“You heard me when I said good investments.”
Another glance toward the galley. And again he dropped his voice. “Do you mind if I ask how you hooked up with Miss Geller? I guess I want to ask whether she worked with you, but I don’t suppose you’d tell me that either.”
“Sure, I will. She didn’t.”
“How long have you known her?”
“Look, Sergeant…”
“Call me Ed.”
“I don’t know you well enough. As to Claudia, I’ve known her for a year and a few months. She’s had no connection with anything I’ve done. She’s as gentle a creature as you’ll ever meet, so suppose we leave her out of this discussion.”
The sergeant raised a hand. “Try not to get sore. I have a reason for asking.” He rubbed his chin and winced in a show of discomfort. He said, “Let’s back up. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not sure that I’m even here as a cop. Do you think we could talk man to man?”
“Are you wired?”
Moore’s face took on a chill. “You can frisk me if you like. Or we could go swimming. We can have this conversation treading water.”
Whistler was tempted to not have it at all, but he needed to see where it was going. Claudia had appeared at the hatch holding two coffee mugs in her hands. Whistler took a few steps forward. He reached for the mugs. She held on for a moment and said softly, “Be nice. If he wants you to call him Ed, call him Ed.”
“You could hear?”
“And I can feel. He’s an honest man, Adam.”
“You could tell that by looking into his eyes?”
“I could tell that he’s nervous. We both make him nervous. But, Adam, he did keep our names out of this. He wants to know that he didn’t make a mistake. And I think he wants you for a friend.”
“Why would he?”
“He admires you, Adam. You heard that last night. I think he wants to be like you.”
“We’ll see.”
“He knows more about us than he’s letting on. It’s better if you let him be your friend.”
Whistler was doubtful, but he said, “I’ll be nice.”
“He hasn’t had breakfast. I’ll put on some bacon. Ask Leslie and Phil if they’ll join us.”
“When? Now?”
“Not now. When you’re done. Go finish your talk.”
He hesitated. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m better.” She touched him. “I’m fine.”
“You seem…distant this morning. Like you’re in another world.”
“No, I’m in yours. More than ever, I suppose. Go finish your talk with your policeman.”
Whistler walked back aft, a little worried about her. Nor was he sure that this meeting was so harmless. He knew that Claudia was right about one thing, however. The sergeant knew more than he was saying.
“Okay, man to man.” He handed Moore his coffee. “Let’s start with what’s
on your mind.”
Moore looked over Whistler’s shoulder. “She could hear us?” he asked.
“I’m back here barely whispering.”
Heightened senses, thought Whistler. Been that way since she recovered. He supposed that he’d gotten used to it himself. But he answered, “No. Just a word here and there.”
Moore wet his lips, took a sip from his mug, and took a deep breath before speaking again. “The reason I wondered whether she worked with you…”
“You’re not still on that knife question, are you?”
“You said she never touched it. That’s what Leslie says, too.”
“Then that ought to be that.”
“Yeah, it might be as far as knives are concerned. What about other talents? What else can she do? Does she have any other special gifts that you know of?”
Whistler blinked at the question. It was not what he expected. “What exactly do we mean when we say gifts?”
“The gift of hands? Healing? That sort of thing?”
“Ed…you’ve lost me. Where did this come from?”
“Ragland’s wife…at the hospital…we spoke at some length. Her name is Olivia, seems like a good woman. She wants to see you both, by the way. She said she’d like to thank you in person.”
“There’s no need. Now what was this thing about hands?”
“She was saying how Miss Geller found the bullet in her husband and, well…with her hands, somehow worked it toward the surface.”
“You’re not serious.”
“She’s mistaken?”
“It’s preposterous, Ed.”
“Yeah, but I wasn’t there. Mrs. Ragland was. In fact, where she was sitting, she was facing you, right? I’d say she must have had a pretty good view of anything that might have happened.”
