Whistler's Angel (70 page)

Donald saw that
Adam
was staring at him. Donald said, “You feel dumb?
That’s progress. You should. Next time listen when that lady tells you something.”

Whistler sat slowly shaking his head. All the other instances came flowing back. Instances in which he had doubted her. Just today, on the boat, her saying that she knew that Vernon Lockwood had been on it. Her telling him that she could smell him. Her saying, before that, how all this was tied together. She’d said, “I just feel it,” and he had dismissed her. Her saying, before that, that Sergeant Moore could be trusted. That Sergeant Moore was a friend.

Moving that bullet. Maybe she really did that. Making Ragland more comfortable. She definitely did. Knowing that Lockwood intended to kill Leslie. Well, maybe not that one. Too easy.

But the knife…that throw…could she do that every time? Maybe he shouldn’t have doubted that either.

Donald was chuckling. This was also new to Whistler. He could not recall Donald ever chuckling.

He asked Donald, “What is it?”

“Random musings. Nothing much.”

Whistler had also never imagined that Donald ever had random musings. He asked, “Like what? Is this more about Claudia?”

“Yeah, a couple of things,” he said, “but first Kaplan. You know what I think we should do with him?”

“What?”

“Probationary, mind you, but I’d give him a job. This guy is pretty straight in his way.”

Whistler blinked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“It was Kaplan’s suggestion. You can’t say he don’t have balls.”

“And you’re saying you would actually consider it?”

Donald rocked a hand. Then he said, “Yeah, I would. Let’s remember that he tried to save some lives down here, Adam. Let’s remember that he would have popped Lockwood and Crow before any more damage was done. All he had to do to get rid of Leslie was whack her one in the mouth. If he did that, he could have been gone.”

“Yeah, but still…”

“And besides, he took a bath on the deal he had with Aubrey. Guy could use the work. Why not try him?”

Harry said, “Adam? You’ll have to call this one.”

Whistler grunted. He asked Donald, “Will you check him out?”

“Yeah, of course. I’m feeling generous, not stupid.”

“Let’s talk again after you’ve done that.”

Whistler made a mental note on the subject of hiring. He wondered how Sergeant Ed Moore might feel about working out of Geneva.

Donald said, “Where was I? Oh, Claudia and Carla. What three words would you never expect Carla to say?”

“I love you?”

“No, I’m serious. Try again. This is good.”

“I forgive you?” asked Whistler.

“Who, Carla? Get real. Try again, but think social. Think women.”

“Let’s do lunch?” asked Harry.

“You got it,” said Donald. “She wants to take Claudia to lunch.”

As the shock from that revelation receded, Whistler noticed that Donald wasn’t smiling anymore. His expression had become pensive.

Whistler asked him, “Something else about Carla?”

“About Claudia.”

“Well?” Whistler asked.

“It’s too dumb. Never mind.”

“Come on, give,” said Harry. “What about her? What is it?”

Donald grimaced. He asked Whistler, “Are you sure you hit that plane?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Two clean hits on the engines, killed them both. It had no place to go from there but down.”

“Hell of a shot. But as long as you’re sure. I just wondered about Claudia being with you is all.”

“Donald…” said Whistler, “tell us what’s on your mind.”

“I hear she talks to birds. Is that true? She talks to birds?”

“What could that have to do with Lockwood’s plane?”

Donald hesitated. He said, “I don’t know. I guess nothing. It’s just that back on your boat, they had the radio on. They were talking about that plane and why it splashed. They were talking about what they think downed it.”

“Well?”

“They were saying they think it was birds.”

FORTY

Th
ree days after the attempt on Philip Ragland’s life, Poole’s death made the six o’clock news.
It was not a major story. It appeared in fourth position. It was only three sentences long
.

The
director of the Center for Policy Analysis had thrown himself through the eighth floor window of his office building in Washington. Poole was alone in his office at the time. No suicide
note
had been found. Some who knew him reported that in recent days, Stanton Poole had seemed profoundly depressed
.

Wh
istler asked his father, “Was that really a suicide?”

H
is father said, “It’s over. What’s the difference?”

