Whistler's Angel (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  She shrugged and said, “Then I must have heard wrong. Who knows how these stories get started? This one said that he’d been laid up for months, that he very nearly was paralyzed, I think. Some fragments had lodged against his spine.”

  “He’s…had some back problems. Maybe that’s how it got started. When was this supposed to have happened?”

  “I guess…let me think…well, it doesn’t really matter. You’re saying it was only a rumor.”

  “But when was it?”

  “Oh, a long while ago. Let’s see. First your mother.” Olivia was counting in her head and on her fingers. “Then you lost your sister about a year later. This would have been a few months after that. I remember thinking how bad luck comes in threes.”

  “Did the rumor mill tell you who shot him and why?”

  “Adam, did it happen or not?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “It was someone involved in the death of your sister. Or rather, it was someone who paid someone else. The story is that your father meted out his own justice to several of the men who were responsible. The story is also that he missed one or two and that oversight came back to haunt him.”

  That studio executive? And the son that survived? This would have happened, if indeed it did happen, soon after his father packed him off to the army. Ridiculous, thought Whistler. He would have known. His father’s back problems had nothing to do with that sad episode in Los Angeles.

  He saw that Claudia had stepped from the room. He said, “Olivia, I’m pleased to have met you again. And my father’s just fine, by the way.”

  “I’m glad.”

  Claudia approached them with a soft little smile. Whistler noticed that she seemed to have regained her figure. She said to Olivia, “Your husband is awake. I think he’s beginning to feel better.”

  Olivia blinked. She asked, “How much better?” She glanced down toward his door as if she expected her husband to come prancing through it, all healed.

  Whistler said, “Olivia…steady.”

  “He’s not hurting,” said Claudia. “He could raise his arm a little.”

  Whistler said, “That’s the morphine. Great stuff.”

  Olivia asked, “Did he remember you, Claudia? Last night he wasn’t quite sure that you’re real.”

  “He still wasn’t, at first.”

  “The morphine,” said Whistler.

  “But he is now,” said Claudia. “He wanted to touch me. We held hands and that seemed to make him feel better. Now he’s asking for you, Mrs. Ragland.”

  Whistler asked, “Where’s your vest? Did you leave it with him?”

  Olivia had noticed. “Yes, she did. I’ll go get it.”

  “Let him keep it,” said Claudia. “I don’t really need it.”

  “She means,” said Whistler quickly, “that we’re leaving the island.”

  Olivia curled her lip. She said, “Adam, relax. I know that she does not think she’s bulletproof.”

  I wish I knew that, thought Whistler. He said, “We’d better go.”

  Olivia touched him. “Can’t you stay for a while? Give me a minute to look in on Philip. You can’t just walk out of our lives after this.”

  “I’ll call you when this settles down.”

  “You promise?” She reached into her purse for a card.

  He took the card from her. “I promise.”

  “It won’t be another sixteen years, will it, Adam?”

  This last startled Claudia. “You…two knew each other?”

  Olivia nodded. “From a long time ago. He’d forgotten.”

  Whistler said, “I’ll tell you all about it in the car. Right now, let’s go get the boat ready.”

  Kaplan had pulled off Palmetto Bay Road to listen to the traffic on the scanner. He’d feared that the barmaid’s cop friend had got curious and called in a license plate check. But he heard nothing on the scanner. Nor had the cop thought to follow them. Kaplan would have seen him go by.

  He pulled out again and proceeded toward the bridge. He told Crow, “From the bridge you can see Whistler’s boat. Can’t miss it. It’s the biggest one down there.”

  But Lockwood said, “No. We need to see it up close.”

  “Close how? You mean you want to drive down there?”

  “Yeah, we do.”

  Kaplan explained what “driving down there” entailed. There was only one road into Palmetto Bay. There was no other way in or out. Once there, they’d have to park and walk down a long ramp before finally reaching the boat slips. There’s no cover. It’s all open. They would stand out too much. The Goodyear Blimp would have an easier time getting down there without being noticed.

  “By Whistler, you mean?”