The knife again, thought Whistler. He said, “Yes, she might have until that first shot. After that, I suspect, her mind was elsewhere.”
“Even so, she was calm and together when we spoke. Did you know that she was a reporter herself before she teamed up with Ragland? She’s a Brit, by the way. BBC, I think she said. She used to be a foreign correspondent.”
“Your point?”
“She’s no flake. And she’s not unobservant.”
“Yet she thinks that Claudia can make bullets go away. Has she said this to anyone else?”
“Her husband. He has also asked to see you.”
“Ed, what else have you told them about us?”
“Me, not a thing. I did confirm to Mrs. Ragland that your name is Adam Whistler, but only because she knew that already. Seems she called the bar last night. They were still there cleaning up. One of the waitresses told her.”
Last night, thought Whistler? While her husband was critical?
“You’re sure you’ve never met her?” Moore asked him.
“Absolutely.”
“I got the impression that she’s heard of you, though. It was nothing she said. Just a look that she had.”
“If that’s true, you would have asked her if she knew me.”
“I did. She said no.”
“Once again, then. That ought to be that.”
Whistler did recall that she had looked familiar the first time he saw her in the bar. BBC correspondent. That must have been it. He might have seen her face on the tube at some point. He felt sure, however, that she couldn’t know him. If Moore was right about her reacting to his name, it’s entirely possible that she’d heard it before. A foreign correspondent for the BBC would probably have heard of his father. But if asked, he would deny that there was any relation. There must be thousands of Whistlers in the world.
That, thought Whistler, again should be that. Except that this woman, this BBC reporter, seemed even more interested in Claudia. She seemed to have gotten it into her head that Claudia’s some kind of a witch. And so, for that matter, has Sergeant Moore, an otherwise sensible man.
Don’t you love it, thought Whistler? That’s all we need. It was hard enough keeping the angel thing quiet. But Whistler remembered. He thought he knew what had happened. Claudia had located that lump in Ragland’s back. The bullet had lodged near the surface. She’d said, “Wait, I found the bullet. It’s almost out.” All she meant was that it hadn’t quite emerged.
Or he hoped that’s all she meant. He surely hoped so.
Whistler said, “Okay, look. This is starting to get crazy. Shouldn’t you be out looking for the one who got away? How far could he get in that car?”
“He abandoned the Buick within a half mile. He carjacked a new one, but it hasn’t left the island. He did get some bad facial cuts, by the way. The carjacking victims said he was a mess. What would you do next if you were him?”
“Me? I’d get Claudia to heal me.”
“No, I’m asking.”
“Better yet, I’d get Claudia to turn me into a bird. She can do that. It’s one of her gifts.”
He heard a crash from the galley. She might have dropped a pan. More likely, it was a warning. Be nice. And the deputy leaned forwa
rd, saying much the same thing. He said, “How about easing up?”
“Yeah, you’re right,” said Whistler. “Strike that one. I’m sorry.”
“May I call you Adam?”
“Sure, now that we’re friends.”
“There’s a lot about this I don’t run into every day. This isn’t an Interpol uniform I’m wearing. It’s a small County Sheriff’s Department.”
“I said I’m sorry. I know that was rude.”
“I’m not in your league, but I’m not Barney Fife. As for Miss Geller, I’m trying to be straight, so I should have told you this right up front. I ran her name through the computer as well. You say that you’ve known her for a year and some months? Then you know she has a criminal history.”
Whistler’s eyes turned hard. “Keep talking,” he said.
“Cherry Creek, Colorado? Denver Metro, I think. A year or so ago… months after you’d have met her…she was charged with trying to shoot two cops who had gone to bust her mother for drugs. There’s also a charge of possession with intent on both Claudia and her mother, Katherine Geller. You’re telling me you didn’t know this?”
“Ed…where did you get your information?”
“I told you. The computer. But it didn’t pop right up. In fact, it almost seemed to be misfiled.”
