“Check in with me again when you get back to your boat. I need you to do more than try.”
Whistler promised that he would. He broke the connection. As he did, they all heard a distant explosion. Like Crow’s bomb, it made a “whoomp” but a much larger “whoomp.” It was probably the tank truck, but it couldn’t have been full. From the sound, the tank had either already ruptured, or it had been nearly empty to begin with. They looked back and they saw a fresh billow of black smoke, but nothing resembling a fireball. Small favors, thought Whistler. It meant that, with luck, no neighboring house had gone with it. With luck no police and no bystanders had been hurt. But Aubrey…and Briggs…and Poole’s assistant must have cooked. He wondered which wallets Carla kept.
Carla leaned forward. She touched Claudia’s shoulder. She said, “You don’t rattle, do you.”
“Don’t be fooled. I was frightened. It’s just hitting me now.”
“You don’t show it now and you didn’t back there. I’d go in with you any time.”
Whistler said, “Carla…for now and forever…don’t even let that thought cross your mind.” He reached to touch Claudia. He asked “How are you feeling?”
“I’d feel better if we could find Leslie.”
Well, right now I’m taking you back to the boat. The minute we learn anything, we’ll call.”
“Where will you be?”
“Carla and I…have to get somewhere quickly. There is still some unfinished business.”
“It’s not Crow. You would have said so. Is it Lockwood?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you know where he’ll be?”
“Yes, I might. If I hurry.”
Carla told her, “He’ll be at the airport. You coming?”
“Damn it, Carla…” said Whistler.
“Yes, I’m coming,” said Claudia.
He said, “Claudia, you won’t be protecting me this time. This is killing. This is not what you do. You’re not coming.”
Carla nudged Claudia. She said, “Maybe he’s right.
“I’m supposed to be with Adam. I’m coming.”
For Arnold Kaplan, however, it was time to go solo. The last thing he wanted was a traveling companion. He had pleaded with Leslie to go her own way. He said, “Goodbye and God bless. You don’t owe me.”
“Owe you? For what? For not leaving me there? You dragged me to that house in the first place.”
“Like I said, now we’re square. No hard feelings? Goodbye.”
As he said this to her, he was pushing a bike. She was pushing a bike alongside him. The front wheel of Leslie’s was bent. It wobbled badly. They were two streets away from the ocean.
She was limping as well. She had banged up her knee. It had happened when he threw her out of the window. There was no time to try to be gallant.
Kaplan had pulled her back out of the closet as soon as he heard all the bullshit going on by people who should have known better. You want to talk, talk, but when you go to shoot, shoot. You don’t have a goddamned town meeting about it. By the time the shooting started and Lockwood still wasn’t down, and everyone was shouting, all at the same time, the window began to look good.
But, luckily, he looked out of it first. And who does he see? Who’s out there? It’s Whistler. He sees Whistler sneaking up to the fence. Right then there’s a second shot fired by Briggs. So here’s two shots, close range, but Lockwood’s still standing. Crow is not exactly standing; what he’s doing is dangling and he’s bleeding all over Lockwood’s crotch. This can’t get much worse, but it does.
Shit hitting the fan doesn’t start to describe the events of the next thirty seconds. Someone drives this big truck through the living room wall. A damned gasoline truck, no less. Whistler’s over the fence and he runs around the front. This was a gift that Kaplan couldn’t pass up. He was going out through that side window.
He hadn’t intended to take Leslie along, but the least he could do was cut her loose. He cut off the towel that he’d wrapped around her eyes and he cut the duct tape from her wrists. He got it all off except for one piece that she couldn’t pull out of her hair. So of course she not only gets her first good look at him, but she insists on bailing out with him.
He should have just freed her hands and left her to do her head while he was already out the window. He also should have told her that Whistler was there. If he had, she might have stayed put. On the other hand, she might have got herself shot by running out of that bedroom. As it was, she took too damned long climbing out. One leg at a time, hold my hand, help me down. That was when he lost patience and threw her.
