Bannerman's Law (62 page)

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On the camera monitors at the rear of the main house,
Theodore Ma
r
ek watched the arrival of the small caravan.
He had darkened the room, the better to see the screens.

In the lead, a Volvo station wagon, that annoying young
doctor at the wheel, a n
u
rse
...no, a nun
...
in the
passenger seat holding a clipboard. A jitney bus followed,
the markings of the Motion Picture Country House on its
side, a man in white driving, a pipe between his teeth.
Marek watched with satisfaction as the gates swung shut
behind them.

He turned to another monitor that scanned the great
lawn. The members, most of them, were scattered about,
some in wheelchairs, that blind old man busy with his
stupid paints.

Marek had reconsidered keepin
g
them all, including
Feldman and his helpers. That other asylum would only start calling, looking for them, within a matter of hours.
But he could certainly delay their departure. Make sure all
documents were checked, all members examined, and then of
course fed. In the meantime, keep them in the line of fire should any other visitors decide to come calling.

The door behind him opened. A dim light spilled in
from the hall. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing that it
was the decanter of brandy and the sandwich he had or
dered. The. tray was set down at his side. A glass was poured. Retreating footsteps. The door closed again.

He checked another bank of monitors, trained where
Darby had deployed the other guards. He could not see them but he knew that they were
theré. They
were well armed and out of sight.

The cameras covering Tower Road showed no activity
there. One man walking a dog. One car, his own body
guards in it, cruising the perimeter. They had alerted him
by radio of Dr.
Feldman's
approach.

He wished he had more of his own people out there.
But he'd ordered the best of them to stay at the house and
guard his possessions. Especially his vault. Keep the media
away. Keep the police from penetrating any farther than
had poor Felix's car.

Mr. Ma
r
ek, they were to say, was out of town, incom
municado, inspecting the art collection of a famous re
cluse. All very hush-hush. He knows nothing of these
people who came crashing through his wall.

Even at Sur La Mer, Marek would stay out of sight.
Right here, watching the sweep of the monitors. Let Darby deal with Feld
m
a
n
in his normal bumbling, officious and
time-consuming manner. When that nun with her clipboard
discovers one of the members unaccounted for, it ought to keep them all in the line of fire even longer.

“
Drink your brandy, Mr. Marek
.”

Marek jumped at the sound of the voice. A woman. He
spun in his seat, instantly terrified, his eyes alternately
wide and squinting as he tried to make out the dim figure standing, arms folded, her back against the door. The sister? The Benedict woman? Impossible. And yet there she
was. Small. Short hair. An odd shine on her face and on
her forearms.

“
How did you
.
.
.
who
...
I didn
't.
.
.”
He couldn't
catch his breath.

“
Drink it, please
.”
She took a step toward him.

A wave of relief flooded upward from his stomach. It
was not that woman at all. It was the homely one. Luisa. Cried all the time. Played dead when he touched her. The
one he'd returned.

His brain whirled but he remembered now. Darby had
said something about her. That she was back.
“
Messed
up
...
not too bad
,”
he'd said. Ma
r
ek had paid no atten
tion. Back from where?

Her face, her arms, seemed to have been burned. They were covered with ointment. The hair wasn't short. It was
simply gone but for a few tufts at the rear. He stared,
transfixed, more aware of her increased ugliness than of the small pistol half hidden under one folded arm
.

“
Luisa
,”
he managed.
“
What
...
I mean, how did
you
..
”

“
Drink your brandy
.”
Her arms separated. The pistol
dropped to her side. The movement caused her to wince
and yet Marek saw peace, not pain, in her eyes.
“
Drink
it. Then we'll talk
.”

Susan had never seen Ca
rl
a so calm. Her own pulse
was still racing. Carla seemed to be sleep-walking.

She watched, the Beret
t
a ready, as Carla entered the
bungalow and approached the pale young man who sat
curled into a ball against the sitting room couch. One of
his hands still held the knife. Both hands massaged his
injured knee.

“
Hello, Claude
,”
said Carla. She lowered herself to
his side. Susan noticed that her knees were hurt as well.
They had bled through her jeans.

Gently, Carla took the knife. He did not resist.

“
H...hi,
Carla
,”
he stammered. He tried to smile.
She answered it.

Carla studied the fighting knife, testing its balance.

“
Claude? You use two knives, don't you
?”

He swallowed.
“
You could tell
?”

