Bannerman's Law

by John R. Maxim

  But in the meantime, he really had to piss.

  Hickey had to chance it. The risk was that muscles up there would spot him, maybe get curious enough to write down his license plate.

  Ahead of him was the intersection. He couldn't go there, or even around the corner because a bunch of kids there were tossing a Frisbee. In the yard to his right, two old ladies were planting a bush. He'd like to have whizzed into the hole they dug, or at least stepped behind his car but they'd be looking right at him. They'd probably turn their hose on him, the way things had been going lately, or shoot off their mouths at him. Better, he decided, to walk back a few cars to where a hedge blocked their view.

  Hickey opened his door and eased himself out of his seat. The pressure from his bladder made him waddle and his reluctance to be seen made him crouch.

  He spotted the plastic pizza sign, Italian colors, on top of a Volkswagen three cars back. All he had to do, he realized, was keep that sign lined up between him and muscles. Joe Hickey minced to the front of the Volkswagen. He opened his fly. He released without aiming.

  The amber stream hit asphalt, then changed its pitch as it gathered force and snaked up over the front bumper and grill of the Volkswagen. A voice came from somewhere. Sounded like Hey.

  Shit.

  Some kid, sitting in the Volkswagen, a pizza hat down across his nose. Hickey tried to ignore him, aiming down, mostly, keeping his eyes on the porch where one of the women, the little one, had just come back out. Muscles standing up, saying something to her, shaking her hand. The tall one must be staying. Hickey's stream wandered again. Droplets of urine splashed high in the morning sun, arcing onto the Volkswagen’ s hood.

  “That's my car.”

  Pizza hat's voice. Shut up, kid.

  Kid taps his horn. Hey. Shithead. Don't do that. Hickey tries shaking a fist. But the kid taps again.

  “Shut the fuck up,” he hissed through his teeth. Hickey cut off the stream. Hot liquid ran down the inside of his trouser leg. He took two quick steps to the driver's window. With his open hand, fingers wet, he slapped the face of the kid in the pizza hat and then seized his shirt by the neck. He did this by feel. His eyes were on the porch. That one woman was leaving now, keys in her hand, walking toward the Chevrolet.

  “You gonna be nice? Or do I piss in your face?” Hickey twisted the collar, jerking it, still by feel. A choked little squeak from inside. Hickey took it to mean yes.

  He released his grip and hurried to the silver Honda. Climbing in, he flipped his trunk release, which sprang open. Then he stretched low across his front seat, pretending to busy himself at the glove box. He stayed that way until he heard the sound of the Chevrolet driving past.

  There was no doubt in Molly's mind that the man who called was not an FBI agent and that the one who visited was no detective.

  The FBI, she knew, would never conduct an interview on so serious a matter by telephone. Nor did police detectives work alone except in routine interviews such as door-to-door canvassing. Furthermore, if their purpose was indeed to reconstruct Lisa's activities, they had asked all the wrong questions and few of the right ones, especially the name of the catering firm and the location of the party, which might well have been the last place Lisa had been seen alive.

  It seemed to Molly that they were more interested in finding out what, if anything, DiDi Fenerty knew about whatever it was that Lisa was working on. It also seemed clear that whoever had searched Lisa's apartment had found enough references to DiDi to conclude that they were close and were likely to have discussed it. If Lisa died because of some discovery she'd made, that would seem to put DiDi Fenerty in danger as well.

  Still, Molly was not yet prepared to assume that someone other than this serial killer was responsible for Lisa's death. She herself had once executed three men by means of explosive darts. Their bodies hadn't even cooled before other people were busy looting their files. Those killings and the subsequent looting were unrelated. Lisa's death, in the same way, might simply have been a convenience to someone else.

  The burglar, in any case, who was probably that false detective, would be a good deal easier to track down than a serial killer. Lisa's files, she felt sure, would point the way.

  “You're all set,” DiDi Fenerty told her, looking up from the IBM workstation in her study. “You'd better make yourself comfortable.”