P
oole might, in fact, have taken his own life. He might have received a telephone call telling him that he would soon be indicted and disgraced. The caller might have described in detail the public ordeal that would follow
.
W
histler knew, however, that the Beasley twins had not been seen on the island that day. He knew that Carla Benedict had also departed on her way back to Westport, Connecticut. He knew that soon he would begin to hear rumors that the three of them had paid Poole a visit. The story would go something like this
.

T
he Beasley twins would have found a way into the building where Poole had his office. They would have brought Carla Benedict with them. While one twin stood guard to insure a private meeting, the other would have introduced her to Poole. The twin who remained would have told Stanton Poole that she was the one who, a year before that, had restructured the face of his man, Briggs. He would have asked her to show him her knife. He would have told him that Carla was also the one who shot off Briggs’ leg at the knee
.

C
arla would have sat quietly during this recitation. She would have kept her eyes locked on those of Stanton Poole. Her cheek would have shown a disturbing twitch of the kind one associates with madness. She would have caressed her long and thin knife as she sat.
T
he twin doing the talking – Donald, most likely - would next have described what she’d done to Felix Aubrey. Poole had seen for himself the extent of Aubrey’s injuries and was aware of how badly he’d been crippled. But he hadn’t been told how slowly, and precisely, and painfully, the incisions had been made. Donald might have asked Carla to demonstrate by showing him where she would begin. Or Carla might have laid out a few other tools. A corkscrew. A saw. A pair of pliers
.

D
onald Beasley might have told him that he had two choices. The slow way or the quick way, the window. He might have told Poole that they would much prefer the knife.
Poole would now have ten seconds to decide
.

I
t may or may not have happened that way. They might have had to throw him out the window and been done with it. Whatever the story, it would spread over time. It might vary in a number of details. But Carla would be a constant. And her knife would be a constant. One other constant would have been that Poole had died because he’d broken his word to Harry Whistler.

T
here might be those who would challenge the story, citing the fact that the building was secure. Coded cards were needed at every entrance. Coded car
d
s were
needed in the elevators as well. Without the proper card, the elevator would not have stopped on the floor where the Center had its offices. Those cards were said to be impossible to duplicate. No uninvited visitor could possibly have gained access without having been issued a card. But Whistler remembered what was in Carla’s hand as she emerged from that house in North Forest Beach. She was carrying two wallets in her hand
.

S
o, no matter what the truth might have been, no matter whether Poole was with them or alone when he threw himself from that window, the story would be some version of the former. If the story were doubted, either Donald or Carla would probably produce one of those coded cars and lay it on a table. Enough said
.
W
histler’s father had always known the value of such stories. He kn
e
w how to use reputations
.

F
elix Aubrey, with treatment, had largely recovered from a state that had been near-catatonic. Still hospitalized and under close guard; he was in FBI custody
.

W
histler’s father had decided to go easier on Aubrey. This turned out to be at Kate Geller’s urging. He’d been persuaded that Aubrey was more or less innocent of much that had happened on the island. More than that, Felix Aubrey had been genuinely horrified when he thought that Whistler had already been killed and that Claudia had been kidnapped by Lockwood. True enough, he might have seen to it that Adam Whistler‘s photo would appear in the media, worldwide if he’d had time, but otherwise he’d kept the agreement
.

T
he agreement, in any case, was now null and void. Aubrey knew that his ledger would soon be made public. He’d already agreed to cooperate fully with the various legal authorities. Aubrey, as far as Harry Whistler was concerned, was welcome to make whatever bargain he could in order to avoid a term in prison. He was welcome to avail himself of Witness Protection whether he served time or not. Harry’s friend, Roger Clew, the State Department official, had flown down and visited Felix Aubrey to make sure that Aubrey understood his options.

O
nce he was relocated – and Harry Whistler would know where – Felix Aubrey was told that he must never again step beyond the city limits of that place. While there, he would spend nearly all his free time performing community service. Specifically, for three nights a week, he would serve as a cook in a shelter for the homeless. He would join a church, never failing to attend. He would volunteer as a Sunday School instructor and he’d work with the Scout troop if it had one. If no troop, he’d volunteer to be a crossing guard at the nearest elementary school.