Whistler's Angel (65 page)

“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.”

T
his 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 SEVEN

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?”

C
arla 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.