Whistler's Angel (The Bannerman Series)

by Maxim, John R.

  “Do you have a problem with that?” he asked Leslie.

  She shook her head slowly. “I’m okay with it, I guess.”

  “You’re sure?”

  A slow nod. “And Claudia still didn’t...”

  “Didn’t what? What is it?”

  “And Claudia still didn’t throw the knife at that man?”

  He looked into her eyes. “No, she didn’t. Thank you, Leslie.”

  She touched both their arms. “No, thank you.”

  They had left Jump & Phil’s in the car he had rented. They had managed to avoid the photographers. They were on the road that led back to the Marina. She still had barely spoken. She was hugging herself.

  He reached to touch her. “How are you holding up?”

  She answered in a whisper. “I don’t know yet.”

  “Claudia, what you did back there saved a man’s life. The one you… distracted...would have shot him again.”

  “He did shoot again. He killed two other people.”

  “That was my fault, not yours. I was not quick enough.”

  She turned her face from him. “You know that isn’t true.” She remembered that he’d wanted to stay out of this. That he’d tried to keep her from interfering.

  “Claudia...those dead people...where are they now?”

  “Where are they? They’re dead. They’re on their way to a morgue.”

  “Yes, but you know better. No one really dies.”

  She turned her head, looked at him, said nothing for a moment. Then, “Adam, I know what you’re trying to do. I appreciate it, really, but don’t.”

  He let up on the gas. He said, “No, hear me out. I remember when you told me about the white light. You said it’s really there. You really see it when you die. So aren’t they with your white light?”

  “Adam, stop,” she said firmly. “I know you don’t believe that.”

  “What I believe is one thing. What you know is another. You know that right now they feel nothing but peace. You’ve been there. You know they’re okay.”

  That’s unless, of course, they were still in the restaurant, floating around, looking down from the ceiling. That’s another thing people say they’ve done when they died. Then the long black tunnel, and then the white light. But wherever they were, saying this wasn’t helping. Claudia had put her hands to her face and was rocking back and forth in her seat.

  He said, “One more thing. The man you hit isn’t dead.” This was true, but then neither is a radish.

  “Do you think he might live?”

  “Well…”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “Look, the damage was done when I took him down. There are people who’ve survived getting hit with an axe. He would have survived that little puncture of yours if the floor hadn’t knocked the knife sideways.”

  “The floor or you?”

  “Okay, me. But not you.”

  She did not speak again for a half-mile or so. She had turned her face toward her window.

  “Adam?”

  “I’m here.”

  “How did you feel? I don’t mean back there. How did you feel the first time you killed?”

  “That was entirely different.”

  “How so?”

  “It was in the Gulf war. It never seemed personal. I was also part of a team that was trained for it. And we did it at a distance. Not like tonight. We never saw the looks on their faces.”

  “It was personal later, though, wasn’t it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And up close.”

  “Now and then.”

  “How did those make you feel?”

  Whistler chewed his lip. He would rather not have answered. But he thought of one instance that he hoped would be of help. “Later on, down in Mexico, there were two men in particular. They had captured one of ours and they tortured him to death. They took their time. He took several days to die. Do you want to hear what they did to him?”

  “No.”

  “What they did, they’d done to others. They’d have done it again. I did not feel an ounce of regret when I caught up to them. That man tonight must have done this before. Now he’ll never hurt anyone again.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  He took a breath. “…No.”

  “You must have felt something. What did you feel?”

  “Not much. Not much of anything.” Like stepping on bugs. “Again, you must remember…I was trained for this, Claudia. Don’t look for me to have felt what you’re feeling.”

  She thought for a moment. “What did Sergeant Moore say? He said that for you it was a walk in the park. He’s right. You never batted an eye. You were so very calm and deliberate.”

  Whistler frowned. He did not want this discussion. “Claudia…this is not about me.”

  “You can be so gentle. You can be so kind. It’s been hard for me to grasp that the Adam I know is a man so many people are afraid of. Are there two of you, Adam?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you’re able to separate who you are from what you do. How does one manage to do that?”

  “I suppose…I don’t know…I’ve never given it much thought. I guess you sort of keep it in a different place. A prizefighter does that. He leaves it in the ring. The man he is when he’s trying to hurt someone is not the man he is when he’s home with his kids.”

  “But that’s not you, Adam. You’re the same either way. I guess I’m still trying to understand that.”

  He’d had conversations with Claudia before this about how one becomes an Adam Whistler. His sister’s death was part of it. She’d understood that. And the Army had a good deal to do with it. But mostly, he supposed, it was the way he’d grown up. He’d had, by most standards, two excellent parents. There was no lack of love and affection and guidance. He’d been taught a clear sense of what’s right and what’s wrong, what is honorable and what is not. But he would grant that the standards learned at Harry Whistler’s knee were somewhat more pragmatic than most.

  “What I am…what I became, has no application to what you did tonight in that restaurant. That was an accident. You were trying to do your job.”

  “What job was that, Adam?”

  “Protecting me.”

