Bannerman's Law

by John R. Maxim

  “You little cunt,” she heard him say. His fist was raised as if to strike her. But he did not. Instead, the hand lowered, slowly. She felt it on her hip. It moved to her stomach, her chest, feeling her through the cotton blanket. And the face was changing. The anger was gone. Something else in its place.

  Henry Dunville had made a decision.

  Now she felt him unstrapping her. First her ankles, then her wrists, then, last, her head. It had been held in place with a belt wrapped in thick terry cloth. More rolled up towels had been packed against her temples. She was free now. She raised one arm. It felt so heavy. She let it fall. The fingers seemed to work but not the arm.

  She felt his hands reaching under her, lifting her. The blanket fell away. She was out of the light now. She could see better. The ceiling turned and she felt herself being lowered onto something cold. She felt its texture. A leather couch. He stood over her. He was only a shadow now against the light but she could see that he was undoing his clothing. His trousers fell. His belt buckle struck the

  floor. He stepped out of them. The shadow lowered itself on her. She screamed, cursing him.

  A door opened. A woman's voice. The pock-marked one. No, she shouted. Don't do that. He turned his head. Get out, he said. Right now. Out. The door slammed. Angry words from outside it.

  She felt him trying to enter her. Roughly. Clumsily. She made herself relax so that it would not hurt so much. Yes. That was better. She felt herself becoming moist. He felt it as well. He entered her.

  She listened, her face turned away, as his breathing became rapid. She felt him raise himself on his elbows. His hands, which had gripped her shoulders, now moved to her throat. It frightened her. She looked into his face, saw his eyes searching her own, and she knew what he intended. She closed her eyes, tightly.

  Carla, she thought, desperately.

  What would Carla do?

  She would use her teeth. Tear at his face. Bite into his neck with a pit bull's death grip. Drive the heel of her hand against his nose. But she could do none of these. She still had no strength. Except . . . except in her fingers.

  “Open your eyes,” he gasped, softly. “Look at me.”

  She squeezed them harder. She felt one hand come free from her throat. It slapped her, viciously.

  “Open them,” he snarled. “Open them wide.”

  The eyes, she thought. Yes.

  She obeyed. She let him peer into the light that he wanted to watch as it flickered and died. The hand that had slapped her returned to her throat, joining the other. His grip tightened. He quickened his thrust. He was coming.

  She saw her own right hand. She willed it to stop floating, to make a fist, thumb extended, to strike at his eye.

  He shrieked.

  Drive deep, she said in her mind.

  She watched, almost curiously, as her long thumbnail felt its way, sinking in to half its length. Blood spat from his eye. She felt it on her face. More shrieking. His hand clawed at her arm. His other hand, now a fist, tried to hammer at her face but his body slipped on the wetness between them and the blow glanced off her forehead. He steadied himself. Again he seized her by the neck. She felt his thumbs pressing, digging, much deeper than before. Something ruptured inside her throat. She heard it. And now more sounds. The door again, slamming open.

  She heard, through a wall of pain and flashing lights, a woman's voice. A different one. This new woman was shouting, kicking at the jogger's ribs. She was trying to help her.

  Carla?

  No. Not Carla. Through a red veil she caught a glimpse of blond hair, bandages, white robe. And this woman was calling a name. It sounded like Alan.

  She heard it again. Farther away. It faded into a distant echo. Everything was fading but for the bursts of light inside her brain. They were the last thing she saw.

  Henry Dunville was on his feet. Backing away. Sniffling. Moaning.

  He was bent over sideways, his left elbow pressed tightly against his ribs where Barbara Weinberg had kicked him. The ribs were broken. Blood dripped from his face.

  The blond woman stood before him, moving with him as he tried to circle her, blocking his path to the door. His left hand held the waistband of his trousers. He tried to tug them up but he could not. They barely covered his thighs, hobbling him. His right hand held a small brass lamp by its neck. He gestured with it, threatened with it, but the woman, her expression cold, almost lifeless, did not retreat.

