Whistler's Angel

by John R. Maxim

  He hears Leslie say, “Wait up. My wheel’s bent.”

  He says, “Shit. This cannot be happening.”

  Kaplan knew that women do ridiculous things, but for this there could be no excuse. He asked, “Is there something that I didn’t make clear? Try this. You’re a citizen. You like the police. Me, being a felon, I avoid them.”

  “Yeah, but why?”

  Kaplan thought, see this? He has to explain. “Leslie…pay attention. Avoiding them means I don’t get arrested. Think of my mother, how embarrassed she’ll be, when her friends find out her son’s in the slam.”

  She said, “I’m not trying to get you arrested.”

  “Then, thank you. You’re a dream. You’re a wonderful person. The thing is, the cops might have other ideas. Now shut your eyes and count to a thousand. I’ve got some disappearing to do.”

  She asked, “And what’s this about shutting my eyes?”

  As she speaks, she’s pulling at that one strip of duct tape that’s still ensnarled in her hair. She asked, “What was the point in blindfolding me? I must have seen you six times at Jump & Phil’s.”

  “There’s a look and there’s a good look. Big difference,” he told her.

  “Well, don’t worry. I won’t turn you in.”

  This is that syndrome he’d heard about, thought Kaplan. It’s named for someplace in Sweden, maybe Denmark. It’s when hostage victims and kidnap victims end up feeling sympathetic toward their captors.

  He told her, “Like I said, I appreciate that. The thing is, though, I have a plan of escape. A key feature of any good plan of escape is not having people watch you while you’re doing it.”

  All he needed was ten minutes to get out of these clothes and throw these damned glasses in a bush. Ditch the whole outfit except for the shoes. Underneath these pants is a pair of tan Bermudas, long enough to allow for a gun in his crotch. Underneath this shirt and jacket is a dumb tourist T-shirt from a bar down the road called The Salty Dog Café. Underneath the hat is a bald head with freckles. Poof. In two minutes, he’s unrecognizable. All that’s left is to boost another car.

  She asked, “You need a ride? I can give you a ride.”

  That was it. The Stockholm Syndrome. He remembered. He said, “No.”

  She said, “That means you have a car. How far is it?”

  “No car.”

  “You know what I’d do first? I’d get out of those clothes.”

  “Good idea. I’ll consider it. Now start counting.”

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “The red Cadillac, right? And it wouldn’t be far from here, would it.”

  “No Cadillac. I dumped it. Start counting.”

  “That’s good because the Cadillac’s as bad as that coat. You never thought about a Toyota?”

  He said, “Leslie…I like you. I really do. But I think we could use some time apart.”

  They both heard the whoomp. They knew the tank truck had blown.

  She said, “Arnie, I know these back streets. Do you?”

  “I know how to follow a beach.”

  “You don’t think you’d stand out on a beach dressed like that? You follow me. I’ll get you to your car.”

  THIRTY EIGHT

  Lockwood found the pilot in the air crew lounge. The pilot was alone; he was watching TV. Lockwood said, “On your feet. We’re taking off.”

  The pilot sat upright, surprised to see Lockwood. He was also surprised to see how Lockwood was dressed. He said, “What’s with the poncho? It’s raining?”

  “It might.”

  “Jesus,” said the pilot. “What happened to you?”

  Lockwood had scrounged through the clothing in the van. Every piece was at least four sized too small. But he found an orange poncho like they wear to football games. He could have done without it saying “Go Bengals” on the back. It would serve, however, to hide his left arm and the sleeve that was blood-soaked where Briggs winged him. It would almost hide the blood on the front of his pants where Crow’s ass leaked all over his fly. It did nothing, however, to hide his lower legs where wood splinters from that doorway had ripped up his trousers and embedded themselves in his shins. He’d been plucking them out ever since.

  But Lockwood didn’t care to explain. He said, “Move it.”

  “We can’t. My partner…my co-pilot’s missing. He went out for a smoke.

  I haven’t heard from him since.”