  “I didn’t protect you. Not one little bit. All I did was pull you off balance for a second. He wasn’t going to shoot at you anyway.”

  “Okay, so you protected someone else. The white light didn’t say just me, no one else. Did you expect that knife to stick, by the way?”

  “I don’t know what I expected. I just wanted to stop him.”

  “So all you could do, sitting that far away, was pick up what was handy and throw it. Where it hit was either inhumanly skillful…which you’re not…wait a minute. Have you practiced throwing knives?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever even thrown one? At a tree, for example?”

  “Not that I can remember. I don’t think so.”

  He had thought of Carla Benedict, a wizard with a knife. But not even

  Carla could have done that.

  “Do you think the white light might have guided your hand? If that’s the case, you can hardly blame yourself. As a matter of fact…”

  “You’re humoring me, Adam. Please don’t.”

  “I’ll shut up.”

  Perhaps it was best not to say any more until she was ready to talk. He’d been about to get off on the subject of powers. They’d talked about that, whether angels have powers. Maybe one of those powers is to snatch up a knife and make an impossible throw.

  Except she also used to pitch. There’s one answer. A good arm. The throw might have been a million to one shot, but so is a hole in one playing golf and those are made every day.

  “You want to know what I believe in?” he said to her quietly.

  “Not in any higher power. But you wait. You’ll find out.”

  “I believe in you, Claudia. You’re my higher power. If there’s anything
else, it will be frosting on the cake.”

  She said nothing. But she reached and she gave him a squeeze.

  He parked the car and locked it. They walked down to the boat.

  She asked, “Will there be trouble?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not.”

  That business of mispronouncing their names might be useless, but he’d thought it was still worth a try. By tomorrow, maybe no one would care who they were because they’ll have become minor players. The big story will be, and should be, this Philip Ragland. Who he was and who wanted him dead and why. And the hunt for the shooter’s accomplice.

  She said, “Let’s take the boat out.”

  “That might not look good.”

  “Not far. We can anchor just out in the Sound. If that deputy needs to find us, he’ll see us out there.”

  He thought about that. “Sure, let’s do it.”

  “I’d like to go to bed and I’d like you to hold me. That’s all. Just hold me, all right?”

  “Sure it is. We’ll turn off the phones.”

  “And thank you, Adam. Thanks for everything you’ve said. You really are a special kind of man.”

  SIXTEEN

  The next morning, Whistler was on deck before daybreak, but not to admire the sunrise. He had brought a portable TV with him and set it on a foldout table at the stern. He was eager to see how the shooting was reported on the local and regional news. He wanted to do so without waking Claudia. She’d had a troubled night before she finally slept. He’d heard her pacing the cockpit.

  As he waited for the six o’clock broadcasts to come on, he was struck by the utter tranquility all around him. Every home on shore was dark. Few cars were moving. A soft breeze had risen out of the West. The events of last night almost seemed like a dream. They were not the sort of thing that ever happened in such places. He feared that the story, for that very reason, would attract much wider attention.

  The news came on and, as he’d expected, the shooting was the opening lead. Whistler reached to turn the volume down low.

  The local newscaster was a good-old-boy type, named Billy something or other. He began by announcing a “wild west-type shootout” in a popular Hilton Head restaurant. As he spoke, film came on. It was all of the aftermath. Flashing lights, jerky cameras, police cordoning the area.

  The newscaster gave the names of the three shooting victims. Two had been pronounced dead at the scene. The older man outside who’d been shot through the glass was a tourist from Ridgewood, New Jersey. The woman inside who’d got up to run was a real estate broker on the island. A photo of Ragland came on the screen. The newscaster said he was in “guarded” condition and that he was recovering from surgery. He said, “More about Philip Ragland later.”

  The “alleged assailants” got only three sentences. The shooter wasn’t dead yet; he was on life support. He was given little chance of recovering. His “suspected accomplice” was still being sought. Neither man had been identified, no hint as to motive. Whistler, however, felt reasonably sure that Sergeant Moore had been right. Ragland’s broadcasts had probably offended some wacko. It was certainly not a professional hit. A pro might still have done it in a crowded bar because a pro would know the value of confusion and panic. A pro, however, would have gone for a head shot. A pro would not have bellowed, “God is not mocked.” He would have said nothing at all.

  The newscaster, having glossed over the assailants, took a breath and launched into an excited account of how the “enraged local patrons” reacted. While some inside the restaurant attacked the first gunman, others outside tried to stop his accomplice, heroically risking their lives. But Whistler wasn’t mentioned, not even as Wismer. The account made no reference to Claudia whatsoever. It mentioned the knife with which someone “stabbed” the gunman “during the ensuing melee.” It said another patron then picked up the gunman’s pistol and fired at the getaway driver outside. “That patron has not been identified.”

  Another video segment came on that had been shot by an on-the-scene reporter. It was shot from a distance through the shattered front door. It focused mostly on the EMS crew that was wheeling Ragland out on a gurney. Whistler saw himself and Claudia; they were still at the bar, but her head was down and his own was turned toward her. The camera caught them only in passing.

