Whistler's Angel (32 page)

“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.”

W
histler 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 forward, 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.”

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,
g
o 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.”