The Bannerman Effect (The Bannerman Series) (36 page)

She held his gaze, not amused. She gestured vaguely at her surroundings. “If I had none of this, what then?”

“The point is, you have it. I don't.”

“Very well.” She raised her chin. ”I will leave the money here. You will bring me home with you. You will take care of me.”

Lesko pushed to his feet, stepping behind his chair as if to keep it between them. He didn't believe this. Not in his dumbest daydreams, not even at four in the morning would he—“Look.” He winced. “Could we change the subject for a minute? Where's Bannerman?”

“No, we cannot. I have dealt you a queen. You will please cover it.”

“Let me get this straight,” he said, fingers to his temples. “You'd give up all of this. Just to be with me.”

“Certainly not. It would be here for our visits.”

“Just checking.” He made a face. “And how long would you expect this to last?”

“Until you hurt me.”

“So we're not talking marriage here.”

She shrugged. “We can marry. If you wish. But I would like a child in any case. You seem to do that well.”

The room tilted. Lesko held fast to the chair. Through a soft mist, layers of gauze, he could see Elena rising toward him, eyes moist, lips tight as if she were trying not to let him see her laugh, guiding him back to his chair. Now she was kneeling, her good arm resting on his thigh. She was talking to him. He heard only fragments. Like
Poor Lesko.
And from time to time she would grin broadly as if recalling something funny. /
know how this must seem to you. To me
as well I had no idea that I would say such things.

Here was this woman who, two years ago, had calmly tried to bargain for her life and now, in this dream, she was back and she wanted him to take her home and give her babies—
Poor Lesko
—which meant that she would actually have to be in bed with him, not make-believe like in the other dream, and he would have to try not to roll over and crush her some night like he heard pigs do with their young.

But here it was. For whatever reason. And better than any dream.

And he would take it.

“Molly”—Susan leaned across Paul's regular table at Mario's; her voice was low but firm—”I want to know what's happening here.”

She had told her of the calls from Roger Clew. Of her attempts to locate Paul and her father. Of her knowledge that at least two of the others, probably more, had suddenly left Westport and were almost certainly en route to Europe.

Paul's friend, her friend, had listened attentively, showing no sign of alarm. But Susan saw a light in her eyes, which she had not seen before. Molly reached for her hand and squeezed it.

“As for your father,''she answered, not hesitating at all, “you're right. He's gone to sort himself out with Elena once and for all. He's in no danger.”

“But Paul is?”

She waved the question to one side. “As for Roger Clew, you're sure he said that? That he'd send people into West-port?”

“It's still on the machine,” Susan told her. “Go listen for yourself.”

“Give me a second.”

“That was Anton?” Susan asked, more an observation than a question.

“Yes. And I called Paul's machine.”

”I saw. Are you going to tell me?”

“Can you tell me if he's in danger?”

Molly seemed as if she were going to say one thing but chose another. “No morç than usual,” she said.

“You were about to say something else.”

Molly brushed her hair from one cheek. ”I was about to lecture you.”

”I know,” she nodded. “Get used to it, Susan. If you can't stand the heat, go find yourself a yuppie.”

“Not exactly,” Molly smiled, “but close enough.” She gestured with her thumb toward Susan's purse. “What's the gun for?”

“How did you know?”

“Susan,” Molly repeated. “Why the gun?”

“Just trying to fit in.”

“Do you know how to use it?”

”I asked Paul to teach me. He said he's not very good. Is that true?”

Another smile. A rocking motion of the hand. Molly chose not to elaborate. “Challenge Paul to a contest shooting at tin cans,” she might have said, “and you might very well beat him. Come at him with a gun, let him see you coming or miss with your first shot, and he will surely kill you.”

“Please don't carry that,” she dropped her voice, “anywhere in Westport until I tell you that all of us know you by sight. And until then, never, ever, reach into your purse while there's a weapon in it.”

“Especially if I see a blinking light?”

“Give you the gun?”

She shook her head. “Fly to Zurich. This evening. You'll have your travel documents within the hour. Travel light. Join your father at Elena's house. Stay there until Paul contacts you.”

Susan frowned. “This is about Roger Clew?”

“Yes.”

“Getting little Susan out of the way in case there's trouble?” She straightened. “I'd rather stay and help. Sooner or later, you're going to have to find out what I'm made of.”

“What you're made of “—Molly put a hand on her arm— “is old Raymond ‘the Terrible.’ ” She meant it as a compliment. “But we're not staying either, exactly. We'll have faded away by the time you board your flight. There will be nobody for Roger Clew to find. We don't want him finding you.”

“That's all you'll do? Just run?”

”I didn't say that.”

“Then what happens when he gets here and finds nobody home?”

“We'll have found him,” she said.

Raymond ‘the Terrible’ Lesko.

Lesko, the lumbering American giant had managed to tum the formidable Elena Brugg into a schoolgirl romantic.

But now, alone at last. The relatives were gone. His bodyguard and driver had joined Elena's outside the gate. The only remaining upheaval, thought Urs Brugg, would be Elena's cook expelling her bodily from the kitchen if she did not promise to calm herself, leave the lids of pots alone, and keep her hands off the china, which had begun the day as a service for twelve but could now fully accommodate only ten.

Lesko sat before him. Stiffly. Hors d'oeuvres—an assortment of cheeses and meats—sat untouched on a tray before him. Twice, Urs Brugg had seen him reach, only to withdraw his hand, lest, thought Brugg, he partake of it incorrectly. Urs Brugg wheeled closer and helped himself, using his fingers. Lesko watched, gratefully, then did the same.

”I have looked forward to this meeting,” said Urs Brugg pleasantly. “Although I confess I did not foresee this circumstance.”

”I sure as h—” Lesko stopped himself. ”I didn't either.”

The older man glanced in the direction of the kitchen. ”I have never seen Elena like this. It is a remarkable change.”

Lesko could only nod. He had never seen anyone like this. Not toward him. Not even his ex-wife. Fussing over him. Flattering him. Touching him every time he came within reach. All defenses down. The gates wide open.

“There is something within her . . . some need”—Urs Brugg seemed to be struggling with this—“that could be fulfilled only by you. I have known this for some time. Perhaps I understand it. Perhaps I do not. I am delighted, of course, to see her so happy, but—”