shrugged. "I've got nothing better to do at the moment—"
"Damn it!" He stalked over to her. Taking her by the shoulders, he forced her to look at him. "Don't you understand? That's why your friend was killed! The night they broke into your car, they were looking for that film!"
She stared at him, a look of sudden comprehension and horror. "Sarah..."
"Was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The killer must have thought she was you. "
Cathy felt trapped by his unrelenting gaze. And by the inescapable threat of his revelation. Her knees wobbled, gave way. She sank into the nearest chair and sat there in numb silence.
"You have to get out of here," he said. "Before they find you. Before they figure out you're the Cathy Weaver they're looking for."
She didn't move. She couldn't move.
"Come on, Cathy. There isn't much time!"
"What was on that roll of film?" she asked softly.
"I told you. Evidence. Against a company called Viratek."
She frowned. "Isn't—isn't that the company you work for?"
"Used to work for."
"What did they do?"
"They're involved in some sort of illegal research project. I can't tell you the particulars."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know them. I'm not the one who gathered the evidence. A colleague—a friend—passed it to me, just before he was killed."
"What do you mean by killed?"
"The police called it an accident. I think otherwise."
"You're saying he was murdered over a research project?" She shook her head. "Must have been dangerous stuff he was working on."
"I know this much. It involves biological weapons. Which makes the research illegal. And incredibly dangerous."
"Weapons? For what government?"
"Ours."
"I don't understand. If this is a federal project, that makes it all legal, right?"
"Not by a long shot People in high places have been known to break the rules."
"How high are we talking about?"
"I don't know. I can't be sure of anyone. Not the police, not the Justice Department. Not the FBI"
Her eyes narrowed. The words she was hearing sounded like paranoid ravings. But the voice—and the eyes—were perfectly sane. They were sea-green, those eyes. They held an honesty, a steadiness that should have been all the assurance she needed.
It wasn't. Not by a long shot
Quietly she said, "So you're telling me the FBI is after you. Is that correct?"
Sudden anger flared in his eyes, then just as quickly, it was gone. Groaning, he sank onto the couch and ran his hands through his hair. "I don't blame you for thinking I'm nuts. Sometimes I wonder if I'm all there. I thought if I could trust anyone, it'd be you...."
"Why me?"
He looked at her. "Because you're the one who saved my life. You're the one they'll try to kill next."
She froze. No, no, this was insane. Now he was pulling her into his delusion, making her believe in his nightmare world of murder and conspiracy. She wouldn't let him! She stood up and started to walk away, but his voice made her stop again.
"Cathy, think about it. Why was your friend Sarah killed? Because they thought she was you. By now they've figured out they killed the wrong woman. They'll have to come back and do the job right. Just in case you know something. In case you have evidence—"
"This is crazy!" she cried, clapping her hands over her ears. "No one's going to—"
"They already have!" He whipped out a scrap of newspaper from his shirt pocket "On my way over here, I happened to pass a newsstand. This was on the front page." He handed her the piece of paper.
She stared in bewilderment at the photograph of a middle-aged woman, a total stranger. "San Francisco woman shot to death on front doorstep," read the accompanying headline.
"This has nothing to do with me," she said.
"Look at her name."
Cathy's gaze slid to the third paragraph, which identified the victim.
Her name was Catherine Weaver.
The scrap of newsprint slipped from her grasp and fluttered to the floor.
"There are three Catherine Weavers in the San Francisco phone book," he
"Damn it!" He stalked over to her. Taking her by the shoulders, he forced her to look at him. "Don't you understand? That's why your friend was killed! The night they broke into your car, they were looking for that film!"
She stared at him, a look of sudden comprehension and horror. "Sarah..."
"Was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The killer must have thought she was you. "
Cathy felt trapped by his unrelenting gaze. And by the inescapable threat of his revelation. Her knees wobbled, gave way. She sank into the nearest chair and sat there in numb silence.
"You have to get out of here," he said. "Before they find you. Before they figure out you're the Cathy Weaver they're looking for."
She didn't move. She couldn't move.
"Come on, Cathy. There isn't much time!"
"What was on that roll of film?" she asked softly.
"I told you. Evidence. Against a company called Viratek."
She frowned. "Isn't—isn't that the company you work for?"
"Used to work for."
"What did they do?"
"They're involved in some sort of illegal research project. I can't tell you the particulars."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know them. I'm not the one who gathered the evidence. A colleague—a friend—passed it to me, just before he was killed."
"What do you mean by killed?"
"The police called it an accident. I think otherwise."
"You're saying he was murdered over a research project?" She shook her head. "Must have been dangerous stuff he was working on."
"I know this much. It involves biological weapons. Which makes the research illegal. And incredibly dangerous."
"Weapons? For what government?"
"Ours."
"I don't understand. If this is a federal project, that makes it all legal, right?"
"Not by a long shot People in high places have been known to break the rules."
"How high are we talking about?"
"I don't know. I can't be sure of anyone. Not the police, not the Justice Department. Not the FBI"
Her eyes narrowed. The words she was hearing sounded like paranoid ravings. But the voice—and the eyes—were perfectly sane. They were sea-green, those eyes. They held an honesty, a steadiness that should have been all the assurance she needed.
It wasn't. Not by a long shot
Quietly she said, "So you're telling me the FBI is after you. Is that correct?"
Sudden anger flared in his eyes, then just as quickly, it was gone. Groaning, he sank onto the couch and ran his hands through his hair. "I don't blame you for thinking I'm nuts. Sometimes I wonder if I'm all there. I thought if I could trust anyone, it'd be you...."
"Why me?"
He looked at her. "Because you're the one who saved my life. You're the one they'll try to kill next."
She froze. No, no, this was insane. Now he was pulling her into his delusion, making her believe in his nightmare world of murder and conspiracy. She wouldn't let him! She stood up and started to walk away, but his voice made her stop again.
"Cathy, think about it. Why was your friend Sarah killed? Because they thought she was you. By now they've figured out they killed the wrong woman. They'll have to come back and do the job right. Just in case you know something. In case you have evidence—"
"This is crazy!" she cried, clapping her hands over her ears. "No one's going to—"
"They already have!" He whipped out a scrap of newspaper from his shirt pocket "On my way over here, I happened to pass a newsstand. This was on the front page." He handed her the piece of paper.
She stared in bewilderment at the photograph of a middle-aged woman, a total stranger. "San Francisco woman shot to death on front doorstep," read the accompanying headline.
"This has nothing to do with me," she said.
"Look at her name."
Cathy's gaze slid to the third paragraph, which identified the victim.
Her name was Catherine Weaver.
The scrap of newsprint slipped from her grasp and fluttered to the floor.
"There are three Catherine Weavers in the San Francisco phone book," he
Similar Books
