Bannerman's Law

by John R. Maxim

  Waldo jerked his wheel to the left and stamped on his brake pedal. He braced himself for the impact.

  Dr. Michael Feldman's first thought was that Carleton Dunville had pulled into his driveway. He was more troubled than alarmed. He thought of the pistol that he carried in his medical bag.

  But it could not be Dunville’s Mercedes. A blond woman was driving with a smaller person, probably her child, in the seat next to her. A patient without an appointment. Not uncommon. Feldman relaxed.

  “Please don't move.”

  Feldman went rigid. A man's voice. Behind him. A large hand now, on his shoulder.

  “I'm not here to harm you. Truly. Just go to the door, please, and open it.”

  Feldman obeyed. He went to the door, the man following closely. His intention was to open it, throw it wide, and then run for his life.

  “If you do,” said Weinberg, who read his mind through the tensing of his shoulder muscles, “you're liable to knock poor Nellie down.”

  The Malibu address, provided by Felix, stood on a bluff several hundred feet from the beach. A wall, with mounted cameras, surrounded the property on three sides. A high terrace faced the ocean. The only access to the house was a heavy wooden gate facing inland. The only approach was a steep two-lane road that curved to the right at Mar-ek's house and climbed still higher before snaking back down.

  Elena, driving Billy's rented car, waited at a bend well above the Marek house. Carla had gone with her but she returned on foot rather than have the car go by those cameras twice. She jogged past a shuttered service station on the main road where Billy had left Felix Montoya's car among several others that were parked there awaiting attention.

  Bunce had slid into the foot well of the passenger side, concealed by Felix's tarp. A cheap poncho with a USC decal covered the driver's seat, which still oozed blood. Carla had found it in Lisa's old room. Felix was in the trunk.

  Billy stood at a bus stop a safe distance away, pretending to read a copy of The Hollywood Reporter, which he'd found in a trash receptacle. Carla approached him. She peered to the south as if waiting for a bus.

  “The house is quiet,” she said. “Elena's ready.”

  Billy cocked his head toward the service station. “What's wrong with leaving them right there? We call the guy and say go look.”

  “He's probably unlisted.”

  “We couldn't ask?”

  She shook her head. “I've been thinking too,” she said. “The hell with psychology. We can finish it.”

  Billy closed one eye. “Like how?”

  He listened as she explained about the heavy wooden gate and the cameras. They had the Mexican's car, she reminded him. They'd open the gate if it pulled up and honked. Sit low, slouch, and he might pass for Felix.

  ”I give you a gun, right? We go in and start blasting.”

  She nodded. “Or I go over the wall, shoot whoever I see, then let you in. We find Marek and we finish it.”

  Billy sighed. Calamity Carla.

  “Paul says not yet,” he told her. “Anyway . . .” He made a gesture that took in their surroundings. Only one main road in and out of town. One access road to Marek's place, easily sealed at both ends. Three or four other houses up near Marek's. Too many eyes and ears. “We don't even know the guy's there,” he said.

  “He is. I could feel him.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” He raised his hand to her neck and squeezed, not too hard. “You feel this too, right?”

  “Billy . . .” She tried to pull free. He held fast.

  “Any surprises, you take a nap. Okay?”

  “Okay, damn it.”

  “You take the car up. Leave it. Walk up to Elena. Drive down and around. I cover this end till you pick me up.”

  “You want your balls cut off? Let go.”

  “Promise, Carla. Or say good night.”

  ”I promise.”

  He turned her face toward him. Her eyes said that she meant it. “Go,” he said. “The keys are in it.”

  Carla walked back to the service station. She would keep her word, she thought, because she might need Billy again.

  No.

  She would have kept it anyway. No because.

  But she couldn't help wishing that she was here alone. No Billy. No Elena to think about. And that it was still dark.

  Or that she was here with Claude. Claude wouldn't have been such a pussy.

  She started Montoya's car. Then, letting it idle, she stripped the tarp off Bunce's body and fed it into the rear .seat. She grabbed his hair and pried his head back toward her so that his face would grin up at whoever opened that door. The body was stiffening. He would stay that way.

  Piece of shit.

  Going to her house. Going to snatch her poor father. Damned near giving him a heart attack. Shooting Yuri…who really liked her…a sweet guy…best lay she's had since Russo.

  She saw Billy watching her, taking a step toward her. His look said get on with it. She put the car in low and steered it toward the hill.

  She would keep her promise, she thought. With just one little Lucky Strike extra. Bunce seemed to nod, agreeing with her, as she bounced over the curb cut.

  Carla reached Marek's front wall and continued on until she could see Elena waiting. She stopped, backed into a driveway, and pointed the car down hill. She let it coast, making fine adjustments in the steering until the front end was lined up just so. Carla flipped the inside trunk latch and saw, in her mirror, that the lid had a good spring. It opened wide. She wished she had time to arrange Felix as well. Maybe bend that smashed arm up like a salute. Like he's saying “Hi.” Pin the arm to his head with that Jap knife of his.

  Except Billy would shit. He'd say, “That's games. Don't play games.”

  Okay. No more games.