“What file?”
“Some DEA offshoot. A policy think tank. Were you DEA?”
“No.”
“But you worked with them, right?”
“Now and then. Let’s get back to those charges.”
“I will in a second. One more about you. Did you ever work anti-terrorist ops? I think you know why I’m asking.”
Whistler answered, “No, Ed, I do not know why you’re asking.” And he didn’t. He brushed that question aside. He said, “Listen, Ed, those charges are bogus. Claudia never shot at those cops. They shot her in the neck, then tried to frame her. To this day, she has never used a handgun in her life.”
Was that true? Yes, it was. He’d never taught her to use the Beretta. Only the shotgun and the M-87, a few practice rounds out of each.
Moore glanced toward the hatch. He touched a finger to his throat. “Shot her here? That the reason for the scarf?”
“Yes, it is. And she’s never possessed or used a drug. I’d be surprised if she’s ever even seen one. In any case, those charges were dropped. Her record was supposed to be expunged.”
“Well, you see, that’s what’s funny. They were not ever dropped, and yet there’s no warrant, no wants. There is an instruction. It says do not detain. Observe and report, but do not detain. Now you’re telling me you thought the charges were dropped. Can you tell me what you think is going on there?”
“You’ve observed. Have you reported?”
“Is it any of my business?”
“It’s some people who’ve tried to get at me through her. I thought it was settled. We had reached a detente. Believe me, it is not police business.”
“This was duty-related?”
“And it’s classified, Ed. I’m not free to tell you much beyond that, but I’ll owe you if you’ll keep this to yourself.”
“No connection to Ragland? To this case?”
“None whatever.”
Moore reached into the briefcase that he’d brought on board with him. “I’ll give you the printout of the file I found. And the reason I asked about terrorist ops…do the names Breen and Crow mean anything to you?”
Whistler shook his head. “They’re the two from last night?”
Moore produced the file entry, the one about the Gellers, plus two other
printouts of FBI want sheets. He placed the want sheets on the table facing Whistler. He said, “Leonard Breen and Joshua Isaiah Crow. We’ve identified Breen. He’s the one you took down. The one we’re still looking for is Crow.”
Both want sheets had photos, but the photos weren’t mug shots. They’d been taken from amateur snapshots. That meant neither man had ever been booked. Whistler recognized the shooter, Leonard Breen, at a glance. The other was more blurred, but it was a fair likeness of the one who had waited with the car. Both men were wanted for unlawful flight to avoid prosecution for murder.
Moore asked, “You’ve never heard of these two before?”
“Me? Why would I?”
“Anti-terrorist ops. Thought you might have run across them.”
“I’ve never worked domestic anti-terrorist at all. That’s the FBI’s jurisdiction.”
“Yeah, it is. And by noon, they’re going to be here in force. They’ve been looking for these two for a year and a half.”
The FBI’s involvement was not welcome news. Those people are slow, but annoyingly thorough. Whistler hoped that they wouldn’t feel the need to re-interview all witnesses to the Jump & Phil’s shooting. But perhaps they had enough on Breen and Crow as it stood.
“So you’re saying Breen and Crow are known terrorists. What kind?”
“Fanatics. They’re both Reconstructionists.”
“And…what is a Reconstructionist, please?”
“Never heard the term? Really?”
“There are hundreds of groups. Most of them are just noise. What is it that they want to reconstruct?”
“The world. To get it ready for Jesus.”
NINETEEN
Felix Aubrey had pretty much made up his mind what to do about Whistler’s reappearance. Was he there to meet Ragland? Maybe yes; more likely no, Mr. Lockwood’s paranoia nothwithstanding.
Almost everything about it was suggestive of coincidence. Did the two make eye contact? Indeed, they may well have. It was a small bar, after all. And Whistler, especially, would have made it his business to scan every face in the room. Would Whistler have chosen such a public place for an assignation with Ragland? That seemed very unlikely, but if he had, would Ragland’s wife and the girl have been present?
