by Braun, Matt;
Like a seductive black widow, luring her mate ever deeper into the web, it was there she had brought Chester Wilson. Her body and her guile, along with his fear of Ruxton, kept him there. Curiously though, his calf-like adoration and his dread had been fueled by his own greed. If he was a victim, then it was apparent to everyone except himself that he was a willing victim. A collaborator, however unwittingly, in his own corruption.
Tonight, seated next to Wilson, Jill regarded Ruxton as if he were a magician engaged in some staggering sleight of hand. All of them, herself included, were like rabbits who materialized on cue and performed as ordered. Always there was some new and startling feat in his repertoire, but the magic he worked had little to do with illusion. His commanding presence, the very force of his will, was no trick. It was tangible, almost animate.
Just now his attention had strayed from Fallon to the cryptanalyst. He smiled, aware of how desperately Wilson clutched the girl's hand, and when he spoke, it was in a mild, jovially menacing voice.
"Well now, Chester! I suppose that brings us around to your shtick."
"Beg pardon?" Wilson mumbled.
"A show biz term. Shtick, as in specialty." Ruxton's pencil rapped the diagram like a drumhead. "In your case . . . how long will it take you to unscramble Brokaw's code?"
Wilson jerked erect, abjectly uncomfortable under the younger man's scrutiny. A long silence ensued while everyone stared at him, and he in turn stared at the small dot that represented the cryptography machine. At last he licked his lips, then sighed and shook his head.
"I haven't the slightest idea."
Ruxton's smile vanished. It was as if a shutter had fallen, and what remained was a mask. "Try again, Chester. You're here by virtue of your expertise . . . remember?"
"Yes, of course. I understand. But don't you see, it depends on an almost infinite number of variables. How many rotors did Brokaw engineer into the machine? And what system of wiring did he use? And the sequence? And the monoalphabetic substitution factor is critical to—"
"Please, Chester!" Ruxton halted him with an upraised palm. "Spare us the lecture. Just an educated guess. Your best estimate."
"Two hours?" It was less a statement than a request. "Perhaps less."
"Will you need any special equipment?"
"No, not really. Just a screwdriver."
"A screwdriver?"
"Yes. A small screwdriver." Wilson grinned weakly and darted a nervous glance around the room. "And a camera might be helpful. If it's not too much trouble."
"No trouble at all. Any special brand?"
"Well, a Minox would be nice. With a flash attachment."
"Fine. Thank you, Chester." Ruxton switched his gaze to Birkhead. "Okay, Monk? Add a Minox to your shopping list."
"One Minox," Birkhead nodded stolidly. "And a small screwdriver."
"What about the rest of the stuff?"
"Already got it. Clothes. Ropes. Tennis shoes. The whole ball of wax. Everything but the ski masks. I'm having a helluva time finding them in black."
"Then I suggest you get busy. We go for broke Thursday night."
Everyone in the room was stunned speechless. Several moments passed as they stared at him, unable to believe he was serious. Then Fallon finally got his tongue untracked and came up on the edge of his chair.
"Jesus, that's pretty quick, isn't it? I mean . . . in case you've forgotten . . . this is Tuesday. What's the big rush?"
"Time and tide, my friend. Mother Nature's stopwatch."
"Terrific. That's a real pearl of wisdom. But for us slower types, would you mind spelling it out?"
"Not at all. We land Thursday night. Low tide on Friday morning is at 4:27. Which means we have to be back in the water no later than 4:22."
He paused and the others waited, hushed and expectant. A static charge swept over the room, then he smiled and riveted them with a look.
"That gives us six hours and five minutes. To the second!"
XV
A patch of sunlight inched across the wall. The movement was almost indiscernible but constant, and at last it touched the edge of a gilded picture frame. Then it exploded in a burst of gold.
Stacey blinked, startled by the reflection, and looked away. Her expression was pensive and vague. It took a moment for the meaning to register. Her eyes went to the desk clock, then shifted back to the wall.
She'd been watching that spot of light for nearly an hour.
