Whistler's Angel

by John R. Maxim

  But who were all these others? He’d seen two, perhaps three. And he’d heard the voices of still more. And now that he thought of it, he felt quite sure that one of them was Felix Aubrey. He hadn’t actually seen Aubrey. But he’d heard his name called. Yes, he had. Lockwood called it. Lockwood had cursed him. Therefore, Aubrey was no friend of Lockwood’s.

  He would visit Stanton Poole. Poole would sort all this out. He would offer Mr. Poole a chance to explain why these men Poole sent to help him had betrayed him. He would ask Stanton Poole, “Was it you who betrayed me? Was I to be punished for Leonard’s mistake in failing to send Philip Ragland to hell? Well, I’ve remedied that failure myself, Mr. Poole. But you must still answer, nonetheless.”

  Crow threw the lightened golf bag over his shoulder and limped to the emergency room entrance. A young doctor and a nurse saw him coming. They did not rush to his aid. They stood blinking, rather stupidly. Crow was fully aware that he must be a sight. His cheek was swollen, his jaw hung crooked, and he still had those Band-Aids all over his face and all over the backs of his hands. His powder blue golf shorts had a big wet spot in front. He feared that he had soiled himself while he was dangling. And the seat of his shorts was covered with blood, as were the backs of his legs. But the cause of his limping was not his wounded buttocks. His golf shoes had begun to cause blisters.

  The nurse finally hurried toward him. She tried to take his golf bag. He told her, “No, I’ll need it. I haven’t finished my game.”

  She blinked in disbelief. She asked, “What happened to you?”

  He said, “Bees. Perhaps wasps. Bees, more likely.”

  She cocked her head toward his buttocks. “How big were those bees?”

  Then she said, “Come with me. We’ll have you looked at.”

  He said, “I know. It’s like a bullet wound, isn’t it. But it isn’t. A broken branch did it.”

  “If you say so.”

  “But if a bullet had done that, where would you put me? Is there a particular section or floor where people with bullet wounds are kept?”

  She said, “Three floors up. And I suspect that’s where you’re going.”

  “And knife wounds to the head? Same location?”

  “Same location.”

  “Thank you. I’ll go up there now.”

  “No, you won’t. You’re going to lie down right here until we have you examined.”

  “May I first use your rest room? I’m in very great need.”

  “Third door on the right. leave the golf bag.”

  “No, thank you.”

  She turned to another nurse. She said, “Security, stat.”

  “I’ll be with you very shortly,” he said.

  Molly Farrell had been patrolling the corridor while Olivia tried to keep Kate Geller occupied. Molly had been on the phone almost constantly for most of the past forty minutes. She kept a smile on her face and she chose her words carefully, but her mind was in utter turmoil. She kept that smile for the benefit of Kate Geller in case Kate should step out of Ragland’s room.

  John Waldo had been the first to report. Adam had not shown up at the marina. Next came a report from Billy McHugh. He’d missed Adam and Claudia and Carla in her fuel truck. They had probably gone in after all.

  She’d told Billy, “Don’t you go. Keep your station.”

  He asked her, “You called the cops yet?”

  She said, “Olivia has. She called Sergeant Moore. He’s the one who’s been helpful to Adam.”

  “Sounds like this sergeant called everyone else. I’m starting to hear all kinds of sirens.”

  “Stay and watch.”

  She had tried to reach Adam on his cellular phone. No answer from him. She tried Carla. Same result. Billy McHugh called again to report that he could see smoke from a fire.

  “Big time,” he said. “I guarantee it ain’t leaves.”

  He couldn’t be certain, but according to his street map, that fire was at or near Lagoon Road. He said that by then he saw Mars lights all over. “Sheriff’s cars, state troopers, fire trucks, EMS trucks…all of them heading toward that smoke.”

  She had asked, “Have you seen any cars coming out?”

  “A few. And a garbage truck. And a van just now. Not anyone we know, though. I oughta go in.”

  “No, you stay,” she repeated. “My map shows two, maybe three ways out.

