The Second Coming of Lucas Brokaw

by Braun, Matt;

  "In the dark? Come off it! You're asking me to step in blind as a bat." Fallon shook his head. "No way, chum. Those aren't my kind of odds."

  Ruxton smiled without warmth. "Your fence—what's his name—Joey Pike? He said you had nerves like steel cable. But I don't know, maybe he was wrong. You keep making noises like a man who can't get his act together."

  Anger flashed in Fallon's eyes. Then his chin came up and his mouth set in a hard line. "Okay, hotshot, let's lay our cards on the table. You say you've got the score of a lifetime, right? And unless I heard wrong, you just got through telling me that once I'm in then there's no way out. Now if I went for a deal like that, it'd have to be sweet. Damned sweet! So why don't we quit playing games and get down to the bottom line—what's in it for me?"

  "How about five million dollars?" Ruxton paused, allowing him to digest the figure. "Would that be sweet enough?"

  "Sugar sweet," Fallon agreed gingerly. "If it's on the level."

  "Like you said, we're a couple of amateurs. So if it weren't on the level, how could we expect to hustle an old pro like you?"

  "I guess you couldn't. But suppose I agree to listen and the job don't strike me as kosher. Then what?"

  "Then you have to deal with my friend. And if you need references, Joey Pike will tell you he's even meaner than he looks."

  Fallon's gaze flicked across to Birkhead, then swung back. "You did say five million, didn't you?"

  "Five million," Ruxton nodded. "All in dollars."

  A long silence fell over the room. None of them moved, and the tick of a battered old alarm clock sounded deafening in the stillness. Fallon stared across the table, impassive and unafraid, but clearly wrestling with himself. After a while his mouth quirked in a hard smile. Then he laughed and threw up his hands.

  "What the hell! Cut the cards and deal."

  XIII

  After dinner they came back to her apartment. Tanner took a seat on the sofa while Stacey fixed drinks. The evening had been strained, one-word questions and monosyllabic answers, and even now the tension persisted, as if they were strangers forced to make conversation.

  And neither of them wanted to make it worse.

  Stacey brought him a snifter of brandy and placed it on the coffee table. Her smile was tentative. Without a word, she settled herself on the sofa, tucking one leg underneath the other. Tanner lit a cigarette, painfully aware of the silence, and averted his gaze. She watched him for a long while, quietly sipping her brandy. Then she frowned, mimicking his dour expression, and lowered her voice in a gruff drawl.

  "Drink up, pardner! No need to look so glum. Long as the cat's got your tongue, your secrets are safe."

  "Very good," Tanner remarked dryly. "Can you do Bogart, too?"

  "No, but I do a terrific Cagney! What if I snarl and poke you in the chest . . . would that scare you into talking?"

  "Not likely. Besides, I've already told you all there is to tell."

  "Oooh sure! And this sudden interest in reincarnation is all in the line of duty. Right?"

  "To some extent . . . yes. Along with plain old curiosity. Why do you find that so unnatural?"

  "Because I know you, that's why."

  "Sorry. I'm afraid because isn't an answer."

  "Darling, please! After weeks and weeks of digging, you still insist you haven't learned anything. Nothing at all?"

  "So I drew a blank. Jesus, nobody ever said I was Sherlock Holmes."

  "Bull!" She cocked her head in that funny little smile. "Granted, I have a few blind spots where you're concerned . . . but gullible I'm not."

  Her bantering tone wasn't altogether convincing. Under normal circumstances, their laughter came easy and their silences were never awkward. Yet tonight everything was out of sync.

  Tanner had been brooding for the past week. He wasn't sullen or grouchy, he just seemed sunk in disgruntled introspection. And secretive. Stacey was certain he'd learned something about Brokaw. But whatever it was, he refused to disclose it. Which left Stacey all the more intrigued. She had to know; he wouldn't tell her, and she'd never been more infuriated in her life.

  To compound matters, he couldn't even explain the reason for his silence. Having given his promise to Professor Ludmann, there was no way to tell her part of the story without telling her all. So he told her nothing.