  The man known as Weinberg knelt at the leather sofa, his face against Lisa's, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe life into her. He straightened, watching. She showed no response. Now he pumped at her chest although he knew it was useless. After a while, he stopped. He reached to close her eyes. Slowly, he pushed to his feet.

  He turned to face Henry Dunville. Dunville raised the lamp.

  “See this?” Dunville cried. He turned the left side of his face to the larger man. The eye was like a red prune, oozing, clotted. More blood smeared his cheek and had soaked through the collar of his shirt. “Do you see what she did to me?”

  Weinberg didn't answer. “Please wait outside. Watch the door,” he said to his wife.

  She shook her head. She gestured toward his own face under the bandages. “If he hits you,” she said, “he'll ruin it.”

  “He's not going to hit me. I'm going to hit him.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “You can't see to the side. You wouldn't see it coming.”

  He hesitated.

  “Touch me,” Henry Dunville gasped, “and you're finished. Both of you.”

  “You wait outside,” the blond woman said. “I'll finish this.” She walked to a cabinet. She opened a drawer. He heard the metallic rattle of instruments.

  “What do you have in mind?” Weinberg asked, turning to her.

  “I'm going to take his other eye,” she said.

  The door to the surgery had muted the screams. A second door, leading upstairs, would block them entirely.

  The man and woman named Weinberg waited there, not opening it, until Henry Dunville's screams became sobs and until the sounds of crashing furniture became less frequent.

  That done, the Weinbergs fully realized that they had a problem. Given their condition, there could be no question of running from it. In any case, they had an investment to protect.

  The surgery on their faces, the new documents, all the weeks of coaching to prepare them for their new lives as Alan and Barbara Weinberg . . . had already cost them nearly $400,000. Add to that the cost of two new homes, the house in Santa Fe, the apartment in France, which were part of their new identity and, therefore, could hardly be used if they ran. It would be a million-dollar write-off at least. And even then, where could they go, how far would they get, looking like this?

  By any standard he knew, the punishment of Henry Dunville had been just. The man had committed a useless, stupid murder. The girl had posed no real threat. She had discovered nothing that could not have been explained, denied, or ignored. Worse, he'd had her followed to Sur La Mer by someone who would soon conclude that she must have died there. That person might now have to be silenced as well. All because Henry Dunville enjoyed playing with helpless women.

  He could only hope that the other Dunvilles would see the wisdom of cutting their losses. Keep Henry alive if they wished. As a new and permanent member. Let old Mr. Bellarmine teach him to paint. Or kill him and be done with it. He had nearly done that himself after Bonnie . . . Barbara . . . finished with him. But Barbara had said no. Let it sink in, she said, that he's done this to himself.

  Weinberg doubted that allowing Henry time to reflect on his sins would lead to a spiritual awakening. Or to an insight for which he would thank her. It was really, truth be told, that Barbara tended to regard a quick death as a mercy rather than as retributive justice. And yet this is a woman, as he'd mused more than once, who will capture household moths and spiders alive and then release them out of doors. This is an unreconstructed romantic who thinks a woman sho
uld smell good and be sent flowers and have doors opened for her but should not be raped unless the rape was her idea.

  He had yielded to his wife, letting Henry live, because she asked him to and because it might not be a bad idea to let the other Dunvilles learn of his stupidity from his own lips. But a bit of insurance would not be a bad idea either.

  That in mind, he and Barbara proceeded through the second door and up to the main entrance hall, where they relieved two security guards of the pistols they wore under their blazers. They had the one who could still walk drag the other to a padded holding cell where they were invited to quietly pass the remainder of their shift. They returned to the administrative section and the office of Carleton Dunville, the younger. Both Carletons were away, hence Henry's temporary stewardship. The father, semiretired, was in Palm Springs, cultivating the rich and powerful. The son, the smart one, was in Los Angeles participating in a fund-raiser for the Motion Picture Relief Association. He had long served on its board and had rotated, this year, into the chairmanship.

