Whistler's Angel

by John R. Maxim

  The boom in sales and traffic had come in the wake of all the media publicity that she had received as an aftermath of the drug raid. The wire services had written it up as a classic example of “jack-booted thugs” pounding down the wrong doors on bad information and hurting innocent people. A Denver paper ran a four-part series on the evils of the Federal Seizure Laws. Kate had faxed the whole series to Claudia.

  The Denver paper’s editors were especially incensed by one of the provisions of those laws. That provision was called the “relation-back doctrine.” They called it an affront to any fair-minded citizen, one that turned the constitution on its head. That doctrine went far beyond seizing private property. Briefly stated, it said that all property was forfeit from the moment that it was involved in a crime. This was even if the government didn’t learn of that crime until several years after the fact. For example, it said, say your son once used your phone to buy or sell a couple of joints. You never knew anything about it. But that buy then came to light in a subsequent prosecution. Your house, by law, was no longer yours. It had been used in the commission of a federal crime. It became the property of the federal government from the moment the call was completed. If you had been living in that house ever since, not only could the government put it up for sale, they could also charge you back rent.

  As far-fetched as this example might seem, said the editors, it had actually happened to a family in Iowa. The town in which they lived had hired prosecutors to review old arrests and convictions. Many towns had done likewise once it came to their attention that “relation-back’ was a gold mine.

  The job of these attorneys was to find seizure prospects, and these were not limited to drug crimes. Say your daughter once pled guilty to a shoplifting charge. She’s contrite and has stayed out of trouble. A review of her record has shown, however, that she used your car to get to the mall, intending to shoplift when she got there. Your car, if you still own it, may be forfeit to the town. You may buy it back if you wish.

  What the paper didn’t know was that these scatter-shot events had since become institutionalized. Felix Aubrey, maybe Poole, saw real money to be made by supplying such towns with more lucrative targets and keeping a percentage of the spoils. Aubrey, as Claudia and her mother had seen, was not above planting evidence.

  In her mother’s case, though, there were public apologies. The Police Chief and Mayor, perhaps mindful of those “snipers,” had decried what they called a tragic mistake. Those responsible, they said, had been fired from their jobs and had left Colorado in disgrace. That reference, said Kate, was to those two policemen who hadn’t been seen since the day after the raid.

  She said, however, that dark rumors persisted. It had been whispered that the two missing cops were nourishing some of the fruit trees she grew.

  She emailed him, “Adam…tell me they aren’t.”

  He answered, “Not the fruit trees. Just the beeches.”

  She responded, “Adam…please say that you’re kidding.”

  “I am. Copper Beeches. Sorry, Kate. Bad joke.”

  “Adam…this is serious. And since when do you joke?”

  He assured Kate Geller that he was just being silly and that no one was buried on her property. Truth be told, he really didn’t know where they were. Using those two to fertilize Kate Geller’s soil did have a certain poetic appeal, but he knew that his father would not have allowed it. Those two cops were most likely in the trunk of a car that was sitting at the bottom of a lake. Even so, with those rumors, Kate’s garden center was becoming a tourist attraction. The resulting new business was all well and good, but as Kate had said, “I’m not running a waxworks.” The relentless attention was beginning to wear thin. Whistler thought that she’d probably take one of those offers. However, if a quieter life were her goal, she was not yet convinced that moving to Geneva would be that great an improvement.

  Kate Geller had asked, “Since when do you joke?” Whistler was a little taken aback. He knew that he’d never been the life of the party, but he didn’t think he’d been some humorless plodder who couldn’t loosen up if he tried. He supposed, however, that he’d always been a bit distant, never quite comfortable with people he’d met who came from more conventional backgrounds. Especially after he was sent off to school. He never felt superior. It was not that at all. The truth is that sometimes he envied them. He had more in common with a…well, a Carla Benedict than he had with his fellow students and professors. His view of the world had already been formed. Their opinions, their ideals, had seemed hopelessly naïve. His father had said, “Keep your own thoughts to yourself. You’re there to absorb, not to teach.” So he never got over feeling like an outsider. He had never really made any friends.

  But Kate’s question made him realize how much he had thawed since he had been living with Claudia. Okay, he still wasn’t a barrel of laughs. But he was much more congenial, less guarded with people. He smiled more readily and people responded. He found himself able to make small talk with strangers without needing Claudia to first break the ice. And yes, he even made a joke now and then. But yes, copper beech was pretty lame.

  As for their daily lives, they were active and full. The boat was their home, but it was often in port. They would keep in shape by running, biking and swimming, all of which were Claudia’s triathlon events, but she tried not to show him up too badly. Most evenings while in port they would dress and go out, often with other couples they’d met. They would try different restaurants, catch up on new movies, or Whistler would take Claudia shopping. He would have to take her shopping because if he didn’t, she would seldom buy anything for herself. He would have to watch her browse, memorize what made her smile, then go back later and buy it.

  And yet Claudia loved to dress up and look good. She loved going out, she liked being with people, and people liked being with her. She just didn’t like to spend money.

  “Claudia…I’ve told you. You’re a long way from broke.”

  “I know, but we need it to last.”