  Molly looked at the screen. It showed a list of files. She touched a key and the list scrolled upward. There were some sixty files, overall about thirty megabytes worth of data. Even concentrating on the most recent entries, she might be here for hours.

  She sat. Carla reached for another chair. DiDi Fenerty excused herself.

  “Are you sure you're ready for this?” Molly asked her.

  “I'm okay,” she answered.

  Molly doubted it. Carla's color had already begun to rise in anticipation of seeing words her sister had written. Molly called up a file labeled “Personal.” She did so deliberately. It consisted of letters, mostly. Some to friends, many to Carla. Here and there, she had used her word processor as a sort of diary. She would share her thoughts with it, especially whenever she felt sad, or overwhelmed by her studies, or had been hurt by some slight.

  She recorded wish lists. She wanted to travel, especially to Italy, taking a whole summer to see it top to bottom. She wanted Carla to go with her but only if and when Lisa was able to pay her own way. Enough was enough, she wrote.

  If Carla wanted to give her a graduation present, however, and asked what she'd like, what she really wanted was an invitation to visit Westport. To meet Carla's friends. The famous Paul Bannerman. Billy McHugh. Anton Zivic. Molly Farrell. Especially Dr. Russo. To see them all in the flesh. If they're Carla's friends, Lisa mused, how bad could they be? Molly, reading these thoughts, had the impression that Lisa had heard about the Westport group from someone other than Carla. Perhaps from her father, perhaps from federal investigators.

  Above all, Lisa wanted to be like her big sister. Carla, she wrote, had seen and done so much. Been everywhere. She was so confident. So smart. And yet so kind. Lisa wondered if Dr. Russo realizes how lucky he is that Carla is even thinking about saying yes.

  Molly blinked. The date of the entry was last August fifth. Doc Russo had been dead six months by then. Carla was apparently still talking about him as if he were alive, and her suitor. Molly, embarrassed, turned to look at her. But Carla had turned away from the machine, perhaps in time. She was taking deep breaths, one tiny fist against her mouth.

  “Carla,” Molly said softly. ”I wish I knew what not to read. But I don't.”

  ”I know.”

  “Why don't you go back to the hotel. Call your father. Check in with Paul.”

  “No,” she shook her head. “I'm all right.”

  Molly turned in her seat, took Carla's hand. “You know, don't you,” she asked, “that I'll never tell another soul about anything I might read here. Not if it's private. And not unless you tell me I can.”

  Carla looked away. ”I didn't lie to her,” she said. “Not exactly.”

  “You protected her. I would have done the same thing.”

  Carla took a breath and exhaled. Her shoulders sagged. “You know what I used to do? When I was with Lisa?”

  Molly waited.

  “I'd try to be like you. Never a bad word about anybody. Not even my fuck-head father.”

  Molly smiled but said nothing.

  “And Gary Russo did ask me once. He really did.”

  ”I know. Or at least I knew he was thinking about it.”

  “Goddamn him.”

  For dying. Yes. Molly squeezed her hand. “Go back to the hotel,” she said gently. “I'll be along. I'll take a cab.”

  “All that,” Carla gestured toward the IBM monitor. “You won't leave it on the machine?”

  “Not a word. I'll give you the disks when I'm finished.”

  “Maybe I'll lie by the pool for a while. Get some lunch.”

  “Go
od idea.” Molly, relieved, stood up with her. Maybe now she'd get some work done.

  Carla saw this last in her eyes.

  And maybe, thought Carla, she would make herself useful. Maybe she would see if a silver Honda happened to turn up behind her again as she drove back toward the Beverly Hills Hotel.

  Sumner Todd Dommerich, biting one of his hands, rolled up his window with the other so that he could scream. He did do, covering his face. He kicked at his brake and clutch pedals until the tops of his feet bled through his socks. He screamed so hard, starving his brain, that he nearly fainted. He did not see the Chevrolet until it was past him.

  And now he saw the silver Honda pulling out to follow. His father was behind the wheel.

  Dommerich watched, gathering himself, as it began to turn the corner, then stopped. A boy, maneuvering under a floating Frisbee, blocked his path. Dommerich’ s father pounded his steering wheel but he did not sound his horn for fear of being noticed by the driver of the Chevrolet.

