Whistler's Angel

by John R. Maxim

  Poole threw back the cover of the folder at his side. He whipped through

  several pages, knocking some to the floor. He found one page and he reached for a pen. He drew a great circle around a notation that was written in Aubrey’s own hand.

  “There. It says, ‘Recon.’ That is your abbreviation. It says, ‘JC.’ That is your abbreviation. Here it says ‘idiotic.’ That is your assessment. I ask you, who is the idiot now? Whose ledger got us into this disaster?”

  Aubrey blinked. He remembered. Joshua Crow. The JC of his ledger was Joshua Crow. Oh, this was too delicious, if true.

  “Crow. The Reconstructionist. Their money man. That Crow?”

  All Stanton Poole could do was close his eyes.

  “He’s the one who throws bombs into gay bars and such? Now he’s shooting our critics? With Adam Whistler watching? It’s your own Mr. Crow whom we have to thank for that?”

  “You as well. Don’t be modest. You above all.”

  “You’ve given them millions. And it was idiotic. No, no, I withdraw that. It was lunacy, sir. Show me one thing that you gotten in return, other than one of their ridiculous lapel pins. Which reminds me, I see that you’ve retired that pin. Or did one of their number come and rip it from your coat because you were tardy with donations?”

  Felix Aubrey was instantly sorry that he said it. It evoked a crackpot rationalization that Aubrey had already heard several times. Poole felt perfectly justified in diverting this money. That to do so was illegal, a crime, had no relevance. These monies, themselves, were the wages of sin. The problem with that was that Poole no longer cared whether victims of seizures were innocent or guilty. It was enough, in his eyes, that they were probably immoral. “Honest men,” he’d once said, “do not acquire great wealth. And some have been born into undeserved wealth that is better used doing God’s work.”

  Felix Aubrey might not have objected to this if God’s work had involved such traditional activities as caring for the sick and the poor. Well, truth be told, he would have. Unless caring for the poor involved having them spayed, spending money on them would have been wasteful. But the work that Poole was funding envisioned nothing less than a new and more terrible inquisition. Not that Aubrey would have minded a burning here and there. He’d known plenty of people who were long overdue. In fact, he still had the list that he’d started in his teens. People who’d slighted him, bullied him, belittled him. Grown women, later, who would roll their eyes when he did nothing more than try to speak to them. Some of these, as time went on, married well, had lovely homes. Not so many have those homes any more.

  Stanton Poole was still whining. Aubrey waited him out. At the moment Poole was fretting that Whistler must know that Poole, Breen and Crow are connected. Well, he doesn’t. Almost surely. Aubrey couldn’t see how. But Poole seems to think that if he doesn’t, he will. He thinks that Whistler will remember those notations in the ledger – those sums that were earmarked as Recon-JC – and instantly realize that they must mean Crow and his Reconstructionist lunacy. Not likely. Not remotely. There were hundreds of notations. Whistler would have to focus on those few in particular and make an improbable logical leap. The term “Recon” could have any number of meanings. Given Whistler’s background, the first of those meanings that would pop into his mind would be that it was short for “Reconnaissance.” And “JC” could mean anything from Jesus Christ to the Junior Chamber of Commerce.

  Aubrey tried to remember when last he’d seen Crow. Two years ago? Longer? Crow had come to see Poole. Whenever it was, Crow and Poole had prayed together. The occasion was when Poole advised Mr. Crow that he’d best not be seen in this building again. Leonard Breen, it seems, had murdered two people, one of whom was Breen’s former wife. He had actually, literally, stoned them to death, and had gathered an audience to witness the event. While he did so, it was Crow who kept the audience at bay, describing what they were to see, and why, and distributing literature to them.

  Poole realized, belatedly, that Joshua Crow had finally gone over the edge. He pointed out to Crow, as tactfully as he could, that this sort of thing could cause problems. He said that although it might not be a crime in God’s eyes, the law would surely take a less enlightened view. The coming of Christ would solve that problem, of course, and we know that He is coming any day now. Until then, however, Poole thought it would be prudent if Crow were to make himself scarce. Crow agreed to do so. He took Leonard Breen with him. Those two took their show on the road.