  “By anyone, Vernon. None of us look especially yacht-ish.”

  “Let’s just worry about Whistler. He might not be there. We’ll check out the lot for his car.”

  You want a car, thought Kaplan? So okay, we’ll find a car. He turned down the road, drove to Palmetto Bay and into its complex of restaurants and shops. The parking area was half-filled with cars. Kaplan spotted a brown Toyota sedan. “There it is. He’s back. So let’s go.”

  “Arnold…cut the crap. Whistler’s driving a Ford. Check out the rest of the lot.”

  Kaplan cursed beneath his breath. He had hoped that Lockwood hadn’t noticed the make when Whistler’s had car passed them on the bridge. He cruised up and down the several rows of parked cars. Whistler’s car was not among them. Whistler hadn’t returned.

  “Okay,” said Lockwood, “pull up near the ramp. Me and Mr. Crow will get out and go take a look. You stay with the car and keep watch.”

  “You’re serious, right? You and Crow, dressed like that. In broad daylight, you’re going to take a stroll down the dock.”

  Lockwood paused to unwrap another cigar. That done, he reached into his overnight bag and extracted his Glock and the silencer. He screwed the silencer into its tap and placed the gun back in his bag. He said, “Mr. Crow, I think Arnold has a point. Strip down to your golf shirt and shorts, okay? All the other golf shit can stay here.”

  “I’ll need my golf bag.”

  “You don’t need the whole bag; just give me the thing. I’ll carry it down there myself.”

  Kaplan watched in dismay as Crow unzipped his golf bag and withdrew what was clearly a bomb. It was ten inches long, three inches across, made of PVC pipe wrapped in duct tape. At one end was a clump of electronic devices bound together in a haphazard fashion. There was a timer, two batteries and what he knew to be a fuse except this one looked more like a toy.

  Kaplan blinked. Oh, Christ. That’s exactly what it was. The fuse was the kind that Hobby Shops sell as part of a rocket-building kit. It was the kind that teenagers tell each other about when they talk about blowing up their high schools. Except they probably know better than to use plastic pipe. You might just as well pack it in cardboard. Unless…

  Kaplan said, “Wait a second. Is that fucking thing live?” Unless what’s

  packed in it is thermite.

  “Not yet,” Crow answered. “One must first set the timer.”

  “And you’re going to do what? You’re going to plant that on the boat?”

  Lockwood slipped it into his overnight bag, taking care not to cover his gun and his cell phones. He said, “It’s insurance. It’s for later.”

  Kaplan threw the gearshift into park and scrambled out of the car. Lockwood ordered him back. He said, “Get in here. Drive us closer.”

  “Screw you. You want to do this? From here you can walk.”

  “You hear me? I told you to get back in the car.”

  “Vern…kiss my ass. I’ll see you later.”

  Lockwood, for once, didn’t bother to fight him. Kaplan watched, arms folded, from behind a parked pick-up as Lockwood and the wacko climbed out. Leaving the golf bag was a modest improvement, but still, there they were, the suit and the golfer where everyone else was dressed in deck shoes and grubs. Lockwood, howe
ver, had the sense to tell Crow to walk at least twenty feet behind him. This was after he realized that the golf shoes still clacked.

  Beautiful, thought Kaplan. Here they go with their amateur bomb, Crow wearing shoes that make sparks on the pavement, Lockwood with a lit cigar in his mouth, and they’re both on their way to a fuel dock. If God was good, if God had a sense of humor, he would finish this whole thing in one loud ka-boom. Talk about not leaving a trace.

  “Arnold? You call me if Whistler shows up.”

  “Call you for what? Where the hell could you hide?”

  “Lots of other boats down there. We’ll duck in one until it’s clear. You just keep your eyes open up here.”

