The Second Coming of Lucas Brokaw

by Braun, Matt;

  There was something awaiting an imposter once he got past the machine. Something known only to Lucas Brokaw. And it required no great feat of imagination to conclude that, whatever it was, it was something lethal.

  Tanner quickly focused on an obscure clause in Brokaw's will: Should disaster occur while a claimant is attempting to pass the tests, there is a final, unrevealed secret concerning my crypt. Anyone who later uncovers this secret will thereafter be acknowledged as Lucas Brokaw reincarnated. With the Santini experience behind him, Tanner had realized that the stipulation was not a catchall clause thrown in to cover the possibility of an accident.

  Nothing in the crypt had been designed by chance. It was all very premeditated, in fact, and accident played no part in the obstacle course laid out by Lucas Brokaw. Tanner was certain that the word disaster meant a planned disaster. A disaster that merely awaited an unknowing imposter to trigger it off.

  Subsequently, convinced that a link existed between the cryptography machine and the disaster clause, Tanner had revamped the security system at the estate. He added another guard whose sole responsibility was to patrol the area immediately around the mansion; in addition, he installed an electronic alarm at the foyer entrance of the subterranean stairway. Several other measures he recommended, particularly closed circuit television in the crypt itself, were overruled by the director as unnecessary and too costly. Since his suspicions were a mix of hunch and supposition, he couldn't justify further expenditure. So he counted himself lucky to have effected any change at all.

  Yet his apprehension was very real, and he'd devoted a good deal of time to analyzing the security setup. It was then, during a period of nearly two weeks he'd spent at the estate, that he had begun experiencing those quick flashes of déjà vu. They came over him in fits and starts, fleeting glimpses of things he'd seen before, not just as they were at that moment but rather as they had been at some point in the past. A time beyond recollection and by its very vividness all the more baffling.

  Uneasy, bemused by the sensation, he had resisted a strong temptation to discuss it with Stacey. However real it was in his own mind, he suspected she would find the notion absurd. Which was perhaps the one risk he couldn't bring himself to face.

  And now, watching the dusky horizon, the eerie feeling persisted. He'd seen it before. Not just once but hundreds of times. That exact sunset.

  It was enough to make the gooseflesh crawl, but he told himself that it was nothing more than a kind of sensory logic in which his mind absorbed everything, trivia and hard facts and images forgotten long ago. Then, like a blender crammed with random bits of information, his brain concocted what he saw and supplied the rationale for its being there. A product of the subliminal, snatched by the moment from some dark and shadowed corner of his mind. It made perfect sense.

  But he never for an instant believed it. Nor was he willing to consider other explanations, however reasonable. He couldn't because none of them was true.

  The truth was he'd seen that sunset. A long time ago.

  On the horizon there was now a watery rim of gold. Then a single streamer of fire split apart, leaping high, and cleaved the darkening sky. It flickered and burst like a fading flare and slowly dissolved into a mere pinprick of light.

  Tanner stood transfixed. His vision blurred and the distant spark became a tiny, pulsating dot within his eyes. A faint dizziness swept over him, grew stronger, beckoned him deeper into a lazy vertigo. Then his vision glazed . . .

  A chill stirring brushed his cheek.

  There was a moment before he nodded, eyes fixed in a hollow stare, and turned away from the window. He walked directly to the desk and seated himself in the high-backed chair. Without hesitation, he leaned forward, ran his arm beneath the desk, and pressed a strip of molding behind the center panel. A scam appeared along the back edge of the heavy walnut top, then a spring clicked and a shallow drawer popped open. Narrow and flat, almost a tray, it contained a sheaf of documents.

  He removed the papers, slowly scanned the letterhead, and after a long while, he blinked. The glazed look disappeared from his eyes, and his lips parted in a thin smile. He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and settled back in the chair.

  Then he began to read.

  Shortly after seven, Tanner arrived at Stacey's apartment. She met him in a magenta hostess gown that accentuated the dark sheen of her hair and did little to hide the lovely curves of her figure. Her eyes sparkled, and as she took his hand, her voice was like a warm caress.

