Whistleblower. Tess Gerritsen
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