Whistler's Angel (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  He heard a scuffling of feet and glanced back just in time. A young man, a big one, had risen to a crouch and was about to try to jump him, try to grapple for the gun. Whistler had no time to explain who was who. He swung the gun around, froze the young man in his tracks, then chopped it against his right ear. He wheeled again and sighted in on the Buick. He saw that the driver had indeed raised a weapon. It looked like a shotgun. Whistler squeezed off two rounds.

  The glass entrance door deflected his shots, but they shattered the windshield of the getaway car. The driver ducked down and the Buick leaped forward. Whistler heard frightened shouts and the squeal of cold tires as the driver took the shortest way out. He drove over flowerbeds and took shrubbery with him. He hit one passing car and forced others off the road as he steered toward the island’s main parkway.

  Whistler turned to check on Claudia. She was on her knees. She was giving aid to the first man who’d been shot. The man’s wife was frantic, but trying to help. She was pulling wood splinters out of his flesh. Claudia told her to leave them alone and instead put pressure on the hole in his chest while Claudia felt beneath him for the exit wound. With all that, she kept watching the back and side windows for any further threat from those directions. Whistler saw that the bartender was coming around to try to be of assistance. He waved her back and pointed to the bar phone.

  He told her, “Leslie...call 911 now. Shots fired, four down, maybe more hurt out front. And stay on the phone; don’t hang up.”

  He stepped over toward Claudia, the pistol pointed skyward. He used his free hand to make calming gestures toward those who were watching him fearfully. He reached down to the floor and picked up a red napkin. He placed the napkin over a stray table knife and tucked them both under his arm.

  He whispered to Claudia. “Come with me for a minute.”

  “No, wait. I found the bullet. It’s almost out.”

  Whistler saw what she meant. Her fingers had located an oozing lump between the man’s armpit and shoulder blade. He would have thought that it should have passed through. The ricochet off the table must have slowed it.

  “What you’re doing isn’t helping. Come with me. I’ll tell you how.”

  She looked up him, confused, but she did as he asked. She told the man’s wife to keep pressure on the wound. Whistler led her to the bar where her dinner still sat.

  She asked, “I’m not helping? What should I be doing?”

  Whistler waved that aside. He said, “Listen to me. We don’t have much time. You never threw the knife and you don’t know who did. There’s a new knife in the napkin that’s under my arm. I want your fingerprints on it and I want your food on it. Leave the knife up here on your plate.”

  “But what for?”

  “Please, this once, don’t argue with me.”

  “Adam...people saw me. They saw where it came from.”

  “They won’t agree on what they saw, or what they heard either. You never called out, ‘Watch your front. I’ve got your back.’ You wouldn’t because all you are is my bimbo, not someone who would interest the police.”

  “I understand.”

  “Wait to do the knife until I’m talking to Leslie. Wipe it first. It should only have your prints.”

  “Then can I go back and help? Even bimbos know first aid.”

  “Yes, but try to seem a little less competent.”

  From out front, he could hear the first distant sirens and he saw the faint strobing of Mars lights. He asked Leslie if she still had 911 on the line.

  She nodded, blinking. Her chest was heaving. “The dispatcher…she wants to know who here is armed.”

  He removed the clip and saw that it was empty. He ejected the one remaining cartridge from the chamber. He tossed the pistol and clip onto a shelf behind the bar.

  “Say the shooting is over. You have the only weapon. Make sure she tells the deputies not to get nervous. If they see people running it will only be your patrons. They may not have paid their bills but don’t shoot them.”

  She passed on his message. “Now she’s asking who you are.”

  He ignored the question. “Say the shooter’s accomplice drives an older blue Buick. His windshield is shot out, left front fender is smashed and the driver is armed with a shotgun. I suggest they put a roadblock on the bridge to the mainland.”

  Leslie told the dispatcher what he’d said, then listened. “She says I should tell you not to leave.”

  Whistler sighed within himself. There was no question of leaving. Leslie and the owners knew where he lived. Two cars full of deputies would be down at the marina before he could even start his engine. He reached for his Scotch but thought better of drinking it.

  Right now he and Claudia would be taking their swim if he’d said he didn’t like either blouse.

  FIFTEEN

  Four Sheriff’s Department cruisers had arrived on the scene and the ambulances came close behind them. The deputies, tan uniforms, approached with guns drawn telling people outside to stand back. Whistler heard people answer that the danger was past but too many were talking at once. One of the owners, Phil Henry, went out and tried to calm everyone down. He managed to explain what he thought had transpired. The deputies knew him. They holstered their weapons. Whistler kept his hands flat on the bar.

  A fire truck and two emergency vehicles added to the light show outside. Soon the deputies were augmented by security guards from one of the gated communities nearby. A sergeant asked the guards, who were dressed in blue uniforms, to assist in both crowd and traffic control and in gathering all those who had witnessed the shootings.