  Kaplan watched them go until they sank from his view on reaching the ramp to the docks. He wished that he could call Mr. Aubrey again but Lockwood had the Aubrey phone with him. His impulse was, once again, to drive off. He could go to the airport; he could sit there and wait until Aubrey showed up with some help. But that was no good because God only knew what these two might do if he stranded them here. They’d have to snatch another car and throw its owner in the trunk because they couldn’t leave someone who could give their description. They might even decide to stay near Whistler’s boat and take Whistler and the girl when they got back. And Mr. Aubrey had said, “I’m relying on you.” He said, “See that they behave until I get there.”

  He would stay, thought Kaplan. He would give them twenty minutes. In the meanwhile, he would check out the contents of the golf bag and see what else he was dealing with here.

  Whistler waited until they’d returned to the car before he told her how and when he’d met Olivia before. She responded, “Did I tell you? I knew it.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Well, not that you’d known her, but I felt a connection. I was right. She was practically family back then.”

  “She knew my mother and she went to her funeral. That’s all. You’re reading too much into this.”

  “Adam, how can I help it? This all ties together. Don’t you feel that it all ties together somehow? Don’t you feel that we have to find out how?”

  “Claudia…I’m leaving. Are you coming with me?”

  “What kind of a question is that?”

  “It’s a man who is asking the woman he loves to get out before someone else gets hurt.”

  “And you’d leave without me? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Not a chance. I was trying to be forceful.”

  “Then we’ll go.”

  This was what he’d hoped to hear, but it was still a surprise. “You’re…not going to say, ‘Let’s see how this plays out?’ You’re not going to insist that we stay?”

  “If you want to leave, I’ll leave with you, of course. I’ve a feeling that we’re not going to get very far, but sure, let’s give it a shot.”

  “And you have this feeling…because why, exactly?”

  “Because I think we were sent here. I told you.”

  “Claudia…wait a minute. This impression you have. Is this what I have to look forward to with you? A new mission from the white light every few months? Because I’ll tell you right now, if that’s how it’s going to be…”

  “You’d leave me?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’d what?”

  “I’d just hate it.”

  She leaned into him. She embraced him. “I know. And you’re right. I can see how this could get a little creepy for you.”

  “Claudia…what happened back up there with Ragland?”

  “We just talked and held hands for a while.”

  “Did you know that he thought you were an actual angel? I mean the kind that materializes out nowhere?”

  “I do now. He still did when he opened his eyes.”

  “Did you tell him last night that it wasn’t his time. That he shouldn’t be afraid. Did you say that?”

  Claudia frowned. She was trying to remember. “I…suppose I might have said something like that. But so did his wife. We both said he’d be okay. It wasn’t meant to be a prophecy, Adam.”

  “You’re saying you were only encouraging him. Good.”

  “Except he still thinks I made his bullet come out. Did you know that he thought I did that?”

  “Yes, I did. On the boat. From Sergeant Moore.”

  “Do you think there’s any chance that it could possibly be true? Do you think I could have possibly done that?”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t think so either, but there in his room…all I did was hold his hand and he felt better.”

  “He felt better because he was under sedation. He felt better because he expected to feel better just by seeing you and having you touch him. I feel better myself every time I see you smile. None of this is miraculous, Claudia.”

  “Okay.”

  Uh-oh, he thought. “That’s it? Just okay?”

  “Well, I don’t know why you’re resisting this, Adam. He felt better. He was happy. Who cares why?”

  “I suppose.”

  “First you’re afraid that I think I’m immortal and am going to be unpleasantly surprised. And now you’re afraid that I think I’m a healer. You think that every time I see someone on crutches I’m going to want to run up and touch him. It’s nothing like that, Adam. I just held the man’s hand. Wow, talk about reading too much into things.”

  “It’s what other people read into it, Claudia. I know something about reputations.”

  “Want to screw?” she asked. “Would that lighten you up?”

  “Claudia…”

  “Adam, I’m making a point. Mystics and healers who think they’re immortal almost never think in terms of a romp in the sack. That should give you a clue. I’m still me.”

  “Which reminds me…”

  “Of course, screwing is healing. It does wonders for tension. Unless you’ve been hanging out in bathhouses lately. That would crank up the tension on my end.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Whistler, “of what I think is sexy. I have a fetish for women who wear kevlar vests. They make me soar to new heights of passion. Too bad you no longer have yours.”

