Beelzebub.com. It could be a moneymaker. Think of all of the businesses that would leap at the chance to advertise their wares on such a site. Arms merchants. Porn dealers. And the Mafia, what’s left of it.
Poole’s fish phone chirped. Poole blanched, then wiped his palms on chest before picking it up with his fingertips. He cleared his throat, swallowed, and said, “Yes?”
He listened for a time, then reached for a pen. He scrawled the words, “very distraught” on a pad. Aubrey saw it and whispered, “We’ll fix that.”
Poole was saying to Crow, “I’m so sorry about Leonard. But it isn’t for naught. You’ve done better than you know. Are you safe at the moment? Are you alone? Are you in hiding?”
Poole listened to Crow’s answer and nodded to Aubrey. Crow’s response was in the affirmative.
“Now listen to me carefully.” Poole had lowered his voice. “There is more important work that needs to be done. I can’t elaborate just yet, but you’ll be very excited. My immediate concern is to get you off that island. I have people on their way. They will help you.”
Poole listened again. He made a note on his pad. Aubrey read it. The note read, “What about Breen? He doesn’t want to leave Breen in their hands.” Aubrey took the pen and wrote, “Already made arrangements. Breen to be rescued, leave everything to us. Get Crow’s location, then get off the phone.”
Poole repeated the first part and went on to the second. “Joshua, where are you at the moment?….No, no, an address, a specific location…You don’t? Very well. Go and look.”
Poole whispered to Aubrey, “He doesn’t know the address. He’s gone out to check the street sign. You say you’ve already made arrangements for Breen?”
Aubrey sneered. “Of course not. Breen no longer matters. By the way, has Crow ever seen Lockwood?”
“Not that I can recall. I don’t think so.”
“Describe him. Can’t mistake him. Always wears a dark suit. Neck is wider than his head; he was born without lips and his eyes are as dull as a goat’s. He’ll be with a man named Kaplan. I’ve never met Kaplan. Tell Crow that he can trust both these men with his life.”
A minute later, Crow was back on the phone. He gave the address. 22 Lagoon Road. He described the house, painted blue with black shutters. He gave its approximate location. Poole wrote it all down, then described Vernon Lockwood, omitting the reference to his eyes. He told Crow that Lockwood will be bringing an associate. He said that both are reliable men, and that Crow will be in very good hands.
“Are they what? Are they saved? Well, we’re…working on that. I’m sure that they’re both committed Christians at heart. For the moment, let’s put that aside.”
Poole covered the mouthpiece. An exasperated sigh. He said to Aubrey, “He’s correcting me now. He’s saying that one never puts that question aside.” Poole removed his hand. Crow was saying something else. “Repeat that please, Joshua. Will they what? Bring money? Oh, all that you’ll need. You will not have to worry about money.”
Very true, thought Aubrey. “He’s to wait there,” he whispered. He looked at his watch. “They should arrive in another two hours at the most.”
“Two hours,” Poole repeated. “Go nowhere. Stay indoors. Your deliverance will soon be at hand…..um, say again?”
Poole listened. He grimaced. “No, forget about Ragland. We’ll take care of him. No, you mustn’t…very well…they will help you finish Ragland. God cannot be mocked. I agree.”
He disconnected. He was wringing his hands.
Aubrey said, “That last part…them helping him get Ragland. You were not being serious, I trust.”
“No, no, that was only to shut the man up. I am not entirely stupid.”
Aubrey picked up the pad with the address and the directions. He said, “What you are is entirely too modest. You have the makings of an adequate liar.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Calling someone named Arnold Kaplan a Christian might strain this fellow’s credulity a mite. On the whole, though, you didn’t do badly.”
Stanton Poole bit his lip. “You will see this to its end?”
“Oh, yes. And with dispatch. When Lockwood checks in, I will give him his instructions. I will have him take hold of your lunatic friend and…”
Poole’s hands went to his ears. “Just…deal with it. Please.”