  Their purpose in going to the younger Dunville’ s office was to get at his safe, which Barbara felt sure she could open given thirty minutes or so, and to get at the cabinet in which the heavier weapons were kept. Weinberg had seen them when, on arrival at Sur La Mer, he was required to surrender his own. A third purpose was to use the telephone.

  But, on entering the richly paneled room, they found the phone in use. Henry's little friend—he'd only heard her called Ruiz—was standing at the desk, her back to them. Weinberg waited, listening. She was recounting certain of the day's events to, he assumed, the younger Dunville. Twice she used the word idiot in connection with Henry. She was clearly distressed. So, from her manner, was Carleton, though neither, as yet, knew the half of it.

  Weinberg cleared his throat. She turned, startled. He made a ”time-out” signal with his hands, using the guard's pistol to cross the tee. The woman with the bad skin blinked. Weinberg asked for the phone, but, upon realizing that it would not fit around his bandages, handed it to his wife.

  Barbara Weinberg identified herself. Then, making herself comfortable, she explained to Carleton Dunville, the younger, why his half-brother had no eyes.

  It was a comfortable office. The desk faced a couch and two chairs set around a low table in a conversational grouping. The door seemed sturdy enough. Two large windows looked out on the front lawn and gave a clear view of the driveway. The office had its own washroom. While Carleton Dunville made up his mind, it would do nicely.

  As his wife busied herself with the safe, he had the woman, Ruiz, order a plate of sandwiches and two pots of coffee from the kitchen. He told her exactly what to say. He listened on an extension, satisfying himself that no alarm had been given. Still, it was only a matter of time until Henry found his voice again, or managed to unlock the door and come groping his way up from the basement.

  Weinberg opened a narrow coat closet that was built into the paneling. Inside, hidden, was the cabinet that contained the guns.

  “Do you have a key, by chance?” he asked the woman named Ruiz.

  She shook her head, her expression sullen.

  Barbara Weinberg looked up from the safe. Rising, she stepped to the coat closet and glanced inside. “Just kick it in,” she said.

  Weinberg, under his bandages, made a face. He had expected a measure of artistry. He braced himself, raising one leg.

  “Wait.” Ruiz winced. She reached into her pocket, producing a ring of keys. “I'll open it,” she said. “But you won't need guns.”

  “We share that hope,” he said. “Open it all the same.”

  It was, he thought, a rather odd collection. A dozen or so pistols, including his own, all different models. One Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun with a sound suppressor, two Ingrams, two Uzis. He took the MP-5 for himself and one of the Ingrams for his wife because these two had extra clips while the others had, in some cases, no ammunition at all. And they'd been dumped into the cabinet carelessly and at random. Ruiz appeared to read his mind.

  “He doesn't like guns,” she said.

  Weinberg said nothing. He checked the action of his weapon.

  “He doesn't like Henry either. Vengeance will not interest him.”

  “What will?”

  “Containing this.”

  “What will he do about Henry?”

  “He might ask me to ... give him something for the pain.”

  Weinberg looked at her. He found that he believed her. He saw no hint of pity concerning Henry. The concept of filial devotion was equally foreign to her and, therefore, perhaps to young Carleton. Still ... the matter of insurance.

  He asked Ruiz to take a seat on the sofa. He sat at the desk. There was a Canon fax machine behind it. He moved it onto the desk. He found a blank sheet of paper and began writing on it in large block letters.

  “What's your first name?” he asked.

  “Luisa. What are you doing?”

  He fed the paper into the machine and punched a series of numbers. The machine hummed. He caught the sheet as it cleared the stylus and held it up for her to see. It read ...

  BOX 617

  IF NO MESSAGE, MY VOICE, AT WEEKLY INTERVALS, PLEASE ASSUME WORST. ASSUME C. DUNVILLE, JR., AND ASSOCIATE L. RUIZ, SUR LA MER, SANTA BARBARA, RESPONSIBLE. KILL THEM. PAYMENT GUARANTEED VIA CJP. REGARDS, STREICHER

  Luisa Ruiz bit her lip. “You made an agreement,” she said darkly.

  “It included leaving here alive.” He turned to his wife. “How's it coming?” he asked.

