The Second Coming of Lucas Brokaw

by Braun, Matt;

  "Warren! Come on, it's open."

  A moment passed with no response, and she became aware of his watchful manner. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "What's wrong?"

  He squinted harder into the darkness. Birkhead slowly squeezed, ready to touch off the trigger. Stacey edged closer and darted a quick glance around the pavilion.

  "Warren . . . say something . . . what is it?"

  A long beat of silence, then at last he shook his head. "Nothing . . . just my imagination. Let's go."

  Stacey began a question, abruptly changed her mind, and stepped through the door. With a last look about the shadows, Tanner turned and followed her into the house.

  Birkhead waited until the door closed, then he eased around the column, crouched low, and checked the driveway. There was no sign of the house guard, and he quickly motioned the other men forward. All but invisible, like chunks of black smoke, they melted into the darkness, moving toward the cliffs.

  It was 3:07. They would have to race to beat the tide.

  Inside the mansion, Tanner crossed the foyer, motioning Stacey back, and paused before the subterranean stairway. Kneeling, he inspected the electronic alarm and briefly searched the stone landing for fresh scuff marks. There was no indication of tampering; he frowned, studying the entrance a moment longer. Then he rose and walked to an armored knight standing in the far corner. He opened the visor on the helmet, ran his hand inside, and flicked a switch that deactivated the alarm.

  Turning, he nodded to Stacey and moved back to the stairway. She joined him and they stood for several seconds, peering down the winding corridor. At length he shrugged, indicating silence, and crossed the upper landing. They began a slow descent into the netherworld stillness below.

  Several minutes elapsed as they cautiously inched down the stairs, but what they found was perhaps the last thing Tanner had expected. Standing just inside the entranceway, they surveyed the outer chamber with a kind of bemused apprehension. It was empty and still, apparently undisturbed. Yet there was a sense of suppressed violence in the crypt. A quiet foreboding, unnatural and somehow ominous.

  The feeling was so intense that neither of them spoke for a long while. Tanner walked forward and slowly circled the cryptography machine. Again he found no indication of tampering, and his frown broadened. Then he inspected the vault door for any telltale sign, quickly checked the setting on the combination knob, and knelt down for a closer look at the fittings around the door handle. Finally, he rose and moved back to the entranceway. He glanced at Stacey, clearly baffled, and shook his head.

  "Nothing. It's like . . . it's never been touched."

  "Maybe it hasn't. After all, if there aren't any . . .”

  "No! Someone's been here. I can tell."

  His certainty jarred Stacey, and the harsh look on his face momentarily unnerved her. The menace of the crypt, unlike anything she'd ever felt here before, only made it worse. Confused and frightened, she tried to collect herself, to restore some sense of balance and perspective. The dream tonight had triggered something—goaded him into coming here—and perhaps the answer was to be found in that. Yet it wasn't the place to start. Better to lead up to it slowly, one step at a time.

  "The déjà vu?" She kept her voice casual, low-key. "Did it show you anything in particular about the crypt . . . maybe stress one part more than another?"

  "No, as a matter of fact," He pulled at his ear reflectively. "Now that you mention it, I never saw anything in the crypt. That's damned strange when you stop and think about it."

  "Nothing at all?"

  "Not a thing. It was always in the study or the gardens. Especially at sunset. And once I got a strong impression down at the graveyard."

  "Where Brokaw and his wife are buried?" he nodded, and she quickly glanced aside. "What were you doing down there?"

  "Just poking around. Looking things over."

  "The impression . . . what was it you saw?"

  "I suppose it sounds odd, but I saw water . . . an open grave filled with water. Then I saw a headstone . . . a blank headstone, nothing on it . . . and the water disappeared. All of it seemed sort of . . . I don't know . . . somehow out of place. Not the way it was supposed to look."

  She walked to the cryptography machine, thoughtful a moment. Circling the table, she stopped behind it and looked up. "So you never actually saw the crypt until after your session with Ludmann, when the dreams began?"

  "That's right." He appeared distracted, staring intently at the vault door. "But it wasn't the crypt. It was always the inside of the vault. Or at least it was until tonight."