Kaplan had even less time to waste once he was out the window himself. He would obviously go the opposite way from where Whistler and the truck came in the house. He would sneak around the back and find someplace to hide. The nearest place he could think of was on the far side. Over there was this jungle of solid bamboo that was thick enough to get lost in. So, okay, that’s the plan. He takes off at a run. And what does Leslie do? She takes off along with him. She thinks he must know what he’s doing.
They reached the bamboo and they both hunkered down. By this time, someone’s blasting with an automatic weapon and the demolition derby is continuing. While the gasoline truck is still plowing through the house, the two cars in the garage are plowing out. First the van rips loose and soon the Pontiac follows, both leaving parts all over the street. Next comes a flash, not much noise, just a flash, and it figured to be one of Crow’s amateur bombs. Kaplan’s exit had been very timely.
He could see, although not well, some activity in the kitchen, aside from the kitchen caving in on itself. He could see a small man, it could only have been Aubrey, and he seemed to be maybe in shock. Kaplan watched as this figure came to the door. It was Aubrey, no question, and no question, he was out of it. He sits down on the edge of a patio planter with both his hands covering his face.
Then, out of the house comes this other little figure. Red hair, black face, like a Dennis Rodman dwarf. From her build, though, this dwarf is a female. She’s talking to Aubrey; she’s nose to nose with him. This redhead has a Star Wars gun in one hand and a scary looking knife in the other.
Just then, there’s a screech of brakes from the street. It’s Whistler out there with his Taurus. With him is his woman, the one who took out Crow’s partner. She didn’t look the type then; she doesn’t look the type now, but here she is right in the middle of this and she’s holding a shotgun in her hands.
Whistler’s yelling, it looks like, for the redhead to come. Kaplan looks back and the redhead is coming but she isn’t in any big hurry. And there’s Aubrey, slumped over like he’s taking a nap. Kaplan doubted that Aubrey was sleeping.
He asked Leslie, “What just happened? Did that little guy get whacked?”
She said, “Hey, that’s Adam and Claudia.”
“Did I tell you? They’re fine. But I’m asking what just happened back here on the patio.”
She gave Aubrey a glance. “I wasn’t watching,” she said. While she’s saying it, she starts to climb out of the jungle. She wants to run after Whistler’s Taurus. By now, there are so many sirens in the air that it could have been a bagpipe parade. He grabbed Leslie’s arm. “Would you mind? Get back down.”
“I have to tell them I’m all right. Let me go.”
“Yeah, but I’m not all right. I would like to live through this. Stay down or I’ll smack you. I mean it.”
The issue is moot because by now it’s too late. The redhead gets to the car, she hops in and Whistler goes. He’s gone, but other citizens are just showing up and a few of them are on bikes. Bikes, he thought. Good idea. That could work. The bikes off that van should still be there.
He said to Leslie, “It’s been fun, but I’m outta here. You stay.” He stepped out of the bamboo and walked toward the street, past the house that was now making some serious smoke. He made himself walk at a halting pace that matched those of the other concerned neighbors. Of course
, none of them were dressed quite like him, but he’d remedy that very shortly. He got to the garage. There was one bike in good shape. He knew that him helping himself to a bike might look a little funny to the neighbors. So, okay, he’s a looter. They should live with it. He took the bike, climbed on, and started pedaling. There was only one direction the cops wouldn’t be coming from and that was the beach, maybe four blocks away.
He hears Leslie say, “Wait up. My wheel’s bent.”
He says, “Shit. This cannot be happening.”
Kaplan knew that women do ridiculous things, but for this there could be no excuse. He asked, “Is there something that I didn’t make clear? Try this. You’re a citizen. You like the police. Me, being a felon, I avoid them.”
“Yeah, but why?”
Kaplan thought, see this? He has to explain. “Leslie…pay attention. Avoiding them means I don’t get arrested. Think of my mother, how embarrassed she’ll be, when her friends find out her son’s in the slam.”
She said, “I’m not trying to get you arrested.”
“Then, thank you. You’re a dream. You’re a wonderful person. The thing is, the cops might have other ideas. Now shut your eyes and count to a thousand. I’ve got some disappearing to do.”