It was almost noon and she still hadn't opened the morning mail. A Danish and a cold cup of coffee sat untouched on her desk, exactly where her secretary had put them down earlier. Hours ago! Somewhere before ten. But afterward—nearly half the morning?—was a blank. She'd been sitting there in a funk all that time, like some dizzy sophomore with a schoolgirl crush.
Her hand moved toward the phone, but she quickly pulled it back. She pushed the coffee aside and threw the Danish in the wastebasket. Then she riffled through the mail, scarcely able to concentrate, and slammed it down on the desk. She felt harried and out of sorts, thoroughly exasperated with herself. Yet the thought was there, and she couldn't seem to suppress it. Finally, swallowing her pride, she lifted the receiver and dialed the receptionist.
"Hi, Laura. Has Mr. Tanner come in yet?"
"No, he hasn't, Miss Cameron. But he called in."
"Called . . . from where?"
"The estate. He said he could be reached there all day if anyone wanted him."
"Oh, of course! It completely slipped my mind. Thank you, Laura."
Stacey carefully returned the phone to the cradle and sat there glaring at it. Her eyes stung and a knot pulsed at her temple. Her hand tightened in a hard fist.
Damn! Always the estate. That damned estate!
She continued to glare at the phone. Wondering what to do. Where to turn. How to help. She was not even sure he would accept help. How could a man be helped when he refused to discuss the problem?
Nearly two weeks had passed since their quarrel, but even now she knew little more than the night he'd walked out. He still refused to confide in her, and though she'd managed to coax a few things out of him, what she had heard was more than enough to frighten her. Some of it in the middle of the night when he awoke bathed in sweat, hollow-eyed with what he'd seen. Or perhaps what he had lived through.
She shuddered, thinking of last night. Her stomach felt queasy, and she tried to put it out of her mind. But the image persisted, bright quick flashes of pain. The look on his face. That inhuman moan . . .
"Ooo Jesus! No more. Noooo!"
"Warren . . . honey, it's all right. You're dreaming. Understand, just another . . ."
"I saw him, Stace. I was there. I could've reached out and touched . . ."
"Darling, listen to me." She took him in her arms, and cradled his head against her breast. "It was a dream, that's all. A bad dream."
"No, he was in the crypt. Sealing the vault and—"
"Who?"
"—rigging that goddamned machine again."
"Who, Warren? Who was in the crypt?"
Silence. His breath warm on her breast. Very still now.
"Warren, answer me. Was it the same as before?"
"Yes. It's always the same."
"And the man . . . who was it you saw?"
A long beat, then muffled, almost a whisper. "Him."
"Say it, Warren. Go on . . . tell me his name."
Nothing. His lips moved, but there was no sound. A mute agonizing that recoiled from the words, paralyzed speech.
"It was Lucas Brokaw, wasn't it? Say it, Warren! Say his name . . . Lucas Brokaw."
"Yes."
"No, not yes. Say it!"
"Brokaw." Then softly, "Lucas Brokaw."
"And Lucas Brokaw is dead, isn't he? Darling, look at me . . . he's dead! And it's not him or a message from the grave or anything else. It's a dream."
His mouth opened and closed, then he glanced away. "I don't know."
"Oh, Warren . . . sweetheart,
what else could it be? Surely you don't believe . . ." She paused, thoughtful a moment, felt her heart quicken. "Darling, are you telling me everything . . . all of it?"
"There's nothing else. It never changes. The crypt and him limping around . . ."
"No, not that. Something else . . . something besides the dream. The way you act . . . you're too upset . . . there has to be something else. Something you haven't told me."
He lay rigid, immobile, cold stone against the warmth of her breast. "Nothing else. It's the dream, Stace. Don't you see? In the dream he's . . . not dead. He's there, in the crypt. We're there together. I'm . . . oh Christ, why can't you understand? I'm there with him."
Stacey pressed her fingers hard against her temples. The words still echoed through her mind, fully as frightening this morning as they were last night. Perhaps worse, for in retrospect, the hell of last night and all the nights before suddenly culminated in a single thought, the very thing she'd sensed after last night's dream.
It was just too real even for a nightmare.