”
I could tell
.”

He drew one hand from his knee and touched the
pocket of his windbreaker. Car
l
a reached into it and found
the black leather case that contained his skinning knife. She slid both weapons well under the couch.

“
Can you walk, do you think
?”

“
I'll try
.”

“
Um
.
.
.”
Susan stepped closer.
“
Walk where,
Carla
?”

Carla ignored her.

“
Is she your friend
?”
asked Domme
ri
ch.

Carla hesitated, but she nodded.

”
I didn't know. I mean, first I thought she was the
older lady, Molly, but then I saw she wasn't. Then I was afraid they arrested you for what I did or maybe they had
you tied up in here. Or something
.”

“
No harm done. It's okay
.”

“
Oh
.”
He touched one of her knees.
“
You're hurt,
t
o
o
.”

“
Just scraped. I'm fine
.”

Dommerich
’
s eyes wandered the room, searching. ”I
sent you flowers
,”
he said.

Carla glanced where they had fallen.
“
They're lovely.
Thank you
.”

“
And cookies
.”

”
I saw. Try to stand, Claude
.”

“
Carla
.”
Susan too
k
another step.
“
He stays where
he is
.”

She turned her head, gesturing toward the Bere
tt
a.
“
Put
that away. You won't need it
.”

Susan shook her head.

“
Look at him
,”
Carla said quietly.
“
Does he look dan
gerous to you
?”

Claude was wide-eyed, his jaw slack, the lower lip
protruding. A sunken chest, soft at the waist. No, he did
not look dangerous. None of his victims would have
thought he did either.

Susan glanced around the room as if for help. She saw
the fallen telephone. She wanted to rush to it and pick it up,
hopeful that it would then ring and she woul
d
hear
Paul's voice telling her what to do.

What would he say?

He'd be very calm. He'd tell her to keep him there.
Wait for him. Maybe even call the police.

But Car
l
a wan
t
s to take him, Paul. I think she
'
ll let
him go. She
's
not even asking what his real name is. Paul,
I can't let her take him.

Put her on the phone.

She won't talk to you. She's helping him, right now, to
his feet. She's asking if he has a car outside.

Then let her go, Susan. Don't take her on.

Paul, I have a gun.

What gun?

Mine. I mean, there were two in your bag. I might have
to shoot him.

Don't. Do you hear me? Do not. You're not like us,
Susan. You never can be like us.

In her mind, Susan hung u
p
on him.

She had to. Claude was standing. Carla brought his arm
around her shoulder. Susan felt for the hammer with her
thumb, making sure that it was fully cocked.

“
Let us by
,”
she said.
“
Be careful with that
.”

Susan felt the beginnings of tears.
“
Carla
.
.
.
please
don't make me
.”
She raised the Beretta, lining the sights
against the young man's chest.

Carla took a breath.
“
Hurt him, Susan, and I'll hurt
you
,”
she said.

Susan glanced at the ceiling, the floor. She considered
a warning shot. Maybe several. Draw a crowd.

Carla saw the thought in her eyes.
“
I'll hurt you fo
r
that, too
.”

Susan heard the click of a knife springing open. It
flashed in
Carla's
right hand. She had not even seen where
it came from.

“
Claude
?”
Susan heard herself say his name.

He turned his head. He looked at her sideways.

“
Talk to her, Claude. There's no way you're walking
past me
.”

His lips moved, indecisively. The lower one trembled.
”I .
.
.
I was trying to help, you know
,”
he said at last.

He was suddenly six years old, she thought.

”
I know
,”
she said.

“
Your name is Susan
?”

She nodded.

“
Those guys
.
.
.”
he cocked his head vaguely toward
Burba
n
k and toward Thousand Oaks.
“
They were worse
than me
.”

She found herself wanting to reply. But she could not.

“
Didn't they shoot you once? You and this lady
.
.
.”
He groped for a name. It came to him.
“
Elena
?”

Even Ca
rl
a blinked.

Susan could only shake her head. Her father flicked
into her mind. Pizzas. His warning. Her mind could not
finish the equation.

“
Sit down, Claude
.”
Susan set her jaw.
“
Tell Carla
you're staying
.”

He seemed to consider it. Then he lowered his head.
”
I can't go to jail. They'll
...
I know what they'll do to
me there
.”

He tugged Carla forward.

A tear spilled onto Susan's cheek.

She fired.