Whistler's Angel (51 page)

“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, however, 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.