by Braun, Matt;
Quite so. But first, let me ask you . . . do you remember anything we discussed? Anything at all?
Not a word. Say, listen here, none of your mumbo jumbo. Was I under or wasn't I?
Suppose you judge for yourself, Mr. Brokaw. Please bear with me while I rewind the tape.
C L I C K
Tanner shook his head. "That's eerie stuff. I suppose it sounds trite, but it was like hearing . . . ”
"A voice from the grave?"
"Yes, exactly. Only there were two voices. At the end there, when you woke Brokaw, it was almost as if you were talking to another man."
"I was, Mr. Tanner." Ludmann regarded him impassively. "Under hypnosis, the subject invariably assumes the mannerisms and speech patterns of his former incarnation. In this case, I was talking with Sergeant John Hughes . . . through Lucas Brokaw."
"Then Brokaw wasn't an isolated case?"
"Hardly. I've documented dozens of such cases over the years. Contrary to what many people think, reincarnation isn't a rare phenomenon. It's really quite common."
"Was that why Brokaw came to you . . . because of your reputation?"
"Partly. And of course the dream."
Tanner nodded, silent a moment. "When was this tape made, professor? The date?"
"January 26, 1947."
"By rough estimate, that would have been three weeks or so after his doctor informed him he was terminal."
"Three weeks and five days, to be exact."
"And approximately ten days before construction was begun on his crypt."
"As I recall, that's correct."
"So this tape was the turning point. It confirmed everything he'd seen in the dream, and once he heard a replay, he never looked back. That's what you meant about converting a skeptic, right?"
"I prefer to think of the tape as a catalyst. Actually, a good deal had already transpired when Brokaw came to see me."
"You mean the dream?"
"Not altogether. Of course, the dream was a nightly recurrence—precisely the same in every detail—so Brokaw began to suspect something abnormal long before he contacted me. In a manner of speaking, he established his own bridge with the past. I merely guided him across and helped confirm what he found on the other side."
"I'm afraid I don't follow you, professor. What bridge?"
"That's something of a story within itself, Mr. Tanner. Really quite remarkable." Ludmann's pipe had gone cold, but he scarcely seemed to notice. He continued to suck on it, his expression abstracted, gazing off into space. "Keep in mind, Lucas Brokaw was a man of action and he knew he had only six months to live. So he took a direct and highly perceptive approach to this matter of the dream. Let me explain."
With time at a premium, Brokaw had hired an entire team of historical researchers. It required whirlwind planning and immediate access to the National Archives, not to mention a monumental fee. But their assignment was without precedent and of such magnitude that it seemed doomed to failure.
Less than a month later, however, Brokaw's hunch paid off with spectacular results. The researchers established that there had been one sergeant with Custer in those final moments on the knoll above the Little Big Horn—Sergeant John Hughes.
Then, virtually overnight, the research team established corroboration from a most unlikely source. The Indian version of Custer's Last Stand had been preserved by Red Horse, a Sioux war chief who participated in the battle, in the form of crude drawings etched on deerskin. These obscure pictographs, lost to scholars for nearly seven decades, were discovered in long forgotten storage vaults beneath the Smithsonian Institution. Red Horse had illustrated the battle from beginning to end. His final drawing was the clincher. It depicted Yellow-hair Custer committing suicide, while in the foreground a pony soldier sergeant stood stiff as a ramrod while a Sioux chief brained him with a war club. In a verbal account of the battle (conveyed in sign language and transcribed by an army surgeon in 1881), Red Horse identified himself as the war chief and recalled with amazement how the sergeant had stood there as if in a trance, almost as though he welcomed death.
Still another mystery had been solved at the same time. Of the, 215 dead men littering the battlefield, only Custer and Sergeant John Hughes had not been scalped. In his statement, Red Horse observed that Sioux warriors never took the scalp of a man who had destroyed himself, such as Yellowhair and the sergeant who embraced death. The scalps of such men were cursed, according to Red Horse, as was the man himself, who would forever wander through the afterlife without his soul. It was a chilling thought, made all the more personal for Lucas Brokaw by the vividness and brutal clarity of his dream.
