The Second Coming of Lucas Brokaw

by Braun, Matt;

Instead, relying on Jill and Birkhead, he had spent the last two weeks gathering information in a roundabout manner. Through the microfilm repository at the library, Jill had put together a file on everything ever written about the Brokaw legend. Over the years, the press had interviewed former guards and several claimants who had actually seen the crypt; these eyewitness accounts provided an invaluable source of material about the layout of the subterranean chamber. By collating all the bits and pieces, she had arrived at a fairly accurate picture of what they could expect once inside the mansion. Working on another angle, Birkhead had toured the city's nightspots, particularly those with mob connections, and ultimately turned up a name.

  Johnny Fallon.

  A man of low profile, almost a will-o'-the-wisp, Fallon was a safecracker who had been arrested twenty-three times and never once convicted. This record was all the more extraordinary in that he disdained the use of nitro or a torch. The safes he opened were left exactly as he'd found them, but the secret of how he did it was one of the great mysteries of the underworld.

  The cabin cruiser was also Birkhead's assignment. He had leased it in the name of their corporation, rented dock space, and spent several hours every morning instructing Jill in its operation. While they were engaged in these activities, Ruxton had remained in the background, devoting himself to a crash course in cryptology. Not so much a study of the field itself, but rather a detailed examination of known cryptanalysts, those shadowy figures rarely mentioned except in obscure scientific journals who specialized in breaking codes. Only yesterday he'd turned up a name himself, the name of a man no less enigmatic than Johnny Fallon and equally vital to their plan.

  All of which brought him back to Birkhead's question. That first step. The cliffs.

  His mouth creased in a disingenuous smile. "You'll find a way, old buddy. And if it has to be piggyback . . . well, why not? You've got a strong back."

  Birkhead barked a sharp, short laugh. "You're awful damn sure of yourself, aren't you?"

  "So sure that tomorrow we start looking for Mr. Johnny Fallon. After all, if we mean to get this show on the road, then it's time we began assembling the cast. The sooner the better, as a matter of fact. One way or another, I have an idea some of them might require a bit of persuasion."

  Almost as an afterthought he turned to Jill. "That reminds me . . . you get the role of Mata Hari. I'll admit it sounds like typecasting, but don't let that put you off. It's a very juicy part."

  Jill gave him a blank look. "Who's Mata Hari?"

  "The original foxy lady, that's who! You see, she used her wiles and guiles to seduce men and learn their secrets. Only in this case we don't want the secrets, we want the man."

  "You want me to"—her voice trailed off wistfully-"to sleep with someone?"

  Ruxton felt nothing. Day by day he'd grown more obsessed with the caper, and lately his sexual needs had fallen off sharply. As though he hadn't the energy to spare, he'd abstained from physical contact for nearly a week. Even now, knowing what he was about to ask of her, his thoughts were on the plan and not the girl. He regarded her curiously for a moment, almost a clinical appraisal. Then he smiled. It was an intimate smile, lacking any great warmth, but tempered by a faint emotional shadow.

  "Suppose we head back to the marina. On the way, I'll tell you a little story. It's about a man in Washington. A very special man. I think you'll like him. His name is Chester Wilson."

  Jill engaged the throttle and brought the cruiser about, slowly reversing course. As he talked, she listened closely, glancing at him from time to time. But she couldn't fathom his expression, nor did she try. Instead, she concentrated on the words, blocking everything else out. There was a sort of satanic genius to what he proposed, and she found nothing remarkable in the fact that she wasn't surprised. It had to be done, and as he wryly noted, she was the one best equipped to do it. Yet the idea was loathsome, and despite all his glib assurances, she wished the trip really weren't necessary.

  Washington in the winter was a bummer. Wet and miserably cold, and so fat away. The dark side of the moon.

  So lonely.

  X

  "I must say, Mr. Tanner, you have my curiosity aroused."

  "Oh, in what way, professor?"

  "Why, the mere fact that you're sitting here for one thing. Not to be blunt about it, but I'm afraid the purpose of your visit isn't quite clear."

