Bannerman's Law by John R. Maxim Read Free Book Online Page A

?” he asked the woman named Ruiz.
    She shook her head, her expression sullen.
    Barbara Weinberg looked up from the safe. Rising, she stepped to the coat closet and glanced inside. “ Just kick it in ,” she said.
    Weinberg, under his bandages, made a face. He had expected a measure of artistry. He braced himself, raising one leg.
    “ Wait .” Ruiz winced. She reached into her pocket, producing a ring of keys. “ I'll open it ,” she said. “ But you won't need guns .”
    “ We share that hope ,” he said. “ Open it all the same .”
    It was, he thought, a rather odd collection. A dozen or so pistols, including his own, all different models. One Heckler & Koch MP-5 submachine gun with a sound sup pressor, two Ingrams, two U zis. He took the MP-5 for himself and one of the Ingrams for his wife because these two had extra clips while the others had, in some cases, no ammunition at all. And they'd been dumped into the cabinet carelessly and at random. Ruiz appeared to read his mind.
    “ He doesn't like guns ,” she said.
    Weinberg said nothing. He checked the action of his weapon.
    “ He doesn't like Henry either. Vengeance will not in terest him .”
    “ What will ?”
    “ Containing this .”
    “ What will he do about Henry ?”
    “ He might ask me to ... give him something for the pain .”
    We in berg looked at her. He found that he believed her. He saw no hint of pity concerning Henry. The concept of filial devotion was equally foreign to her and, therefore, per haps to young Ca r leton. Still ... the matter of insurance.
    He asked Ruiz to take a seat on the sofa. He sat at the desk. There was a Canon fax machine behind it. He moved it onto the desk. He found a blank sheet of paper and began writing on i t in larg e block letters.
    “ What's your first name ?” he asked.
    “ Lu i sa. What are you doing ?”
    He fed the paper into the machine and punched a series of numbers. The machine hummed. He caught th e sheet as it cleared the stylus and held it up for her to see. It read ...
    BOX 617
    IF NO MESSAGE, MY VOICE, AT WEEKLY INTERVALS, PLEASE ASSUME WORST. ASSUME C . DUN V ILLE, JR., AND ASSOCIATE L. RUIZ, SUR LA MER , SANTA BARBARA, RESPONSIBLE. KILL THEM. PAYMENT GUARANTEED VIA CJP. REGARDS, STREICHER
    Luisa Ruiz bit her lip. “ You made an agreement ,” she said darkly.
    “ It included leaving here alive .” He turned to his wife. “ How's it co m ing ?” he asked.
    “ Got it ,” she answered. The safe door swung open.
    The former Bonnie Streicher sorted through several piles of documents, discarding most of them. There were bundles of cash as well. Old bills. She made a rough estimate of the amount, then pushed the money aside. Be neath it, she found a locked leather folder. She broke it open and pulled out three m anila folders. She knew at once that she'd found what she was looking for. “ Wow ,”
    she said softly at one point. She began handing the papers to Weinberg.
    “ He won't forgive this ,” Luisa said, sucking in a breath. “ He can't .”
    “ No harm to me ,” Weinberg answered absently. “ No harm to him .” His mind was on the documents. They were single-sheet biographies, clipped together in pairs. One sheet a true history of an individual, the other an invented history. There were dozens, his own among them. Axel St r eiche r—A lan Weinberg. Some went back thirty, even fifty years. He removed the clips that held them to gether and, after writing out a cover sheet, began feeding them into the fax machine, although not his own or that of his wife. The cover note said
    BOX 617
    HOLD FOR ME. NO ACTION UNLESS NO CONTACT. STREICHER
    That, too, he held up for Ruiz to see.
    “ Do you have any idea what you've done ?” she asked quietly.
    ”I certainly hope so ,” he said with a grunt. He had unplugged the machine and turned it onto its back. With a silver letter opener he began prying off bits of plastic, tearing at its circuitry. “ Would you mind calling again about