  “I see what’s coming.”

  “If you were to wear mine until we’re well out to sea…”

  “Smoothly done. But you keep it. No one wants to shoot me.”

  “Claudia…”

  “Adam,” she touched him, “I can’t lose you either. End of discussion. Let’s get back to the boat.”

  “We can be out to sea in an hour.”

  Lockwood hated to admit it, but Kaplan had a point. A guy wearing golf shoes would tend to stand out on your average marina or boat. Crow had left a trail of little patterns of punctures in the planking all the way to the fuel dock. But they’d come this far and no one paid them much attention. Whistler’s boat was ten feet in front of him.

  He’d approached it from the stern with one hand in his bag. The hand gripped the Glock with the silencer on it. This was just in case. He would prefer not to need it. From the looks of the boat, he would not.

  The first thing he noticed was the open hatch. Knowing Whistler, it was almost too good to be true, even without last night’s shooting. He stepped closer and listened for sounds from below. There was nothing. Not even a radio.

  Someone had left what looked like a crab trap next to the gasoline pumps. He told Crow to go get it, pretend that he’s crabbing. Do it facing the ramp, sing out if someone comes, try not to get stuck to the planks.

  “Do you know how to set the bomb’s timer?” Crow asked.

  “Like any alarm clock, right?”

  “Pretty much. But how do you know when they’ll be here?”

  “Figure dinner. They all should be here about then.”

  “I’ll want to watch. I’ll want to be back here.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re around.”

  Not alive, thought Lockwood, but somewhere around. He spotted a little hinged plate on the
deck a few inches inside the railing. It seemed to be a gas cap, just like on a car. He said, “Good. Now we know where the tank is, Mr. Crow. And it figures that the tank is nice and full.”

  “In that case,” said Crow, “I’d dispose of that cigar.”

  Lockwood puffed it. “It’s okay. It’s almost out.”

  He stepped aboard Last Dollar with his bag in one hand and his other hand still on his Glock. But no question about it; there was no one below. A tangle of rope had been left across the hatch. On purpose, he wondered? Let’s assume it’s on purpose. Gently, he placed the bag on the deck. He used one hand to anchor the coil and the other to ease the loops to one side as he backed his way down through the hatch. Once inside, he reached out to get the bag.

  The boat’s main salon seemed the most likely place. It was where they would probably gather. He looked around for a cabinet or drawer in which he could place Crow’s contraption. There were several in the galley; it adjoined the main salon, but they all were stocked with utensils or food and seemed likely to be opened once the guests were on board. Same problem with the bar. They’d be using the bar. He found a hatch on the floor of the main passageway with a chrome-plated ring at one end. He lifted the hatch. Underneath was the engine. He got down on his knees and reached for the fuel line. He tried to loosen it. It gave. But only a little. He felt cool moisture on his thumb and forefinger. Not much of a leak, but it might leak a lot more once the engine was started and the pressure increased. Whistler might smell the gas, but he’d think it’s the fuel dock. With luck, he wouldn’t bother to check.

  Lockwood looked for a place where the bomb could be stashed. Near the engine would be good, but he could see no nook or cranny where the bomb would be completely out of sight. Better not trust to luck in this case, he decided. If Whistler did lift this hatch, he would spot it. Lockwood knew what he’d do. Stick it under Whistler’s bed. If he put it just under the foot of the bed, that was also just about where the fuel tank should be. He walked back to the stateroom. This was perfect, he thought. Very carefully, he set the timer.

  He was on his way out when he saw a blinking light on a panel that held all kinds of instruments. He paused to look, but he was hesitant to touch any of the boat’s electronics. They all had black sign plates that said what they were, but he knew very little about such devices. Lockwood was afraid that he might mess something up and then Whistler would know someone had been here. Kaplan would know what these instruments were. He could call him and ask, but that would just bring more bitching. Kaplan needed a lesson in who’s boss around here. That could wait, though. One lesson at a time.