There was no other car, but there was a boat of sorts. It was covered by a blue plastic tarp. Crow stripped the tarp off and let it slide to the floor. The boat was one of those little wave runner things and it sat on a miniature trailer. He knew nothing about them, but he’d seen children using them, so they couldn’t be too difficult to operate. A last resort, surely, but it might be an option if he had to slip away over water.
He broke into the house through the door from the garage. Once inside, he flipped a wall switch to make sure that there was power. There was, but he would keep the house dark. He went back to the van and unloaded its contents, first stacking the bikes to one side. He brought in his duffel, his shotgun, his scanner, and some of the luggage that had come with the van. The van’s owner was roughly his own size and shape. Somewhat taller, but his clothing would fit well enough. There were two sets of golf clubs. He brought one set inside and then wondered why he’d done that. He didn’t like golf clubs. He didn’t like golfers. The game was surely an invention of Satan, devised to keep Christians from going to church. He found the First Aid kit. All these vans seemed to have them. He brought it into the house with the groceries.
In the darkened kitchen he used a small flashlight to find an electrical outlet. He plugged in the scanner and turned it on low, listening to the traffic of policemen. It was all about him although not by name. He was variously “the wheelman” and “perp number two.” They knew about the van and were only now describing it. He had found this house just in time.
Crow doubted that there would be a house to house search, surely not before they’ve checked every parking lot and street. By then, the Almighty will have pointed the way by which he could continue on his journey.
But this time he’d be alone. He would no longer have Breen. Poor Leonard had been hurt. He must have been shot. The reports on the scanner didn’t say how severely. Crow wasn’t sure how it had happened, exactly, but he’d heard all those shots; he’d seen Leonard wrestled down. And that bodyguard of Ragland’s, whom they’d both failed to notice, had seen him approaching and had fired at him before he could come to Leonard’s aid.
Would Leonard talk? No, probably not. But that wouldn’t matter. They would soon know who he is. Fingerprints are checked very quickly these days. And if Leonard had escaped, he would have saved them the trouble. If he and Leonard had managed to get off this island, he’d have told them, with pride, who had done this night’s work. He’d have told them it was they who slew the beast.
No use worrying about Leonard. The Lord was his shepherd. For now, thought Crow, he’d best clean himself up. He found a half-bathroom; it was just off the kitchen. Because it had no window, he could turn on the light as long as he kept the door closed. He brought the First Aid kit in with him.
Crow was dismayed by what he saw in the mirror. The right side of his face was nearly covered with blood. Tiny shards from the windshield were embedded in his cheek. One had come within a whisker of his eye. There was a cut on his nose; there were others on his hands, and his jacket, wet with drippings, had a dozen tiny punctures. No wonder those two females in the van were so frightened when he counseled them about their mode of dress.
He wished now that he’d thought to solicit a donation of any cash they had on them. He had only about sixty dollars in his pocket. He had at least twenty thousand hidden here and there, but most of it was several states away. He had a thousand or so more in their other car, but they’d left that car a few miles off the island after Leonard had acquired that old Buick. He might need to find an interim source of funds.
He had pulled out the shards that had pierced his skin. They left wounds but not terribly big ones. He washed away the blood and was pleased to see that his face, although pitted, seemed almost unmarred compared to what he had expected. A little ice, some ointment, should do the trick. Perhaps they would look more like blemishes than cuts. At a distance, they might not be noticed.
He would rest. That was the main thing. He’d go into the living room and lie down on the sofa. He would gather his thoughts and his wits and he’d pray. He would not ask for deliverance. He had no doubt of his deliverance. The Lord would show him the way.
The next thing he knew, it was morning, full blown. He looked at his watch; it was a quarter past nine. He had slept so soundly for nearly ten hours that not even the scanner had roused him. He felt his face and hands. His wounds were less tender. The ointment he had used had done its work.
He spent fifteen minutes listening in to the scanner. The traffic that he heard provided few clues as to how the search for him was progressing. They were talking about grids that their cars were patrolling, but the grids were identified by three-digit numbers. Those numbers meant nothing to him. A large screen TV sat across from the sofa. He found the remote and switched it on.
He tried several channels before coming to one that was showing his face on the screen. He should not have been surprised that they’d identified him so quickly. Even so, it still came as a shock. All they had, however, was that same old photo. It was grainy, indistinct; it had been lifted from a crowd scene and he wasn’t even looking toward the camera. With a change of clothing, a hat, some cosmetics, he would look like a thousand other men on this island. If only he hadn’t been cut.
