Whistler's Angel (33 page)

He’ll blame us? How can he? Did we put him in that bar? Did we force
him to take center stage with Philip Ragland? Don’t you see; it’s the media
that will do this, not us. Our agreement with his father remains in force because
we’re innocent of any involvement.

Some days it’s a pleasure to go to the office. Felix Aubrey couldn’t wait to

present this to Poole.

The Center for Policy Analysis was housed in a purposely non-descript building. Twelve floors of grayish concrete and gray-tinted glass with a private garage underneath. All its tenants had similar gray-sounding names. The Center for this, the Committee for that, the National Council of whatever. Any curious outsider would be bored to stupefaction just by reading the lobby directory.

If that curious outsider were to get past security, he or she would not see much of a change. The tenants, on the whole, were gray men and women who tried not to look at each other. A new employee might say “Good morning” at first, but such overtures would quickly be discouraged. They could lead to small talk and, in turn, to indiscretions. What each did was no business of the other.

Felix Aubrey, especially, preferred it that way, and all the more since he’d been cut. His humiliation had been enough to bear without being asked, “Oh, what happened, poor man?” and knowing that the questioner was chortling inside. They all knew. He felt sure that they knew.

On this morning, as usual, he came in through the garage and and used a

coded card to call the elevator down. He used the same card to select his floor. There would be no admittance without it. The elevator rose, but it soon stopped again to collect those who’d entered through the lobby. There were several people waiting. Stanton Poole was among them in his usual black suit, wearing one of his usual yellow neckties. Something was missing. Aubrey couldn’t quite place it. Ah, yes. No lapel pin. Poole always displayed some kind of a pin, depending on whom he might be seeing that day. He had American flag pins, Put-Prayer-Back-In-School pins, Just-Say-No pins, pro-life pins, and a wide assortment of Christian pins, the most recent of which showed a flaming sword in the hand of a militant angel.

Poole acknowledged Aubrey’s presence with the barest nod as he stepped in and turned to face the doors. This was normal, not unusual, and yet something else was different. Poole’s normal expression was a satisfied smile.
Aubrey would have expected it, especially this morning, assuming that Poole had
heard the news that someone had shot Philip Ragland. His expression, however, seemed glazed, almost haunted. No matter, thought Aubrey. Dyspepsia, perhaps. He would soon give Poole something to be haunted about before relieving him with a solution.

He waited until the other passengers stepped off. “You’re aware, are you not, that Philip Ragland has been shot?”

Poole moistened his lips. He didn’t answer.

“And no doubt you have prayed for his speedy recovery.”

Poole swallowed hard. He said, “I had no part in that.”

“No part in shooting Ragland? Who said that you did?”

“I do not choose to discuss it.”

This was curious behavior, even for Poole. Poole normally would not volunteer a denial. To do so would suggest that there might be some basis for even considering that he might have been involved. His normal reaction was more likely to be a pious expression of shock.

Wait a minute, thought Aubrey. Poole must know about Whistler. That idiot, Lockwood, must have called him as well. If he has, he’ll pay dearly for ruining the surprise.

“Shall I…take it that you’ve heard from Mr. Lockwood this morning?”

Poole blinked a few times. He asked, “Who?”

“I think you heard me.”

“Oh, Lockwood. Your man? Why would I speak to him? I don’t even know what his job is.”

This again was normal. He chose not to know Lockwood. Very well. Rule out Lockwood. “Let me ask another way. Do you know who else was at the scene of the shooting?”

“I know nothing of that incident. I’m in no way connected.”

“And of course you know nothing about Adam Whistler.”

“Him? What about him? No, don’t tell me,” said Poole. “Whatever he’s up to, you deal with it.”

This was getting beyond curious. Could he really not know? If he didn’t, what could possibly have him so out of sorts?

“Mr. Poole…I’ll ask again, and this time I’ll speak slowly. Are you aware that Adam Whistler and his lady friend were present when Philip Ragland got shot?”

The color drained from Poole’s face. He seemed unable to speak.

“And did you know,” Aubrey added, “that, acting together, they subdued
the man who shot Philip Ragland? Did you know that they saved Ragland’s life?”

Poole could only stammer. This was news to him, clearly. Aubrey, at least, could now enjoy Poole’s discomfort, but he still didn’t know why Poole had bothered to insist that he was innocent of any involvement. It was clear that Poole knew a good deal more than he was saying.