  "Sorry. I thought I explained that on the phone."

  "Hardly. You said you were interested in discussing Lucas Brokaw. That's a reason, Mr. Tanner. Not an explanation."

  George Ludmann was too old for diplomacy, and he valued his time far too much to waste it on idle conversation. As professor of the occult sciences, he had become something of an institution at Stanford, holding tenure for nearly forty years. While his color was jaundiced and his hands were mottled with liver spots, there was an ageless quality about him. He was alert and inquisitive, never without a pungent riposte, and still possessed the mental agility that had confounded several generations of undergraduates.

  And he wasn't at all taken in by Tanner's story.

  Ludmann tilted back in his chair, folding his arms, and stared across the desk. An ancient pipe jutted out of his jaw like a walrus tusk, and he puffed on it in silence, fully prepared to outwait the younger man. He'd asked for an explanation, and before he proceeded further, he meant to have it.

  At last Tanner lit a cigarette, took a couple of quick drags, and gave him a lame smile. "To tell you the truth, professor, I don't even have a good reason. I'm here on a fishing expedition."

  "Perhaps you could be a bit more specific?"

  "No, not really. I'm not even sure what the questions are, much less the answers."

  "Then why are you here at all, Mr. Tanner?"

  "Well, as you know, I'm with the foundation—"

  "Yes, of course. I was aware of that before you called."

  "—and I've been investigating certain aspects of Lucas Brokaw's past."

  Ludmann blinked and slowly removed the pipe from his mouth. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Actually, it's not an official investigation. There are a few loose ends that bothered me, and it's really more a matter of satisfying my own curiosity."

  "I'm not sure I follow you, Mr. Tanner. What loose ends?"

  Tanner sensed he'd struck a nerve, but he decided the oblique approach was still best. "Little things, professor. As an example, why did Brokaw suddenly become a convert to reincarnation? By his own admission he'd been a practicing agnostic all his life."

  "I take it you find that strange?"

  "Not just strange. Highly paradoxical! Everything indicates he was converted shortly after learning he had cancer. That's further substantiated by the fact that he began construction on his underground crypt almost five weeks to the day after receiving the prognosis from his doctor. So there's definitely a link."

  "I see." Ludmann knocked the dottle from his pipe, thoughtful a moment. "Anything else?"

  "Well, it's obvious something extraordinary happened during those five weeks. Something that turned Brokaw's life completely around. I also have reason to believe it affected the way he died."

  "Is that conjecture or fact?"

  "A little of both, I suppose. But consider the circumstances. He died on the night of his birthday, within hours after signing his will, and exactly one day after construction was completed on his crypt. Taken together, that sort of strains the law of coincidence."

  Tanner paused, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray. "I think Brokaw killed himself. Probably with an overdose of drugs."

  "For a man seeking answers, you seem very well informed, Mr. Tanner. May I ask how you came by your information?"

  "The same way I came by your name, professor."

  "Oh? And how was that?"

  "Brokaw kept all his personal papers in a secret drawer of his desk." Tanner smiled, alert to the slightest reaction. "Let's just say I stumbled across it."

  Ludmann met
his look squarely. "Then you know."

  "Yes, professor, I know."

  Tanner was convincing. His offhand manner, backed by a confident smile, suggested he knew everything. Yet he was actually at a dead end, and despite his bold demeanor, he was bluffing.

  The trail that led him to George Ludmann had been long and frustrating. True, the records he'd unearthed had provided him with dates and names previously unknown to anyone except Lucas Brokaw. By piecing together unrelated bits of information, he was able to establish a sequence of events for the last weeks of Brokaw's life. But the records themselves led him nowhere. The physician who had attended Brokaw was in a mental institution. Edgar Pollard, the attorney of record and Brokaw's sole confidant, was deceased. Two of the three contractors who had worked on the crypt were also deceased, and the third man had simply vanished. Approval or permits had not been sought from the county planning board, and as far as Tanner could determine, blueprints of the crypt either never existed or else had been destroyed by Brokaw.

