The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (70 page)

He rehearsed these and a dozen other things that he would say to her. He knew that he'd probably say none
of them. Or get a chance to. Women never follow the
script.

He found himself watching the cars that came down
the street in his direction. Watching for a taxi from
Davos. Or any car that slowed and stopped outside his building. Maybe she'd met another American shopper.
Maybe she got a lift.

He saw a police, cruiser approaching. Slowing. He willed it not to stop. If they were coming to see him, if
it's about Susan. . . .

The slow-moving cruiser disappeared around the side of his building. Bannerman held his breath and
counted to twenty. More than enough time if they were
coming.

The door buzzer. Its sound cut through him like an electric shock. His mouth went dry and a lead weight dropped into his stomach. The buzz sounded a second
time and then a third before he could make himself move toward the door.

CHAPTER 23

She was alive. There was that at least. The police had
tried to prepare him, to encourage him, during the ride
to Davos. Still, the sight of her was devastating. He
found her in the intensive-care unit, on a respirator.
Her lungs had ceased to function on their own. A
crusted tube ran from her nose, held in place by tape.
There were others in each of her arms. The right side of
her face was badly bruised. One eye was blackened and
swollen shut, the other, partly open but seeing nothing.
There were fresh sutures through her eyebrow. On the
cheek below it, near her mouth, Paul could see the
imprint of fingers.

“Are you the husband?” A doctor appeared at his
elbow. The two uniformed policemen waited beyond a
glass partition.

Paul moved his head vaguely. “How is she?”

“It's not very good, I'm afraid.” His accent was
faintly British, a Swiss who'd studied abroad. “Have the
police told you?”

“Cocaine overdose,” he nodded. His lips drew back
over his teeth. “That girl has never taken a drug in her
life.”

“This drug was forced upon her.” The doctor laid his
hand gently over the imprint of fingers much smaller
than his own. “She was beaten first. Probably knocked
unconscious. Then thrown into deep snow off a hiking path. A dog found her. Two
boys with the dog climbed
down to see where the dog could have gotten a
plastic
shopping bag with a wooden carving in it. But for that
dog, and those boys. . . .”

“How is she?” Paul repeated.

“She's in a coma. A comatose patient's condition is
always listed as grave, but there is more hope here than
with many. We've pumped her stomach, her breathing is being assisted, we're monitoring her vital signs and I'm awaiting a laboratory report on her blood and gas
tric contents so we may know how much she ingested.
The next twenty-four hours will tell.”

“Tell what, exactly?” Paul closed his eyes.

“Whether she wakes up at all. Whether there is
brain damage.” The doctor, being Swiss, made no effort to hedge or evade. “There is some good news. Her con
vulsions have ceased and her pupils are responding to light, although not as much as I'd like at this point. But
the cocaine also brought on a type of pneumonia. It's called aspiration pneumonia. It deprives the brain of
oxygen, and that may be the greatest danger at this
point. We must wait and see.”

“Brain damage,” Paul said numbly.

The doctor stepped to a plastic IV pouch and ad
justed the drip rate. “There were no suppositories, inci
dentally. Neither vaginal nor anal.”

“Suppos . . . what?” He wasn't sure he'd heard cor
rectly.

“Ah, yes. You're not the man who called, are you?”

“Doctor, what are you talking about?”

“We received an anonymous call that the person
who did this might have inserted a cocaine suppository
as added insurance. But there was none.”

Paul stared at him, his mind spinning. Who could
have known to make that call? Someone who knew
about cocaine, about killing with it. But why cocaine?
And why Susan? Killings like that are meant to leave a
message, like the dead bird stuffed in the mouth of an
informer, and yet he would bet his life that Susan had no
connection with drugs. Who was the message for?

A barrage of thoughts, like random rocket bursts,
fired off in his head. Cocaine. Susan's father was in
volved in cocaine. The woman in Zurich. He had forgot
ten her name. Did Anton say she was involved in it too?
Is it possible that Susan is dying for their sins? If that turns out to be the case, they will both damned well
die
for their own. And yet, who called? Who tried to save
her?

“This call,” Paul asked, “did you take it yourself?”

“The switchboard took it. Then there was a second
call to the nurses' station to make sure the message was
delivered.”

“Where is the switchboard?”

*
It
was the first door on your left as you entered.”

“Excuse me, Doctor.” He squeezed Susan's hand
and left the room.

Down the corridor, Bannerman found a young,
plain-faced woman seated at a metal desk with a call director and card file. He explained his relationship to
the patient Susan Lesko in Intensive Care, then asked if
she had taken the call that warned about a suppository.

“I did. Yes.”

“Who made that call?”

”A man. Just a man. He would not give his name.”

“Was he Swiss?”

“Oh yes.”

“What sort of voice?”

”A mature man. A deep voice. A kindly voice.”

“Kindly?”

“He seemed very concerned. He called again to con
firm that the message was acted upon.”

Bannerman pulled two hundred francs from his
pocket. He held up half of it.

“All you must do to earn this,” he told her, “is to pay
close attention whenever anyone calls to inquire about
her condition. Ask if they would care to leave their names. Otherwise, make a note of what time they call
and write down a description of their accents and
voices.”

“This is a matter for the police, no?” she asked, un
certainly.

“It is a personal matter. But you may tell the police
anything you feel they should know.” He held up the
second hundred. “This is for the person who relieves you. You will give her the same instructions?”

“I will do it. Yes.”

“Thank you.” He handed the money to her. “Where
can I make a private call?”

She pointed him to a visitors' waiting-room halfway
up the corridor. He shut the door behind him and dialed
Anton Zivic. This time Paul tried the clinic first. Anton
came to the phone at once.

“Paul? Anton. How is Susan?”

“She's
…
how did you hear about it?”

”A man named Urs Brugg called to tell Lesko. He is
the uncle of Elena Brugg. Lesko was asleep. He told me
what had happened. I am so terribly sorry, Paul.”

“Urs Brugg. Describe his voice.”

”A deep baritone. A gentle manner. Cultivated.
Why do you ask?”

Paul told him about the anonymous call. It could
well have been the same man. “Did you find out if
Lesko had someone watching Susan?”

“If you mean the man who tangled with Carla, Urs
Brugg volunteered that as well. The man was his
nephew. Herr Brugg was concerned that Carla might
have been the one who attacked Susan until I in turn
confirmed that she is one of us.”

“One of us? He knows about us?”

“He knows of Mama's Boy. He's heard rumors about
the rest.”

Bannerman gritted his teeth. This was turning into a
Chinese fire drill. Two bodyguards cancelling each
other out. Goddamned Carla. And goddamned Lesko
for giving out their address. And now here's Anton com
paring notes with
…
“Who the hell is this Urs Brugg
anyway? And when did you start trusting a voice on the
phone?”