  Traffic control was made even more difficult as a television news truck tried to get through and the ambulances tried to get out. A car that the getaway driver had hit was also blocking part of the road. A few local doctors had been called from their homes to give aid to those who were less seriously injured. Most had suffered cuts scrambling out through broken windows. Others had been trampled in the general panic after the shooting had started.

  The woman who’d got up and had tried to run was dead. So was the old man who’d been walking out back and had stopped to see what was happening. The shooter with the knife in his skull was still twitching but dead for all practical purposes. His victim had already been taken away. He’d gone into shock but had been more or less conscious by the time the first ambulance rushed him to the hospital. He was able to talk to his wife, who’d gone with him. The casualties included several people out front. At least three needed treatment for injuries they’d suffered when the Buick, escaping, knocked them aside. And the young man, the big one whom Whistler had clubbed, had a probable fracture of the cheekbone.

  According to the squawks of the deputies’ radios, the getaway driver had not yet been found, but a roadblock was in place on the island’s sole bridge.

  The ranking deputy was a sergeant, about Whistler’s age. A black man, light skinned; he wore wire-rimmed glasses. He already knew Leslie; he addressed her by name and asked her if she was all right. She was trembling a little, but seemed in control. He asked her several questions as he bagged and tagged the gun that she’d kept on the shelf behind the bar. She pointed out Whistler who was sitting with Claudia, their plates still in front of them, their dinners gone cold.

  The sergeant approached them, asked to see some ID. Whistler told him that he’d come out without his wallet. All he had was some cash and his rental car key. He offered to drive down to his boat and retrieve it, knowing that the offer was sure to be declined.

  “Eddie, I know them,” said Leslie. “They’re regulars.”

  “And they live on a boat?”

  She nodded. “I’ve seen it. They’re on the same dock where Phil keeps his Grady-White.”

  He said, “Give us a minute to talk.”

  As Leslie moved away to help clear the bar, the sergeant asked their names and wrote them down in his notebook. He asked the name of the boat and for their telephone number. Whistler answered all question
s. Claudia remained silent. Whistler summarized what had happened that evening, or at least what he said he had seen of it. The sergeant tried to question Claudia. She seemed too dazed to answer. She sat cleaning the wounded man’s blood from her hands with a wet towel Leslie had given her. Her new blouse had his blood on it as well.

  The sergeant left to interview five or six other patrons, all of whom were still stunned by what they’d witnessed. That one man who had stayed at the bar was not among them. He had had the best view. He’d seen everything that happened. Whistler hoped that he’d chosen to melt away and not become involved the event. The sergeant finished with the others, then took Leslie aside and spoke to her again at some length. Finally, he came back to where Whistler was sitting. Claudia had still not made a sound.

  “Mr. Wismer, is it? And Miss Kelly, is that right?”

  Whistler grunted. He didn’t correct him. Leslie overheard, raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Whistler had deliberately mispronounced their names. He would explain why to Leslie a bit later. But for now he was starting to worry about Claudia. He had asked her to pretend that she was in shock, but he was not sure that she was pretending. The knowledge that she might have killed a man might only have begun to sink in.

  “I need to go through this one more time,” said the sergeant. “You say you two are tourists? You just happened to be in here?”

  Whistler nodded. “As I’m sure Leslie told you.”

  “And you have no connection with the victim? The first one?”

  “Connection? I’ve never laid eyes on him.”

  The sergeant gestured toward the corner where the man had been shot. “His name is Philip Ragland. He’s down from Chicago. He has a TV talk show called The Ragland Report. None of this rings any bells?”

  “Never heard of the man or his show.”

  “You’re sure? He’s pretty famous.”

  “I don’t watch much TV.”

  “Good show. But controversial. Not everyone loves him.”

  Whistler gave a small shrug. “Evidently.”

  “According to his wife, he’s had a number of death threats for things he’s said on the air. His wife said he never took them seriously before. Never felt the need for a bodyguard. Or did he?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “I suppose I am. You did what bodyguards do.”

  “What? Sitting over here eating my dinner while he’s back in that corner getting shot?”

  “Just a thought. Let’s talk about what you did do.”

  He gestured toward the shooter who was still on the floor, only then being readied to be put on a stretcher. The ambulance crew had strapped an oxygen mask on him. They were careful not to touch the knife handle.

  “And you say you didn’t stab him. Someone else already had.”

  “I was way over here when I heard the first shot. I heard screams, people falling. By the time I made out who was doing the shooting, that knife was already sticking out of his head.”

  “Well, Mr. Wismer, not everyone agrees. Some say you ran and stabbed him right after that shot. Others say you threw the knife just before you took him down. Some even say that Miss Kelly here threw it.”

  “Nobody threw it. You know that’s ridiculous.”

  “I do? Why is that, sir?”

  “Because I doubt that there’s a knife thrower living who could hit a moving target at twenty feet, striking the man in the only spot where a blunt-ended knife was likely to penetrate, especially a knife so poorly balanced as this one.” He picked up his own. “Anyway, here’s mine. It’s still on my plate where it belongs.”

  “And so is Miss Kelly’s. I see that. But whose prints would we find on the knife in that man’s head?”