  Dommerich scrambled out of his seat. He seized the pizza sign, stripping it from his roof and throwing it onto his passenger seat and the hat that had been swiped from his head. He slipped once more behind the wheel and started his engine. The pizza sign, he knew, could work both ways.

  Sumner Dommerich was invisible again.

  He understood, calming himself, that the man who had soiled his car, slapped him, humiliated him, could not really be his father. His father was in hell. With his mother. His father who beat him. And did much worse to him. His mother who laughed at him. He had sent them both to hell. But they did not stay there. They kept coming back.

  They came in his dreams and they came in daylight. Sometimes they took over the bodies of other people. Not for long. Sometimes only for a minute. Long enough to insult him, to laugh at him.

  Dommerich eased his car around the corner. The Chevrolet was well ahead. It almost seemed to Dommerich that no one was driving and that there was no one in the passenger seat either. But then it signaled a right turn on Western Avenue and he could see that there was only Lisa's sister, chin high, peering over the dashboard. The silver Honda hung back but followed.

  The Chevrolet turned left onto Wilshire. The woman's driving began to seem erratic. She was varying her speed as if she were a tourist. Once, at the La Brea Tar Pits, she seemed about to enter the parking lot but she changed her mind. Dommerich wondered about this. It did not seem that Lisa's sister should have much interest in sight-seeing.

  A sign said they were entering Beverly Hills. After a while, the Chevrolet signaled a right turn onto Rodeo Drive. The street and sidewalks were crowded along the two-block stretch where the most expensive stores were located. There were many people on foot, window shoppers mostly, tourists, but there were many expensive cars parked along both sides, some with chauffeurs waiting.

  The Chevrolet, suddenly, swung to the curb near the Georgio Armani store. Lisa's sister climbed from it and stepped to the meter where she searched her purse for change. The Honda, two cars ahead of Dommerich, hesitated but it could not stop. Other cars pressed behind it, Dommerich’s among them. One driver tapped his horn. Dommerich gleefully pressed his own. Abruptly, as if angrily, the Honda cut its wheels and squealed into a U-turn. Dommerich watched the driver as he went by. He was looking at his rearview mirror, cursing.

  Lisa's sister stepped quickly back to the door of her car. Dommerich’ s smile broadened. He understood now what she'd been doing. She had seen the Honda all along. She had picked this street to stop, forcing him to commit He'd broken off but at least she'd had a closer look at him. She might have even read his license number if her eyes were real good.

  The traffic moved forward. Dommerich pulled up behind the Chevrolet as if waiting for the space. Lisa's sister did not look at him. Her attention was focused on the retreating Honda. At last, frowning, she reentered her car and continued northward. Dommerich took the space but immediately pulled out again as soon as a few more cars had moved between them.

  Four blocks later, a traffic light changed, stopping Dommerich. Ahead, the Chevrolet was turning out of sight. He waited, anxiously, although he was fairly sure that he knew where Lisa’s sister was heading. Once again, a flash of silver caught the corner of his eye. Afraid to look, but afraid not to, he glanced to his right and froze. The Honda was there, alongside him. The driver, thick lips, double

  chin, oily, even looked like his father. Dommerich fought panic. Look away, he told himself. Make no move that would catch his eye, cause him to look this way, notice the rooftop sign on the front seat and remember when he had last seen one like it.

  The light changed, mercifully. The Honda surged ahead. Dommerich could breathe again.

  A part of him wanted to break off and drive directly to the Beverly Hills Hotel. Lisa's sister, he felt sure, would turn up there eventually. He had seen that parking stub on the Chevrolet's console.

  He could leave a message for her there. He could leave her the license number of the silver Honda in case she missed it back on Rodeo Drive. He would sign the note, ”A friend.”

  But it would be so much better, he decided, if he were able to tell her where that man lived. Where he went next. What his name is. That way she would be able to tell the police about him. That he'd been following her all morning, bothering her. And if they did nothing about it, he thought, maybe Sumner Todd Dommerich would. He followed the Honda.