She asked, “And what’s this about shutting my eyes?”
As she speaks, she’s pulling at that one strip of duct tape that’s still ensnarled in her hair. She asked, “What was the point in blindfolding me? I must have seen you six times at Jump & Phil’s.”
“There’s a look and there’s a good look. Big difference,” he told her.
“Well, don’t worry. I won’t turn you in.”
This is that syndrome he’d heard about, thought Kaplan. It’s named for someplace in Sweden, maybe Denmark. It’s when hostage victims and kidnap victims end up feeling sympathetic toward their captors.
He told her, “Like I said, I appreciate that. The thing is, though, I have a plan of escape. A key feature of any good plan of escape is not having people watch you while you’re doing it.”
All he needed was ten minutes to get out of these clothes and throw these damned glasses in a bush. Ditch the whole outfit except for the shoes. Underneath these pants is a pair of tan Bermudas, long enough to allow for a gun in his crotch. Underneath this shirt and jacket is a dumb tourist T-shirt from a bar down the road called The Salty Dog Café. Underneath the hat is a bald head with freckles. Poof. In two minutes, he’s unrecognizable. All that’s left is to boost another car.
She asked, “You need a ride? I can give you a ride.”
That was it. The Stockholm Syndrome. He remembered. He said, “No.”
She said, “That means you have a car. How far is it?”
“No car.”
“You know what I’d do first? I’d get out of those clothes.”
“Good idea. I’ll consider it. Now start counting.”
“Wait a minute,” she said. “The red Cadillac, right? And it wouldn’t be far from here, would it.”
“No Cadillac. I dumped it. Start counting.”
“That’s good because the Cadillac’s as bad as that coat. You never thought about a Toyota?”
He said, “Leslie…I like you. I really do. But I think we could use some time apart.”
They both heard the whoomp. They knew the tank truck had blown.
She said, “Arnie, I know these back streets. Do you?”
“I know how to follow a beach.”
“You don’t think you’d stand out on a beach dressed like that? You follow me. I’ll get you to your car.”
THIRTY SEVEN
Lockwood found the pilot in the air crew lounge. The pilot was alone; he was watching TV. Lockwood said, “On your feet. We’re taking off.”
The pilot sat upright, surprised to see Lockwood. He was also surprised to see how Lockwood was dressed. He said, “What’s with the poncho? It’s raining?”
“It might.”
“Jesus,” said the pilot. “What happened to you?”
Lockwood had scrounged through the clothing in the van. Every piece was at least four sized too small. But he found an orange poncho like they wear to football games. He could have done without it saying “Go Bengals” on the back. It would serve, however, to hide his left arm and the sleeve that was blood-soaked where Briggs winged him. It would almost hide the blood on the front of his pants where Crow’s ass leaked all over his fly. It did nothing, however, to hide his lower legs where wood splinters from that doorway had ripped up his trousers and embedded themselves in his shins. He’d been plucking them out ever since.
But Lockwood didn’t care to explain. He said, “Move it.”
“We can’t. My partner…my co-pilot’s missing. He went out for a smoke.
I haven’t heard from him since.”
“Short hop. You don’t need him. Let’s go.”
“What about Mr. Aubrey, Mr. Briggs and that new guy?”
“Mr. Aubrey’s made other arrangements,” Lockwood told him. “That must be where your co-pilot went.”
“Hey, man, I don’t know. Can I call him?”
“Go ahead. Except do it when we get in the plane.”
Carla knew a shortcut to the side of the airport where cargo planes unloaded and where private planes were parked. She’d had cause to scout it earlier that day.
“There’s the van,” she said to Whistler as they approached. Lockwood had left it in a tow-away zone with two wheels up on the curb. She said, “Aubrey’s plane is a Hawker twin engine. It says XA-GA4 on the tail.”
“I know the plane,” said Whistler. “I don’t see it, do you?”
“No, I…yes. There it is. Already taxiing.”
Whistler saw it. It had almost reached the foot of the runway. He asked Carla, “How close can we get?”