  "Ummmmm, it's good to see you. Things just aren't the same when you're away from the office. I couldn't wait to get home! Isn't that shameless of me?"

  Suddenly he caught her up in a rough embrace and kissed her, then set her down so fast she swayed dizzily. But his hands encircled her waist and her arms went around his neck, pulling his mouth back to her in a long, lingering kiss. She clung to him wantonly, aware of nothing but the man and the moment and the strength of his arms. When at last their lips parted, she burrowed close against his chest, and their silence was as intimate as the touch of hands on naked flesh.

  This was how it had been since their afternoon before the fireplace on the bearskin rug. Any vestige of restraint, all her misgivings about office affairs and emotional involvement had simply vanished. She cast aside the cool detachment that masked the woman underneath and admitted what she'd known all along: that he was the man she wanted, the man she meant to have.

  It was the same for Tanner. Not so sudden nor nearly so open and heedless of the consequences. He was a very private man, and never before had he laid himself bare to anyone. Yet wherever he turned his restless inner eye these days, she was there, always a part of his thoughts. Perhaps all the more revealing was what the nearness of her did to him. Whenever they were together his iron impassivity simply deserted him; he became someone else, another man—warmer and gentler, not quite so cynical, and for the first time in his life, vulnerable.

  Even now, as he held her cloaked in his arms, he knew they might yet hurt one another. This was no casual affair, some transitory sleeping arrangement. Their affinity was too strong, too genuine. So palpable that it had touched their lives in a way neither of them had ever anticipated.

  The thought frightened him. Not for his own sake, because he knew he was as capable of absorbing punishment as he was of inflicting pain. He was frightened for her.

  Stacey was no less intuitive in her own way. By now she could sense his every mood, and tonight, despite the warmth of his greeting, she knew he was worried about something. Before the moment could be spoiled, she slipped from his embrace. Her smile was disarming, and as she led him toward a small bar in the comer, her voice had a teasing lilt.

  "By sheer coincidence, I happen to have a pitcher of martinis freshly chilled. If your day was anything like mine, then I suspect you could use a bracer."

  Tanner seated himself on a bar stool while she poured. "What's the matter . . . Knox on the warpath again?"

  "No, darling, not again. That's much too charitable. I'm afraid our leader is always on the warpath."

  "Why the switch? I thought you liked the old boy."

  "Oh, I do! He's thoughtful and kind, and he believes women deserve equal opportunity and equal pay." She paused, and took a thoughtful sip of her martini. "But sometimes he's so—"

  "Don't be inhibited," Tanner prompted her with a smile. "You're among friends."

  "Well, I know it sounds bitchy—and I really don't mean it that way—but sometimes he's so insufferably picayune."

  "Picayune? Jesus, what a thing to call somebody."

  "Not at all. I mean, he did ask us to audit petty cash."

  Tanner cocked one eye skeptically. "You're kidding!"

  "And later he had an absolute temper tantrum about everyone taking too many coffee breaks."

  "Come on. That's a little much even for Squire Knox."

  "I agree, but you haven't heard the best part yet. He had the gall to suggest that you were squanderin
g foundation funds by spending all your time at the estate."

  Too late, Tanner saw the trap. "And I suppose you agreed with him?"

  "Of course. How can I function properly when I never see you any more?" All the while she chattered her eyes had been guileless, but now she tilted her chin and smiled mischievously. "Don't worry though, darling, I covered for you."

  "I'll just bet you did. Go ahead, give me the punch line."

  "No punch line. I simply told him the truth."

  "The truth?"

  "Yes. That you feel a very personal bond toward the foundation and the estate. So you're just naturally superconscientious."

  "Okay, I'm in this deep . . . I might as well bite. What's the personal bond?"

  "Why, that you were born on the fortieth day. To be exact, September 2, 1947. I was curious about your sign—incidentally, I just adore Virgos—so I checked your personnel file. Voilà!"

  Tanner gave her a blank look. "I don't get it. The fortieth day of what?"

