Whistler's Angel (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “But you said that the white light might have guided my hand. I know you don’t believe it, but you said it.”

  “To save Ragland’s life? Okay, say it did. Good job. You did it. It’s over.”

  “Except…look at all the ways in which our lives and his have crossed.

  Don’t you start to feel a bond? A connection?”

  “None whatever.”

  “But the things he’s against are the things you’re against. What if somebody else tries to stop him?”

  Oh damn, thought Whistler. Now where was she going? And wherever it was, do we try to be rational? No, we don’t. That never works. Not with Claudia.

  He said, “I think we need to get this angel thing straight. I am not anyone’s guardian angel. The only angel around here is you, and you’re assigned to me, not to Ragland.”

  A patient sigh. “We’re pretending now, right? We’re pretending that you believe it?”

  Okay, so we’re maybe semi-rational, thought Whistler.

  “Say, I do,” he answered. “You’re mine, no one else’s. This should be an exclusive arrangement. So, the next time you get tapped to do a job on the side…”

  “Tapped by…?”

  “The white light. It didn’t want Ragland killed. Thanks to you, but mostly it, he’ll have many more years to tilt at every windmill in sight. You’re out of that now; you’re back with me and your pitching days are over, by the way. You’re no longer available to come in as a reliever just because you happen to be handy.”

  She lowered her eyes. “Don’t make fun of me, Adam.”

  “Oh, no,” he answered quickly. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “Then you’re humoring me. Don’t do that either.”

  “Humoring you would imply disrespect. There is no one I respect more than you.”

  “Then oblige me with the truth. Say what’s really on your mind.”

  “Okay, my truth.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I think that us being in that bar was pure chance. I think your throw was partly a good arm, but mostly luck. No one guided your hand; that was you being you. And you, by yourself, without any white light, are as good a person as I’ve ever known. I’m as proud as I can be of how you’ve dealt with this, Claudia, but I’m asking you…please let’s just go.”

  She looked into his eyes. She seemed surprised by what she saw in them. She said. “You’re afraid. I’ve never seen you afraid.”

  He nodded. “Absolutely. This scares me.”

  “And it’s me you’re afraid for?”

  “I can’t lose you, Claudia.”

  “And you think that you might because…I live in a dream world. The white light isn’t real. There’s just me being me. You’re afraid that I’ll try something like that again, believing that I can do it again. You think I really can’t and I’ll get killed.”

  He nodded again. “That would sum it up. Yes.”

  “You’re afraid of that man who is still on the loose?”

  “I’ll feel better when he’s caught. Or when we’re gone.”

  “Do you think he’ll be caught?”

  “He won’t get away. Not if he’s still on this island.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t care about getting away. Maybe he’ll try again at the hospital.”

  “If he does, he’s dead meat. Ragland’s bound to be guarded. Ragland doesn’t need us to protect him.”

  She said, “I’m sure you’re right. But this just doesn’t feel finished.”

  “It isn’t. It’s ongoing. But we’ve done our part. Unless you feel a need to be thanked, there’s nothing to be gained by seeing Ragland or his wife.”

  “I’m not looking to be thanked. It’s more like…I don’t know. I feel that there’s much more to this than we know. Do you remember the time that other boat needed ice?”

  “You, um…think that’s tied in with this?”

  “Well…not really.”

  “See that? Yes, you do. And that’s way from left field.”

  “Okay then, maybe not. But I remember what you said. You said it’s never a mistake to go with my instincts. The mistake would have been to ignore them.”

  “All the same…”

  “Adam, this all ties together somehow. Don’t ask why I think so. I just do.”

  “Sweetheart, six degrees of separation, remember? We’ve met hundreds of people who know hundreds more and that goes on ad infinitum. Everyone connects if you look long enough. I don’t want to look. I want to quit while we’re ahead.”

  “I know, but what’s the harm in dropping by for a minute? Leslie and Phil said they’re going to.”

