The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) (67 page)

“Soon as Paul goes back inside, darlin'. ” He used his
free hand to wipe the glass. “It wouldn't do to have him
wonderin' why this car backs out without anyone
walkin' up and gettin' in it.”

“I want a piece of fish, breaded and fried. Don't take
me any more places where it comes all white and they
make little vegetable doodles all over your dish.”

“We'll drive over to Davos. We ought to know the lay
of it anyhow in case we want to leave through the back
door.”

“That's if we don't get snowed in first.” She turned
her head toward the terrace. “Go on, Paul. Go take a pee like a nice fella.”

“And there he goes,” Ray Bass grinned. “Shows what
positive thinkin' will do, darlin
.
”

They watched as he stepped through the sliding
door, paused to look down at the girl, then walked the
length of his living room and was lost from view. Ray
Bass counted to ten, then started his engine.

Bannerman had seen the car. His eye, like his wan
dering mind, had passed over it several times but al
ways, as if of its own accord, it found its way back. It was
the window. The one on the front passenger side. The
windows of all the other cars facing in the same direc
tion were snow-covered. That one had no snow on its
bottom half, as if the window had been partially low
ered to clear it. And the bottom half was steamed. From
the inside.

There were no recent tracks leading to it. No foot
prints. The tire marks were at least an hour old. And
there
…
a hand wiping a circle in the condensation.

If he were anyone else, if he were normal, he real
ized, he would probably think nothing of it. Someone waiting for a train. A couple of young lovers. They'd
shut off the engine, perhaps, because they were low on
gas. Or because they were warming each other.

But he wasn't like everyone else. So here he sat,
seeing shadows in the woods again. Wondering whether
any of a thousand people who might wish him harm
could be sitting in that black Saab with the blue ski pod
on top. And here he sat, refusing to let that car make
him go inside, yet ready to dive to the terrace floor if
whoever was in it should roll down that window.

Another thought struck him. This one made him angry. What if the hand that wiped that window be
longed to Carla Benedict or Gary Russo. Taking it upon
themselves to check up on him, ignoring Anton's in
structions to stay out of Klosters. Hard to imagine Carla
being so obvious, and parking head-in like that, but
Gary might.

Damn, he sighed.

To hell with this. If you want to know who's in that
car, go look. See what they do when they see you walk
ing toward them. And if it's Carla or Gary, by God,
make them wish they'd never. . . .

Abruptly, he stood up. He stepped from the terrace and through his living room, pausing once to be sure
Susan was asleep and again at his kitchen where he
plucked a carving knife off its magnetic wall strip.

By the time he reached the street, the Saab was
disappearing into the lights of Klosters
’
shopping dis
trict.

Bannerman stood in the falling snow, the knife held
hidden against his thigh. He felt foolish. A fat lot of good
the knife would have been if he'd indeed had anything
to fear from whoever was in that car. And if they turned
out to be Carla and Gary, how tough could he really
have been on people who wanted nothing more than to keep him safe and well? He walked on, following the
Saab's tracks to no purpose. He reached the train sta
tion, then stood for a long moment staring at the public
telephone mounted on the wall. He walked over to it
and began to dial the number of Anton Zivic's shop. He
broke the connection. Then he began again.

“No, everything's okay,” he said upon hearing the
concern in Anton's voice. “I'm just having a little trou
ble unwinding.”

“Who could blame you?” Anton sympathized.
“However, things on this end seem to be quieting down
nicely.” Roger Clew, Zivic told him, had reported on
the meeting
between Reid and Barton Fuller. Reid
seemed chastened, even frightened. He was holed up at
his home, apparently afraid even to risk a forty-minute
drive back to the safety of Fort Meade. The Pollard house had been cleaned up, closed down, and all of
Reid's people withdrawn. Reid's man, Loftus, was in
stable condition but Dr. Russo's skills would be needed
to rebuild his face. Molly and Janet Herzog picked up
Loftus's family and the
n
, in order to avoid possible in
terception, chartered a plane in Virginia that had just
landed at Bridgeport, Connecticut. “And your Mr.
Lesko is visiting Mr. Loftus even as we speak.”

“Susan's father? How did he find out about the
clinic?”

“He appeared at Mario's this noon and announced to
Billy McHugh that he would either be taken to Mr.
Loftus or he would begin heaving furniture into the
street. Billy's position regarding the latter was that he
would feel obliged to prevent it. The choice forced
upon me was either to rush down and claim a ringside seat—while it remained indoors—or to prevent the de
struction of a Westport landmark. My intervention was
roundly booed by the entire luncheon crowd.”

“You probably prevented the destruction of Ray
mond Lesko,” Paul grimaced.

Anton hesitated. “Have you seen this man?*’

“I’
ve seen Billy. I've never seen anyone last ten sec
onds with him.”

“Envision the heavyweight wrestling champion of
Transylvania and you have some idea of this Lesko. Your
Susan is clearly adopted.”

Paul had to smile. “I take it he's quieted down nicely,
too.”

“For the moment. There was murder in his eyes
when he saw what was done to Loftus but his mood improved when Loftus described Billy's retaliation. I think, however, he'll go straight after Reid if we don't
prevent it.”

“It's your call, Anton, but I'd keep him there.”

“My thought, as well. Incidentally, I have a report on
that couple you met on the train.”

The Basses. He'd almost forgotten. “Yes?”

“They appear to be genuine. Solid citizens, well-
known, well-liked, travel extensively. They're definitely
on holiday in Europe.”

“Do you have a description?”

“Yes.” Paul heard a rustling of papers and then a rundown on their ages, coloring, physical dimensions
and personality types. No distinctive markings or
speech patterns other than a regional accent. “I'm wait
ing to hear from one other source but I expect no sur
prises.”

“That's them. Thanks. Anton. Have you heard from
Carla?”

“I just phoned her.”

“In Davos? When was that?”

“Not twenty minutes ago. I had her paged in the
dining room of the Des Alpes hotel. Why do you ask,
Paul?”

“It's nothing. I thought I saw her in
Klosters a few
minutes ago.”

“Not possible. But if it were my call, as you say, I would give her more latitude. Let her come to Klosters.
She will stay out of sight.”

“I don't know. . . .”

“She's professional, Paul. Give her something to do.”

What the heck, he thought. It was a foolish notion, anyway. Thinking that for three weeks he could live as
if fifteen years of his life had never happened. Pretend
ing that he lived in a little white world where the snow
never got dirty and there weren't any people like Carla.
Or Billy. Or even Anton. Trying to pretend that he wasn't just like them.

“She'll stay out of sight?” he asked.

“You'll never see her.”

“But not Gary. He might as well be carrying a sign.”

“We'll both rest easier, Paul.”

“Okay. Thanks, Anton.” He broke the connection.

Sure.

Why not? Let someone else look for the shadows.

He turned back toward his building, toward the
lights that marked his apartment. A nightcap, a glass of
wine, followed by a good night's sleep. That sounded
just fine. He could relax now. Maybe even be decent company again. He'd get back to Susan, and he'd hug
her and hold her, or maybe he'd save that until morning
and let her sleep. Tomorrow they'd start fresh. Make a vacation out of this yet.

The carving knife, which he'd tucked out of sight
inside his parka, jabbed into his hip. He drew it out and
slid it, blade first, up into his sleeve. Susan might be
awake when he returned. That's all she needs, to see him walking around with a.
...