Yet, even with seemingly irrefutable evidence at hand, Brokaw hadn't been satisfied. He was a practicing agnostic, a devout skeptic with the methodical mind of a scientist. So he had gone one step further. He had contacted George Ludmann at Stanford to undertake a hurried course in reincarnation. There he discovered that experiences such as his were by no means unprecedented and that dreams were the most widely accepted manifestation of a previous life. Ultimately, he allowed the professor to hypnotize him and then regress him to that fateful day on the Little Big Horn. It was then that Sergeant John Hughes retold the horror of his death and the wonder of his rebirth on the very same day.
Lucas Brokaw's birthday.
Afterward, listening to a playback on the tape recorder, Brokaw had at last been convinced. Neither the words nor the voice were his own. But it had all been spoken through his mouth, and with the zeal of a convert, he had quickly set in motion an intricate plan for his future life. The result was the Brokaw Foundation and a legend that had captivated the world for the past thirty years.
"So there you have it, Mr. Tanner. The complete and unabridged version of Lucas Brokaw's final days on earth."
Tanner was stunned. "Jesus! It's no wonder he was convinced he'd be reborn on the night he died."
"Indeed, how could he have believed otherwise?"
"And the grant . . . the two million dollars?"
"An outright bribe. He anonymously funded a chair of occult science here at the university, with the proviso that my role in his personal affairs would be kept confidential. A vow I've faithfully maintained until today."
"There's something about that." Tanner faltered, at a loss for words. "I don't know why, but it bothers me. As far as I can determine, Brokaw didn't make mistakes. Unless it was an intentional mistake, meant to throw you off the track. Yet he left evidence of the grant in his files, and then went out of his way to hide this business about the researchers. It just doesn't add up."
"Oh, and what leads you to that conclusion, Mr. Tanner?"
"Because the transactions are not only related, but they both lead directly to you. Think about it, professor. If he really wanted to eliminate any chance of a connection, then why didn't he destroy the material concerning the grant?"
Ludmann shifted in his chair and looked away. He seemed distracted. "Perhaps I should have mentioned it, but frankly, I find the thought a bit . . . unsettling."
"What the hell, we've gone this far. Let's go all the way."
"Very well. But I'm afraid it raises more questions than it answers, Mr. Tanner. You see, my agreement with Lucas Brokaw was conditional. At our last meeting, he instructed me in very precise terms that I was to break my vow of silence if ever I was contacted by a third party."
"By a third party? That's sort of nebulous, isn't it? I mean, after all, a third party could be anyone."
"I think not. As you so aptly noted, Lucas Brokaw wasn't a man to make mistakes."
"That's ridiculous!" Tanner scoffed. "Don't you see what you're suggesting?"
"Indeed I do, Mr. Tanner. I'm suggesting you're the third party."
Tanner stared at him, nonplussed. After a while, Ludmann chuckled and lit his pipe. Then he tilted back in his chair, squinting through a cloud of smoke, and grinned.
"I warned you! It's difficult to put the demon back in the bottle."
&nbs
p; XII
"Ask him again, Monk."
Birkhead backhanded him across the mouth. Joey Pike's lip split, spurting blood, and he lurched backward. His arms came up to ward off the blows, but Birkhead feinted, ducking low, and chopped him in the kidneys. His knees sagged and the big man grabbed a fistful of shirt, holding him erect, then cuffed him on the head. A jagged cut appeared over his eyebrow, and his mouth flew open in a hoarse moan as Birkhead slammed him into the wall.
"Hold off a minute!" Ruxton moved in closer and lifted his chin. "You're really a mess, Joey. How about it? Feeling a little more cooperative?"
"Please, you gotta believe me." Pike's left eye was swollen shut and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "Honest to Christ, you're making a mistake."
Ruxton sighed, fixing him with a weary look. "You're not listening, Joey. I told you before. We know that Fallon fences all his hot stones with you. Got it now? We already know! So stop with the dummy routine and save yourself a lot of grief."
"But that's what I'm trying to tell you!" Pike blurted. "I never heard of this Fallon. On my mother's head! Never."
"It's your funeral." Ruxton shrugged and backed away. "One more time, Monk."
