Whistler's Angel

by John R. Maxim

  “Mr. Wismer, is it? And Miss Kelly, is that right?”

  Whistler grunted. He didn’t correct him. Leslie overheard, raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Whistler had deliberately mispronounced their names. He would explain why to Leslie a bit later. But for now he was starting to worry about Claudia. He had asked her to pretend that she was in shock, but he was not sure that she was pretending. The knowledge that she might have killed a man might only have begun to sink in.

  “I need to go through this one more time,” said the sergeant. “You say you two are tourists? You just happened to be in here?”

  Whistler nodded. “As I’m sure Leslie told you.”

  “And you have no connection with the victim? The first one?”

  “Connection? I’ve never laid eyes on him.”

  The sergeant gestured toward the corner where the man had been shot. “His name is Philip Ragland. He’s down from Chicago. He has a TV talk show called The Ragland Report. None of this rings any bells?”

  “Never heard of the man or his show.”

  “You’re sure? He’s pretty famous.”

  “I don’t watch much TV.”

  “Good show. But controversial. Not everyone loves him.”

  Whistler gave a small shrug. “Evidently.”

  “According to his wife, he’s had a number of death threats for things he’s said on the air. His wife said he never took them seriously before. Never felt the need for a bodyguard. Or did he?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “I suppose I am. You did what bodyguards do.”

  “What? Sitting over here eating my dinner while he’s back in that corner getting shot?”

  “Just a thought. Let’s talk about what you did do.”

  He gestured toward the shooter who was still on the floor, only then being readied to be put on a stretcher. The ambulance crew had strapped an oxygen mask on him. They were careful not to touch the knife handle.

  “And you say you didn’t stab him. Someone else already had.”

  “I was way over here when I heard the first shot. I heard screams, people falling. By the time I made out who was doing the shooting, that knife was already sticking out of his head.”

  “Well, Mr. Wismer, not everyone agrees. Some say you ran and stabbed him right after that shot. Others say you threw the knife just before you took him down. Some even say that Miss Kelly here threw it.”

  “Nobody threw it. You know that’s ridiculous.”

  “I do? Why is that, sir?”

  “Because I doubt that there’s a knife thrower living who could hit a moving target at twenty feet, striking the man in the only spot where a blunt-ended knife was likely to penetrate, especially a knife so poorly balanced as this one.” He picked up his own. “Anyway, here’s mine. It’s still on my plate where it belongs.”

  “And so is Miss Kelly’s. I see that. But whose prints would we find on the knife in that man’s head?”

  “You might find mine on the handle, not the blade. I felt it and thought about pulling it out, but that might have done even more damage.”

  “No idea who stuck him?”

  “Someone near that table, clearly. How about that big kid who tried to jump me? Where was he at the time, do you know?”

  “He barely remembers coming in here this evening. You clocked him pretty good with that gun.”

  “Had no choice.”

  The sergeant glanced at the dinner plates sitting in front of them. “You must like the food here.”

  “That’s why we come in.”

  “So much that you went back and finished your dinner with dead and injured lying all around you. Miss Kelly here, I’m told, was giving CPR, but took time out to come over and grab a few bites. And this with his blood still wet on her hands.”

  “She looked faint. She was ashen. I made her come and sit.”

  “Sit and eat?”

  “Officer...she was in a fog by that time. If she did push some food around her plate, what of it?”

  The deputy looked at Claudia. She had shown no reaction. He said, “Fair enough. Let’s talk about you. Did I mention that the witnesses are pretty shaken up?”

  “You mentioned that they are confused.”

  “On the other hand, there’s you, cool and calm as can be. You know about knives and you know about guns. You don’t freeze or hit the floor when some guy comes in shooting. You deal with it like it’s a walk in the park. What’s your background? Where does this come from?”

  “I don’t know. I did spend some time in the service. Perhaps some old training kicked in.”

  “Half the men here were in the service, Mr. Wismer. Was your training anything special? What branch?”

  “Infantry.”

  “Officer?”

  “Noncom.”

  “Just a grunt? You don’t look like you’d be just a grunt.”

  “Not everyone is officer material, sergeant.”

  “True enough. Especially some officers I’ve met. Where did you train, Mr. Wismer?”

  “Near here. Fort Benning in Georgia.”

  “Airborne, by chance?”

  Whistler took a breath and nodded. “I was in the 75th.”

  “That would…be the Airborne Rangers. That would start to explain it. Did you see any action? Like over in Iraq?”

  “I was there.”

  “Me, too. I was Armor. Drove an Abrams. You?”

  “Mostly recon. Look, Sergeant...”

  “Name’s Moore. Ed Moore.” He touched a finger to his nametag. “This recon...would that be the 1st Ranger Battalion? Were you on one of those teams that went in early?”

  Whistler nodded.

  “Weapons specialist?”

  “We all were.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” said the sergeant. “You all had to rate Expert. So how’d you miss the driver of the getaway car?”

  He had had no intention of hitting the driver. “He’d raised a shotgun. I fired to suppress. I snapped two quick shots through plate glass at an angle. I was lucky to even hit the car.”

  “But you put out his windshield. Did that cut him up, you think?”

  “Might have. I couldn’t see from in here.”

  The sergeant stepped away and brought his radio to his lips. He called the dispatcher, had her tell all other units that the driver, very likely, had cuts on his face. Whistler, meanwhile, was silently regretting that he’d had to say anything of his personal history. He was also regretting that this Ragland was well known. This was going to attract a good deal more attention than if it were a simple private grudge.

  The sergeant ended his call, then walked over toward the entrance. Whistler saw him reach his hand toward the two bullet holes still discernable in what was left of the door. He was able to cover both holes with his palm. He returned to where Whistler was sitting.

  “You just snapped those, you say.”

  “It was all I could do.”

  “Moving target. I know. We’ve established that moving targets are tough, but those shots went exactly where you wanted them.”

  Whistler shrugged a denial. The sergeant answered with a grunt. Then the sergeant surprised him by offering his hand. His face relaxed into a smile.

  “I heard about some of the stuff you guys did. I’ve never met one of you before.”

  Whistler took the hand. He said, “Listen, Sergeant, one grunt to another, it’s true that all we did was come in here for dinner. I’m not looking for a medal or my name in the papers. I wish now that I’d minded my own business.”

  “You have a reason for needing to stay out of this?”

  “Not needing. Just wanting. We live a quiet life.”

  He answered, “Well, you’re in it. But I’ll do what I can.”

  Moore was looking at Claudia. Whistler followed his gaze. He saw that a tear had run down her cheek. Moore asked her, “Miss Kelly, will you be all right?”

  Whistler answered, “I’d like to get her out of here now.”<
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  “Maybe one of the doctors should look at her first. Maybe give her a sedative so she’ll sleep.”

  “She won’t take a sedative. She won’t even take an aspirin.”

  He told Sergeant Moore where the boat was berthed and that they had no intention of leaving the island. He said he realized that a formal written statement would be needed and that a coroner’s inquest would be held.

  “Take her home, Mr. Wismer. Go out the side door. I’ll try to keep the media busy out front.”

  Before they left, he took Leslie aside and told her why he’d misspoke their names. It was purely for reasons of privacy, nothing more. The media would get those names from the police and those names would appear in the next morning’s paper. By then, he said, they might no longer be of interest, all attention by then on the victim and the shooters. She could later, if she chose, call her friend Sergeant Moore and give him the right spelling for his records.

  “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.