“Want to hear the best part? It was actually the girl. It seems that young Claudia has used her sabbatical to acquire a few lethal skills.”

Poole gave no response. He merely tightened his jaw and averted his eyes. This also was normal. He could say he never heard.

Aubrey said, “Very well. Never mind. Here’s our floor.”

“Wait a minute,” Poole whispered. He was chewing his lip. “You say Whistler…and the girl…?”

“Too late. I don’t wish to discuss it.”

This was the sort of game that they played all the time except that this one, again, was somewhat different. Stanton Poole almost never asked a
question directly. Nothing asked, nothing known, was his watchword. But Poole, it was clear, hadn’t heard about Whistler. He had only known that Philip Ragland had been shot, and that news alone had affected him greatly. Then the mention of Whistler in connection with Ragland had nearly the effect of defibrilator paddles applied to his private parts.

Poole wet his lips once more. All he managed was, “Whistler?”

“We’ll talk when you’re ready to share.”

When one has an advantage, one doesn’t discard it without getting something of value in return. Aubrey said nothing further. He would go to his office. He would wait until Poole could stand it no longer. He would let Mr. Poole come to him.

It took longer than he’d thought. On reaching his office, Poole told Robert, his assistant, his bodyguard really, to cancel his appointments for the day. Moreover, he’d be taking no calls.

“Will you be in prayer, sir?”

One had to know Robert.

“I am…always in prayer.”

And one had to know Poole.

Before closing his door, Poole reached into his wallet and extracted a card key that he carried in its folds. Aubrey knew that the only card key lock in that room was the one to a cabinet that concealed a safe where Poole kept his private papers. He could hear Poole at the cabinet, yanking it open. He heard him say, “Shit.” Poole never said, “Shit.” Mr. Poole was indeed not himself.

Some ten minutes later, Poole burst from the room, a thick folder under his arm. Aubrey heard him tell young Robert to get up from his computer and to go get some breakfast, read his Bible or something. The assistant, a mountainous young fellow, obeyed. Poole watched him go and then sat at Robert’s desk where Robert kept a photo, framed in turquoise, of his mother and a coffee mug that asked, “What would Jesus do?” Robert also wore a pistol strapped to his ankle, which was, one assumes, what Jesus would have done if he’d known what the Romans had in store for him. He would probably have used it on Judas.

Poole pushed the photo and the mug to one side and went to work on Robert’s keyboard. He spent another ten minutes bringing up files. Every so often, he would reach his right hand to the lower right corner of the keyboard. Aubrey seldom spent much time at computers, but he knew that that was where the delete key was found.

Aubrey couldn’t resist. He got up from his desk. He said, “May I ask what you’re doing?”

Poole’s response was, “Damn you, Mr. Aubrey.”

This was odd in itself. Stanton Poole never cursed. Surely, he used “damn” or “damned” on occasion, but only to describe the eventual
circumstance of all but a few living humans.

He said it again, “Damn you, Aubrey.”

“But for what, in this instance? And what is it you’re erasing? And whatever it is, you wouldn’t have to erase it if you hadn’t put it there in the first place.”

Poole ignored all but the first part of the question. “Damn you for this. This folder right here.” He jabbed a finger at the folder that, one assumed, had lately come out of his safe. "It's your ledger, Aubrey. Your damnable ledger. Damn you and your damnable ledger.”

It was not the book itself. It was only a copy. Whistler’s father had kept the original. Aubrey said, “Now I’m confused. Yes, Whistler was there. But why is everyone leaping to the conclusion that Whistler and Ragland are in concert?”

“Whistler. You’ve confirmed that? He’s a part of this now?”

An exasperated sigh. “A part of what, Mr. Poole?”

“What Crow did. With Breen. Those two shot Philip Ragland. Breen is dead or near it. They’ve identified Breen. They know that the one who escaped must be Crow.”

Aubrey hadn’t heard that the assailants had been named. “And…who are these two? What have they to do with us?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Mr. Aubrey.”

One should never admit that one doesn’t know something. One should smile and say, “Oh, that,” as if it’s under control. But Aubrey could not. This seemed much too important. He said, “I’m afraid I’m not playing.”

“You’re a liar, Mr. Aubrey.”

“Ah…what if I swear…may my parents burn in hell…if I have the least idea of what you’re talking about?”

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?”