All in one motion, Birkhead let go of the shirt and drove upward with the butt of his hand. Pike's nose flattened in a spray of blood, and as his head bounced off the wall, the big man kicked him in the kneecap. He slumped forward, clutching wildly at his leg, and Birkhead clouted him behind the ear. The force of the blow knocked him off his feet, and he dropped to the floor in a heap. He shivered, gasping for breath, and wet his pants.
"No more! Please, no more." Pike covered his head, sobbing piteously. "Just call him off. I'll tell you. I swear it!"
Birkhead grunted and walked away, inspecting his skinned knuckles. After a moment Ruxton smiled and knelt beside the fence.
"So tell me, Joey. I'm listening."
"Oh, Chester, I just love it."
Jill swirled around the sitting room while Chester Wilson stood rooted in the middle of the floor. It was the smallest suite in the Mayflower and dismally lacking in decor. But her eyes glowed and she kept uttering little squeals of delight, as if it were all somehow beyond belief.
"Honestly, Chester, you're so clever. I never dreamed anyone could make a hotel look like a home. But that's what you've done." She paused, sweeping the room at a glance, and threw her arms up in a speechless gesture. "It's . . . well, it's just you!"
"Really, it isn't much." Wilson beamed with pride, slightly drunk yet totally unaware his speech was slurred. "I simply gave it . . . made it comfortable . . . that's all."
"Don't be modest." Jill wagged her finger at him and suddenly burst out in laughter. "Oh, Chester, I'm so happy you asked me out again. Washington can be so lonely when you don't know anyone. And now the evening's perfect!" She took a step closer and smiled engagingly. "Can I tell you a secret?"
"Why, of course you can. I'm really quite good at secrets."
"Well, I know it sounds brazen, but I was so afraid you wouldn't invite me up for a nightcap. Literally petrified! Isn't that terrible of me?"
"Not a'tall. It's . . . it's wonderful . . . that's what it is."
Chester Wilson was bewitched by the girl's loveliness. They had met in the elevator three nights ago, and while it was all quite proper, his life hadn't been the same since. She seemed so helpless, a bit awed to find herself alone in the capital. Full of questions about politicians and bureaucrats and society figures, all the things an old Washington hand took for granted. Their conversation carried over from the elevator to the lobby, and before he realized it, he'd somehow invited her to join him for dinner.
And then again the next night, and again tonight.
Normally, Wilson trudged through life with the metabolism of a sleeping bear. He was a quiet pedantic man, tall and bony, with sallow skin and lusterless eyes, almost cadaverous in appearance. A confirmed bachelor, somewhat shy around women, he was dedicated to his work. As one of the foremost cryptanalysts at the State Department, he had position and prestige, and seldom gave any thought to, his rather bleak personal existence. He took his meals at the Mayflower, where he'd lived for nearly fifteen years, and his leisure time was devoted exclusively to the study of hieroglyphics and ancient cryptograms.
But all that had changed. Since meeting Jill he was a new man, vitalized by feelings he'd never before experienced. With her on his arm, he felt suave and debonair, a man of the world. And protective. Intensely protective. An emotion he hadn't allowed himself in all the years since his mother's death.
Tonight he'd consumed enough wine to embalm a mummy. His head reeled with his own good fortune, but he couldn't quite decide on the next step. Jill's eyes shone and her lips were moist and inviting. He wanted desperately to touch her, yet his feet had turned to stone and his nerve had suddenly deserted him. He felt awkward and clumsy, not at all the sophisticated man about Washington.
Then, scarcely able to believe it was happening, he saw her move across the room and pause in front of him. Her hands came up, resting on the lapels of his coat, and her features softened in a little girl look.
"Chester, I was wondering."
"Ummmm." He thought her the most exquisite creature he'd ever seen. "Wondering what?"
"Do you ever come to the West Coast?"
"I've always wanted to." Her eyes were downcast. "Maybe you could take a vacation sometime and . . . well, you know . . . visit me."
"Visit you?"
"Yes, wouldn't that be fun?"
"Are you serious?" His tongue felt numb. "You want—me—to visit you?"