“Good as done,” said Aubrey. He rubbed his two palms together. “Now let’s go and have a look in your safe.”
TWENTY TWO
Kate Geller was airborne, somewhere over Missouri. She could hardly believe that she was doing this. She supposed that she’d panicked when she couldn’t reach Claudia and when Harry said that he couldn’t either.
At two in the morning, half asleep, bad dreams, she thought, “What’s the harm in booking a flight?” She probably wouldn’t take it; they were probably just fine, but she thought she’d feel better if she had one reserved. She got up and went in to her computer.
The earliest flights, it showed, were all full. One departure would leave Denver at 6:10 AM, non-stop to Atlanta, change planes to Savannah. From Savannah there was an Air Taxi service that would take her to Hilton Head Island. Given on-time connections, no major delays, she could be there by 2PM Eastern.
This was silly, she thought. All those hours in the air. Then showing up and learning that she’d done it for nothing. She’d arrive at…where was it? The Palmetto Bay Marina and find them both sunning themselves on the deck.
Too dumb, she thought. It made much more sense to stay put by the phone. On the other hand, it would be a nice surprise. It had been much too long since she’d seen them.
Okay, she decided. She would book it just in case. She wait-listed herself on the 6:10 flight and on one that would leave at 7:50. Harry called once again, still no luck getting through, and she told him she was thinking of grabbing a flight. He said don’t, just sit tight, he’d get back to her.
Now she was wide-awake. She flipped on the TV. Perhaps there would be more news of the shooting. She surfed all the channels and found one station that was showing the restaurant where the shooting took place. Police cars all around it, windows shot out. The camera scanned the restaurant; she could see inside. She saw an ambulance crew taking one victim out and policemen milling around. There were people at the bar. A couple. Just a glimpse. Then the camera swept past them. All she saw, really, were the tops of their heads. They were both hunched over the bar, looking down, as if having a private conversation. The woman wore a green blouse. Her hair was something like Claudia’s. Several shades darker, but that might have been the lighting. And the man’s shoulders seemed considerably narrower than Adam’s, but of course that’s what happens when you hunch them. Still, it could have been Adam. It could well have been them both.
She wished that she’d recorded the segment she’d just seen. She could play it back freeze-framed and be more certain. She turned on her recorder and stayed with that station, but the segment was not shown again.
By then it was almost five in the morning. She threw a bag together and drove to the airport. She told herself, “What you’re doing is stupid. You’re letting your imagination run wild, convincing yourself that that had to have been Claudia. You saw her for maybe a half of a second. Go back home. Get some sleep. Wait for Harry to call. You probably won’t get a flight anyway.”
But there she was; she was almost at the terminal. She found herself parking and going inside. She found herself watching as the Delta flight boarded and she heard the clerk call for any wait-listed passengers. Before she knew it, she was on board. What the heck, she decided. This visit’s overdue. She would try them again from the plane.
She fell asleep in an aisle seat. By the time she woke it was two hours later. She checked her watch. Half past ten, Eastern time. The seatback in front her held a phone. She tried the boat’s number, same result, no one answered. She considered calling Harry Whistler again, but Harry, she assumed, would not have gotten through either
. And he’d probably give her a good bawling out for getting on that plane without telling him. She’d be there in a few hours. She would call Harry then. She would call him as soon as she saw for herself that his son and her daughter were well.
An ocean and part of two continents away, Harry Whistler was having misgivings of his own. Adam had assured him that he wasn’t involved in that mess of the previous evening. But Adam had seemed just a trifle too breezy in dismissing his father’s concerns.
The more he thought of it, however, the more he felt sure that Adam was probably telling the truth. Even if Adam had been near the scene, he would have known enough to mind his own business. Secondly, he’d know better than to get involved with a high-profile character like Ragland. Add to that, the assailants had since been identified as a pair of religious fanatics. Two men he’d never heard of from a church he’d never heard of. No conceivable connection with Adam.