  "Perhaps Ludmann hypnotized you too. Gave you a posthypnotic suggestion. It can be done." Tanner shook his head. "Ludmann's sharp, but he's no witch doctor. Besides, he's never seen the inside of the vault himself."

  "Are you sure of that . . . absolutely certain?"

  "Absolutely. Once he found out I had Brokaw's papers, he played it pretty straight. The tape itself is a good example. He could have kept quiet about it and I wouldn't have known the difference."

  "I've been wondering about that. If the tape was supposed to be such a big dark secret, why would he volunteer to play it? You said he'd all but sworn a blood oath to keep it confidential."

  "Except to a third party."

  "Third party? I don't understand. What third party?"

  "Brokaw gave him an out. If he was ever contacted by a third party, then he could break his silence."

  Tanner paused, thinking back, and finally dismissed it with an idle gesture. "According to Ludmann, I'm the third party."

  Stacey felt a surge of adrenalin, then a sudden loss of sensation, as though all her nerve ends had been cauterized.

  "That's not . . . possible." Her conviction fell away on the last word. "Don't you see, that would mean it was preordained . . . somehow destined."

  "Yeah, I know. Kismet with a little assist from Lucas Brokaw."

  "Warren, you're not serious—are you? You couldn't be!"

  "I don't know what to believe any more. All I've got to go on is what I see in those dreams." His gaze flicked past her to the vault, and his voice took on a note of defensive gruffness. "As much as I hate to admit it, they're pretty damned convincing. It's like someone—hell, I know it sounds crazy—but it's like he's trying to warn me of something."

  "Warn you?"

  "Yeah, about the crypt. How it works and the way it's . . . rigged."

  Stacey flinched from the thought, but it was inescapable. Tanner's talk was no longer about dreams; it was bordering on the supernatural. That slip of the tongue—he's trying to warn me—meant only one thing. He'd convinced himself that Lucas Brokaw had summoned him to the crypt tonight.

  Her reaction was spontaneous yet carefully staged. A challenge. She turned away and walked directly to the vault. Then she slowly reached for the steel door handle.

  "Don't touch it!" His words were chips of ice. "Back off—now!”

  She stepped back from the vault and faced him. "I had to know. You really do believe it, don't you?"

  "I suppose I wasn't sure . . . not until tonight. But there's no use kidding myself any longer."

  His eyes glittered, alert yet somehow remote. "I've believed it for a long time. Now I know why." His hand moved, indicating the vault. "Remember the disaster clause in Brokaw's will? The one I could never figure out?"

  Stacey merely nodded, unable to trust her voice.

  "Tonight he showed me. That door handle's it . . . the disaster."

  XXII

  Tanner sat off to one side. An observer thus far, he hadn't yet joined in the interrogation. Instead, he merely listened, watching the man closely, reminded somehow of a cat. The similarity was remarkable.

  Not once had Stacey or the director been able to rattle him. Throughout the grilling he had maintained a ready smile, his eyes cold and opaque, almost indulgent. The look of a man who tolerated people, perhaps found them a bit gauche. Yet infinitely patient, willing to endure almost anythin
g if in the end it served his purpose. The look of a cat.

  "Now, Mr. Ruxton, if you don't mind," the director paused, emphasizing the words with a sharp glance, then resumed, "suppose we move on to a few specifics. As an example, would you happen to know the name of Lucas Brokaw's father?"

  "Hiram."

  "And his mother?"

  "Elizabeth."

  "Back to Brokaw himself," Stacey prodded. "Where was he born?"

  "Denver. A hospital in Denver."

  "And his wife's name?"

  "Stephanie."

  "Her maiden name?"

  "Gilchrist."

  "What was the nature of her death?"

  "Tuberculosis."

  "Who was the architect Brokaw commissioned to build his mansion?"

  "Foucart. Louis Foucart."

  "You're no doubt familiar with the Brokaw art collection. Can you tell us the first major painting he bought?"

  "I have no idea. There were so many."