  Instead he exhibited a sudden and wholly unexpected interest in reincarnation. His rationale was simple if somewhat suspect. When she asked, he told her that his investigation of Brokaw had led nowhere, so he'd decided to work backward. By understanding the man's beliefs, he hoped to gain some clue to the man himself. But his quest for knowledge was overdone, too intense. Often he read till dawn, and in less than a week, he'd polished off every popular book on the subject in the university library. All the rush and urgency smacked of something far more serious than mere curiosity. It was more like an obsession.

  Tanner felt a bit guilty about the whole business. She had a right to know, and several times he was tempted to break his promise to Ludmann. By the end of the week, however, he found himself distracted by a new problem. The deeper he probed into reincarnation, the greater the riddle became. Buddhists believed one thing; Hindus believed another. And both had a bewildering array of sects with beliefs all their own. It was like a Chinese box that opens and reveals ever smaller boxes inside. There was no single answer. A man could believe almost anything and still find some authority for his belief.

  So his brooding manner wasn't so much the result of secrecy as confusion. He hadn't lied to Stacey; he had genuinely hoped to unearth further clues to Brokaw's character. All he'd discovered was an enigma within an enigma.

  Even worse, his efforts had left him not just baffled but deeply disturbed. While he knew it was foolish, he couldn't shake a very real sense of being guided. Led onward step by step, almost as though he were merely an instrument in some greater design. Yet he also felt like a grave robber, a bumbling ghoul who had intruded on something—or someone—by uncovering ashes of the past.

  Nor was his mood tempered by Stacey's dogged insistence. She sat perfectly still, watching him with a look of open skepticism. It was a look that demanded candor, and inwardly he knew she was entitled to hear it all. Every last scrap, whether fact or fancy. But there was nothing he could tell her. Nothing. Not until he'd made sense of it himself.

  "Do me a favor, will you? Let it drop for now. I've told you all I can."

  "All you can," she countered, "or all you will?"

  There was a mute eloquence in his shrug, at once furtive and apologetic. "Take your pick. I suppose it amounts to the same thing."

  "Hardly." She smiled, but it was a faint outline, lacking humor. "Now really, darling, am I asking for so much? If you won't explain, then at least give me a reason . . . an excuse . . . anything!"

  "I can't! Don't you understand that?" He leaned toward her, all earnestness and gravity. "I just can't."

  She recoiled as if he'd slapped her. He saw anger and resentment, even a trace of fear in her eyes. "No, I don't understand. You see, there shouldn't be anything hidden between us, Warren. Not now! It's too late for that. I'm sorry, but it comes down to a matter of trust . . . either you're honest with me or you're not."

  "Your words, not mine." He inspected his cigarette as if he'd never seen one before. Then a muscle in his jaw twitched, and something odd happened to his voice. "I guess we're at an impasse."

  "Yes, I suppose we are."

  The distance between them seemed to widen abruptly. He realized that what he'd done was inexcusable. He'd fobbed her off by resorting to word games, semantics, a device that belittled all he felt for her, denied everything he'd led her to believe. Inexcusable, perhaps unforgivable, yet still necessary.

  Until he knew why he'd been selected. And by whom.

  There was nothing left to say, no way to ease the hurt he saw in her eyes. He stubbed out his cigarette and rose from the sofa. "Maybe it's best if I run along. I'm pretty poor company tonight. M
ight even make things worse if I stayed over."

  "Perhaps you're right. We could both use some time to think."

  "Yeah . . . sure. Good idea. I'll let you know if I get a brainstorm."

  Tanner bent down and kissed her. A fleeting kiss, almost a formality. Then he turned and walked from the apartment. Her eyes clung to him as he went through the door, imploring him to come back, to stay and talk it out. Even as the door closed, something weak and treacherous told her to run after him, to cajole and submit, not to risk losing him. But she didn't move. Nor did she call his name.

  That way, it would never have a chance. Not if she had to beg. So she took hold of herself and did the only thing she could do, the one thing that might bring him back.

  She let him go.