  They called him the Campus Killer, he thought, driving. They wrote about him, interviewed psychiatrists about him, said disgusting things about him. Almost nothing they said was right, except some of the things they thought had happened to him when he was a child. The things his father had done to him. They were right about that. But they also said that he was afraid of women. That he could not confront the act of sex with a live frightening woman, which was why they had to be bound or dead first. That wasn't true. He would not have been afraid of Lisa. If they never had sex it would have been because they wanted it that way. Because it's easier to be friends that way.

  The dumbest thing they said was that he only hurts young women.

  Oh, yeah?

  Ask his father about that. Or his mother. Ask the doorman at The Grotto last year who grabbed him by the collar, the way that man in the Honda did, when all he wanted to do was go to Molly Ringwald's table and show her a poem he wrote.

  Ask that drunken bully from Arizona State who tried to make him drink a beer glass full of urine and then poured it on him when he wouldn't. Ask the girl who was with him. The one who thought it was funny. The one who called him Toad.

  Molly Ringwald would have liked his poem. She would have invited him to sit with her. And she would have told that doorman what she thought of him. He would have apologized. He would have said I'm sorry, Mr. Dommerich. I didn't know that you and Miss Ringwald were friends. If he had, maybe he would still have hands.

  Ahead, the Honda had stopped. The man was pounding his wheel again. He had lost Lisa's sister.

  Yes, thought Dommerich, that's what he would do. Stay with him. See where he goes, see where he lives. That man, when he grabbed him, slapped him, had never even looked at him. He was invisible then, he was invisible now.

  Maybe Sumner Dommerich would bring him a pizza.

  16

  At Mario's, a restaurant and bar facing the Westport commuter station, Susan Lesko toyed with a bread stick as she waited for Paul Bannerman. It did not seem that this would be the uneventful lunch she'd intended.

  Her first indication of that had been the phone call from her father. The second was the arrival of several members of the council, which managed, loosely, the lives of the thirty or more men and women from Europe who lived there now. Even Susan was not sure of their exact number, or of the true names of several. Some, Paul told her, had prices on their heads, others were simply out of work. Some would move on, some would stay. The council would decide.

  The largest influx had come during the past twelve months, since the events at Marbel
la. Word had spread that Paul was still alive and was coming to Spain. Dozens, from all over Europe, had converged there. Some to back him up, to repay old debts, to see old friends, some just to enjoy the show.

  Quite a few followed when he returned to Westport where Anton Zivic, Billy McHugh, Carla, Molly, John Waldo, and six or seven others had long since settled. They too had been presumed dead for the three years before Marbella.

  She was used to them now, she supposed. She liked most of them. Even Carla, lately. Several had become friends. Still, sometimes, she would wake up in the night half-believing that it all must be a dream. Susan Lesko, the daughter of a Polish Catholic cop from Queens, hanging out with mercenaries, bombers, arsonists, killers. All led by the man who loved her.

  Sometimes, like now, she would look at the people sitting at the other tables—locals, townies—wondering what they would think if they knew. They were certainly better off for it, so far, because they were definitely safer. Criminals, burglars, drug dealers simply did not last long in Westport. And if they did know, if she told them, they would never believe it anyway. Paul’s people looked just like them.

  Anton Zivic had entered Mario's alone. A dapper little man, cultivated, Italian suits, silver hair worn long, an utter charmer, although he told jokes badly. He very much looked the part of a high-priced art dealer, which he was, and not at all the part of a colonel in the Soviet Military Intelligence, which he had been. Zivic waved to her, one finger aloft, indicating that he would join her presently. He blew an affectionate kiss, then turned and huddled with Billy McHugh who stood behind the bar polishing glasses and with John Waldo who sat on a stool munching one of Uncle Billy's bacon cheeseburgers.

  She watched the rolling motion of Billy's shoulders as he polished. He still seemed to be favoring the right one although he insisted that it was fine, no lasting damage where her father had shot him that day in Spain. Shot through him, actually, killing that maniac Tucker.