Like most people, Stacey had read a good deal about psychic phenomena. She knew of reputable scientists, funded by prestigious universities, who were actively engaged in experiments dealing with parapsychology and telekinesis. On one occasion, at a faculty gathering, she had even allowed herself to be drawn into a discussion of the occult in which Professor George Ludmann had argued his case persuasively. An erudite man, unperturbed by skeptics, he had buttressed ancient myths with data from controlled experiments and in the end left his kibitzers not quite so cocksure.
All things considered, though, Stacey remained a doubter. Jaded by her daily involvement with weirdos and religious freaks, she simply couldn't muster any great belief in the paranormal. The whole idea seemed riddled with contradiction; despite her streak of romanticism, she found it difficult to accept superstition and old wives' tales as fact.
Yet she couldn't ignore the dreams. Warren's hellish nightmares. All the more frightening because he believed the old man to be Lucas Brokaw.
But if it wasn't paranormal—or some dark figment of his psyche—then what was it?
Suddenly she felt in need of advice. Another opinion, a sympathetic shoulder, if nothing else. Someone whose view was unclouded by emotion. Someone honest enough to tell her the truth rather than what she wanted to hear.
Swiftly, before she could change her mind, she stood and walked from the room. Crossing the hall, she took a deep breath, straightened her skirt, and rapped on the door of the director's office. A muffled voice called out, and she opened the door a crack, peeking inside.
"Sorry to barge in on you," she edged through the door, "but could I speak with you a moment?"
"Of course, my dear. Come in." Knox smiled and indicated a chair. "Silly of you to ask. Besides, you're interrupting nothing that won't wait."
"Well, it isn't exactly business." She saw his expression change as she took a seat and immediately regretted her choice of words. "That is to say, it is and it isn't. It does involve the foundation . . . in a manner of speaking."
"My, my! Sounds mysterious. Nothing wrong, I trust?"
"Oh, no. Not really. It's just that—" She faltered, suddenly at a loss for words, then decided simply to blurt it out. "To be perfectly frank, it's Warren. I'm worried about him. In fact, I have been for some time. Perhaps I should have come to you sooner, but I thought the . . ."
Her voice trailed off. There was no way she could mention the dreams. By any interpretation, the whole thing smacked of instability, or worse. Nor could she admit how she'd learned of the dreams. Sleeping with Warren was one thing. To openly confront the director with it was another matter entirely. Flushed, searching for a way out, she dismissed it with a lame gesture.
"I thought it would pass. Whatever it is that's . . . troubling him."
"I see." Knox steepled his fingers, studying her a moment, then smiled reassuringly. "Why don't you tell me about it?"
"I'm not really sure I can verbalize it. You know Warren. He rarely confides in anyone until after the fact. But it's . . . well, it's almost as if he has a fixation about the estate. Especially the security system."
"I thought we settled all that after our little mishap with that Santini fellow."
"So did I. But it only seems to have gotten worse. Lately, Warren is out there every day. Sometimes he doesn't come into the office at all."
"Yes, I knew he was spending a good deal of time at the estate, but . . . well, as you say, that's a bit much, isn't it? Exactly what is it that has him so concerned? Or hasn't he told you?"
Stacey hesitated, choosing her words with care. "I gather it's the crypt. He seems to think there's some danger of . . . I don't really know. Of it being broken into, I suppose. Violated in some way."
"Violated?" Knox arched one eyebrow and looked down his nose. "I daresay he does have a fixation. Sounds as if he thinks he's guarding the Pharaoh's tomb."
"I know," Stacey murmured uneasily. "That's why I'm so worried."
Hamilton Knox was a man who saw the world through a prism of his own attitudes. He'd been aware of Stacey's affair with Tanner almost from its inception. Though he disapproved, it had never occurred to him to interfere. As long as everyone did his job, he was willing to overlook these mundane liaisons. But now he was keenly disappointed. Stacey no longer seemed the cool, crisp executive assistant he valued so highly. And he secretly wondered if she hadn't fallen victim to a suppressed maternal instinct. Her concern was touching but absurd, almost childlike in its simplicity. Yet it wouldn't do to criticize, not when she was upset and clearly suffering a fixation of her own. Instead, for the time being, he made a mental note to keep a closer watch on the situation. Particularly on Warren Tanner.