  “Got it,” she answered. The safe door swung open.

  The former Bonnie Streicher sorted through several piles of documents, discarding most of them. There were bundles of cash as well. Old bills. She made a rough estimate of the amount, then pushed the money aside. Beneath it, she found a locked leather folder. She broke it open and pulled out three manila folders. She knew at once that she'd found what she was looking for. “Wow,”

  she said softly at one point. She began handing the papers to Weinberg.

  “He won't forgive this,” Luisa said, sucking in a breath. “He can't.”

  “No harm to me,” Weinberg answered absently. “No harm to him.” His mind was on the documents. They were single-sheet biographies, clipped together in pairs. One sheet a true history of an individual, the other an invented history. There were dozens, his own among them. Axel Streicher—Alan Weinberg. Some went back thirty, even fifty years. He removed the clips that held them together and, after writing out a cover sheet, began feeding them into the fax machine, although not his own or that of his wife. The cover note said

  BOX 617

  HOLD FOR ME. NO ACTION UNLESS NO CONTACT. STREICHER

  That, too, he held up for Ruiz to see.

  “Do you have any idea what you've done?” she asked quietly.

  ”I certainly hope so,” he said with a grunt. He had unplugged the machine and turned it onto its back. With a silver letter opener he began prying off bits of plastic, tearing at its circuitry. “Would you mind calling again about those sandwiches?”

  Two hours passed. Weinberg heard a car. He motioned his wife to the window where, carefully, she moved one slat of the blinds. A white Mercedes. A man in a dark suit climbed out of it.

  “It's Carleton,” she said. She watched as two men in blazers came out to meet him. One was limping badly. “Someone released those guards. Which means they must have found Henry.”

  The guard with the limp was gesturing in her direction. He was agitated. Now he was cocking his head vaguely in the direction of the surgery. His hands came up to his eyes. He made a gouging motion toward one of them and a ripping motion toward the other.

  Carleton Dunville the younger winced, possibly for effect. His half-brother's overall condition was no longer news to him although Barbara had omitted certain details. He raised his own hands, waggling his fingers in a calming manner. No, the guards would not be blamed. She watched as he asked several questions, once checkin
g his watch, twice glancing down the driveway in the direction from which he'd come. Then, as if on signal, another car appeared. A white Fiero, dented front left fender. It squealed to a stop behind Carleton's Mercedes. The driver, a squat, coarse-looking man, long hair bunched behind his head, started to get out but Carleton waved him back and, with words and gestures, seemed to be sending him to the rear of the building.

  “Who is this?” She motioned Luisa Ruiz forward.

  Ruiz reached the window in time to see the car drive off. “His name's Hickey.” She said. “Henry uses him for this and that.”

  “Such as burglaries?” Barbara asked.

  Ruiz shrugged, then nodded.

  “And disposing of bodies?”

  “Not until now,” she lied.

  Another hour passed. The phone rang. Ruiz, upon Weinberg's nod, picked it up.

  “It's Mr. Dunville,” she said.`''He's outside. May he come in?”

  “Certainly. It's his office.”

  Weinberg, standing behind Ruiz, leveled his weapon at the door. His wife, her back to it, covered the two windows. Carleton Dunville knocked, then entered.

  He was an elegant man. Mid-thirties, slender, erect, dark hair going prematurely gray. His features showed little resemblance to those of his half-brother. If he were an actor he would have been cast in sophisticated drawing room comedies. A touch of David Niven, a little Tony Randall, even down to the black double-breasted suits he favored. Were it not for the eyes, he might be dismissed as a fop. But the eyes were alert, intelligent, and their usual expression, in repose, was one of detached amusement. Now they were cold.

  Ignoring the weapons, they fell first on the open safe, then on the ruined fax machine, then on the sprays of dried blood that stained Barbara Weinberg's white bathrobe.

  Luisa Ruiz coughed. She had picked up the two cover sheets and the small stack of files that Weinberg had transmitted.

  “May I?” she asked Weinberg, gesturing with them toward Dunville.