  “When was this?”

  “They said so in the galley. They thought that they should. After all, he was shot in their restaurant.”

  “Good, then. They can convey our best wishes. We’re not going. I’m putting my foot down.”

  “If we don’t, his wife will only come here. You heard Sergeant Moore. She was asking about you. She’ll probably show up on the dock.”

  “If she does, she won’t find us. I intend to be at sea.”

  “But in the time it would take to get everything organized…”

  “Claudia…listen to me. Sit.”

  He told her that he really did understand why what happened here didn’t feel finished. He said, even if we put this whole angel thing aside, the encounter with the Ragland’s did almost seem fated. The drug law connection, the seizure connection, seeing Aubrey and Poole behind Ragland at that hearing. This is where human nature kicks in. We think, if it’s fated, then this ought to lead somewhere. And it would, more than likely. But we can’t let that happen.

  He asked her to focus on their primary goal. Stay away from the cameras, stay out of the papers, and leave the way they came in. He reminded her of how lucky they’d been in that Ragland was the much bigger story.

  “I understand, Adam. But we’ve done that, I think. The media would have been out here by now if they had any interest in us.”

  “Claudia…Ragland. Ragland is media. The Ragland Report is a network TV show and his wife was a journalist herself. People like the Raglands tend to ask questions and they tend to have cameras around.”

  “We could ask them not to.”

  “Not what? Ask questions? How could either of them resist? Mrs. Ragland already thinks you’re a…”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. And by the way, did you do something to Moore? Did you somehow get into his head?”

  “Like how?”

  “Never mind. Forget I asked. And we’re not going.”

  Whistler turned away from her. He would hear no more of it. This time, for once, he was going to have his way. They would not go near the hospital. They would not go ashore. That was it. No more discussion. It was over.

  TWENTY ONE

  Joshua Crow, as Sergeant Moore had predicted, had found an unoccupied house in which to rest until he could gather his thoughts. He had made his selection within an hour of the shooting. It was in an older section called North Forest Beach, a non-gated, non-guarded community. Quite a few of the houses there were dark.

  The one he had chosen seemed ordinary enough. Not likely to attract any notice. The street that led to it was rutted, unpaved, and this house in particular seemed weathered, neglected. This was all to the good, Crow decided.

  There were other small houses on either side, but a fence blocked the view of the neighbor to the right and a wall of bamboo shielded this one from the other. Best of all, this house had a two-car garage. Its neighbors only had carports.

  Perhaps he would find another vehicle inside, but at least there should be room for the van. He broke into the garage through a window at its side, and disabled the electric door opener. He raised the door by hand and brought the van inside. He closed the door behind it, then allowed himself a scream. He screamed, then held his breath until he thought his lungs would burst. He bit into the pad of his thumb. He started humming. The humming always calme
d him. It brought him good thoughts. It helped him to remember that the Lord’s work had been done. Philip Ragland was in hell where he belonged.

  There was no other car, but there was a boat of sorts. It was covered by a blue plastic tarp. Crow stripped the tarp off and let it slide to the floor. The boat was one of those little wave runner things and it sat on a miniature trailer. He knew nothing about them, but he’d seen children using them, so they couldn’t be too difficult to operate. A last resort, surely, but it might be an option if he had to slip away over water.

  He broke into the house through the door from the garage. Once inside, he flipped a wall switch to make sure that there was power. There was, but he would keep the house dark. He went back to the van and unloaded its contents, first stacking the bikes to one side. He brought in his duffel, his shotgun, his scanner, and some of the luggage that had come with the van. The van’s owner was roughly his own size and shape. Somewhat taller, but his clothing would fit well enough. There were two sets of golf clubs. He brought one set inside and then wondered why he’d done that. He didn’t like golf clubs. He didn’t like golfers. The game was surely an invention of Satan, devised to keep Christians from going to church. He found the First Aid kit. All these vans seemed to have them. He brought it into the house with the groceries.

