The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (15 page)

Stay calm, Gelman told himself.

Easy.

He could see his bare chest heaving and he willed it
to slow down. He willed the terror he felt to ease to a
level he could manage, so that reason and then control
could
f
ollow
.

He sat rigidly in the swirling waters of his gleaming
brown Jacuzzi, naked, utterly helpless. Where the man
came from, how long he'd been there, Gelman could
not
know. There had been no sound, not even a shadow.
Only a stinging tug at his scalp and a black blur as a
powerful arm slipped under his chin and tightened against his carotid arteries. The arm tensed when he
struggled, it relaxed when he did not. The man said
nothing, did nothing else. Gelman did not understand. It was a submission hold and the man was expert at it.
He would be unconscious in seconds if that was what
the man intended. Or his neck could be snapped. Oh,
God. But the man didn't seem angry. Not even excited.
He was
breathing softly, naturally, against Gelman's
ear, his fingers twined tightly in Gelman's thick brown
hair.

“Take anything,” he said. “Take whatever you want.
You don't have to hurt me.”

“Finish your drink.” It was a gravelly voice. A ma
ture voice. Chillingly calm. Something in the way he
spoke suggested to Gelman that the man had made a
decision.

Slowly, carefully, Stanley Gelman reached for the
vodka tonic he'd set on the Jacuzzi's edge. There was a
bottle there, too. He didn't remember bringing in the
bottle. He was sure he hadn't. Hard to think.

Burglars. That's all they are. This one is just holding
me here while another goes through the house. Okay.
Okay, that's fine.

“Finish it,” the voice said. The arm tightened against
his neck. Gelman drained the glass and set it down.

“Pour from the bottle. Pour a lot,” the voice said.
Gelman poured two inches over the ice. The arm tight
ened. He poured two inches more.

“Now drink that.”

Okay, thought Gelman. Get me drunk. That's smart.
It will buy you more time when you and your friend leave. Very smart. It means you don't have to hurt me,
doesn't it? Just get me drunk.

He took the glass and drained it.

“Again,” the voice said. Gelman poured four more
inches.

Better than any layman, Gelman could analyse and understand his fear. The psychology of torture. Take
away a man's clothing, strip him naked, and you take
away half the man. Immobilize him, make him power
less, and you take away half of what's left. Hide your face, ignore his pleas, tell him nothing of why this is
being done to him, allow his terror to feed upon itself
and the torture becomes all but unnecessary. Unless
cooperation is not what you're after. Unless you want to
break him. To make him hurt.

No, he told himself. That's not the case here. A bur
glary pure and simple. Cooperate. Do not resist. But
wait. There should be other sounds in the house. Draw
ers opening and closing. Closets ransacked. But there
was nothing.

A deadening thought struck him. He's a husband.
The husband of one of those women. She had told him
things.

Talk to him. Get him to talk. Make him understand
that she's a sick woman. Very sick. Turning on those who
are trying to help her. With sick lies.

“If you'll just . . . if you'll only tell me what this is
about. . . .”

“
F
inish your drink.” The forearm tightened, hurting him.

Gary Russo and Carla Benedict huddled against the
single side window of Gelman's garage. Using a penlight
cupped in his hand, Russo scanned the outside edges of
the window's frame. The small circle of light stopped on
a half-inch hole, freshly drilled. He looked up at Carla, who nodded knowingly. It had been drilled to fish for
the alarm wire. Once Billy had it—there was little doubt
he was now inside—he would have spliced a bypass to it.
The penlight moved to the window clasp. It was in
place but the screws that held it had been torn loose and
were probably in Billy's pocket. Carla Benedict tried
the window. It
opened
easily. The clasp fell into Russo's
waiting hand.

Russo opened
his bag and extracted two pairs of
surgical gloves. He waited as Carla removed her rings
and put her
pair
on,
then helped her through the garage
window. Russo followed. The penlight's beam scanned
the garage interior. Russo allowed the beam to pause
meaningfully on the Mercedes—that would have been
where the intruder waited, in it or behind it—then it
traced a path to Gelman's kitchen door. He opened his bag once more and withdrew its leather tray of imple
ments and drugs. Under the tray and clamped to the
bottom was a Belgian automatic pistol, plus a silencer
that was fully eight inches long and as wide around as a
half-dollar. He screwed the silencer to the barrel as Carla refilled the bag.

“Go,” he whispered.

Gelman's heart jumped. A voice. A woman's voice. And he hadn't imagined it because the arm at his throat
went tense and it twisted slightly as if the man had
turned his head to look. Then he felt the arm relax and
he heard what sounded like a sigh.

“What good is this?” asked the voice at his ear.

“At this point. . . .” Another voice. A man's voice.
“
I guess not much.” He heard footsteps on the tile. The
man. He could see him now, coming around the Jacuzzi.
A gun. A long black gun hanging at his side.

“Doctor?”
Oh,
God.
Oh,
thank
God.
“Doctor
R
usso?”
             

Gary Russo ignored him. He gestured toward the
vodka bottle and looked into the face of the man hold
ing Stanley Gelman. “How much?”

“About ten ounces in ten minutes.”

Russo
glanced
at
his
watch
and
nodded
,
He
raised
his
gun
sideways,
looking
at
it
as
if
it
were
so
much
useless
metal,
then
stepped
to
a
marble
 
counter
top
and
set
it
down.
             

“Wait,” Gelman gasped. “What are you doing? Get this guy off me, Goddamn it.” Gelman could hear that his speech was slurring. The one holding him was get
ting him drunk. He understood that. It was some kind of
a set-up. But this part he didn't understand at all. That's
Gary Russo. He's a fucking doctor, for Christ's sake.

“Billy, what did you have in mind, exactly?” Russo asked the question calmly, clinically. No hint of disap
proval.

The man—who the hell is Billy?—seemed to be an
swering but not with words. Gelman could feel him gesturing. Then he saw Russo nod his understanding
and shake his head as if he disagreed. Russo moved
closer and knelt at the side of the tub.

“Dr. Gelman, just relax now,” he said. “What seda
tives do you keep here in the house?”

”Wha . . . sedatives?” Gelman blinked
disbeliev
ingly
. “What the hell are
...
will you just get this guy
the fuck off me?”

“He's not going to hurt you. What about Valium? You
must have Valium.”

Gelman stared stupidly. This is crazy, he thought. It's like one of those nightmares where you're in terri
ble trouble but everyone around you is just calmly pass
ing the time of day. You're strapped into the electric chair and the warden and the executioner are making
small talk. How's the wife? Kids okay? They sure grow
up fast, don't they? Got any pictures? But this wasn't
any execution. They're just playing some goddamned
game. Okay. You want to play, we'll play. But tomorrow
I'm going to have your ass.

“Valium. I have some Valium.”

“How much?”

“I don't know. Maybe fifty milligrams, I.V.”

“How much was in the vial originally?”

”A hundred milligrams. Hey, so what?”

“Thank you, Doctor. That's fine.” Russo looked up at Carla, who was already poking through Russo's medical
bag. He held up three fingers and then formed a zero.
Thirty milligrams.