  “If you’re worrying about me, I’m not exactly broke either. What else is bothering you?”

  “If we did run short, how would you earn more money?”

  “Not with a gun, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ll never go back to that life.”

  “But it’s all you’ve ever done…and it’s all that you’re good at.”

  Whistler grumbled. “Thanks for the compliment.”

  “You’ve never missed the excitement, the danger?”

  Now and then. But he answered, “Not in the slightest.”

  “Then we need to decide what we’ll do with your new life. Maybe we should think about planting some roots. We’ll need to if we’re going to start a family someday.”

  “A family?”

  “We’re supposed to. I told you.”

  “Oh, of course. The white light.”

  “That’s the plan, but don’t sweat it. You’re not ready yet. Don’t get me wrong, Adam. I love our life together. But if there doesn’t seem to be much need to protect you, I need to figure out what else the light had in mind.”

  “The light never spelled it out in detail?”

  “No, just the big picture. Let me think about this.”

  “Let me think” often meant that she would have a discussion with either

  a bird or the wind. He was never really clear on what role she thought they played. He didn’t think she saw them as surrogate white lights or as actual messengers from the world beyond this one. They were more like good listeners, non-judgmental and unbiased. He supposed that it was better than talking to herself.

  Whatever the case, it was during one such session that Claudia decided it was time to head north. Her consultant, however, wasn’t much more specific than the white light apparently had been. The bird or the wind didn’t lay out a strategy. It just told her, or agreed, that it was time to move on and start looking for a place of their own.

  This was after their uneventful stay in Antig
ua, during which he had used his real name. Other boaters had offered suggestions. They told her that springtime was especially pretty all along the Sea Islands of the Georgia coast and in South Carolina’s inland waterways. They suggested exploring them until early May, and then sailing up to Maine for the summer. To Claudia, this began to sound like a plan. They could also decide on a place enroute where her mother could fly in for a visit. Perhaps his father could join them as well. She hoped so. She’d often spoken to him via satellite phone, but she hadn’t seen him for almost a year.

  Whistler knew that his father wouldn’t go for that idea. His father would be pleased to have a family reunion but he’d want to host it in Europe, on his turf. Put another way, he wouldn’t like the idea of the two of them being in the same place at once. At least not in the states. Too tempting a target.

  Whistler knew that even going back by themselves might not be the smartest thing either. But Claudia had gone to a library in Antigua and had spent a day poring through cruising guides to the whole of the eastern seaboard. She had already plotted the course they would take. To ease his misgivings, they would swing wide of Florida. Too many spotters. Too much Coast Guard activity. Too many random searches for drugs and for Haitians. The Coast Guard would find no contraband on board, but they’d wonder why he carried so many weapons and would surely check him out on their computer. They wouldn’t find much there either; his records were sealed, but that would make them all the more curious. It was better, he decided, to avoid such encounters. They would stay a hundred miles off shore.

  “Maybe we can send some birds on ahead.” He had said this, or muttered it, while marking a chart.

  She looked at him, oddly. “Beg pardon?”

  “Your friends. Your birds. Let them scout and report. Better yet, do you know any porpoises?”

  She sighed and shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder about you.”

  She wonders about him. “Never mind.”

  Spending a summer in Maine did sound nice. Claudia read aloud from her cruising guide about all the quaint little seaside towns, all the romantic rocky inlets in between, and the dozens of pine-covered islands off shore. They could pick one, drop anchor and dig for clams in the shallows. They could buy a trap, she said, and catch their own lobsters. They could pick wild mushrooms, blueberries and onions. She said, think of the money they’d save.

  However, if they did elect to push on to Maine, they’d give the Washington area a wide berth as well. Nothing much nears that city without being monitored. No use rubbing their noses. Stay well out to sea. Especially don’t cruise up the Potomac on the former “Me & My Gal.” All they’d need was Felix Aubrey to get wind of it and be tempted to drop a few mortar rounds on them.

  He wondered if Aubrey could walk yet.

  TWELVE

  Vernon Lockwood had never liked Adam Whistler. He hadn’t liked him, sight unseen, from the day he learned that Whistler would be joining their unit. Some Special Ops hotshot, was all that he’d heard. He and Briggs had gone in to ask Aubrey why. They could not understand why they needed him.

  “This new guy,” he said to Aubrey, “they call him ‘The Whistler?’ What is he? A spook? What’s going on?”

  Aubrey gave him that faggy little curl of his lip without looking up from his desk. “He is not ‘The Whistler.’ It’s his name. Adam Whistler. His credentials have impressed our Mr. Poole.”

  “So that’s his real name?”

  “As I think I’ve just told you.”

  “Sounds more like a code name. Like some CIA bullshit.”

  “Unlike ‘Vern the Burn’ it is not a sobriquet. Unlike you, he must not feel that he needs a nom de guerre in order to intimidate the stupid.”

  Little turd, thought Lockwood. He said, “What I hear, this guy can kill at long distance. So what? Any pussy can work at long distance.”

  “He’s considerably more gifted than that, by all accounts.”

  “The other thing I hear, this guy’s mostly a loner. What makes you think he’ll play ball?”