  She stepped from the car, one foot stretched to the brake, then she let it roll. She trotted with it for several feet, one hand on the wheel, aiming it. She stepped away.

  Carla winced as the car veered. She tried body English. It seemed to work. The car recovered by a few degrees and gathered speed. She watched as it bore down on the wooden gate, Felix's head bouncing up as if to see where he'd been. The car hit the gate at its hinge. A crunching, grinding sound, surprisingly muted. It took out three feet of wall. Felix's legs flailed on impact, the broken knee at a crazy angle. Pieces of wall slammed them back down.

  She stood, hands on hips, counting to ten.

  Come on, guys. Come look.

  She heard shouts. Two men appeared. She could not make out what they were yelling but she knew they'd found Bunce when their voices became high-pitched. The two men drew guns. They looked around, stupidly, every place but uphill.

  ”Yo!” she called.

  They looked up.

  Carla raised her arms. She moved her hips as if to music. Still dancing, she ran her fingers through her hair at her temples, fluffing it, making sure that they saw that it was red. One man started toward her. He hesitated when he saw that she was beckoning to him. He raised a snub-nosed pistol, taking aim with both hands. She laughed at him.

  Carla turned and started up the hill, arms still raised, hips swaying to music only she could hear.

  She grinned for the first time in weeks.

  John Waldo dabbed at his mouth where the driver of the red Porsche had slapped him. Called him a stupid fuck.

  Waldo, feigning drunkenness, had tried to exchange license and insurance information with him. The driver, young and Hispanic, heavily jeweled, was furious. He raged at the damage done to his headlight and front bumper. He snatched Waldo's wallet from his hand, then slapped him in the face with it. He kicked at Waldo's taillight, the one still unbroken, shattering the amber plastic.

  “Forget it,” the other one called. “Let's get back.”

  The driver aimed another kick at Waldo as he bent to pick up his wallet. The kick grazed Waldo's ribs and soiled his shirt. Now the driver turned his anger toward the second man, slightly older.

  “Now
you say forget it? Did I tell you back there it fucking wasn't her? Did I say she's too young?”

  “Chulo,” the other one said firmly, “shut up and let's go.”

  Waldo glanced in the direction Susan's taxi had gone. It had vanished into the traffic several blocks ahead.

  The driver made a final menacing gesture with his fist, then stormed back to the Porsche. He climbed in, backed into a U-turn, and drove in the direction from which he'd come. Waldo gave them a small head start, then followed.

  “For God's sake, Nellie.” Feldman spoke in a hoarse whisper. “What are you doing with such people?”

  Nellie had asked for a few minutes alone with the young doctor. In part to put him at ease, in part to get some answers for Alan and Barbara.

  “They are perfectly nice, Michael. And I'm having fun.”

  “They're the ones with the bandaged faces, aren't they? Nellie, do you realize that they're fugitives? Perhaps even murderers?”

  “I've learned that there are worse things to be, Michael.”

  He listened as she told him about Lisa, the girl who had come to see her two Sundays ago. The one Mr. Bellarmine had told him about. Yes, she was really there. She told him what Henry Dunville had done to that sweet child. And how he paid for it.

  The young doctor listened with an expression of profound sadness, and of guilt for having kept his silence.

  “I'm going up there today, Nellie,” he said. “When I leave I'm taking all the members with me.”

  “That's what I told Alan and Barbara. They wonder how you'll manage it.”

  “It's not difficult. I'm transferring them to the Motion Picture Country House. I have that authority.”

  “Have you always?”

  “Not . . . exactly.”

  She took his hand, patting it softly. ”I know about the files, Michael. I know they've blackmailed you.”

  “It was more than blackmail. They swore they'd . . .” His eyes narrowed. “You've seen my file, Nellie?”

  “No, but Alan has. He took stacks of them when we absconded.”

  “What . . . um, is he going to do with them?”

  “Help me find my other children. I've had four, you know.''

  “Ah ...no,I didn't know.”

  She saw in his lowered eyes that he didn't believe her. But the eyes came up again and she saw that he had begun to wonder.

  “Nellie? Do you know who my mother was? And . . . how ill she was?”

  “I'm sorry, Michael. I don't.”

  “But you were there. And my father always said that my real mother was a movie star.”

  “I'll ... try to remember,” she promised.

  But she already knew the truth. Or part of it.

  It had occurred to her, riding here in the car, that Michael might ask about his mother. So she went away, back to that year. She promised Barbara that she wouldn't be long.

  Soon, Nellie was standing in the little nursery in the basement of Sur La Mer. She used to go there often, late at night. They never caught her. This time, she even brought Harland. They were both looking down at the baby, trying to make him smile. Harland testing the baby's grip with his finger. Little Michael was three . . . perhaps four months old. He'd been there for less than a week. He was one of the stolen ones.

  For the longest time, she could not bring herself to believe that the Dunvilles were stealing children. Even though Harland said they were. But she knew that Michael had not been born to a member.

  She could have told him that, she supposed. But it would not be a kindness. He might decide to spend years going through police records and newspaper files trying to narrow the list of all those distraught young women who had allowed themselves to be distracted in some public park only to turn and find their infants gone. His mother could be anyone, anywhere, in one of a dozen states.