He placed a call to Kate to tell her as much. He could now tell her that they're fine, they're having breakfast, not to worry. The boat’s out at anchor; they’re out of harm’s way, not that there was any harm in the first place.
No answer from Kate. He got her machine. It was barely after six in the morning, her time. He said, “Oh, Kate, please tell me you didn’t. Please tell me that you’re not on an airplane.” He tried her twice more, still no answer.
He went to his computer and hit several keys. A long list of codes filled the screen. He chose one of these and hit several more keys. A list of flights came on. He typed in one more code. This time a passenger list filled the screen. He scanned it and muttered, “God damn it.”
He tried the boat again and got another machine. He tried Adam’s cell phone. Again, there was no answer. With a growl, he cursed Adam under his breath. When he’d asked him to leave the phone on from now on, that meant be available, be reachable. He slid his chair to a different screen. He typed in another series of digits and waited for a blip to appear on the monitor. It appeared, but the boat’s position had changed. The boat seemed to be back at its slip.
He returned to his console, hit a few more keys, this time the code for a pager. In less than a minute, his telephone rang. Donald Beasley was calling him back.
“Donald, I’m afraid I need to fly to the States. This is very short notice, but can you two go with me?”
“You gotta ask? Yeah. But how short? Like right now?”
“Oh, heck. Never mind. This doesn’t make any sense.”
“It’s Adam again, right?”
“That’s the thing. I don’t know.”
He explained, very briefly, the who, what and where. He told Donald about his exchanges with Kate. He’d confirmed, he said, that she was enroute. She would get there and find that there was nothing amiss. All this flying around would be pointless.
“Yeah, might be,” said Donald. “But you got a bad feeling?”
“With nothing whatsoever to support it.”
“Nah, that ain’t you. There’s something. What is it?”
“Well, whatever it is, I can’t pin it down. There’s a dim little light that keeps blinking in my brain. I move toward it, but it just floats away.”
“Some connection between Adam and this guy that got shot?”
“I think so. I just can’t seem to place it.”
Donald said, “Harry, you know what I think? I think you worry too much about Adam.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“That one time a year ago, when Claudia got shot, he wasn’t thinking straight and I don’t blame him. But you didn’t raise any pussycat, Harry. Adam’s good. He can handle himself.”
“He…always could when he’s been on his own. But, Donald, you just said it. He’s got Claudia to take care of.”
“Meaning what? She gets hurt and he’ll lose it again? Harry, it was you who put them together. It’s a little late to have second thoughts.”
Harry said, “Oh, I’m not. At least not about that. She’s the best thing that’s happened to him.”
“Maybe all it is…you miss him. It’s been a long time.”
“Yeah, it has been. And I do.” Harry paused for a moment. “I don’t suppose you know anything about churches.”
“Now you want to talk churches? Like what? What they teach?”
“Ever heard of the Reconstructionist Church?”
“I don’t think so. What’s that? Like a cult?”
Harry shrugged. “All religions started off being cults. No, you wouldn’t know anything about churches.”
“I wouldn’t? Who says? Me and Dennis grew up Catholic.”
Harry blinked. “You’re kidding. Did you, really?”
“Yeah, we did. With the nuns. And then the Jesuits after that. Me and Dennis even served Mass a few years.”
“You’re…telling me that you were an altar boy, Donald?”
“What, you don’t believe me? I could give you some Latin. Back then, all the priests always asked for me and Dennis. They liked that we came as a set.”
Harry chuckled at the vision that had formed in his mind.
“See that? You laugh. But you seen us in church. We went with you at least three times, I can think of.”
Silly me, thought Harry. In fact, they had. They’d been to his wedding when he married Andrea. And then to her funeral. And to Alicia’s a year later. He damned sure didn’t want to add Adam’s.
“Hey, Harry?”
“Hmm?”
“Where’d this church question come from?”
“I don’t know. It’s that dim little light I can’t reach. Forget it. It’s probably nothing.”