There were other surprises. All of them were unpleasant. Leonard Breen was near death; he was on life support, and that evil Philip Ragland was not only still alive; he was well enough to talk to the police. And the commentator seemed to be honoring Ragland. He was talking as if he were a hero.
The news was almost too much to bear. Leonard’s sacrifice seemed to have been in vain. And more, Leonard hadn’t been shot after all. Someone had stabbed him, stuck a knife in his head, and nobody seemed to be sure who had done it. Why not, he wondered? How could they not know? At least fifty people were there looking on. Could it possibly have been Ragland’s wife? And what about that man with gun? Who was he? There was no mention. All the media seemed to care about was Ragland and his anti-Christ views. But the media, at least, was informative in one way. It said that Philip Ragland was recovering, under guard, at the Hilton Head Medical Center.
Crow began to have a vision. He was seeing himself at the hospital complex. He’d acquired the smock of an orderly somehow. He was pushing a mop cart or some similar conveyance in which his shotgun was hidden. But wait. Not just the shotgun. He still had some explosives. He had a brick of plastique and a container of thermite. He had fuses, detonators, lengths of pipe in his duffel. He had never put a bomb together himself. That was Leonard’s expertise, but he had watched him assemble them.
In his vision, he had already visited Leonard. He’d told Leonard that in minutes Ragland’s room would be a furnace. Philip Ragland, his wife, and anyone guarding him would find out what awaits them in hell. Hearing this, Leonard died with a smile on his face. Or Crow assumed so. He couldn’t be sure. He was suffocating Leonard with a pillow at the time. He knew that Leonard would have wanted that assistance.
But this vision, thought Crow, left some questions unanswered. He hoped that this vision was only a suggestion and not a specific instruction. If a sign, it fell short of helping him to see how he could get out of it alive. He would wait, he decided. There might be another sign.
As if in response to his wish for such a sign, he heard a buzzing sound coming from his duffel. The sound was his pager. It was in there with a number of cell phones he’d collected during his travels with Leonard. He knew at once who the caller must be. The only two people who could reach him in that manner were Leonard and their patron, Mr. Poole. It seemed very unlikely to be Leonard.
Crow supposed that he ought to return the call promptly, but he wasn’t sure that he could bear the rebuke that was probably Mr. Poole’s reason for calling. His worst fear was that Poole might cut off his funding. Or suggest that he retire, his work still undone, his place in the rapture still unearned.
Crow couldn’t blame him for being upset. He had not done
well for Mr. Poole in this instance. Philip Ragland would now be more famous than ever. More people would listen to his poisonous views. More innocents would be murdered before they could be born, more young people would be lured to depravity and ruin through drugs, homosexuals and Hollywood films.
This cannot be allowed. He would silence Philip Ragland. He might, however, be in need of assistance. His God, the true God, unlike that of the Muslims, does not approve of suicide missions.
He would call Mr. Poole. He’d reaffirm his resolve. They would pray together. They would find a way. He could also use a few hundred dollars.
All that Aubrey could do now was wait and hope that Crow would respond to the page. Poole felt sure that he would, but Poole was dreading it.
Stanton Poole, like himself, kept a number of cell phones. Aubrey had provided them; they were specially made. Each, in its way, was secure. Poole had marked each of the phones he used with different symbols, depending on their purpose. The one Crow would be calling, if indeed he did call, was marked with a fish, the Greek symbol for Christ, to which Poole had added the fin of a shark. A shark, thought Aubrey. Now we have Christian sharks. He would not have thought that Poole had that much imagination. At least he hadn’t added a halo to the shark.
“You’re clear on what to say?” Aubrey asked.
Poole nodded, eyes closed. “I’m not a very good liar.”
“That may be, but you are a most excellent believer. Believe this. You won’t enjoy prison.”
As they waited for the call, Aubrey found himself wondering what the Devil would think of all this. One often hears the phrase, “Give the Devil is due,” but we really never do, he thought, do we? Old Lucifer has to work at such an awful disadvantage. Bad location, to be begin with. Rotten climate. Poorly lit. Tens of thousands of clerics preaching against him and never a word of his side of the story. That’s what happens, of course, when God writes all the books. One would think that he’d open a web site, at least.
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.
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