  Nellie was tempted to make up a lie. Nadia Taylor had been at Sur La Mer then. She arrived in a coma. Motorcycle accident. She could well have been pregnant at the time. Died a year or so later. Nadia had been a dancer. Made several good films. Very bright, pretty, unmarried. Michael might have been proud to have such a talented mother. Nellie had even asked Barbara's opinion.

  Barbara thought it wasn't such a good idea. For the time being, she said, let's not let anyone else know you can do that. Going back in time, that is, and remembering things so vividly. Not everyone would be pleased.

  “Nellie . . .” Dr. Feldman asked, . . . you do know that Henry Dunville is dead? And Carleton the elder?”

  She nodded slowly. She knew of the one. Suspected the other.

  “Young Carleton called me during the night. He has also . . . absconded. Said he was going far away. Would never return. He promised he'd destroy the file on my family if I promised to see to the members.”

  Nellie nodded. Alan had thought as much.

  ”I would have anyway.”

  ”I know that, Michael.”

  “Nellie, did you know that I have children of my own?”

  “No. But I'm glad.”

  “Two little girls. And a wife who is the best thing in my life. They're staying with her mother until this is done.”

  “You'd . . . like me to get your file from Alan.”

  ”I guess. Yes. It's just that I . . .”

  “You don't want them to know that your real mother died a lunatic. If that's the case.”

  Feldman brought his hands to his mouth. “It sounds crappy, doesn't it. Said straight out.”

  “It's not so crappy. Your wife would worry about the girls.”

  ”I do already. And my wife wants to try for a son.”

  “Alan will give me your file. If I tell you that your mother was not insane, will that be enough for you?”

  He did not answer immediately. He asked, ' ‘How could you have stayed there, Nellie? You're no crazier than I am.”

  “Oh, I was crazy once. Later, it seemed safest to pretend.”

  “You're not safe with those two. Stay here. Go to the Country House with your friends.”

  “My friends are all old, Michael. I've decided to be young for a while.”

  Feldman smiled. He let it fade. “You really think they'll give you that file?”

  “They've said that they will. But they might ask a favor of you in return.”

  The smile returned, although rueful this time. ”I bet. Have you thought about what they want from you?”

  “Well, it certainly isn't sex.”

  “What, then?”

  “My mind, dear. They want me for my mind.”

  45

  Sumner Dommerich was happy.

  He eased himself into his bathtub, the hot shower running. He sat back, idly sponging his wrists where blood had seeped over the plastic gloves, thinking about Carla.

  The television had no news of that man in the car. Still too early, he supposed. He had left it on and wheeled it to the bathroom door just in case but its sound was already beginning to seem far away. Water pouring through steam. Such a peaceful sound.

  Dommerich could not remember when he felt so good. This, he thought dreamily, was better than anything. It was even better than making those girls stop laughing.

  A lot better. These feelings were staying with him. Those others never did for very long. Just for a few seconds, usually. When the light went out of their eyes. In those few seconds everything seemed so clear. He would feel so light. So free.

  But it would never last. It would just sort of fade away. Like a dream you want to remember but can't.

  A book in the library talked about that. It said that people like him had this tremendous blinding insight at the moment of the murder. Not that they were really murders. It wasn't like killing someone for money or because you hate them. It was more like . . .

  He wasn't sure what.

  Anyway, the book said that right when he's watching the lights go out, the serial killer sees, in this big flash, what made him this way. And now that he understands, he can handle it. What it does—D
ommerich knew the words by heart—is “cancel out his own suffering and establish his own power and identity.'' And it really does. Except it doesn't last.

  Until now.

  And except killing didn't do it this time.

  Carla did it.

  He could still hear her voice on the phone. She was so nice. All she cared about was that he shouldn't feel bad for screwing up with Lesko. And she was really impressed that he'd follow the Lexus all the way to Santa Barbara without getting spotted. He almost told her how he did that. How he could make himself invisible.

  “Serial killers are extremely ordinary and blend in very well.”

  That was another thing he read. No question he could blend in really well. But he didn't think he was so ordinary. Unless they mean average in looks. Which he was. Pretty much.

  “Outwardly, they're often gregarious, warm, personable, and charming.''

  That one was sort of true. He was certainly polite. And he never said anything mean.

  “But underneath, there's no depth of feeling whatsoever. No affectionate ties, no emotional pain, no sense of blame or right or wrong, no development of conscience.''

  That's where they weren't so smart. What about Lisa? That wasn't an affectionate tie? And, especially, what about Carla?

  As for having no sense of right or wrong . . . what he did to Hickey . . . wasn't that because he knew that what Hickey did to Lisa was wrong?

  And dumbest of all was that thing about not having any emotional pain. The pain is what goes away when they kill. Unless, maybe, they mean being sorry. He never felt sorry. Only a little depressed. Sometimes.

  ”. . . copycat killing . . . Malibu home of. . .”

  The words penetrated from the TV.

  ”. . . thought to be this man, Harold J. Bunce, a former Los Angeles . . . ”

  They were showing an old photograph. It was that guy.

  ”. . . second man, unidentified, appeared to be . . . ”