  Nearly two weeks of legwork had brought him roughly full circle. Except for a name. Professor George Ludmann. And a curious grant of $2,000,000 donated by a dummy corporation and untraceable to anyone without access to the private files of Lucas Brokaw.

  Now, seated across from Ludmann, he lit another cigarette and waited. Beyond the fact that the grant had been made, he knew absolutely nothing. Nor was he willing to speculate and expose his hand. The important thing was what the professor thought he knew. With a little luck and a bold front it might be enough.

  Ludmann took a long while loading his pipe. Although rattled, his hand was steady and he appeared to be playing for time. At length, after he'd fired up the pipe, his eyes narrowed in a reflective squint.

  "Frankly, Mr. Tanner, I find it hard to believe that Lucas Brokaw would have left those records so . . . unprotected."

  "As a matter of fact, they're quite heavily guarded. I just happen to have unrestricted access to his study."

  "I see. And other than yourself, who knows about your discovery?"

  "I assume you mean the grant . . . the two million?"

  The figure jarred Ludmann. Several moments passed before he could speak. "Yes, Mr. Tanner. The grant."

  Tanner saw the look and decided to try a shot in the dark. "Professor, you knew Brokaw as well as anyone—perhaps better—so let me ask you a question. Do you think he would have wanted this information made public?"

  "Good God, no!" Ludmann was obviously appalled by the thought. "One of the last things he said to me was that the whole affair must be kept confidential."

  "Then I'll make a deal with you. Fill in the holes for me—the details of what happened during those five weeks—and I won't tell anyone about the grant. You have my word on it."

  "Your word! Come now, Mr. Tanner. Do you really expect me to accept the word of someone who has just rifled the files of a dead man?"

  "That's hardly the point," Tanner corrected him. "We're not debating my use of expedient methods. The fact is you don't have any choice. Do you, professor?"

  Ludmann pursed his lips, seeming to deliberate, then slowly let out his breath. "Very well. But I warn you, it's far easier to pull the cork than it is to put the demon back in the bottle."

  "You're wasting your time, professor. I don't believe in witchcraft or demonology or anything else related to the occult. So save your warnings and just give me hard facts."

  "Hard facts are my stock in trade, Mr. Tanner. That may appear to be a contradiction in terms, but I assure you, it's not so difficult to convert the skeptic as you might believe."

  There was a moment of calculation, then Tanner frowned. "Lucas Brokaw?"

  Ludmann swiveled around in his chair. The wall behind his desk held row upon row of built-in bookcases extending from floor to ceiling. Several hundred tape casettes were stacked on the lower shelves, and Tanner could hear him muttering to himself as he rummaged through the collection. At last, with a satisfied grunt, he swung back around. In his hand was a sixty-minute cassette. He leaned forward, opening the cover of a tape recorder on his desk.

  "This will answer all your questions, Mr. Tanner. The original became somewhat fragile, so I've transcribed it, but I can vouch for its authenticity."

  Ludmann inserted the cassette into the recorder and pressed a switch. "Allow me to introduce you to Lucas Brokaw."

  XI

  . . . and then . . . oh God, I couldn't believe it. Not the general! Stuck that pistol upside his head and . . . and just blew his brains out. I wanted to puke. Only nothin' come out. It was like I had the dry heaves. Like my guts was up in my throat but something was lodged in my craw, and I couldn't get my mouth open. I just stood there and they rode him down. Hundreds of 'em . . . rode right over him. I couldn't move . . . felt cold and sick . . . froze up inside. So I stood there watchin'.

  You saw Custer fall and . . . go on. What happened next?

  Like I told you, I froze plumb to the marrow. I seen it and I knew it was real, but it weren't right. Gawddamn, he weren't no pisswillie. Not him. He was a soldier!

  So you felt as though he'd taken the coward's way out?

  Bet your rusty butt that's what he done. We'd been in a tight fix lots of times . . . hell, durin' the war we must'a been surrounded a hundred times . . . and we always fought clear. But up there on that hill, he lost his nerve. Don't you see, he showed the white feather!

