The Bannerman Solution (The Bannerman Series) by John R. Maxim Page A
Authors: John R. Maxim
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inside.”
”Let ’ s go.” He snatched his medical bag and stepped into the slanting rain.
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
”Let ’ s go.” He snatched his medical bag and stepped into the slanting rain.
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
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