  In the darkened kitchen he used a small flashlight to find an electrical outlet. He plugged in the scanner and turned it on low, listening to the traffic of policemen. It was all about him although not by name. He was variously “the wheelman” and “perp number two.” They knew about the van and were only now describing it. He had found this house just in time.

  Crow doubted that there would be a house to house search, surely not before they’ve checked every parking lot and street. By then, the Almighty will have pointed the way by which he could continue on his journey.

  But this time he’d be alone. He would no longer have Breen. Poor Leonard had been hurt. He must have been shot. The reports on the scanner didn’t say how severely. Crow wasn’t sure how it had happened, exactly, but he’d heard all those shots; he’d seen Leonard wrestled down. And that bodyguard of Ragland’s, whom they’d both failed to notice, had seen him approaching and had fired at him before he could come to Leonard’s aid.

  Would Leonard talk? No, probably not. But that wouldn’t matter. They would soon know who he is. Fingerprints are checked very quickly these days. And if Leonard had escaped, he would have saved them the trouble. If he and Leonard had managed to get off this island, he’d have told them, with pride, who had done this night’s work. He’d have told them it was they who slew the beast.

  No use worrying about Leonard. The Lord was his shepherd. For now, thought Crow, he’d best clean himself up. He found a half-bathroom; it was just off the kitchen. Because it had no window, he could turn on the light as long as he kept the door closed. He brought the First Aid kit in with him.

  Crow was dismayed by what he saw in the mirror. The right side of his face was nearly covered with blood. Tiny shards from the windshield were embedded in his cheek. One had come within a whisker of his eye. There was a cut on his nose; there were others on his hands, and his jacket, wet with drippings, had a dozen tiny punctures. No wonder those two females in the van were so frightened when he counseled them about their mode of dress.

  He wished now that he’d thought to solicit a donation of any cash they had on them. He had only about sixty dollars in his pocket. He had at least twenty thousand hidden here and there, but most of it was several states away. He had a thousand or so more in their other car, but they’d left that car a few miles off the island after Leonard had acquired that old Buick. He might need to find an interim source of funds.

  He had pulled out the shards that had pierced his skin. They left wounds but not terribly big ones. He washed away the blood and was pleased to see that his face, although pitted, seemed almost unmarred compared to what he had expected. A little ice, some ointment, should do the trick. Perhaps they would look more like blemishes than cuts. At a distance, they might not be noticed.

  He would rest. That was the main thing. He’d go into the living room and lie down on the sofa. He would gather his thoughts and his wits and he’d pray. He would not ask for deliverance. He had no doubt of his deliverance. The Lord would show him the way.

  The next thing he knew, it was morning, full blown. He looked at his watch; it was a quarter past nine. He had slept so soundly for nearly ten hours that not even the scanner had roused him. He felt his face and hands. His wounds were less tender. The ointment he had used had done its work.

  He spent fifteen minutes listening in to the scanner. The traffic that he heard provided few clues as to how the search for him was progressing. They were talking about grids that their cars were patrolling, but the grids were identified by three-digit numbers. Those numbers meant nothing to him. A large screen TV sat across from the sofa. He found the remote and switched it on.

  He tried several channels before coming to one that was showing his face on the screen. He should not have been surprised that they’d identified him so quickly. Even so, it still came as a shock. All they had, however, was that same old photo. It was grainy, indistinct; it had been lifted from a crowd scene and he wasn’t even looking toward the camera. With a change of clothing, a hat, some cosmetics, he would look like a thousand other men on this island. If only he hadn’t been cut.

  There were other surprises. All of them were unpleasant. Leonard Breen was near death; he was on life support, and that evil Philip Ragland was not only still alive; he was well enough to talk to the police. And the commentator seemed to be honoring Ragland. He was talking as if he were a hero.