  And in your view that was inexcusable.

  Worse'n that. It was a gawddamn blasphemy! Went against everything he stood for. Everything he'd taught me since I joined up 'fore Bull Run. Weren't no way for a soldier to die. Specially a general. Just showed he was yellow the whole time. Nothin' but a blowhard!

  Yes, I understand. So go on . . . after he killed himself?

  Why, I looked up and saw this big red booger ridin' straight at me. Had one of them war clubs, the kind with a spike stickin' out of the top. Anytime else, I guess it would've curdled my milk. But I just squared up . . . sort of come to attention . . . and gave him the old evil eye.

  You didn't try to run? Or fight back?

  Wasn't no need. Don't you see, it was like I'd already cashed in my chips. After I saw what the general done I just didn't give a shit. I was good as dead anyway, so what the hell? Figgered the least I could do was show that red heathen that somebody in the outfit had a little guts.

  And he . . . that is to say, the warrior . . . what did he do?

  Near as I recollect, he snuffed me out with that club. Not that I exactly remember it, you understand. But the last thing I saw was that big spike comin' down, and then . . .

  Yes, don't stop. You saw the club, and then what happened?

  Well, I don't rightly know. It's like I was lost for awhile, and then all of a sudden I was just . . . sort of wanderin' around.

  Where were you?

  That's hard to say. I know it was light, though. Light and clear, real bright.

  Was it a place?

  Not just a place. It was . . . it was more like space.

  Did you know you were dead?

  Oh, sure. No doubt about that.

  Did it bother you . . . knowing that you were dead?

  I was sad. Not unhappy, but kind of discontent.

  Were you aware of the passage of time?

  Not especially. I was aware of I guess it was sort of like waiting.

  This place where you were . . . was there someone in authority? Anyone who took charge?

  Yeah, but not the way you mean. I felt bound by . . . someone.

  Did he take form . . . the form of a person?

  No. It was a power.

  Who had the power?

  It came from somewhere . . . higher.

  Did you ever see the power?

  Not just exactly. I saw . . . all I saw was the light.

  Above you?

  Beyond. Way far off.

  Did you speak to the light?

  Yeah, lots of times.

  And did it answer you?


  Sure.

  What did it say?

  It said to be patient.

  Did it tell you how long you had to stay there?

  No, not outright. It always said I could . . . could go on farther.

  The voice from the light said that?

  Yeah.

  What did it tell you . . . precisely?

  It told me I could choose . . . if I stopped feeling sorry for myself. That I could go ahead.

  Did the voice tell you where that was?

  Not in words. I just knew it was final . . . real peaceful.

  What happened, then?

  I searched for a long time. Searched for someone . . . him.

  Did you ask the light to help you find him?

  No, I just waited.

  And finally you came back?

  That's right.

  Now, when you came back . . . do you remember how you were born?

  I felt it way time. I was . . . shown.

  What steps did you go through?

  None. No steps.

  How did you enter the world . . . your new self?

  I didn't. I was just there.

  And what did you remember?

  Nothing.

  At that moment . . . the instant you were reborn . . . were you still troubled about your previous life?

  No, it was all dark. There was lots of noise. Like a twister . . . black and that loud rushing noise.

  Did you see anything?

  I told you, it was dark.

  But did you see anything . . . anything at all?

  No. It was done. All over.

  And did you hear the voice again?

  I couldn't. I left it behind . . . in the light.

  So you remember nothing else?

  Nothing. Not after the darkness.

  I see. Very well, Sergeant Hughes, I believe we'll stop there. When I count three, you will awaken. One . . . two. . . . three. . . .

  Christ, I must've dozed off. What happened? Did you put me under?

  In a sense, Mr. Brokaw. To be more precise, I took you back in time.

  To the dream?

  Yes, to the dream. And beyond that . . . farther back. Would you like to hear it?

  Course I would. What the hell you think I'm here for . . . thirty winks?