  "Perhaps you could tell us the name of Lucas Brokaw's most trusted adviser?"

  "Edgar Pollard."

  "And his title."

  "He had no title. He was a lawyer. An attorney."

  "Lucas Brokaw's wife had a pet name for him. A name only she used . . . when they were alone. What was that name?"

  "I believe you're mistaken. Stephanie Brokaw was a lady. She never stooped to pet names."

  That was true. It had been a trick question. On the other hand, the answer might easily have been a good guess. Other claimants had researched the Brokaw legend, many of them more thoroughly than the man being questioned today. But neither Stacey nor the director could recall one out of all the thousands who was so unflappable, so utterly in command of himself.

  Curt Ruxton had appeared at the office shortly after lunch. In answering Stacey's preliminary questions, he was polite if somewhat reserved, but firmly insistent on the key point. He was Lucas Brokaw reincarnated and he could prove it. The statement had a ring of conviction. The man himself could not be discounted. He was educated, clearly in possession of his faculties, and seemed determined to press his claim. Stacey held a brief conference with the director, after which Tanner was summoned, and they all came to the same conclusion. The man sounded legitimate, and at the very least he deserved a hearing.

  The story he told was unusual, but hardly farfetched. During a session with his psychiatrist, while under hypnosis, he had stumbled upon a previous incarnation. Only later, after a series of dreams, had he been able to deal with the situation rationally and accept it as a literal truth. He was Lucas Brokaw reincarnated.

  Stacey and Tanner were astonished beyond words. Dreams were indeed revealing, as they both knew. Then, too, Tanner experienced a curious aversion to Ruxton the moment he entered the room. It was an odd sensation, deep and visceral; he had felt it the instant they shook hands. Afterward, Ruxton had avoided his gaze, addressing himself to either Stacey or the director. But Tanner couldn't shake the feeling; the longer he listened, the more uneasy, he became. His reaction to what he heard was one of raw animosity.

  The director was altogether unfazed by the story. He'd heard every fairy tale ever concocted during his thirty years with the foundation; his initial interest was with the man rather than the fantasy, and he proceeded to explore Ruxton's background, a line of questioning that led him into a blind alley. If Ruxton was to be believed, he was moderately wealthy, the major stockholder in a flourishing corporation, and a businessman of impeccable credentials. Hamilton Knox reversed course, directing his questions to the Brokaw legend, and by that time Stacey had regained her composure.

  Now the interrogation accelerated. Their questions were pitted in counterpoint to his answers, and they gave him no time to think or choose his words. It was hard and fast, bluntly done. The facade of etiquette splintered; all pretense was forgotten.

  "I find it unusual," Stacey began, "that you have such a wealth of information about Lucas Brokaw. Perhaps you could explain that, Mr. Ruxton."

  "Part of it was revealed to me in the dream." Ruxton's smile was one of disarming candor. "And as you may have surmised, I've been doing a lot of reading in the past few weeks."

  "I daresay!" the director fixed him with a baleful look. "Now, as to these dream you've been experiencing, Mr. Ruxton. If I understand correctly, they began after your second session with a psychiatrist?"

  "The same night as a matter of fact."

  "And your reason for seeking psychiatric help?"

  "A month or so ago, I began suffering periods of severe depression. It had me confused and disturbed because there was no reason to be depressed. Nothing adverse had occurred in either my business or personal life. I felt I needed professional advice."

  "So you went to a psychiatrist and he hypnotized you. Isn't that unusual—that he would resort to hypnosis so quickly?"

  "Not at all. I understand it's common psychiatric procedure these days. Apparently it allows the psychiatrist to probe the subconscious, to go directly to the root of the problem."

  "Perhaps you could clarify that point," Stacey interjected. "Exactly what was your problem?"

  "I'm afraid we never found out. The doctor attempted to regress me back to my childhood, but he inadvertently went too far. That's how it all started. He somehow regressed me to a former incarnation."

  "And you claim this former incarnation was Lucas Brokaw?"

  "That's correct."

  "Do you believe in reincarnation, Mr. Ruxton?"

