cut it.” She grinned and waved a bottle of brandy.
“Sarah, you’re not drinking alcohol, are you?”
“It’s not for me.” Sarah set the bottle and a single wine glass in front of Cathy. “But I think you could use a nip. After all, it’s been a cold, traumatic night. And here we are, talking about turkeys of the male variety.”
“Well, since you put it that way…” Cathy poured out a generous shot of brandy. “To the turkeys of the world,” she declared and took a sip. It felt just right going down.
“So how is old Jack?” asked Sarah.
“Same as always.”
“Blondes?”
“He’s moved on to brunettes.”
“It took him only a year to go through the world’s supply of blondes?”
Cathy shrugged. “He might have missed a few.”
They both laughed then, light and easy laughter that told them their wounds were well on the way to healing, that men were now creatures to be discussed without pain, without sorrow.
Cathy regarded her glass of brandy. “Do you suppose there are any good men left in the world? I mean, shouldn’t there be one floating around somewhere? Maybe a mutation or something? One measly decent guy?”
“Sure. Somewhere in Siberia. But he’s a hundred-and-twenty years old.”
“I’ve always liked older men.”
They laughed again, but this time the sound wasn’t as lighthearted. So many years had passed since their college days together, the days when they had known, had never doubted, that Prince Charmings abounded in the world.
Cathy drained her glass of brandy and set it down. “What a lousy friend I am. Keeping a pregnant lady up all night! What time is it, anyway?”
“Only two-thirty in the morning.”
“Oh, Sarah! Go to bed!” Cathy went to the sink and began wetting a handful of paper towels.
“And what are you going to do?” Sarah asked.
“I just want to clean up the car. I didn’t get all the blood off the seat.”
“I already did it.”
“What? When?”
“While you were taking a bath.”
“Sarah, you idiot.”
“Hey, I didn’t have a miscarriage or anything. Oh, I almost forgot.” Sarah pointed to a tiny film canister on the counter. “I found that on the floor of your car.”
Cathy shook her head and sighed. “It’s Hickey’s.”
“Hickey! Now there’s a waste of a man.”
‘He’s also a good friend of mine.”
“That’s all Hickey will ever be to a woman. A friend. So what’s on the roll of film? Naked women, as usual?”
“I don’t even want to know. When I dropped him off at the airport, he handed me a half-dozen rolls and told me he’d pick them up when he got back. Guess he didn’t want to lug ’em all the way to Nairobi.”
“Is that where he went? Nairobi?”
“He’s shooting ‘gorgeous ladies of Africa’ or something.” Cathy slipped the film canister into her bathrobe pocket. “This must’ve dropped out of the glove compartment. Gee. I hope it’s not pornographic.”
“Knowing Hickey, it probably is.”
They both laughed at the irony of it all. Hickman Von Trapp, whose only job it was to photograph naked females in erotic poses, had absolutely no interest in the opposite sex, with the possible exception of his mother.
“A guy like Hickey only goes to prove my point,” Sarah said over her shoulder as she headed up the hall to bed.
“What point is that?”
“There really are no good men left in the world!”
IT WAS the light that dragged Victor up from the depths of unconsciousness, a light brighter than a dozen suns, beating against his closed eyelids. He didn’t want to wake up; he knew, in some dim, scarcely functioning part of his brain, that if he continued to struggle against this blessed oblivion he would feel pain and nausea and something else, something much, much worse: terror. Of what, he couldn’t remember. Of death? No, no, this was death, or as close as one could come to it, and it was warm and black and comfortable. But he had something important to do, something that he couldn’t allow himself to forget. He tried to think, but all he could remember was a hand, gentle but somehow strong, brushing his forehead, and a voice, reaching to him softly in the darkness.
My name is Catherine….
As her touch, her voice, flooded his memory, so too did the fear. Not for himself (he was dead, wasn’t he?) but for her. Strong, gentle Catherine. He’d seen her face only briefly, could scarcely remember it, but somehow he knew she was beautiful, the way a blind man knows, without benefit of vision, that a rainbow or the sky or his own dear child’s face is beautiful. And now he was afraid for her.
