Whistleblower. Tess Gerritsen

      “Because you’ve got an IV, that’s why!” she snapped, as if the plastic tube itself was some sort of irreversible condition.

      “I want my clothes.”

      “I’d have to check with the ER. Nothing of yours came up to the floor.”

      “Then call the ER, damn you!” At Miss Redfern’s disapproving scowl, he added with strained politeness, “If you don’t mind.”

      It was another half hour before a woman showed up from the business office to explain what had happened to Victor’s belongings.

      “I’m afraid we—well, we seem to have…lost your clothes, Mr. Holland,” she said, fidgeting under his astonished gaze.

      “What do you mean, lost?”

      “They were—” she cleared her throat “—er, stolen. From the emergency room. Believe me, this has never happened before. We’re really very sorry about this, Mr. Holland, and I’m sure we’ll be able to arrange a purchase of replacement clothing….”

      She was too busy trying to make excuses to notice that Victor’s face had frozen in alarm. That his mind was racing as he tried to remember, through the blur of last night’s events, just what had happened to the film canister. He knew he’d had it in his pocket during the endless drive to the hospital. He remembered clutching it there, remembered flailing senselessly at the woman when she’d tried to pull his hand from his pocket. After that, nothing was clear, nothing was certain. Have I lost it? he thought. Have I lost my only evidence?

      “…While the money’s missing, your credit cards seem to be all there, so I guess that’s something to be thankful for.”

      He looked at her blankly. “What?”

      “Your valuables, Mr. Holland.” She pointed to the wallet and watch she’d just placed on the bedside table. “The security guard found them in the trash bin outside the hospital. Looks like the thief only wanted your cash.”

      “And my clothes. Right.”

      The instant the woman left, Victor pressed the button for Miss Redfern. She walked in carrying a breakfast tray. “Eat, Mr. Holland” she said. “Maybe your behavior’s all due to hypoglycemia.”

      “A woman brought me to the ER,” he said. “Her first name was Catherine. I have to get hold of her.”

      “Oh, look! Eggs and Rice Krispies! Here’s your fork—”

      “Miss Redfern, will you forget the damned Rice Krispies!”

      Miss Redfern slapped down the cereal box. “There is no need for profanity!”

      “I have to find that woman!”

      Without a word, Miss Redfern spun around and marched out of the room. A few minutes later she returned and brusquely handed him a slip of paper. On it was written the name Catherine Weaver followed by a local address.

      “You’d better eat fast,” she said. “There’s a policeman coming over to talk to you.”

      “Fine,” he grunted, stuffing a forkful of cold, rubbery egg in his mouth.

      “And some man from the FBI called. He’s on his way, too.”

      Victor’s head jerked up in alarm. “The FBI? What was his name?”

      “Oh, for heaven’s sake, how should I know? Something Polish, I think.”

      Staring at her, Victor slowly put down his fork. “Polowski,” he said softly.

      “That sounds like it. Polowski.” She turned and headed out of the room. “The FBI indeed,” she muttered. “Wonder what he did to get their attention ….”

      Before the door had even swung shut behind her, Victor was out of bed and tearing at his IV. He scarcely felt the sting of the tape wrenching the hair off his arm; he had to concentrate on getting the hell out of this hospital before Polowski showed up. He was certain the FBI agent had set him up for that ambush last night, and he wasn’t about to wait around for another attack.

      He turned and snapped at his roommate, “Lenny, where are your clothes?”

      Lenny’s gaze traveled reluctantly to a cabinet near the sink. “Don’t got no other clothes. Besides, they wouldn’t fit you, mister…”

      Victor yanked open the cabinet door and pulled out a frayed cotton shirt and a pair of baggy polyester pants. The pants were too short and about six inches of Victor’s hairy legs stuck out below the cuffs, but he had no trouble fastening the belt. The real trouble was going to be finding a pair of size twelve shoes. To his relief, he discovered that the cabinet also contained a pair of Lenny’s thongs. His heels hung at least an inch over the back edge, but at least he wouldn’t be barefoot.

      “Those are mine!” protested Lenny.

      “Here. You can have this.” Victor tossed his wristwatch to the old man. “You should be able to hock that for a whole new outfit.”

      Suspicious, Lenny put the watch up against his ear. “Piece of junk. It’s not ticking.”

      “It’s quartz.”

      “Oh. Yeah. I knew that.”

      Victor pocketed his wallet and went to the door. Opening it just a crack, he peered down the hall toward the nurses’ station. The coast was clear. He glanced back at Lenny. “So long, buddy. Give my regards to Miss Redfern.”

      Slipping out of the room, Victor headed quietly down the hall, away from the nurses’ station. The emergency stairwell door was at the far end, marked by the warning painted in red: Alarm Will Sound If Opened. He walked steadily towards it, willing himself not to run, not to attract attention. But just as he neared the door, a familiar voice echoed in the hall.

      “Mr. Holland! You come back here this instant!”

      Victor lunged for the door, slammed against the closing bar, and dashed into the stairwell.

      His footsteps echoed against the concrete as he pounded down the stairs. By the time he heard Miss Redfern scramble after him into the stairwell, he’d already reached the first floor and was pushing through the last door to freedom.

      “Mr. Holland!” yelled Miss Redfern.

      Even as he dashed across the parking lot, he could still hear Miss Redfern’s outraged voice echoing in his ears.

      Eight blocks away he turned into a K Mart, and within ten minutes had bought a shirt, blue jeans, underwear, socks and a pair of size-twelve tennis shoes, all of which he paid for with his credit card. He tossed Lenny’s old clothes into a trash can.

      Before emerging back outside, he peered through the store window at the street. It seemed like a perfectly normal mid-December morning in a small town, shoppers strolling beneath a tacky garland of Christmas decorations, a half-dozen cars waiting patiently at a red light. He was just about to step out the door when he spotted the police car creeping down the road. Immediately he ducked behind an undressed mannequin and watched through the nude plastic limbs as the police car made its way slowly past the K Mart and continued in the direction of the hospital. They were obviously searching for someone. Was he the one they wanted?

      He couldn’t afford to risk a stroll down Main Street. There was no way of knowing who else besides Polowski was involved in the double cross.

      It took him at least an hour on foot to reach the outskirts of town, and by then he was so weak and wobbly he could barely stand. The surge of adrenaline that had sent him dashing from the hospital was at last petering out. Too tired to take another step, he sank onto a boulder at the side of the highway and halfheartedly held out his thumb. To his immense relief, the next vehicle to come along—a pickup truck loaded with firewood—pulled over. Victor climbed in and collapsed gratefully on the seat.

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