  “Short hop. You don’t need him. Let’s go.”

  “What about Mr. Aubrey, Mr. Briggs and that new guy?”

  “Mr. Aubrey’s made other arrangements,” Lockwood told him. “That must be where your co-pilot went.”

  “Hey, man, I don’t know. Can I call him?”

  “Go ahead. Except do it when we get in the plane.”

  Carla knew a shortcut to the side of the airport where cargo planes unloaded and where private planes were parked. She’d had cause to scout it earlier that day.

  “There’s the van,” she said to Whistler as they approached. Lockwood had left it in a tow-away zone with two wheels up on the curb. She said, “Aubrey’s plane is a Hawker twin engine. It says XA-GA4 on the tail.”

  “I know the plane,” said Whistler. “I don’t see it, do you?”

  “No, I…yes. There it is. Already taxiing.”

  Whistler saw it. It had almost reached the foot of the runway. He asked Carla, “How close can we get?”

  “We can drive right down there.”

  “In full view of the tower?”

  “There’s no tower, Adam. This is not JFK. But you’re right, there are bound to be other eyes watching. I know; we’ll drive down there in the ambulance.”

  “What ambulance?”

  She pointed to an emergency vehicle that was probably on standby for sick passengers and crashes. She said, “I have an in. We can use it.”

  Whistler asked nothing further. He took Carla at her word. He steered the Taurus through a gate that led to storage facilities. In seconds, he’d pulled up to the ambulance.

  Claudia hadn’t spoken. She asked, “How will we stop him? Are we going to block the runway with a car?”

  “No, we’re not,” Whistler answered.

  “Well, then how can you stop him?”

  Whistler didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on the jet.

  Carla was already out of the Taurus. Whistler climbed out and went back and popped his trunk. But he waited until he saw that Carla had been right. She was able to get into the ambulance and start it. She gave him a thumbs-up sign from the wheel. She revved the engine. “Let’s do it. Let’s roll.” Only then did Whistler reach into the trunk. He drew out the M-87.

  Carla saw it and said, “Neat. I heard about those. And I heard about you in Iraq. Good plan, Adam.”

  Claudia frowned. She asked, “What plan is that?”

  He said, “We gave you the chance not to see this, not to come.”

  Carla didn’t give Claudia the chance to say more. She said, “Claudia, hop in the back. Don’t mind Benny.”

  Claudia blinked as if to ask, “Who is Benny?” She followed the toss of Carla’s singed head and she looked in the back of the ambulance. A man was lying inside. He was strapped to the gurney. His face was largely covered by an oxygen mask. Both his eyes were swollen shut. She wasn’t sure that he was breathing.

  “Co-pilot,” said Carla.

  Claudia asked, “Is he dead?”

  “He’s medicated, mostly. He’s sleeping it off. Emergency crews use this thing to sack out. I guess that’s why nobody bothered him.”

  Whistler checked the breech of the M-87. He handed it to Carla through the driver’s side window. He said, “Claudia, climb in or stay.”

  Carla said, “Get in, Claudia. Don’t feel sorry for Benny. The creep’s a drug courier and a Grade-A lump of shit. The pilot’s even worse. I’ll fill you in.”

  Whistler said to her, “Claudia, make up your mind.”

  “It was made up a year ago, Adam.”

/>   Aubrey’s pilot had tried to reach Aubrey from the cockpit. Seven rings and he got a recording. “Says the phone’s not in service,” he said to Lockwood. “How could Aubrey’s phone not be in service?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Maybe I better try Briggs.”

  “Suit yourself,” Lockwood told him, “but don’t waste any time.” Lockwood then lit a cigar.

  The pilot said, “Hey, Vernon…douse the rope until we’re airborne.”

  “I’ll try not to burn a hole in the upholstery.”

  The pilot tried Briggs’ number. No recording, but no answer. He might understand Aubrey not wanting to be available, but Briggs was should be always on call.