  “He will not ‘play ball.’ He won’t even know the game. And you two are not to enlighten him. Avoid him.”

  It was Briggs who asked Aubrey, “So then why is he coming?”

  “Because this was done before I could object. Mr. Poole, as you know, can see into men’s souls. Or rather he can see that some men don’t have one. You two, for example. Now excuse me.”

  Lockwood said, “I think I’ll see what he’s got. You care if I push him a little?”

  “How little?”

  “Just enough so he knows who’s top dog around here. Let him know to keep out of my way.”

  Aubrey didn’t answer. All he did was shrug. Lockwood took that to mean he had a green light to make Whistler think twice about staying. Whistler’s first day was as good a time as any. He and Briggs caught Whistler alone in the washroom while Whistler was drying his hands. He said, “I’m Vern Lockwood. You heard about me?”

  Whistler never looked up. “No, what are you?”

  “I’m this.” He opened his jacket to show Whistler his gun, his Glock with the custom hollow points. Whistler still didn’t look, so Lockwood pulled it from its holster. He twirled it on his finger. That made Whistler pay attention.

  Holding the gun, not on Whistler, just holding, he said, “So it’s clear, we don’t want you. And me, I don’t like you. If you stay, you and me…well, we’re going to have a problem. You don’t really want to mess with me, do you?”

  Then Whistler sucker-kicked him. He would never forget that. All he’d done was show Whistler the gun. Briggs was standing right there, but he didn’t do shit. Even Whistler stood waiting for Briggs to do something. Briggs didn’t. He let Whistler walk out.

  Later on, Briggs said, “That was your show, not mine. You were begging for a kick in the nuts.”

  “You saw that coming? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “You thought what? That the guy would piss in his pants? I think he’s seen a gun before, Vern.”

  “Yeah, well, next time…”

  “Next time don’t just stand there. This guy is no pussy. Next time, put him down first, then talk.”

  There wasn’t any next time. Not for weeks after that. Poole heard about the washroom. He said leave him alone. He said, “The darkness within him must be made to serve the light. Forbear, Mr. Lockwood. Forbear.”

  That was how Poole spoke. No one ever understood him. Anyway, Aubrey tried to keep Whistler busy. He kept him traveling, scouting targets for raids, but soon Whistler started asking questions. Why this target? Who is he? Where’s the evidence that he’s dirty? Then he wanted his instructions in writing.

  Even Poole began to realize that this guy had to go, but by that time it was too late. Aubrey’s notebook, which was stupid to have in the first place, turned up missing from his house and it wasn’t hard to figure who had taken it. Aubrey should have had him pop Whistler on the spot, but he wanted his ledger back first. Next we know, there’s Whistler’s father getting into the act. Whistler’s father turns out to have some kind of juice. The father’s not even here; he lives somewhere in Europe, but he still gets Poole to roll over. Poole is seriously spooked; he starts that “Forbear” shit again. Even Aubrey wimped out for a while there.

  Well, screw this, thought Lockwood. You don’t just let the guy walk. You at least try to find some kind of edge.

  Lockwood said to Briggs, “I’ll tell you what we do. Whistler knows these two women; it’s this girl and her mother. They’re why he’s been going out to Denver. It figures that Whistler is porking the daughter, but it figures he wouldn’t have told them what he does.”

  “That would be a good bet. But so what?”

  “We go see them. We tell them who this prick really is. We wave the flag,

  maybe. We say that both him and his father are dirty. We get them to flip on whatever they know.”

  They did that. They tried that. It didn’t work out. They went out there with all kinds
of stuff from their files. They brought photos of killings they said Whistler had done. Briggs brought a report some shrink had written up, showing that Whistler was a sociopath. Except the profile wasn’t Whistler’s. It was Lockwood’s own. It was from years ago when he’d tried to get a job with the Central Intelligence Agency. They had him do a bunch of tests and after that they wouldn’t take him. Unsuitable, they said. Yeah, well, fuck you, too. He hadn’t known that Briggs had brought it along until Briggs started reading parts of it to those women. This was Briggs’s idea of a joke.

  “What joke?” Briggs asked later. “You said scare them. That was scary.”

  “You couldn’t have pulled Whistler’s? You had to pull mine?”

  “His is sealed. Yours was handy. I blacked out your name. Hey, it’s not like it’s news that you’re one twisted fuck. That’s what got you hired by Poole.”

  Aubrey wasn’t happy that they went to see these women, especially when they got nothing out of it. Those women didn’t scare; they just got mad. Aubrey reamed them both out. He said the damage was done. But he said, “Let’s see what we can salvage.”

  He said, “What we need is to neutralize Whistler. Go find me something to trade.”

  They knew what he meant. He meant set them up and bust them. This was something they’d done a hundred times. They knew how. But who’d have figured that two nervous cops would start blasting at a shape that came out of the darkness. Fucking girl. It was an accident. They happen. And who would have figured that within, like, one day, Whistler has this fucking army invading the place. No one knows who they were or where they came from.

  So now look at Briggs. Until then he had a face. They put it back together the best they could but his skin still looks like a lampshade. Briggs hasn’t been worth a damn since.