  . . . he ripped the printout from the machine. His lips moved, like a child repeating the alphabet, and several minutes passed as he stared intently at the characters on the slip of paper. At last, he pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket. The printout burst into flames and he dropped it to the floor. A moment later it was reduced to a charred crisp, and he ground the ashes underfoot.

  Then he swung the steel door open and entered the vault. He walked directly to a wall safe on the left. His movements were skillful and precise, and in a matter of seconds, he finished wiring an explosive charge to a mousetrap device. In turn, he wired the device to a flange on the inside of the door. Quickly, without lost motion, he moved to the safe on the right and repeated the process. Nodding to himself, he took two envelopes from his coat pocket, scrutinized them carefully, then placed an envelope on the upper shelf of both safes. Again moving left to right, he spun the combination knobs and closed the safe doors.

  Standing back, he studied the safes for a few moments. A crooked smile spread over his face and he grunted with satisfaction. Then he turned and walked from the vault into the outer chamber. . .

  The stirrings penetrated his sleep. Tanner moaned, thrashing wildly at the bedcovers, and slowly groped his way to wakefulness. The room tilted crazily before his eyes, whirling and spinning. He retched and bolted upright, head churning. He flung the covers back and sat up on the edge of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the floor. Then he hung on, clutching the mattress with both hands, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

  Gradually his head cleared. The vertigo faded. He looked about the darkened room, confused and still slightly disoriented, but aware of his surroundings and comforted to find himself in his own bed. He was not quite sure what had happened.

  Then he remembered. All in a flash, vividly detailed.

  It was the crypt. A man moving around in the crypt. Working on the cryptography machine and the safes. The wall safes!

  Inside the vault. He'd been inside the vault.

  Wiring explosives: The booby traps.

  Leaving envelopes: The secret questions. A list of answers.

  Closing the safe doors: The combination locks. Set and rigged to explode.

  A man. Working alone. An old man. Tall. Shock of gray hair. Ruddy and smiling, but not well. In pain. Limping.

  Limping back and forth between the wall safes. Inside the vault. The vault door wide open and he was . . .

  Lucas Brokaw.

  Tanner blinked and, staring into the darkness, watched it again in his mind's eye, concentrating on the face, that hard, cynical face he'd seen so often in the portrait hanging on a wall at the mansion.

  There was no doubt. None at all. It was Brokaw. The night he had sealed the vault. The last night. The night he'd died.

  An icy sensation came over Tanner. Suddenly he remembered something else—a snatch of conversation, all out of context and fuzzy. Something Professor Ludmann had told him. It had been meaningless at the time, a bit of trivia. But now—tonight? His brow seamed in a frown, and he tried to recall the words. To remember exactly.

  Something about dream. Lucas Brokaw's dreams.

  XIV

  "In a word, there's no margin for error."

  Ruxton studied their faces a moment, then turned back to the display. On portable easels were arranged a photo composite of the cliffs, beside that a diagram of the estate grounds, and last, a floor plan of the crypt itself. Using a pencil for a pointer, he moved from easel to easel as he talked.

  "Jill will anchor a half-mile out and wait. We'll go ashore in a rubber boat at precisely 10:05. That gives Monk an hour to get us up the cliffs and inside the house. Our only leeway is the fifteen minutes it takes the guard to patrol the house grounds. We have to be inside within that exact time frame."

  "What's the rush?" Fallon inquired. "Hell, we've got all night."

  "Wrong. We've got fifteen minutes. Otherwise we run the risk of being delayed by the change of guards at midnight."

  "So what? Give or take a few minutes, you're talking about an hour."

  "Wrong again. Come on, Fallon wake up! You're supposed to be the pro in this group, so use your head. The old guard will be on the tail end of an eight-hour shift. Which means hell be tired and bored, and a lot easier to slip past than his replacement. That's when we go. Any objection?"

  Fallon shrugged indifferently. "Just checking you out. Never hurts to take a closer look."

  "All suggestions welcome." Ruxton's smile was strained. "If you think you can punch holes in it, be my guest."

  "Okay, one more thing. So we're inside the house . . . what about the servants?"

  "Creatures of habit. Every night the lights go out at precisely ten on the dot. Which is still another reason to start up the cliffs at 10:05. By the time we get to the top, that guard will be bored stiff."