  The news was almost too much to bear. Leonard’s sacrifice seemed to have been in vain. And more, Leonard hadn’t been shot after all. Someone had stabbed him, stuck a knife in his head, and nobody seemed to be sure who had done it. Why not, he wondered? How could they not know? At least fifty people were there looking on. Could it possibly have been Ragland’s wife? And what about that man with gun? Who was he? There was no mention. All the media seemed to care about was Ragland and his anti-Christ views. But the media, at least, was informative in one way. It said that Philip Ragland was recovering, under guard, at the Hilton Head Medical Center.

  Crow began to have a vision. He was seeing himself at the hospital complex. He’d acquired the smock of an orderly somehow. He was pushing a mop cart or some similar conveyance in which his shotgun was hidden. But wait. Not just the shotgun. He still had some explosives. He had a brick of plastique and a container of thermite. He had fuses, detonators, lengths of pipe in his duffel. He had never put a bomb together himself. That was Leonard’s expertise, but he had watched him assemble them.

  In his vision, he had already visited Leonard. He’d told Leonard that in minutes Ragland’s room would be a furnace. Philip Ragland, his wife, and anyone guarding him would find out what awaits them in hell. Hearing this, Leonard died with a smile on his face. Or Crow assumed so. He couldn’t be sure. He was suffocating Leonard with a pillow at the time. He knew that Leonard would have wanted that assistance.

  But this vision, thought Crow, left some questions unanswered. He hoped that this vision was only a suggestion and not a specific instruction. If a sign, it fell short of helping him to see how he could get out of it alive. He would wait, he decided. There might be another sign.

  As if in response to his wish for such a sign, he heard a buzzing sound coming from his duffel. The sound was his pager. It was in there with a number of cell phones he’d collected during his travels with Leonard. He knew at once who the caller must be. The only two people who could reach him in that manner were Leonard and their patron, Mr. Poole. It seemed very unlikely to be Leonard.

  Crow supposed that he ought to return the call promptly, but he wasn’t sure that he could bear the rebuke that was probably Mr. Poole’s reason for calling. His worst fear was that Poole might cut off his funding. Or suggest that he ret
ire, his work still undone, his place in the rapture still unearned.

  Crow couldn’t blame him for being upset. He had not done well for Mr. Poole in this instance. Philip Ragland would now be more famous than ever. More people would listen to his poisonous views. More innocents would be murdered before they could be born, more young people would be lured to depravity and ruin through drugs, homosexuals and Hollywood films.

  This cannot be allowed. He would silence Philip Ragland. He might, however, be in need of assistance. His God, the true God, unlike that of the Muslims, does not approve of suicide missions.

  He would call Mr. Poole. He’d reaffirm his resolve. They would pray together. They would find a way. He could also use a few hundred dollars.

  All that Aubrey could do now was wait and hope that Crow would respond to the page. Poole felt sure that he would, but Poole was dreading it.

  Stanton Poole, like himself, kept a number of cell phones. Aubrey had provided them; they were specially made. Each, in its way, was secure. Poole had marked each of the phones he used with different symbols, depending on their purpose. The one Crow would be calling, if indeed he did call, was marked with a fish, the Greek symbol for Christ, to which Poole had added the fin of a shark. A shark, thought Aubrey. Now we have Christian sharks. He would not have thought that Poole had that much imagination. At least he hadn’t added a halo to the shark.

  “You’re clear on what to say?” Aubrey asked.

  Poole nodded, eyes closed. “I’m not a very good liar.”

  “That may be, but you are a most excellent believer. Believe this. You won’t enjoy prison.”

  As they waited for the call, Aubrey found himself wondering what the Devil would think of all this. One often hears the phrase, “Give the Devil is due,” but we really never do, he thought, do we? Old Lucifer has to work at such an awful disadvantage. Bad location, to be begin with. Rotten climate. Poorly lit. Tens of thousands of clerics preaching against him and never a word of his side of the story. That’s what happens, of course, when God writes all the books. One would think that he’d open a web site, at least.