“We can drive right down there.”
“In full view of the tower?”
“There’s no tower, Adam. This is not JFK. But you’re right, there are bound to be other eyes watching. I know; we’ll drive down there in the ambulance.”
“What ambulance?”
She pointed to an emergency vehicle that was probably on standby for sick passengers and crashes. She said, “I have an in. We can use it.”
Whistler asked nothing further. He took Carla at her word. He steered the Taurus through a gate that led to storage facilities. In seconds, he’d pulled up to the ambulance.
Claudia hadn’t spoken. She asked, “How will we stop him? Are we going to block the runway with a car?”
“No, we’re not,” Whistler answered.
“Well, then how can you stop him?”
Whistler didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on the jet.
Carla was already out of the Taurus. Whistler climbed out and went back and popped his trunk. But he waited until he saw that Carla had been right. She was able to get into the ambulance and start it. She gave him a thumbs-up sign from the wheel. She revved the engine. “Let’s do it. Let’s roll.” Only then did Whistler reach into the trunk. He drew out the M-87.
Carla saw it and said, “Neat. I heard about those. And I heard about you in Iraq. Good plan, Adam.”
Claudia frowned. She asked, “What plan is that?”
He said, “We gave you the chance not to see this, not to come.”
Carla didn’t give Claudia the chance to say more. She said, “Claudia, hop in the back. Don’t mind Benny.”
Claudia blinked as if to ask, “Who is Benny?” She followed the toss of Carla’s singed head and she looked in the back of the ambulance. A man was lying inside. He was strapped to the gurney. His face was largely covered by an oxygen mask. Both his eyes were swollen shut. She wasn’t sure that he was breathing.
“Co-pilot,” said Carla.
Claudia asked, “Is he dead?”
“He’s medicated, mostly. He’s sleeping it off. Emergency crews use this thing to sack out. I guess that’s why nobody bothered him.”
Whistler checked the breech of
the M-87. He handed it to Carla through the driver’s side window. He said, “Claudia, climb in or stay.”
Carla said, “Get in, Claudia. Don’t feel sorry for Benny. The creep’s a drug courier and a Grade-A lump of shit. The pilot’s even worse. I’ll fill you in.”
Whistler said to her, “Claudia, make up your mind.”
“It was made up a year ago, Adam.”
Aubrey’s pilot had tried to reach Aubrey from the cockpit. Seven rings and he got a recording. “Says the phone’s not in service,” he said to Lockwood. “How could Aubrey’s phone not be in service?”
“Who knows?”
“Maybe I better try Briggs.”
“Suit yourself,” Lockwood told him, “but don’t waste any time.” Lockwood then lit a cigar.
The pilot said, “Hey, Vernon…douse the rope until we’re airborne.”
“I’ll try not to burn a hole in the upholstery.”
The pilot tried Briggs’ number. No recording, but no answer. He might understand Aubrey not wanting to be available, but Briggs was should be always on call.
The pilot said, “I’ll tell you; this doesn’t feel right. I remember the last time we left Briggs behind. He ended up with no face.”
“He’s with Aubrey.”
The pilot, doing pre-flight, saw the crash car coming toward them. He said, “That wouldn’t be Briggs in that ambulance, would it?”
“No, it wouldn’t. Let’s go. Get this thing off the ground.”
“Ten grand,” said the pilot. “This’ll cost you ten grand.”
Lockwood puffed. He said, “You sure you want to fuck with me?”
“If this is straight,” said the pilot, “there’s no charge; we stay friends. If it’s any other way, it’s ten grand. We agreed?”
“Okay, deal. What’s that ambulance doing?”
Carla had stopped two hundred feet from of the jet. Whistler stepped out. He showed himself. He could see Lockwood’s face in the co-pilot’s seat. Whistler ignored him. He pointed his finger at cockpit’s left seat. He made eye contact with the pilot. He held out his arms, palms down, and he crossed them.
Carla said, “That’s baseball, Adam. I think it means safe.”
Whistler's Angel (The Bannerman Series) Page 38