  The pilot said, “I’ll tell you; this doesn’t feel right. I remember the last time we left Briggs behind. He ended up with no face.”

  “He’s with Aubrey.”

  The pilot, doing pre-flight, saw the crash car coming toward them. He said, “That wouldn’t be Briggs in that ambulance, would it?”

  “No, it wouldn’t. Let’s go. Get this thing off the ground.”

  “Ten grand,” said the pilot. “This’ll cost you ten grand.”

  Lockwood puffed. He said, “You sure you want to fuck with me?”

  “If this is straight,” said the pilot, “there’s no charge; we stay friends. If it’s any other way, it’s ten grand. We agreed?”

  “Okay, deal. What’s that ambulance doing?”

  Carla had stopped two hundred feet from of the jet. Whistler stepped out. He showed himself. He could see Lockwood’s face in the co-pilot’s seat. Whistler ignored him. He pointed his finger at cockpit’s left seat. He made eye contact with the pilot. He held out his arms, palms down, and he crossed them.

  Carla said, “That’s baseball, Adam. I think it means safe.”

  “I’m telling him to abort and he knows it.”

  “You’re giving them a chance?”

  “I shouldn’t, but yes.”

  “So, show him the scope on the M-87. Let him know that fat chance he’ll outrun you.”

  “Not yet.”

  The jet started to roll. It began to pick up speed. “Now I’ll show it,” he said. “Hand it out to me, please.”

  She passed him the rifle. The plane was almost abreast of them. Whistler let the pilot see the :50 caliber weapon. Whistler saw that Lockwood had his own gun in his hand and he saw a look of rage on Lockwood’s face. Lockwood twisted in his seat to try to aim the silenced Glock through one of the cockpit’s side windows.

  Carla said, “Well, this ought to be interesting.”

  Lockwood had to throw off his seatbelt. The space he had was too cramped; the silenced Glock was too long. He tried to line up his sights, but his cigar got in the way. He had to spit it out and start over. Whistler watched in near disbelief as Lockwood forced the muzzle against the Plexiglas window. Lockwood fired. He blew a hole through the window. Now he could shoot through the hole.

  The pilot, his face livid, was screaming at Lockwood.

  “So much for its pressurization,” said Carla.

  “It’s not pressurized yet.”

  “But it will be.”

  “No, it won’t.”

  “Look at him,” said Carla. “He’s still trying to draw a bead.”

  Whistler kept his eyes on the cockpit while calling out, “Claudia? Where are you?”

  “She’s right behind you,” said Carla.

  She was, and then she wasn’t. She came up and stepped in front of him. He hissed, “Claudia…get away. Behind the ambulance. Stay down.”

  “Use my shoulder,” she said calmly. “Rest your rifle on my shoulder.”

  Carla said, “Honey. That’s a good way to break it. That thing is no .22.”

  Whistler told Claudia, “You’re not in this. Get back.”

  Lockwood did fire. Whistler saw the Glock spitting. But he also saw that Lockwood couldn’t line up the barrel for more than an instant for each shot. He saw that one bullet kicked up a wad of tarmac a good sixty feet from the ambulance. But another created a second black geyser within inches of Claudia’s feet. She never moved. By the time it spat again, the jet was well past them, its engines now roaring to full throttle.

  Carla said, “Um…Adam, now would be a good time. Let’s see you blow that cockpit apart.”

  He said, “We’ll wait.” He walked back toward the ambulance.

  Carla said, “Wait for what? They’ll be airborne in five seconds. And we shouldn’t hang around here all day.”

  “We’ll wait until it’s high enough and far enough, Carla. There are homes

  between here and the ocean.”

  “You can do this?” Carla asked him. “You can hit him at that range?”

  Whistler flipped the rifle’s bipod to its forward locked position. He adjusted two knobs on the rifle’s scope. He laid it across the roof of the ambulance and slowly, deliberately, took aim.

  “We have lift-off,” said Carla. “About now would be good.”

  He told her, “Be patient. Let it clear.”