"Actually, there's nothing to alarm ourselves about." His remark came after a long pause, eyes narrowed in a reflective squint behind his glasses. "What we have here is a classic case of job stress. Warren is extremely conscientious, as we both know, and I suspect he's taking this matter of security a bit too seriously. I'll have a little chat with him. All quite discreet, of course. No need for him to know we've talked. Would that set your mind at rest?"
"Yes, it would. Definitely." Stacey smiled, but she was a poor liar. "Thank you, Mr. Knox. Warren respects you, and I'm sure he'll listen to your advice."
"Think nothing of it, my dear."
With as much grace as she could manage, she beat a hasty retreat back to her own office, feeling like a traitor. It was debatable that she'd fooled the director, but she certainly hadn't fooled herself.
Warren wouldn't listen. Not to her. Not to Knox. Not to anyone. Nor would he stop haunting the estate night and day.
Not while he still dreamed.
XVI
Birkhead went up the cliff first.
His ascent looked almost effortless. He moved with the swift grace of a circus acrobat. His legs provided thrust and his powerful arms the necessary upward pull; he had the knack of balance, his body scarcely touching the rock, weight evenly distributed on his feet. His climb had been memorized to the smallest detail, and he scampered from ledge to crack to ledge, zigzagging upward in a fluid burst of motion.
It took him eleven minutes to scale the cliff.
The others watched from below, where the rubber boat had been secured on a small beach. A quarter moon dimly illuminated the cliffs, and they were able to track Birkhead's progress without difficulty. This in itself vindicated Ruxton's decision to stage the raid tonight. Last night the moon had been too bright. Tonight it was perfect. There was adequate light for scaling the cliff, but hardly enough to betray their movements on the open ground above.
Once on top, Birkhead quickly set about rigging the climb for those below. He unslung two ropes, crisscrossed over his chest like bandoliers, and laid them on the ground. Both were Perlon ropes, stout fiber core with a woven sheath, specially constructed to withstand the sawing effect of rocky cliffs. He tied one end of the shortest rope around a nearby tree, then h
urled the remainder off the cliff. This was the ascent rope, which would support the prusik sling of each climber. The longer rope was to be used as an upper belay, a lifeline of sorts. With one end fastened to carabiners on a rappel sling, which in turn was attached to the climber, Birkhead could provide independent support during the ascent. It was a makeshift arrangement, expedient if unorthodox, combining elements of various alpine techniques.
Birkhead felt embarrassed by the whole rigmarole, as though he'd violated every tenet in the mountaineer's handbook. But it was unavoidable, since the rest of the team were inexperienced climbers.
Tonight they couldn't afford an accident.
On the beach, Fallon prepared himself for the climb. Along with the others, he'd spent hours practicing on the prusik sling. A stepladder affair, the sling consisted of three loops of rope attached at intervals to the ascent rope. One loop went around the chest for balance, and the other two served as footsteps. The knot used on the loops had a unique feature: It remained in place when weighted, but easily slipped up or down when unweighted. To ascend, the climber stood in the lowest loop while raising the knot on the upper loop. Then he stepped into the top loop and slid the lower loop to his new position. By repeating the process, shifting the loops higher one step at a time, he was able to climb a vertical rope with little more effort than required to shinny up a tree.
Lithe and ferret-quick, Fallon took slightly less than fourteen minutes to scale the 200-foot cliff. Chester Wilson was nowhere near as quick or coordinated, and required considerable assistance from Birkhead to get up in twenty-one minutes. Ruxton was slowed by the drag of a nylon rope attached to his belt, but he managed the ascent in sixteen minutes. As he crawled over the edge of the cliff, Birkhead began tugging at the nylon rope and quickly hauled a knapsack containing their equipment to the top. After unstrapping himself from the slings and ropes, Ruxton checked the luminous dial on his watch: 11: 07.
Thirteen minutes to elude the guard and get inside the house.