  From where you are you can see all three. If you go in, you’re likely to get blocked by those police cars. I need to know that you’re mobile.”

  Billy had said, “Whoa. I think something just blew. I’m looking at a whole lot more smoke.”

  She closed her eyes and rubbed them. “Okay, keep me advised.”

  She’d spent the next twenty minutes torturing herself with thoughts of what she might have done differently. Her instructions had been to avoid all contact with Aubrey or with any of his people. Protect Adam and Claudia. Get them both off the island. Get Claudia’s mother off with them. Leave Aubrey for another day. Leave him for the twins. She appeared to have failed in almost every respect and, what’s more, she should not – repeat not – have brought Carla. No one’s better to have at your side in a fight. No one’s worse when you’re trying to avoid one.

  Molly saw a nurse go and speak to the guard who’s been posted outside Ragland’s room. The guard nodded, then left. He took the stairs. Molly asked her, “Why did he leave his post?”

  “He’s needed in ER. There’s some sort of disturbance.”

  “Disturbance? What sort?”

  “You needn’t worry yourself.”

  Molly pulled a large caliber pistol from her purse. “Do you see this? I worry. Please answer.”

  The nurse stared at the gun. “There’s…a man, a golfer; he’s apparently deranged. He’s on the loose somewhere in the building.”

  “A golfer?”

  “Miss, you can’t have a gun here. I must ask you…”

  “Describe him.”

  “He’s…dressed like a golfer. He came in with his clubs. Small injuries all over his face and hands. He claimed that he’d been attacked by bees, but he also had a trauma to his buttocks. He wouldn’t let them take away his golf bag.”

  The nurse said, “Just a minute. They’re ringing me again. I’m afraid I’m going to have to report you.”

  She walked back to her station, picked up the phone and listened. Molly saw a look of new concern on her face. She cradled the phone without mentioning Molly. She said, “They think he might be coming up here. He asked them where bullet wounds are treated.”

  Molly’s eyes narrowed. “Now, listen to me. This golfer, very likely, is one of the men who tried to kill Mr. Ragland last night. If he is, he is probably carrying a bomb and he’s certainly armed with a shotgun. Tell that to Security. Tell them not to fool with him. Tell them to shoot him on sight.”

  “They…won’t do that. Not here. Not in a hospital. I mean…what would happen if you’re wrong?”

  “Tell them anyway.”

  Molly turned away and walked back to Ragland’s room. Philip Ragland was still in a drug-induced sleep. She told Olivia and Kate Geller to stay in the room and to barricade the door with the room’s second bed. She told Olivia to have her gun cocked and ready and to shoot through the door at anyone who tries to force it. “Don’t ask who it is. Simply shoot. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, I can. Where will you be?”

  Before Molly could answer, they heard a dull boom. It seemed to come up through the floor. Another boom followed. Were they bombs? Molly doubted it. The bomb that John Waldo had disarmed and had described would not have made such a sound. More likely, she had just heard a shotgun.

  Crow had by-passed the elevator bank in favor of the fire stairs nearby. Elevators were not good. They left one with too few options. The stairs, however, had the twin disadvantages of being steep and being made of concrete. Steep was bad because he was tired; he’d been weakened. Concrete was bad because the spikes made too much noise.
Stocking feet would be better. Stealth was called for.

  That business about needing to use the restroom was a ploy, but now he wished he’d taken the time. All the excitement had put pressure on his bladder and he hadn’t relieved it for hours. He would do so at the first opportunity. For the moment, however, he would pull out his shotgun and make sure that it held a full load.

  It was well that he’d decided to kick off his shoes because a guard had appeared on the second floor landing. The guard didn’t see him or hear him at first. When he did, at last, the guard ordered him to halt and to put his hands in the air. Crow obliged him because his hands held the shotgun. He fired. Too high. He fired again. The guard yelped and then dropped out of sight. Crow could hear him scrambling through the landing’s fire door and slamming the door shut behind him. Crow didn’t know whether he’d hit him or not. Perhaps it didn’t matter. The point had been made. The guard would think twice before confronting him again.