  “Mr. Poole…settle down. I’m in need of some answers. I take it that you’ve been in contact with Crow.”

  “Me? I have not. I have severed all ties.”

  “That’s a fib, I’m afraid. I was here when you handed him some traveling money. I was here when you promised that you’d send him all he needed.”

  “I…recall no such thing. You’re quite wrong.”

  “You have aided and abetted. That’s a no-no, Mr. Poole. May we stop this little game and move on?”

  “I need to pray.”

  “Yes, but first let us deal with the here and the now. Did you send Breen and Crow after Ragland?”

  “I didn’t. I swear it. All I ever said…”

  “So, you have spoken to him. Was this recent? By what means?”

  “He…sometimes leaves a message. He leaves a number on my pager. When I call, it is only to urge him to surrender.”

  Aubrey curled his lip. Save that line for the police. “Yes, but why does he call? Surely not to hear that. Does he call when he’s in need of financial assistance?”

  “No,” Poole said sharply. Then he added, “Well…no.”

  “So the answer is ‘partly.’ Why else does he call?”

  “He…wants me to know that he’s…doing good works.”

  “He calls to inform you of his latest atrocity? That makes you an accessory after the fact.”

  “No, no. All he says is, ‘Read the papers tomorrow.’”

  “You say he calls your pager. Does he have a pager?”

  Poole rose to his feet. He clapped his hands to his cheeks. “I…believe so. But I’ve never…”

  “So you do have his number. You can reach him if you must.”

  “Call him now? After this? I would have to be insane.”

  “No, what would be insane is to let him be caught. What do you suppose he would say to the police? Will he agree that you didn’t ask him to shoot Ragland?”

  “He would. All I said was that Ragland was scheduled to address a conference being held on that island.”

  “Its topic?”

  “It’s nothing connected with us. It’s some group that’s in favor of infanticide.”

  “So this group is pro-choice. You told Crow that was the topic?”

  Poole was rubbing his face. “I…may have mentioned it in passing. It was merely a discussion. I never intended…”

  “No, you never do, do you? This time, however, you have a problem. Its solution can benefit us both.”

  Poole looked up at him hopefully. “You can...help to resolve this?”

  “I can save your skin. I can make this go away. How much cash is in your safe at the moment, Mr. Poole? Say none, and this conversation is over.”

  “I keep a fund for contingencies. A few hundred thousand.”

  “A good start. It’s now mine. In addition to that, I will want an amount that equals what you’ve given to Mr. Crow’s church.”

  Poole stared, his mouth open. “You’re talking three million.”

  “Not talking. Extorting. I’m extorting three million. You’re refusing? Then have a good day.”

  “Wait a minute. What next? What if I agree?”

  “You will make one more call to Mr. Crow’s pager. You’d better hope that he returns it. I will tell you what to say. After that, you will never hear from him again. Do you wish to know how I can assure you of that?”

  “I must…trust in your good judgement. As always.”

  “So the answer is no.
You’re going to leave this to me.”

  “But Whistler…he’s involved…what will you do about Whistler?”

  He can wait, thought Aubrey. First things first. This took precedence. The task at hand was to put Mr. Lockwood in contact with our inconvenient friend, Mr. Crow. How to do so had already taken shape in his mind. Mr. Lockwood will see to it that we see no more of Crow. That accomplished, Aubrey would then make the call that would put Whistler’s face on every front page.

  “He’ll have problems of his own, Mr. Poole.”

  TWENTY

  Claudia, thought Whistler, had apparently been right. All Moore wanted was to know that he’d done the right thing in letting them distance themselves from the shooting. Perhaps admiration figured into it somewhere, admiration of Whistler for his Special Ops past. Or perhaps that admiration was directed more toward Claudia. Moore seemed not a little enchanted by her. Whistler felt sure that Moore would take no action on those charges still pending against her. He’d observed, but he would not report.