And speaking of the girl, if she did throw that knife…improbable, but let’s say she did. Let’s agree that Whistler helped to pass the time at sea by teaching her some tricks of the trade. One would think, however, that if he taught her how to kill, he’d have told her not to dawdle after doing so. If there’s one thing that Whistler understands very well, it’s the value of melting away quietly.
So here, thought Aubrey, we get to the crux, the one thing that Lockwood was right about. Whistler did manage, somehow, to fade into the woodwork. Not a word on the news about Whistler or the girl, even though one would think, at the very least, that they’d be worthy of honorable mention. How he managed it, no matter; the point is, he did. The question: do we let him get away with it?
We don’t, of course. We let the word go forth. A leak from a confidential source. We let it be known that the mystery Samaritan is none other than a blood-soaked U.S. Government assassin. He’s one of many, of course, but we’ll give Whistler all the credit. We say, there he is, on that boat, go take his picture. Put it on your front pages, on your evening news broadcasts. Let the sons and the brothers of his various victims, meaning everyone who has ever been targeted by anyone, at last put a face to the stalker. Here he is; here’s what he looks like; good hunting.
And here, as a bonus, are the people most dear to him. The girl, the girl’s mother, oh, and yes, Whistler’s father. Get them first, if you can. Save Whistler for last. Make sure that he knows why they died.
The beauty of this is that it’s Whistler’s own doing. His father had told Poole, “You touch him; I touch you.” He said, “Don’t even think in terms of an accident. No matter how random, no matter what the evidence, I’ll assume that you people are behind it.” Poole wilted, of course. He turned into a puddle. He as much as smeared lamb’s blood across Whistler’s forehead so the angel of death would pass him by.
Well, the game has changed. The advantage has shifted. Stanton Poole, no doubt, will blanche at the prospect of declaring open season on Whistler. He’ll say, “You heard his father. We’re bound to blamed. The least that he’ll do is go public with
your ledger.”
He’ll blame us? How can he? Did we put him in that bar? Did we force him to take center stage with Philip Ragland? Don’t you see; it’s the media that will do this, not us. Our agreement with his father remains in force because we’re innocent of any involvement.
Some days it’s a pleasure to go to the office. Felix Aubrey couldn’t wait to
present this to Poole.
The Center for Policy Analysis was housed in a purposely non-descript building. Twelve floors of grayish concrete and gray-tinted glass with a private garage underneath. All its tenants had similar gray-sounding names. The Center for this, the Committee for that, the National Council of whatever. Any curious outsider would be bored to stupefaction just by reading the lobby directory.
If that curious outsider were to get past security, he or she would not see much of a change. The tenants, on the whole, were gray men and women who tried not to look at each other. A new employee might say “Good morning” at first, but such overtures would quickly be discouraged. They could lead to small talk and, in turn, to indiscretions. What each did was no business of the other.
Felix Aubrey, especially, preferred it that way, and all the more since he’d been cut. His humiliation had been enough to bear without being asked, “Oh, what happened, poor man?” and knowing that the questioner was chortling inside. They all knew. He felt sure that they knew.
On this morning, as usual, he came in through the garage and and used a
coded card to call the elevator down. He used the same card to select his floor. There would be no admittance without it. The elevator rose, but it soon stopped again to collect those who’d entered through the lobby. There were several people waiting. Stanton Poole was among them in his usual black suit, wearing one of his usual yellow neckties. Something was missing. Aubrey couldn’t quite place it. Ah, yes. No lapel pin. Poole always displayed some kind of a pin, depending on whom he might be seeing that day. He had American flag pins, Put-Prayer-Back-In-School pins, Just-Say-No pins, pro-life pins, and a wide assortment of Christian pins, the most recent of which showed a flaming sword in the hand of a militant angel.
Whistler's Angel (The Bannerman Series) Page 19