  In seconds, the big Hawker looked more like a distant toy. Whistler squeezed the trigger. The rifle jumped six inches. Carla watched the plane. She said, “Nothing. You missed.”

  Claudia stood, rock still, staring at it as it climbed. She almost seemed to be in a trance. Her lips moved. She made no sound.

  Whistler opened the bolt and ejected the cartridge. He drew a second cartridge from a leather pouch that was strapped behind the trigger assembly. He inserted the cartridge, fully nine inches long, into the chamber and slammed home the bolt. He took aim again and he fired.

  Carla watched. She said, “Damn it. Still nothing. You missed.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Whistler. “Let’s pack up. Time to go.” Claudia still hadn’t moved.

  Carla said, “Adam, that plane’s leveling off. You never scratched the paint. He got away.”

  Now Claudia spoke in a soft quiet voice. “He didn’t. He will not get away.”

  Carla asked them both, “Have I missed something here? I’m looking at a plane that’s still flying.”

  Claudia took a breath. She said, “It’s done. He will never hurt anyone again.”

  THIRTY NINE

  The car that Crow drove had no muffler, no exhaust pipe, and it left a trailing cloud of blue smoke. It had a left front wheel that wobbled. It had lost its front bumper. Somewhere along the way, its right front door had fallen off. Yet he’d managed to drive it, unimpeded, all the way to the Medical Center. No side roads, no detours, no attempts at evasion. He had driven straight down the island’s main parkway, watching for the signs with the big blue H that would show him the location of the hospital.

  The only reason, later given, as to how this was achieved, was that virtually every police car on the island was, by then, converging on North Forest Beach. At least five, plus two fire trucks, must have passed him.

  Crow, himself, had seen nothing remarkable in the fact that he’d reached his objective. He knew whose hand had cleared a path for him. And he was the instrument of that hand.

  The journey, however, was not without further trials. He hummed loudly as he drove to keep his mind off the pain that he felt with every bump and nearly every touch of the brakes. His jaw had been broken and probably his cheek. The worst of it, however, was the pain from his buttocks. His buttocks felt as if they were on fire.

  He had almost reached the hospital grounds before he thought to reach under him and try to relieve whatever was hurting him so badly. He knew that he’d been shot, and where he’d been shot, but the soreness seemed to have spread well beyond where the bullet and entered and exited. He found those wounds with his fingers, but he found something else. Some sort of metal, not a bullet, was imbedded in his flesh. The metal felt more like wire. He used his thumbnail to pry one piece loose. He examined it. A staple. And then he found another. He could not imagine how he’d been stapled.

  The signs, and the aid of that guiding
hand, led him to the emergency ward entrance. He pulled in and parked behind an ambulance. He got, still humming, for the pain hadn’t lessened, and reached into the Pontiac’s back seat. He pulled out the golf bag and reached into the pocket where he’d kept the third and last of his bombs. His fingers were trembling almost out of control, but he managed to press the right buttons on the timer. Next, he drew most of the clubs from the bag and these he left on the back seat. They had made his shotgun too hard to retrieve. But for that, he would surely have killed those two men who had said they’d come to help him, then betrayed him.

  He would find them again. He would heal, and then he’d find them. Especially that Jew who was the first one to hurt him and who, before that, had done nothing but mock him. Well, God is not mocked. Nor is his instrument.

  The Jew, however, might already be dead. He might have burned in the fire of the bomb that he had thrown before he’d made good his escape. Crow tried to remember. Had he seen a truck? Yes, he had. Some sort of tank truck. Where could it have come from? No matter. A tank truck. More fuel for the fire.

  The Jew might be dead but the big one was alive. That one had escaped before he did. The big one, Lockwood, had taken the van that Crow had borrowed from that family from Ohio. But he would find Lockwood, wherever he’d gone. It was that one, the bully, who had broken his jaw. He could feel the bones grind when he moved it. It was that one who attempted to choke the life out of him. It was that one who’d held him, using him as a shield, causing him to be shot.