  Crow crept up to the third floor landing where he slipped the golf bag from his shoulder. He leaned it against the cement wall, very quietly. His bottles of Snapple clinked together, but not loudly. They reminded him that he hadn’t had his lunch.

  He reached into the largest compartment of the bag and carefully removed the device. He had set the timer so that it would go off within seconds of being released. All he had to do now was to press one more button. That button would start the ten second count the instant he removed his thumb from it. He pulled the door part way open and held it with his foot. He picked up his shotgun. He was ready.

  A woman’s voice shocked him. “If you move, I will kill you.”

  He turned his head slightly. The voice had come from behind him. He swung his shotgun back toward the stairs he’d just climbed. The flight of stairs was empty. He saw no one.

  “Up here,” the voice said. “Very slowly, put those down.”

  He saw her at the top of the next flight of stairs. Another woman, he thought. Why so many women? This one was a new one. Long dark hair, dressed for business, a purse at her feet. He’d have thought that she would be hidden or crouching. She was neither; she was standing up straight, quite erect. She held a pistol in both hands, but she held it pointed downward. She seemed rather unready. He felt sure that he knew why. The hand that had led him here would not let him be impeded. Not this close to the fulfillment of his task.

  He said, “You’re too late. Do you see what I have here?”

  He wanted her to look at the bomb that he held. He wanted her to take her eyes from the shotgun. In that instant, he would bring it to bear and he would shoot her.

  She said, “Put them down slowly or die. Up to you.”

  “Oh, I’ll never die. You will, but I won’t.” As he said this, he lifted his thumb from the button. “You see, it makes little difference what becomes of my body…”

  “In that case, you won’t mind,” Molly said, and she fired. She fired at the thing in his hand.

  Olivia Ragland had heard the shot and she heard the great whoomp that came after it. She had promised to stay, but she couldn’t bear not knowing. She pulled the bed away from the door and peered out. She had Adam’s Beretta in her hand, the safety off. She saw nothing at first, only smoke near the fire door. But she heard a muffled shriek, then another.

  The door pulled open, inward, and a mass of flame lurched through it. The fire was so hot that it had no shades of red; it seemed whiter than a high summer sun. The figure at their center was already charred black and almost totally naked. A few last strands of clothing were peeling from his flesh and becoming little wisps that floated up and away. It was probably Crow, but it was difficult to tell. It could have been the security guard.

  She saw that the figure’s right hand was gone. What was left of his forearm flapped loosely. But his left hand still gripped what appeared to be a weapon. The figure was still shrieking. So very high pitched. It sounded like an animal. Or a woman.

  Olivia gasped. Oh, my God. Where is Molly?

  She felt Kate at her side. Kate had had the same fear. Kate shouted Molly’s name and began to run forward. As she did, the overhead sprinklers kicked in. Their hiss combined with the hiss from the fire, creating a popping and crackling sound. Through all this, Olivia heard a muffled female voice. The voice called, “Stay back. Don’t come down here.”

  She saw that the fire door remained partially open. They both saw that Molly was trying to get through, but the sprinklers had not yet cooled the door’s metal surface and more fire could be seen where Molly stood in the landing.

  Molly called again. “I’m all right here. Stay back.”

  Olivia was in no mood to obey. She shouted, “Who is that? Is that Joshua Crow?”

  “It is, and there are shotgun shells in that fire. Stay away until the sprinklers cool it down.”

  Crow was still standing with the help of the wall, still gripping the shotgun; it seemed welded to his hand. An odd bleating sound was coming from his mouth. He sucked in a breath of flame and he roared Leonard’s name. He roared it again until he choked on it. It didn’t seem possible that he could still speak or that he still remained on his feet. His flesh bubbled and spat from his scalp to his knees. But Olivia saw that below his knees he seemed almost untouched by the fire. His shins were pinkish white, the only part that still looked human. She saw that he was wearing orange socks.

  Olivia felt herself raising the Beretta. She took a step forward through the smoke and drenching spray.