  "What else! The fortieth day after Lucas Brokaw died."

  "Terrific. So what's the big deal?"

  "Are you serious? You really don't know?"

  "Christ, I'm starting to sound like an echo. Know what?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry, darling. I just assumed . . . well, don't you see, a great many Buddhist sects believe reincarnation occurs on the fortieth day. So, there you have it. Your birthday!"

  "Yeah, sure. And Brokaw was convinced it took place on the first day. Which sort of punctures your balloon, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, I know. Everyone's confused on that point." She brightened and darted him a sly glance. "But I suppose that's what makes life interesting, isn't it? The forks in the road."

  Stacey watched him out of the corner of her eye, enjoying herself immensely. At the office she was precise and efficient, her business day as expertly choreographed as a ballet. Yet in idle moments, alone and dreamy, she felt she had been born out of her time. Quite secretly she yearned to have been the mistress of a nobleman on some vast estate in czarist Russia. To dance to the balalaika and live a life of roses and Dom Pérignon. To ride off into the night and make love astride a fiery-eyed stallion in a moonlit forest. The decor of her apartment even lent itself to this fantasy world. It was an evocative mélange of exotic Oriental and rugged Mediterranean, all brought together with the flair of a true romantic. It provided a glimpse of those dark reveries she kept bottled up within herself.

  Tonight, all of it spilled over in a vast outpouring of gaiety and love. She saw before her the czar astride his black stallion. And beyond, beckoning softly, the moonlit forest.

  At length, Tanner became aware of the look. Amused but still uncertain, he eyed her quizzically. "You've been putting me on, haven't you? Every word of it. All that staff about the fortieth day and—"

  "No, honestly, that's the truth. Cross my heart."

  "Maybe so. But I'll lay odds you didn't tell the director about it, right? C'mon now, 'fess up. That whole routine was strictly for my benefit, wasn't it?"

  "Well, of course it was. But where's the harm in a little white lie?" She pouted and glanced aside. "I mean, really, just go take a look at yourself in the mirror. It's obvious you're tired and worried and overworked. So I thought I'd liven you up a bit." Her gaze swung back, and there was a certain bawdy wisdom in her eyes. "Evidently it worked. Not that I'm any wizard . . . but you don't look nearly as worried as you did a few minutes ago."

  Tanner's mouth curled in a raffish smile. He twitched his head in the direction of the bedroom door.

  She laughed suddenly, spontaneously, and threw her arms around his neck. It seemed to her she could hear the strains of a balalaika. And there was a definite scent of roses in the air.

  IX

  The sea was choppy and the sky overcast.

  A light fog drifted inland, but the coastline was visible a half mile off starboard. The cabin cruiser bobbed on the swells, engines throttled back, as Jill played the wheel to hold it on a heading of north-northwest. On deck, Ruxton was crouched down, arms locked over the side, steadying a Nikon with a telephoto lens. He was shooting fast speed, with an open lens setting to compensate for murky light, and had already put two rolls of film through the camera. Further astern, legs braced against the pitch of the sea, Monk Birkhead was scanning the cliffs through powerful naval binoculars.

  Ruxton had instructed Jill to keep the boat at reduced speed until they cleared a jutting promontory north of the estate. In case they were observed from the mansion or by one of the guards, it would appear they were making slow headway in a rough sea. This gave them an unobstructed view of the cliffs for approximately ten minutes. While it was all the time needed to finish filming, it was far less than Birkhead would have liked for his visual inspection. But they dared not draw attention to themselves by anchoring or risk being spotted offshore more than once without arousing suspicion. So this one pass was it. A quick look, along with photo enlargements, would have to do.

  Several moments later they rounded the promontory, and Jill eased into full throttle. The cruiser was a thirty-six-footer with an inboard engine and twin screws, and wide open, batted along at almost forty knots an hour. Although it was built to absorb punishment, the ride on choppy seas at full speed was bone jarring. Every time the bottom slapped into a wave, Ruxton and Birkhead were buffeted around in a wild scramble to keep to their feet. Hauling himself, hand over hand by the railing, Birkhead made his way forward and with a final lunge threw open the cabin door.

