Bannerman's Law (10 page)

And yet, barring the occasional lapse of good manners, she did not blame the guards. They were merely following
the instructions of the officious Henry, who seemed to
make rules just for the sake of having them. Not that she
and Alan would have violated any sensible security mea
sure or even any of the more arcane rules
,
provided someone had the courtesy to explain them. But Henry could be
pointlessly authoritarian. And a
nudnik.
What was that
other word Alan liked? A
shvontz.
A
fec
k
uc
k
hteh shvontz.
He was also a bully. A stupid one. He had foolishly
thought that Henry Dunville was more to be feared than
the former Axel Streicher.

Barbara stood, facing the lawn, admiring her ghostly footprints. She lifted her eyes to the house. Even from the distance of the hedge it took in most of her field of vision.
It was only four stories high, not counting the basement
and attic, but each floor had thirteen-foot ceilings
.
The
Dunvilles, three of them, kept apartments on the top floor.
Household and nursing staff lived on the third. The secu
rity guards, numbering at least ten, lived in what had once
been a carriage house and barn.
“
Special guests
,”
such
as themselves, lived in suites on the second floor of the
north wing
,
to her left. There were four such suites but
she and Alan were alone there now. Below
,
on the first
floor, were the administrative offices and some of the hos
pital facilities. The surgery and several classrooms, were in the basement.

The regular patients, so-called members, lived on the
first and second floors of the south wing. They took their
meals in a formal dining room just off the entrance hall.
She had heard them through closed doors but she had seen
them, thus far, only from her window. She had counted eleven of them, none younger than eighty or so. She and Alan were forbidden to speak to them or, to the extent
possible, be seen by them. They were not to go out of
doors during those exercise periods reserved for the members. Henry Dunville
’
s rules.

Most of the windows were dark. In two of them she
could see the flickering glow of television sets. Barbara
yawned. She began walking, slowly, back toward the
house. She had retraced her steps about halfway when sh
e
felt herself being drawn toward the dim light coming from
one of the first-floor windows. It was, perhaps, curiosity. Or perhap
s
she felt the need for human contact other than
that with staff and guards. In any case she resisted the
pull, continuing on, reluctant to leave a diverging
set of
tracks. But by the time she reached the terrace, the pull,
or need, had become stronger. She stepped out of her
damp slippers and, barefoot, made her way to the window.

It was a casement window, opening to each side, very
tall. Inside, heavy drapes had been drawn but one of them
had snagged on a piece of furniture. She saw the television
screen first. It was quite large and, oddly, it seemed built
into the wall as if to resemble a movie screen complete
with curtains and a valance. A silent film was being shown
on it.

Barbara saw movement. A flitting hand. She hesitated,
then stepped closer. It was that old actress, Nellie Da
m
eon.
Alan had heard of her although she had not. He said that she was once a famous star, known even in Europe. She
sat, every morning, on one of those marble benches over
near the trees, close to where the blind man painted. Each
of the members seemed to have his or her private place.
And private world. Now, Nellie Dameon seemed to be in another one. As she watched the silent film her hands and
arms were moving, matching the gestures of the woman
on the screen. Her face, from what Barbara could see, was
matching the facial expressions as well. Barbara's first
thought was that Nellie Dameon was watching one of her
own films, reliving a time when she was young and lovely
and famous. Before her min
d
had failed her. She began
to back away, regretting having intruded.

But now the camera showed a close-up of the actress
on the screen. It was not Nellie. The face was all wrong.
Too round. No cheekbones. Beautiful, Barbara supposed,
but in an icy sort of way. And the performance, she real
ized, was awful. A title card flashed on the screen.

“
If you leave me, I will die
,”
it said.

But from the young woman's expression, she might as
well have been asking who left the toilet seat up. Barbara smiled. She heard a chuckle from inside. It was followed,
very softly, by a voice repeating the words of the title,
“
If you leave me, I will die
,”
and another chuckle. Then,
in apology, trying not to laugh,
“
I'm sorry, Marion. Poor
dear Marion
.”
But she laughed all the same.

Barbara's smile widened but she was suddenly puzzled.
Hadn't Alan said that Nellie Dameon never spoke? Per
haps someone else, possibly this Marion, was in there with
her. She moved closer to the window and peeked in. No,
she realized. The actress was alone. She was dressed in a
feathery peignoir, seated in a high-backed chair of carved
mahogany. The furnishings of the rest of the room were
equally heavy. Oriental carpets on the floor. Paintings with
gilt Ital
i
anate frames. Mementos crowding every surface.
Once again, Barbara backed away. Her sh
o
ulder touched the casement window. It squeaked.

Barbara cursed herself even as she heard the gasp from
within. She closed her eyes and made herself stay still. To
run would pile rudeness on rudeness. She stood, just out
of sight from inside, and said,
“
I'm sorry. I didn't mean
to...I
was just
.
.
.”
Oh
.
.
.
heck.