"Of course, silly! I wouldn't ask if I didn't mean it, now would I?"
"No, it's not that! I was just surprised . . . what I mean to say . . . well, I'm delighted."
"Oh, good! I'll show you San Francisco and you can meet all my friends and . . . oh, Chester, I'm so happy!"
She loosened his tie, and he blinked, groping for words. "Your friends?"
"You know, my business associates. The ones I told you about. But don't worry, we'll have loads of time to ourselves." She began unbuttoning his shirt. "Naturally I want them to meet you . . . oh, they'll be green with envy . . . and then we'll drive down to Big Sur. Or maybe north to the redwoods." He stared at her hands, utterly fascinated as the buttons popped open. "Which would you prefer . . . hmmm lover . . . warm beaches or snuggly coves?"
A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and he licked his lips. "Either . . . both . . . I . . . uh . . . I really . . ."
"Yes, both! That's a wonderful idea, Chester. Well have a long, scrumptious holiday . . . just the two of us."
Her hands snaked inside his shirt, caressing warm flesh, and he shuddered. She kissed him, and for a moment he continued to stare at her, completely spellbound. Then her hips moved, grinding slowly but eagerly, and she thrust herself against him.
His eyes closed and her tongue darted into his mouth. He moaned and his arms went round her, and suddenly he was lost.
"Sorry, chum, no dice. I work alone."
"That's why I'm here." Ruxton smiled with false cordiality. "You work alone. You've never been caught. And you have a reputation for keeping your mouth shut. Those are the qualities I'm looking for."
Fallon's gaze remained flinty and remote. "Look, no offense intended, but you guys are obviously a couple of amateurs. You breeze in here with some dippy proposition and lay the strong talk on me like I was a hit man. Jesus! Didn't anybody ever tell you that you don't put out a contract on a safe?"
"You disappoint me, Fallon. I just got through saying I don't want to peel it or blow it or leave a mark on it. In short, a clean job. Nothing disturbed and no trace we've ever been there. That's hardly the request of an amateur."
"So get yourself a Ouija board. I'm not interested."
They faced each other across a kitchen table in an apartment as barren as a monk's cell, sizing each other up. Birkhead stood off to one side, arms folded across his chest.
His expression was oxlike, cold and impersonal and menacing. Fallon glanced at him from time to time, but the look was flat and guarded, a wary look, without reaction, carefully concealing his thoughts.
Johnny Fallon was a wiry feist of a man. There was an astringent quality about him, harsh and uncompromising. His lips scarcely moved when he talked, as if his jaws had been wired shut, and his small, flaring eyes, set close together above splayed cheekbones, gave him the visage of a sullen dog, ugly and unpredictable.
Fallon was worried. If a couple of small-time punks could track him down, then he'd become too sloppy for his own good. It was time to pull a vanishing act. Change contacts, get himself a new fence, and lay low for a while.
Ruxton sensed his mood, and although stung by the man's sarcasm, he couldn't afford the luxury of anger. Not at this stage of the game. He needed Fallon, and before it was too late, he decided to try another tack.
"We'd like to have you with us, Fallon. Everyone says you're the best box man in the business. And believe me, on this job, nothing but the best will do." He paused, suddenly very earnest. "It's big, bigger than anything you've ever tackled before. A once-in-a-lifetime deal."
Fallon's gargoyle features split in a grin. "Listen, sport, don't try to hustle me, okay? You show up out of the clear blue," he gestured at Birkhead, "with King Kong there, and hit me with a line of bullshit, and I'm supposed to kiss your ass. Thanks all the same, but don't do me any favors. First off, I'm not looking for work. And in the second place, I don't know you guys from a hole in the ground. Hell, you might even be the heat!"
"Not a chance!" Ruxton waved his hand negligently, as if dusting away the thought. "Come on now, Fallon, be honest. Do we look like cops?"
"I'll say this for you, you've got balls." Fallon's laughter sounded like a death rattle. "No names. No info on the job. In for a dime, in for a dollar. Just like that! Right?"
"Yeah, but look at it from my side. Until you commit yourself, I've got no choice. Besides, what you don't know can't hurt you. So at this point it's really better to keep you in the dark."