  "Yeah, that's something else you sorta skipped over. Just how the hell do we get up those cliffs, anyway? Looks to me like—"

  "Jesus Christ!" Birkhead overrode him in a loud hectoring voice. "Quit asking so goddamned many questions and worry about your own job."

  "Chum, unless you get me up those cliffs, I can't even do my job. So the question's not out of line."

  "Go ahead, Monk," Ruxton winked and nodded. "Set his mind at rest."

  "The method we'll use," Birkhead growled, "is called a prusik sling. Tomorrow I start giving lessons on that," he jerked his chin at a high beam in the cathedral ceiling, "so don't sweat it. You'll get to the top."

  "Never thought otherwise. Like I said . . . just checking."

  "Well, I'll tell you something, Charlie Brown. That works both ways. So far, all we've had out of you is a bunch of hot air. I think it's about time we got the dope on how you mean to crack those safes."

  Fallon eyed him with a gargoyle grin. "It's called the Fallon method. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back. No demonstrations, though. Not till you get me up those cliffs in one piece."

  Ruxton tapped the diagram of the crypt with his pencil. "Since we're on the subject, let's double-check that. You said you could open all three safes within an hour. Now, is that a guesstimate or a hard fact? There's a difference, and it could affect the logistics of the entire operation."

  "I never guess, pal. You told me those safes were built in 1947 or before, right?"

  "That's right. But don't forget, we have to assume they were custom-built to Brokaw's specifications."

  "So it's six of one and half-dozen of another. With the technology they had in them days, all you'd need is a can opener and a corkscrew."

  "Even though they're wired with explosives?" Ruxton persisted. "That won't slow you down?"

  Fallon's expression was wry and enigmatic, almost a grimace. "Take my word for it. I'll open 'em up like they had zippers."

  Throughout the conversation, Jill and Chester Wilson had observed silently from the couch. Wilson appeared catatonic. He clung to Jill's hand and stared straight ahead in a glassy-eyed trance. None of it seemed real. The words. The people. The house. Least of all his own involvement. It was as though he had dozed off during a horror movie on the late show and then suddenly awakened to find himself strapped to the vivisection table of a diabolic madman.

&
nbsp; Scarcely a week ago he had followed Jill to the coast. With a month's leave from the State Department—the first vacation he'd taken in years—he had visions of a romantic tryst in the sun. Perhaps even marriage. But quickly enough, he'd learned that Jill's body was an instrument of emotional blackmail. She used it to reward and punish, and however much he detested himself, he discovered he hadn't the strength to deny her. It was as if she had cast a spell over him and he was helpless to resist.

  Then he met her friends, and it quickly became real-life horror. Ruxton terrified him. Nothing overt. No open threat. Yet behind that glacial calm he sensed there was neither conscience nor mercy. Instead there was a cold ferocity as elemental as nature itself.

  Nor was there ever any question of defiance. Ruxton's offer was both straightforward and generous: Break the code and receive $5,000,000—all in cash and tax free, unrecorded and untraceable. Implied if unstated was still another consideration. By accepting, Wilson would be allowed to go on living. The alternative was obvious and required no explanation.

  But the clincher was Wilson's blinding infatuation. Though he'd been duped, he was convinced that Jill, like himself, was merely another pawn in this deadly game. She seemed no less terrified of these men—her fear was unmistakable, contagious—and his belief held firm that she genuinely cared for him. With the money and a fresh start they might yet find their life in the sun.

  Jill, of course, pandered both to his fantasy and his fear. She was playing the role assigned her with consummate skill and thoroughly enjoying the performance. Still, she hadn't deceived herself. She knew Wilson was a dead man if he refused to go along, and in the end, she'd gulled him with a budding sense of compassion. To the point that she had agreed to live with him—at Ruxton's insistence—until the job was finished.

  While she was gone, Birkhead had rented a secluded house on the outskirts of Sausalito. Only a short drive from the marina, it was an ideal location for their planning sessions. Off away from the neighbors, situated in a grove of trees, it eliminated the chance of their being spotted and later linked together.