  Whistler, however, would have one more score to settle if he ever met up with Felix Aubrey again. They had buried the charges against Claudia and her mother but had not, as they’d claimed, had them wiped off the books. He supposed that he should not have been surprised.

  He would need to tell his father, but later, not now. His father would ask him how he came to find out and he’d have to admit that he wasn’t quite truthful

  about having no involvement in last night’s events. For now, though, he just might get out of this clean. There was no need to worry his father.

  As for Aubrey’s deceit, his father might not even care. He might say, “Big Deal. He kept a card up his sleeve. It’s not much of a card. He knows he can’t go to trial. There’s no one left to testify, remember? The most he could do would be to have them picked up and kept on ice for a few days, tops. If he does, and tries to deal, I’ll snatch his mother if he has one. Forget it. Let him think he’s been clever.”

  “Yeah, but then what’s the point of him keeping them open?”

  “Adam, you heard. It’s observe, but don’t detain. He’s just trying to track you for his own peace of mind. As long as you don’t do anything that threatens him directly, he’s not going to risk taking action.”

  “You’re so sure?”

  “Tell you what. I’ll send someone to torch Aubrey’s house. Just a little token gesture to show our disappointment that he’s been less than diligent in showing good faith. How about it? Would that make you feel better?”

  “I don’t need the sarcasm. Never mind.”

  “Then count your blessings. One is that cop. But if I were you, I’d slip out of there tonight. Head due East and don’t stop until you hit Bermuda, which is where I wish you’d gone in the first place.”

  Whistler didn’t need to hear another “I-told-you-so,” not even one that he was imagining. Getting out, and soon, was a thought nonetheless.

  Except he wouldn’t feel right, ducking out on these people. Especially Leslie, who had lied to Moore for them. And Moore, who might possibly have risked his job by trying to give them a break. On the other hand, there’s Claudia, who might find it therapeutic to put some open ocean between herself and this island. He would see. He would see how the day goes.

  Leslie and Phil had tied up and come aboard in response to the breakfast

  invitation. Leslie volunteered to set the table on the deck. She went below for a tray of plastic dinnerware. The printout on Claudia was still on the table. Moore slid it toward Whistler, who put it away. He did not conceal the want sheets on Breen and Crow because he’d already shown them to Leslie and Phil. He said the one with Crow’s photo was being distributed to every place of business on the island. It would shortly be flashed on local TV and probably on CNN.

  Moore said, “Someone will spot him if he’s still on the island. And he is unless he got off by boat.”

  “You say the vehicle he carjacked never made it to the bridge?”

  “They couldn’t have missed it. It’s a white Dodge van with a rack of bikes on it.”

  “He might have used it to get to another,” said Whistler. “Maybe one they’d stashed. Maybe one he could steal. Maybe he got past the roadblock last night before you had a physical description.”

  “Those facial cuts, remember? No one like that got past them. If he has any sense, he wouldn’t have tried. He wouldn’t have risked being trapped on a bridge. He’s holed up somewhere on the island.”

  Moore said that there were hundreds of unoccupied homes owned by people who lived there part time. Moore said, “If it was me, I’d pick one of the smaller ones, but one with a two-car garage. I wouldn’t try a big one; most of them have alarms. I’d keep it looking empty and dark and I’d stay for a week if I had to.”

  Whistler shrugged. “But what would he do for supplies?”

  “From what we can tell, he has everything he needs. The driver of the van said Crow was carrying a duffel. We know that Crow and Breen use a scanner when they travel, so that’s probably what he had in the bag along with some weapons and, I’d bet, some explosives. He’s got a First Aid kit that came with the van and at least a week’s worth of groceries.”

  “Groceries? How so?”

  “He grabbed the Dodge van from outside a supermarket. He took it from a family that drove down here from Ohio and had stopped to load up on food. He got their food and their luggage along with their car, so he’s even got new clothes to put on. The family was a couple with a teenage daughter. He whacked the father on the head with the shotgun and threatened the mother and the daughter. Called them sluts.”