  Whistler could hardly believe his good luck. He was one of the “enraged local patrons” at most. Just one of the crowd. So was Claudia.

  The photo of Ragland reappeared on the screen. The photo had been posed, a publicity glossy. The newscaster’s voice-over personality.” described Philip Ragland as a “tabloid TV host. Its tone struck Whistler as borderline contemptuous. Ragland, he said, had espoused such causes as “abortion on demand and gay rights.” The phrase, “gay rights,” was said drippingly. He said that Ragland was also a leading proponent of “making the use of drugs legal.” The newscaster noted that Ragland’s positions ran counter to traditional values, and, “are not those of this station or its management.” He stopped short of suggesting that whoever shot Ragland might have done a community service.

  Whistler switched channels, looking for a network station. He had almost forgotten that except for resorts and the larger cities, this was still Bible Belt country. And this was a State that still had laws on the books forbidding oral sex of any kind, gay or straight. He was nonetheless pleased that Ragland’s views were the story and that his own role was totally ignored. He found CNN’s Headline News.

  Whistler was dismayed, though not entirely surprised, to see that CNN had named the shooting as one of the morning’s top stories. But again, its emphasis was primarily on Ragland and its treatment was considerably more generous. Ragland’s program was far from a tabloid TV show according to this network anchor. It was known for supporting libertarian causes and had won any number of Emmys. Ragland and his wife had shared a Pulitzer Prize in the field of investigative reporting. He had also testified at congressional hearings looking into…

  “Good morning,” said Claudia.

  She’d awakened after all. She was standing below, looking up through the hatch while slipping into her robe. He looked for that big good-morning smile that he’d grown used to. She tried, but she couldn’t quite manage it.

  He said, “Hi, there. How are you feeling this morning?”

  “A little better, I think.”

  “I heard you up here last night. I heard you talking to yourself. I would have come up, but…”

  “It’s better you didn’t. I had things to work out.” She waved off the subject. She gestured toward the screen. “I didn’t hear us mentioned. How are we?”

  “So far, so good. We just might slip through the cracks. So far, we’re not even a footnote.”

  “And the man…Philip Ragland?”

  “He’ll recover, thanks to you. Come on up and watch. I’ll fill you in.”

  “In a minute. Let me put on some coffee.”

  Whistler turned up the volume so that she could hear. The phrase, “libertarian causes” was repeated.

  “Libertarian causes?” she asked from the galley. “What does that mean? Did they say?”

  “Well, to me it means leaving people alone. Staying out of their personal lives.”

  “Adam, I know that. I meant in this case. Which cause was he for that got him shot?”

  Whistler shrugged. “I guess we’ll know when they’ve ID’d the shooter. If they have, they’re not saying so as yet.”

  “Or what he’s against. Is he anti-religious?”

  “Why? Because of what the shooter yelled out? That couldn’t be it. His program would have dumped him at the first sign of that. But who knows what people get into their heads? Some nut might have thought he was the anti-Christ.”

  He changed channels again to another network station. This one, a Fox affiliate, was doing a piece about Ragland’s opposition to the drug laws. The Raglands had been awarded their Pulitzer, it said, for a series on the “more enlightened drug measures unde
rway in certain European countries.” He’d also won an Emmy for a feature he’d done that condemned the asset forfeiture laws.

  Uh-oh, thought Whistler. This was getting close to home.

  The Fox commentator summarized that legislation. It had been enacted as a weapon against major drug kingpins, but had led to a number of outrageous abuses against people with no drug involvement. The commentator was citing examples. A California man owned several hundred acres of undeveloped land outside Malibu. Marijuana plants were found on the property. The owner lived elsewhere, had no criminal record, had no provable knowledge that the plants were on his land. Even so, the property was forfeit. Although the matter was still in the courts, some of that acreage had already been sold and the proceeds used to hire more police. Ragland charged that the seizure was a land-grab, pure and simple. The county had tried to buy some of that land, then they’d tried to condemn it without success. In the end, they decided to just take it.

  In Massachusetts there was even a ship-grab. The Wood’s Hole Oceanographic Institute had an 80 million dollar research ship. It was seized because a single half-smoked reefer had been found in the kit of a single crewmember. The seizure made headlines. The press ridiculed it. Because of the publicity and the Institute’s prestige, that seizure was soon overturned.

  If the Institute had that kind of influence, however, most victims of seizures did not. Thousands of people had their cars and cash seized because the cash in their pockets had drug residue on it and those people were presumed to be dealers. Drug-sniffing dogs had reacted to the cash and that became probable cause for the seizure. The fact is, however, that trace amounts of drugs can be found on nearly any bill that’s changed hands enough times. Especially cocaine and marijuana. Those two drugs cling more than most.

  Almost none of those people who were stopped were ever charged. Their money was taken; they were sent on their way. Such victims could sue, but they almost never did. Some were guilty, surely. Perhaps most of them were. Some were carrying large sums in order to buy drugs and some to buy handguns for resale up North. Some were merely loading up on cartons of cigarettes at half the price that they’d pay in, say, Connecticut.