  "You dizzy bitch! Throttle down. Now, goddamnit!"

  Jill laughed, her eyes glittering with excitement. "Up yours, mate! I'm the captain here. Hang on and enjoy it."

  She was above him, on the helmsman's seat, and while Birkhead couldn't reach the controls, he could reach her. He grabbed her ankle and bore down with a viselike grip. "Do it—now!"

  The pain numbed her entire leg, and all the color drained from her face. She throttled back so fast Birkhead lost his grip, stumbling across the companionway into the far wall. The cruiser slammed to a halt, wallowing in a trough, then began rocking with the rhythmic slap of the waves. Birkhead caromed off the wall, his face livid, and started toward the girl. Suddenly Ruxton stepped through the door, still clutching the camera, and blocked his path.

  "Hold it, Monk. Enough's enough."

  "Butt out, man! She's got it coming."

  "Not unless I say so." Ruxton held his position, eyes hooded, impassive yet coldly insistent. "We're in agreement on that, aren't we, Monk?"

  A moment passed, then Birkhead shrugged, glancing aside. "Yeah, I guess so. But I still say it was a stupid trick! She could've swamped this boat and us with it."

  Ruxton turned to the girl. "Monk's right—it was stupid. Very dumb and very juvenile."

  Jill stopped rubbing her ankle and gave him a huffy look. "Well, the big bastard didn't have to get rough about it. And besides, I was just having a little fun. Where's the harm in that?"

  "This isn't a fun exercise. Or did that slip your mind?"

  "God, Curt, sometimes you're a real killjoy! I had this boat under control the whole time and you know it very well."

  "Don't do it again." Ruxton smiled pleasantly and patted her leg. "Otherwise I'll let Monk finish the job. Understand?"

  Jill understood perfectly. Her expression changed, and she quickly bobbed her head, avoiding his gaze. "Sorry, luv. It won't happen again . . . promise."

  "Good girl." Ruxton closed the door and leaned back against it. "You two can kiss and make up later. Right now, let's see where we are." His eyes shifted to the big man. "What about it, Monk? Any problem with those cliffs?"

  "Not if you're a goat!" Birkhead grunted coarsely. "In case you didn't notice, they're steep as hell."

  Birkhead's opinion was vital. Their entire plan hinged on being able to scale the cliffs to the mansion. As a Green Beret, he had undergone alpine training and he was the only one qualified to make the judgment.

  "So they're steep and
it won't be easy." Ruxton studied him intently. "But they can be climbed, right?"

  "Anything can be climbed if you've got the right equipment."

  "That's out. We can't afford the noise, and we can't afford to leave any marks on those cliffs. It has to be done quietly and quickly, with no trace that we were ever there."

  "You don't want much, d'ya?" Birkhead sniffed and wiped his nose. "Hell, who knows, maybe we could get by with ropes and fancy footwork. It's hard to say till I get a closer look."

  "No sweat there." Ruxton tapped the camera with his finger. "I'll have these films blown up and then we'll paste together a composite. Under a magnifying glass you'll be able to spot every little crack and crevice."

  "Big deal! Suppose the rest of the troops have two left feet? What do we do then, carry them up that cliff piggyback?"

  Birkhead had a point. The cliffs were merely the first obstacle and could prove less of a challenge than what awaited them inside the mansion. Yet Ruxton had never fooled himself on that score. While the operation revolved around a team of experts, men of specialized skills, all the expertise in the world was of no value at the bottom of the cliffs. And as his planning had progressed, he'd come to realize that the first step was quite literally the longest.

  Essentially, what he had in mind was something on the order of a commando raid, to be carried out in utter secrecy, with nothing disturbed and not the slightest hint that the subterranean crypt had been penetrated. Above all, there must be nothing to connect him with the Brokaw fortune. For that reason, he had resisted the temptation to search out building plans or former contractors or anything directly related to the estate itself.