  Leslie came on deck. “Called them sluts? What made them sluts?”

  “They made the trip wearing tank tops and shorts. And the daughter wore a little gold cross on a chain. He ripped the cross off her. He said she defiled it. This guy has some issues with women.”

  Claudia, although she still seemed not quite herself, had prepared an impressive breakfast platter. In addition to the bacon and a thick western omelet, she’d cut some filets from last night’s uneaten grouper and she’d garnished the platter with melon and grapes. Phil Henry volunteered to serve as the waiter. He said that his own chef could not have done better. And he promised to reciprocate, buy them all dinner, as soon as his restaurant could open again.

  “What sort of issues?” asked Claudia as she joined them on deck. “With women, I mean. I couldn’t help overhearing.”

  Moore started to answer. Whistler held up his hand. “Too nice a breakfast for an unpleasant subject.” Especially, he thought, one that touched on religion in the presence of a guardian angel.

  But she said, “No, really. I’d like to know about those two. What kind of a person was the one I…?”

  “Saw outside?”

  It was Leslie who blurted the completion of her sentence to keep Claudia from saying, “the one who I skewered.” The near-slip went by Moore…or he pretended not to catch it. Leslie snatched up Crow’s want sheet. “You mean this one,” she said.

  “Adam’s right,” said Moore. “This can wait until we’ve eaten.”

  But Leslie pressed Moore so that Claudia wouldn’t. She seemed to understand that Claudia still needed to hear that what she’d done had been justified. Leslie said, “It’s already on all of our minds. To tell you the truth, I’ve been feeling almost sorry for the one who somebody stabbed in the head. If I shouldn’t, that’s what I need to know.”

  She said this while looking directly at Whistler. A touch of overkill there, but his eyes said, “Nice move.” He then glanced at Phil and again back at Leslie. His eyebrow arched into a question. She answered with the smallest shake of her head. It meant, “No, I haven’t told Phil that she threw it and I won’t. Now will you please relax? Eat your breakfast.”

  Whistler had to look away. He tried to keep himself from smiling. This young woman was clearly Claudia’s friend and she seemed to be one well worth having. All the same, he’d prefer t
hat their friendship not develop to the point of them sharing their innermost thoughts. Let Claudia do that with her birds.

  Sergeant Moore had already pulled more sheets from his folder. He said to Leslie, “Believe me, you’re not going to feel sorry.” He turned to Whistler. “Do you mind?”

  Leslie said, “No, he doesn’t. Unless Claudia does.”

  She didn’t. She said, “I’d like to hear it.”

  Whistler learned that tank tops and little gold crosses were the least of what offended Crow and Breen. This past fall, they’d pipe-bombed a Family Planning Center in a suburb of Lexington, Kentucky. The bomb killed one nurse and maimed another. At another such clinic in Buffalo, New York, they had shotgunned a doctor and a teenage girl while the girl still had her legs in the stirrups. They did not, however, limit their victims to those of the pro-choice persuasion. They’d tossed Molotov cocktails through the entrance door of a crowded gay disco in Atlanta. No deaths, but several young men were disfigured.

  There was never a doubt that Breen and Crow were the assailants. To begin with, they always took credit for their work through messages that they left on the Internet sites of the Reconstructionist Church. Nor were these attacks hit-and-run operations. They would linger long enough to harangue any witnesses on why the flaming sword was brought down on these sinners. This was why, said Moore, they had chosen to shoot Ragland in a restaurant that was filled with other diners. Breen had probably prepared a few verses from scripture that he’d shout as he backed out the door. He would probably have strewn a few pamphlets about. A stack of them were found in his pocket.

  Whistler remembered seeing those pamphlets. He’d thought they were tourist brochures. And he thought of Stanton Poole. He didn’t know why. Yes, he did; it was this citing of biblical verses. Poole would do that all the time. But something else nagged at him. Something else about Poole. Whatever it was, it eluded him.

  Leslie asked, “These two would actually give sermons?”

  “Crow did from the start. I’m getting to that. Unless you’d prefer that I stop.”