  “You might find mine on the handle, not the blade. I felt it and thought about pulling it out, but that might have done even more damage.”

  “No idea who stuck him?”

  “Someone near that table, clearly. How about that big kid who tried to jump me? Where was he at the time, do you know?”

  “He barely remembers coming in here this evening. You clocked him pretty good with that gun.”

  “Had no choice.”

  The sergeant glanced at the dinner plates sitting in front of them. “You must like the food here.”

  “That’s why we come in.”

  “So much that you went back and finished your dinner with dead and injured lying all around you. Miss Kelly here, I’m told, was giving CPR, but took time out to come over and grab a few bites. And this with his blood still wet on her hands.”

  “She looked faint. She was ashen. I made her come and sit.”

  “Sit and eat?”

  “Officer...she was in a fog by that time. If she did push some food around her plate, what of it?”

  The deputy looked at Claudia. She had shown no reaction. He said, “Fair enough. Let’s talk about you. Did I mention that the witnesses are pretty shaken up?”

  “You mentioned that they are confused.”

  “On the other hand, there’s you, cool and calm as can be. You know about knives and you know about guns. You don’t freeze or hit the floor when some guy comes in shooting. You deal with it like it’s a walk in the park. What’s your background? Where does this come from?”

  “I don’t know. I did spend some time in the service. Perhaps some old training kicked in.”

  “Half the men here were in the service, Mr. Wismer. Was your training anything special? What branch?”

  “Infantry.”

  “Officer?”

  “Noncom.”

  “Just a grunt? You don’t look like you’d be just a grunt.”

  “Not everyone is officer material, sergeant.”

  “True enough. Especially some officers I’ve met. Where did you train, Mr. Wismer?”

  “Near here. Fort Benning in Georgia.”

  “Airborne, by chance?”

  Whistler took a breath and nodded. “I was in the 75th.”

  “That would…be the Airborne Rangers. That would start to explain it. Did you see any action? Like over in Iraq?”

  “I was there.”

  “Me, too. I was Armor. Drove an Abrams. You?”

  “Mostly recon. Look, Sergeant...”

  “Name’s Moore. Ed Moore.” He touched a finger to his nametag. “This recon...would that be the 1st Ranger Battalion? Were you on one of those teams that went in early?”

  Whistler nodded.

  “Weapons specialist?”

  “We all were.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” said the sergeant. “You all had to rate Expert. So how’d you miss the driver of the getaway car?”

  He had had no intention of hitting the driver. “He’d raised a shotgun. I fired to suppress. I snapped two quick shots through plate glass at an angle. I was lucky to even hit the car.”

  “But you put out his windshield. Did that cut him up, you think?”

  “Might have. I couldn’t see from in here.”

  The sergeant stepped away and brought his radio to his lips. He called the dispatcher, had her tell all other units that the driver, very likely, had cuts on his face. Whistler, meanwhile, was silently regretting that he’d had to say anything of his personal history. He was also regretting that this Ragland was well known. This was going to attract a good deal more attention than if it were a simple private grudge.

  The sergeant ended his call, then walked over toward the entrance. Whistler saw him reach his hand toward the two bullet holes still discernable in what was left of the door. He was able to cover both holes with his palm. He returned to where Whistler was sitting.

  “You just snapped those, you say.”

  “It was all I could do.”

  “Moving target. I know. We’ve established that moving targets are tough, but those shots went exactly where you wanted them.”

  Whistler shrugged a denial. The sergeant answered with a grunt. Then the sergeant surprised him by offering his hand. His face relaxed into a s
mile.

  “I heard about some of the stuff you guys did. I’ve never met one of you before.”

  Whistler took the hand. He said, “Listen, Sergeant, one grunt to another, it’s true that all we did was come in here for dinner. I’m not looking for a medal or my name in the papers. I wish now that I’d minded my own business.”

  “You have a reason for needing to stay out of this?”

  “Not needing. Just wanting. We live a quiet life.”

  He answered, “Well, you’re in it. But I’ll do what I can.”

  Moore was looking at Claudia. Whistler followed his gaze. He saw that a tear had run down her cheek. Moore asked her, “Miss Kelly, will you be all right?”

  Whistler answered, “I’d like to get her out of here now.”

  “Maybe one of the doctors should look at her first. Maybe give her a sedative so she’ll sleep.”

  “She won’t take a sedative. She won’t even take an aspirin.”

  He told Sergeant Moore where the boat was berthed and that they had no intention of leaving the island. He said he realized that a formal written statement would be needed and that a coroner’s inquest would be held.

  “Take her home, Mr. Wismer. Go out the side door. I’ll try to keep the media busy out front.”

  Before they left, he took Leslie aside and told her why he’d misspoke their names. It was purely for reasons of privacy, nothing more. The media would get those names from the police and those names would appear in the next morning’s paper. By then, he said, they might no longer be of interest, all attention by then on the victim and the shooters. She could later, if she chose, call her friend Sergeant Moore and give him the right spelling for his records.