Whistleblower Read Free

raise his head, then let it sink back again. "Hurry," he whispered.
    At the first turn of the key in the ignition, the engine sputtered and died. Dear God, she pleaded. Start. Start! She switched the key off, counted slowly to three, and tried again. This time the engine caught. Almost shouting with relief, she jammed it into gear and made a tire-screeching takeoff toward Garberville. Even a town that small must have a hospital or, at the very least, an emergency clinic. The question was: could she find it in this downpour? And what if she was wrong? What if the nearest medical help was in Willits, the other direction? She might be wasting precious minutes on the road while the man bled to death.
    Suddenly panicked by that thought, she glanced at her passenger. By the glow of the dashboard, she saw that his head was still flopped back against the seat. He wasn't moving.
    "Hey! Are you all right?" she cried.
    The answer came back in a whisper. "I'm still here."
    "Dear God. For a minute I thought..." She looked back at the road, her heart pounding. "There's got to be a clinic somewhere—"
    "Near Garberville—there's a hospital—"
    "Do you know how to find it?"
    "I drove past it—fifteen miles..."
    If he drove here, where's his car? she thought. "What happened?" she asked. "Did you have an accident?"
    He started to speak but his answer was cut off by a sudden flicker of light. Struggling to sit up, he turned and stared at the headlights of another car far behind them. His whispered oath made her look sideways in alarm.
    "What is it?"
    "That car."
    She glanced in the rearview mirror. "What about it?"
    "How long's it been following us?"
    "I don't know. A few miles. Why?"
    The effort of keeping his head up suddenly seemed too much for him, and he let it sink back down with a groan. "Can't think," he whispered. "Christ, I can't think..."
    He's lost too much blood , she thought. In a panic, she shoved hard on the gas pedal. The car seemed to leap through the rain, the steering wheel vibrating wildly as sheets of spray flew up from the tires. Darkness flew at dizzying speed against their windshield. Slow down, slow down! Or I'll get us both killed.
    Easing back on the gas, she let the speedometer fall to a more manageable forty-five miles per hour. The man was struggling to sit up again.
    "Please, keep your head down!" she pleaded.
    "That car—"
    "It's not there anymore."
    "Are you sure?"
    She looked at the rearview mirror. Through the rain, she saw only a faint twinkling of light, but nothing as definite as headlights. "I'm sure," she lied and was relieved to see him slowly settle back again. How much farther? she thought. Five miles? Ten? And then the next thought forced its way into her mind: He might die before we get there.
    His silence terrified her. She needed to hear his voice, needed to be reassured that he hadn't slipped into oblivion. "Talk to me," she urged. "Please."
    "I'm tired...."
    "Don't stop. Keep talking. What—what's your name?"
    The answer was a mere whisper: "Victor."
    "Victor. That's a great name. I like that name. What do you do, Victor?"
    His silence told her he was too weak to carry on any conversation. She couldn't let him lose consciousness! For some reason it suddenly seemed crucial to keep him awake, to keep him in touch with a living voice. If that fragile connection was broken, she feared he might slip away entirely.
    "All right," she said, forcing her voice to remain low and steady. "Then I'll talk. You don't have to say a thing. Just listen. Keep listening. My name is Catherine. Cathy Weaver. I live in San Francisco, the Richmond district. Do you know the city?" There was no answer, but she sensed some movement in his head, a silent acknowledgement of her words. "Okay," she went on, mindlessly filling the silence. "Maybe you don't know the city. It really doesn't matter. I work with an independent film company. Actually, it's Jack's company. My ex-husband. We make horror films. Grade B, really,