There was no answer. Only a rustling sound and the
squeak of a chair. The rustle seemed to be approaching
the window. Barbara waited, half-expecting hands to reach
out and close it. Nothing happened. She moved closer,
showing herself, hoping that the sight of her bandaged
face would not
startle the
frail old woman.

It was Barbara who was startled. Nellie Da
m
eon stood
facing her but not seeing her. The eyes were glazed and
they were focused, if anywhere, on a point just off Barba
ra's shoulder. The old woman's jaw was slack and she
stood unblinking. She had withdrawn, totally, within her
self. But, Barbara realized, she was also making sure that Barbara saw her that way. This was the same woman who,
moments before, had laughed and spoken at the screen.
Barbara knew what she was seeing here. It was another
performance.

“
Do you want me not to
...
say anyth
i
ng
?”

No response. No reaction.

Barbara winced at her own question. What the old woman wanted, clearly, was that she go away, satisfied
that she'd been mistaken. But Barbara wanted more than
that. She wanted to see life in those eyes again.

Barbara sensed movement behind her. She turned. A
patrolling guard had walked to the spot where she had
stood at the hedge. He was studying the ground as if looking for spoor. He had not seen where she'd gone to
and the plantings of the main house concealed her from
his view. But he gave her an idea.

“
Could I stay until he's gone
?”
she asked, tossing her
head toward the guard.
“
I'll get in trouble
.”
It was not
quite a lie.

The eyes flickered. Nothing more.

Barbara tried a smile.
“
If you leave me, I will die
,”
she said.

The light returned. The tiniest grin tugged at Nellie
Dameon's
mouth
.
But she forced it away.

“
I'll go in two minutes. And I won't say anything that
would hurt you. I promise
.”

Now, for the first time, the eyes looked into her own.
Appra
i
s
i
ngly. Intelligently. Her hand came up, nearly
touching the bandages on Barbara's face. The eyes asked
a question.

“
I'm
...
uh
...
already in trouble, actually. So is my
husband. We're trying to start fresh
.”

The patrolling guard had seen her footprints in the di
chond
r
a. He followed them with the beam of his flashlight,
first to the terrace and then to the front door. He stood for
a moment as if trying to remember. Had he heard it open
and close? The old actress watched him as he pulled a
radio from his hip and spoke into it. Then he started
toward the house.

The actress wet her lips. A frown. A shake of the head.
She held out a hand to Barbara Weinberg.

“
You're in more trouble than you know
,”
said Nellie
Da
m
eon.

₉

Tuesday morning. Westport.

Susan Lesko, in a blue bath towel, her hair still wet
from the shower, answered the phone while Banne
r
man
was shaving.

She heard a brief pause, the hollow sound of an over
seas call, then a sucking in of breat
h
and her father's
voice. ”Um
.
.
.
Hi
,”
he said simply.

Susan winced. Sh
e
heard the disapproval. It was noth
ing overt. But she knew that he was seeing her, imagining her, in some state of
l
ess-than-proper dress. Bad enough,
he
'
d be thinking, that she lived with the guy. She tugge
d
the towel an inch or so higher, then realized what she was
doing and that it was dumb.

Her father recovered first, clearing his throat.
“
How're
you doing, sweetheart
?”

”I miss you
.”

“
Me too
,”
he answered.
“
When are you coming
over
?”

“
It depends
.”
She smiled.
“
When
's
the wedding
?”

A low grant.
”A
week after yours
.”

The smile broadened. It pleased her that, for once,
she'd managed to fire the first shot. She was living with Paul, her father was living with Elena. More than a year
now. Both of them. She had not quite been able to per
suade him that the two were the same. Nor could he per
suade her that they were not.

Fathers.

“
You heard anything from Ca
rl
a
?”
he asked.
“
How's she doing
?”

“
Molly called late last night. She's having a tough time
but she's holding up
.”

“
Molly's with her? That's good
.”
A thoughtful pause.
“
Listen, when you have an address, Elena wants to send
flowers. Me, too
.”

“
Is Elena there
?”
she asked.
“
Can I talk to her after
you're finished with Paul
?”

“
It depends. You got any more cute little stories
about me
?”

“
Nope. Just girl talk
.”

“
Put Ba
nn
e
r
ma
n
on. And you behave yourself
.”

“
Love you, Daddy
.”

Bannerman dried his hands and took the phone. Acknowledging
Lesko's
strained greeting, he listened for several moments, then reached for a pad and pencil and asked
Lesko to repeat a name.

“
Andy Huff
,”
Lesko told him.
“
Like Sam Huff of the
Giants. He's heading the investigation of the LAPD and
he's a friend of a friend. The FBI agent in charge is a
guy named Jack Scholl
.”

“
You spoke to Huff
?”

“
Yeah, but not Scholl. I got no leverage with the
feds
.”

“
What about
Ir
win Kaplan
?”

“
I
r
win's DEA. What would he know about serial
killers
?”

“
Nothing, but he's well connected. Maybe I'll call
him myself
.”

“
Better let me. You make him nervous
.”