“You keep saying nothing, but it’s something. Let’s go. Worst case will be that we wasted a plane ride, not to mention forty grand worth of fuel.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Except…you feel up to it? How’s your back?”
“It’s holding up.”
“Maybe just me and Dennis should go. How ‘bout that?”
“And leave me sitting here? I’d go nuts.”
“Okay, but figure ten hours is the soonest we could be there. That gets us in when?”
“Early evening their time.”
“Are you worried what can happen in the meanwhile? Ten hours?”
“Yeah, I am. I suppose that I am.”
“So call Bannerman. He could have someone there in, like, two. You thought about that, am I right?”
“Yes, I have.”
“So make the call.”
“About something as insubstantial as this?”
“Harry…the guy is a family man himself. Him and Susan have a kid of their own. He’ll understand.”
“More likely, he’ll think I must be losing my grip.”
“No, no. What he’ll think is Harry Whistler is his friend and Bannerman takes care of his friends. He came through for you in Denver, am I right?”
“That was real.”
A patient sigh. “Let me ask it this way. Let’s say Carla Benedict came over to, say, Munich. The next day it’s on the news that some guys got cut up. A female assailant; the cops don’t know who. Bannerman hears about this and he starts to wonder if maybe, just maybe, these guys pissed her off.”
“Because she’s in the same city?”
“Same country. Wouldn’t matter. His head tells him, no, this is crazy, no way. But his head then reminds him that she’s not tightly wrapped and that when we hear ‘knife,’ we think ‘Carla.’ Now…don’t misunderstand me. Me and Dennis like Carla. So, when I say that the lady is not tightly wrapped, you know I’m not trying to be negative.”
“I hear you.”
“Who would Bannerman call to get this checked out? No-brainer. It’s you. Same with him.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“No question.”
“Um…Donald?”
“What?”
“This example you used…Carla Benedict in Munich…that was strictly hypothetical, correct?”
“It was just a
for instance. It could have been Zurich.”
“Donald…what I meant…” Harry sighed. “Never mind.”
“You gonna call him?”
“I’ll try him right now.”
“We using the Gulfstream? I’ll see it’s gassed up. Talk to Bannerman, then be ready in about twenty minutes. Me and Dennis are outside in twenty minutes.”
Harry Whistler had tried to reach the boat one more time before placing his call to Paul Bannerman. As with Kate, he got Adam’s machine. He again tried Adam’s cell phone. The result was the same. Adam, he thought, could have no excuse for not at least having his cell phone at hand. And why, he wondered, had they brought the boat in? Why, for that matter, had he moved in the first place?
He knew that he was getting himself worked up and that it was probably
over nothing. But he said he’d call Bannerman and he would.
At this hour, Bannerman should be at his office on the Post Road in Westport, Connecticut. Bannerman had bought a travel agency there. He’d chosen that business, well…because he’d been everywhere, but largely because of the computers. No one ever wonders why a travel firm would need so many computers. Bannerman, like himself, believed in keeping in touch. He liked to know what was going on in the world and especially what was happening around him.
A number of his people owned other small businesses. There was
a restaurant, a few shops, one worked as an electrician and one had joined the police force. The electrician, by now, had probably wired every building whose occupants were of interest to him, including, of course, police headquarters. But primarily, Bannerman had acquired these businesses for them in the hope of keeping them busy, out of trouble. And to make friends. And to spread themselves around. And to avoid congregating together too much, the better to melt into the community.
It worked up to a point. Most behaved, by and large. And nearly all of them started to make friends. Bannerman had assumed that this was a good thing until one of his people, one Billy McHugh, was revealed to have been thinning the town’s population for the benefit of his new friends. Bannerman blamed himself. He thought he should have known. Billy was a huge man, about fifty years old, whom many thought of as a monster. He’d probably never had a normal friend in his life, but he was loyal to Bannerman to the death. Bannerman had put him to work tending bar in a restaurant that was run by Molly Farrell. He thought that regular interaction with customers might elicit a few social skills.
Whistler's Angel (The Bannerman Series) Page 23