  Molly called, “Do not shoot him. I don’t want a bullet in him.”

  “But he’s still…”

  “There’s no need. Don’t shoot. Let him burn.”

  Olivia might have argued that to shoot him was a mercy. But Olivia had no thought of mercy in her mind.

  Kate Geller said, “Don’t. You’re not like him, Olivia. You’ll never feel right about doing this.”

  “The hell I won’t. He came here to kill my husband.”

  Gently, Kate Geller put her hand on Adam’s gun and eased it down toward the floor. She said, “Molly’s right. There’s no point. Let it go. Let’s both get in out of the rain.”

  FOURTY

  There was still a glow in the western sky when Harry Whistler’s plane prepared to land. While airborne, he’d been briefed on the afternoon’s events through a series of phone calls from Molly Farrell and another call from Paul Bannerman.

  As his plane approached from five miles out to sea, his pilot had buzzed him to look out the starboard window. He said, “Down on the water. Two o’clock.”

  Donald Beasley looked first. He said, “Rescue ships. Coast Guard.”

  Harry saw them. And their lights. They were picking up debris…what debris they could find…from the aircraft that had plunged in hours earlier.

  Donald asked, “Just two aboard?”

  “Only Lockwood and the pilot from what I’ve been told. Almost everyone else has been accounted for.”

  As Harry’s plane circled for its final approach, he peered down toward the southern end of the island where the house that he’d been told about had burned. He knew that the fire had only lately been extinguished, but he’d thought that he might see where it had been from the lights. There should have been police cars, their lights strobing around it, keeping the curious at bay. But he saw little.

  “Too much tree cover down there,” said Donald. “We’ll take a look later if you want.”

  Harry shrugged. “Look at what? There’s nothing there anymore.”

  “Little prick was lucky.”

  “Well, his luck has run out. He was warned. There won’t be another truce.”

  The reference, of course, was to Felix Aubrey. First Harry had heard that Carla had finished him. Next he heard that she hadn’t, according to her, but that he’d probably died in the explosion. That wasn’t true either. The firemen had found Aubrey wandering dazed, in a stupor, with no ID on his person. The police had taken him to the emergency ward. Molly saw him after he was brough
t in.

  Carla said that she’d thought about finishing Aubrey to save Harry Whistler the trouble. But her heart wasn’t in it. The little toad would not have known what was happening. His mind had apparently shut down.

  Harry doubted that Aubrey had gone insane on more than a temporary basis. Deep shock, however, wasn’t hard to imagine. All that shooting. The fire. Carla ripping through the house in a fuel truck. And if those were not enough to numb the man’s senses, at the end he found himself face to face with the woman who’d cut him so badly before and, as then, she had a knife in her hand.

  Carla says that isn’t it. She says for one thing, he never saw her face that other time. He seemed to have had no idea who she was. Even so, she must have looked like some creature from hell, all sooty and smoldering, walking out of the flames. Come to think of it, thought Harry, if creatures were to come up from hell, a fuel truck seemed a suitable conveyance.

  The other one she’d cut had also survived. Lockwood’s partner, Briggs, was alive, but not by much. The first police car to arrive had found Mr. Briggs. He was trying to drag himself out of the garage while it was almost totally engulfed. Briggs would probably lose at least one of his legs. Carla again. She’d shot to maim, not to kill. Briggs had no ID on him either.

  Donald said, “You know, she really ought to rethink that. I mean her thing about being non-lethal for a change. I mean you got to remember she goes up against people who might have a different philosophical bent.”

  Or maybe it was Dennis who said that, thought Harry. Philosophical bent? That did sound more like Dennis. Either way, Harry found himself inclined to agree.

  The only fatality, not counting Crow and Breen, seems to have been someone named Robert. Poole’s man. Carla wasn’t absolutely sure about that. She says she never saw him when she plowed into the house, but Robert had been with them, no question. She says she and Claudia checked out every room, all except for under the wheels of the truck. If that’s where he was, and that seemed the way to bet, they probably won’t even find his teeth.