Where are you? he wanted to cry out.
“He’s coming around,” said a female voice (not Catherine’s, it was too hard, too crisp) followed by a confusing rush of other voices.
“Watch that IV!”
“Mr. Holland, hold still. Everything’s going to be all right—”
“I said, watch the IV!”
“Hand me that second unit of blood—”
“Don’t move, Mr. Holland—”
Where are you, Catherine? The shout exploded in his head. Fighting the temptation to sink back into unconsciousness, he struggled to lift his eyelids. At first, there was only a blur of light and color, so harsh he felt it stab through his sockets straight to his brain. Gradually the blur took the shape of faces, strangers in blue, frowning down at him. He tried to focus but the effort made his stomach rebel.
“Mr. Holland, take it easy,” said a quietly gruff voice. “You’re in the hospital—the recovery room. They’ve just operated on your shoulder. You just rest and go back to sleep….”
No. No, I can’t, he tried to say.
“Five milligrams of morphine going in,” someone said, and Victor felt a warm flush creep up his arm and spread across his chest.
“That should help,” he heard. “Now, sleep. Everything went just fine….”
You don’t understand, he wanted to scream. I have to warn her—It was the last conscious thought he had before the lights once again were swallowed by the gentle darkness.
ALONE IN HER husbandless bed, Sarah lay smiling. No, laughing! Her whole body seemed filled with laughter tonight. She wanted to sing, to dance. To stand at the open window and shout out her joy! It was all hormonal, she’d been told, this chemical pandemonium of pregnancy, dragging her body on a roller coaster of emotions. She knew she should rest, she should work toward serenity, but tonight she wasn’t tired at all. Poor exhausted Cathy had dragged herself up the attic steps to bed. But here was Sarah, still wide awake.
She closed her eyes and focused her thoughts on the child resting in her belly. How are you, my love? Are you asleep? Or are you listening, hearing my thoughts even now?
The baby wiggled in her belly, then fell silent. It was a reply, secret words shared only between them. Sarah was almost glad there was no husband to distract her from this silent conversation, to lie here in jealousy, an outsider. There was only mother and child, the ancient bond, the mystical link.
Poor Cathy, she thought, riding those roller coaster emotions from joy to sadness for her friend. She knew Cathy yearned just as deeply for a child, but eventually time would snatch the chance away from her. Cathy was too much of a romantic to realize that the man, the circumstances, might never be right. Hadn’t it taken Cathy ten long years to finally acknowledge that her marriage was a miserable failure? Not that Cathy hadn’t tried to make it work. She had tried to the point of developing a monumental blind spot to Jack’s faults, primarily his selfishness. It was surprising how a woman so bright, so intuitive, could have let things drag on as long as she did. But that was Cathy. Even at thirty-seven she was open and trusting and loyal to the point of idiocy.
The clatter of gravel outside on the driveway pricked Sarah’s awareness. Lying perfectly still, she listened and for a moment heard only the familiar creak of the trees, the rustle of branches against the shake roof. Then—there it was again. Stones skittering across the road, and then the faint squeal of metal. Those raccoons again. If she didn’t shoo them off now, they’d litter garbage all over the driveway.
Sighing, she sat up and hunted in the darkness for her slippers. Shuffling quietly out of her bedroom, she navigated instinctively down the hallway and into the kitchen. Her eyes found the night too comfortable; she didn’t want to assault them with light. Instead of flipping on the carport switch, she grabbed the flashlight from its usual spot on the kitchen shelf and unlocked the door.
Outside, moonlight glowed dimly through the clouds. She pointed the flashlight at the trash cans, but her beam caught no raccoon eyes, no telltale scattering of garbage, only the dull reflection of stainless steel. Puzzled, she crossed the carport and paused next to the Datsun that Cathy had parked in the driveway.