  "To be frank about it, no. At least I didn't. Not until that day. After listening to the playback of the tape, I began to have second thoughts."

  "Precisely what did the tape reveal?"

  Tanner suddenly became very alert, his senses attuned to the slightest nuance. Ruxton appeared uncomfortable for the first time, as if the memory were distressing. "It was the voice of a man in great pain, dying of cancer. But a man who had conquered the pain—and his fear of death—through a profound belief that he would be reborn. Reincarnated. On the tape he identifies himself as Lucas Brokaw."

  "Would it be possible for us to hear the tape?"

  "No, I'm sorry. The tape also reveals certain details about Lucas Brokaw's crypt. In fact, part of it deals with the cryptography machine and the coded message. So I think you'll agree, it wouldn't be in my best interests to allow anyone to hear that tape."

  "Then perhaps you would allow us to speak with your psychiatrist," Knox's voice was unnaturally harsh and aggressive, "merely to substantiate the validity of your statement."

  "I hate to seem obstinate or uncooperative. And believe me, I have no reason to suspect your motives. However, every man has his price, even a reputable psychiatrist. It's unlikely, but still possible that he could be induced to break the rules of doctor-patient confidentiality. As you can see, that would seriously jeopardize my position."

  "How can you be sure he won't come forward on his own? Contact us directly?"

  "Several reasons. I demanded the tape after our second session, and I never returned. So he knows nothing of the dreams and probably wrote me off as a hyper-neurotic of some sort. More to the point, he doesn't know I'm here. Nor does he have any reason to believe Lucas Brokaw would contact me again."

  "By further contact, I presume you mean the dreams?"

  "Yes. To be specific, twenty-three dreams spaced over the period of a month."

  "Very impressive. Suppose you tell us a little about the dreams."

  "You place me in an awkward position, Mr. Knox. What I saw in those dreams convinced me that I am Lucas Brokaw reincarnated. But the information is so detailed—of such a technical nature—that even the smallest disclosure would jeopardize my claim. I believe the secrets of Lucas Brokaw were meant for my ears and my ears alone."

  Stacey frowned skeptically. "Pardon my bluntness, Mr. Ruxton, but if everything you say is true, then why have you waited so long to come forward?"

  "Quite simply because the final secret was revealed to me only last night." Ru
xton paused, his expression very intent and very earnest. "I am now prepared to enter Lucas Brokaw's crypt."

  The impact of his statement visibly startled Stacey and the director. Neither of them responded, and a hush fell over the room. Tanner lit a cigarette, thoughtful a moment. He was convinced the man was an impostor; he had a gut feeling the story was riddled with fabrication. On top of his certainty that the crypt had been violated, Ruxton's timely appearance also seemed rather too coincidental. Yet there was something inscrutable about Ruxton, a sort of personal insensitivity that concealed whatever truth lay behind the urbane mask. Abruptly, with a sense of nothing to lose, Tanner decided to join the interrogation.

  "Not to change the subject, Mr. Ruxton, but I wonder if you could satisfy my curiosity on a couple of matters?"

  Ruxton turned, facing him, and something unspoken passed between them. A kind of mutual recognition, the wary respect of duelists about to engage each other with a yard of cold steel. Ruxton nodded, the catlike smile impassive. "Certainly, Mr. Tanner. What is it you wish to know?"

  "Does the Battle of the Little Big Horn mean anything to you?"

  "Are you talking about Custer's Last Stand?"

  "Yes.”

  "No, it doesn't. Why do you ask?"

  "How about the Smithsonian Institution?"

  "Nothing."

  "Perhaps you're familiar with a Sioux war chief named Red Morse?"

  "Sorry. My knowledge of the Sioux is limited to Sitting Bull."

  "None of it rings a bell? You're sure?"

  "Quite sure, Mr. Tanner. But I fail to see the connection. Do your questions have some relevance to the Brokaw estate?"

  Tanner smiled, equally impassive, his expression sphinxlike. "One last question. Would you allow yourself to be hypnotized again—by someone who knew Lucas Brokaw intimately?"