by Braun, Matt;
"I'm afraid not." Ruxton met his gaze and held it. "Please understand, Mr. Tanner. I want to be cooperative, but it's necessary to establish certain limits. Above all, I refuse to divulge what I've been shown in the dreams. Not to you. Not to anyone. On the other hand, you have the means to substantiate everything I've told you."
"You're referring to the crypt."
"Precisely. Allow me to demonstrate that I am Lucas Brokaw reincarnated."
Tanner gave him a bored look and slowly blew a smoke ring. "Talk to Mr. Knox. He's the one you have to convince."
Knox rose to his feet, hurriedly ending the interview. "Thank you for dropping by, Mr. Ruxton. We'll give it every consideration, and rest assured—you will hear from us within the week."
"I appreciate your courtesy." Ruxton stood, nodding to Stacey and Tanner, then walked to the door. "By the way, there's no danger involved for whoever accompanies me into the crypt. Lucas Brokaw was quite explicit in his instructions."
The door closed behind him, and Hamilton Knox flushed red to his hairline. "Well! Of all the impertinence! I must say, the fellow certainly doesn't lack confidence."
"Far from it," Stacey murmured. "I got the impression he was already counting the money."
The director collapsed into his chair. "And of all the confounded luck, he had to be born on the night Brokaw died! That complicates matters greatly."
"Don't let it upset you too much," Tanner remarked. "I've got one of my hunches."
"Hunches are hardly admissible! Which reminds me. What was all that nonsense about Custer and the Smithsonian?"
"Just a shot in the dark." Tanner flicked a warning glance at Stacey, then smiled. "I thought I'd feed him a few sucker questions and see how he reacted."
"Like Mr. Ruxton, I'm afraid I fail to see the connection." Knox pursed his lips, silent a moment. Then his eyes turned grim, hidden in a nest of wrinkles, and he suddenly leaned forward in his chair. "I want the man thoroughly investigated. Use every means at your command, Warren. And do it with dispatch. Quickly!"
Tanner suppressed the urge to laugh. He hardly needed to be told. Long before the interrogation ended, he'd already made up his mind about Curt Ruxton. Their verbal sparring had merely confirmed it. They drew sparks, and their antagonism had little to do with the foundation. It was personal. One on one.
A thing born of dreams.
XXIII
Tanner's investigation lasted five futile days. By Friday morning all he had produced was a blizzard of paperwork. Wherever he turned, he'd been unable to discredit Curt Ruxton.
The misgiving he had about Ruxton was like a barb that worked deep and slowly festered. But the antidote—tangible proof of a hoax—wasn't to be found. Tanner obtained a full and comprehensive report from Dun & Bradstreet. The San Francisco police allowed him unlimited access to their files, and they quietly circulated inquiries among their street contacts. Through an old friend at the FBI, he collected voluminous data from the IRS, the CIA, and the bureau's mammoth computer repository. As a last resort, he even questioned Ruxton's neighbors and personally visited several of the franchised karate schools. The result was always the same, whatever the source. Nothing.
Or at least nothing incriminating. Early on, he had uncovered Ruxton's kinky relationship with Jill Dvorak and Monk Birkhead. But it was a discreet arrangement, and while revealing, not all that relevant in terms of the investigation. A man's sexual habits, however outlandish, hardly disqualified him as a claimant.
Finally, late Friday afternoon, Tanner called it quits. Having exhausted every available resource, he had no choice but to admit he was stymied. Almost as though it was a personal defeat, he met with Stacey and the director and reluctantly delivered his report. Curt Ruxton was nothing more nor less than he claimed to be—a legitimate businessman.
Stacey accepted the news with a look of resignation, but the director nearly bit the stem off his pipe. He regarded Tanner with a dour expression and made little more than a token effort to hide his displeasure.
"That's it? A bedroom peccadillo and nothing more? Come now, Warren. Surely no man is that spotless."
"I didn't say he's spotless. I said there's no indication of fraud."
"Are you sure, though? Absolutely certain?"
"No, I'm not sure! Quite the opposite, in fact."
Tanner was still plagued by a nagging suspicion, bothered by Ruxton's failure to acknowledge the connection between Lucas Brokaw and the Little Big Horn. Of course, his own dreams hadn't dealt with Custer either. But, then, he wasn't claiming the Brokaw fortune. His instincts told him he was right, and he saw nothing to lose by getting it on the record.
"As far as I'm concerned, Ruxton's as phony as a three-dollar bill. But I can't prove it. Except for his playmates, he's the original Mr. Clean."
There was conviction behind his words, but the director dismissed it with an abrupt gesture. "I've told you before, Warren. Hunches are not admissible. We need hard facts. Proof!"
"In that case, my report stands. Those are the facts. You could investigate till hell freezes over, and it won't change his record. On paper, he's a solid citizen. Obeys the law, pays his taxes, and never had so much as a traffic violation."
They lapsed into silence, and a long while passed before Knox threw up his hands in disgust. Then he hunched down in his chair, as though he'd reconciled himself to the inevitable, and a pallid cast settled over his features. He glanced across at Stacey.
"Very well, my dear. Call him. Arrange it for Monday."
Tanner stood woodenly apart.
Over the weekend his mood had steadily darkened, and this morning his face was congealed in loathing. On the ride out to the estate he hadn't once spoken to Ruxton, and his grim look became all the more pronounced upon entering the mansion. Outwardly, he had control of himself, but inside he was gripped by a sense of bitterness and rage. Descending the staircase, his mood had grown worse. It was as though he personally was being violated. Not the crypt or its secrets but him!—some part of his inner self.
The feeling was so strong that he had to turn away from Ruxton when they first entered the crypt. It was insane. Paranoid. An instant of blind, ungovernable fury, unlike any emotion he'd ever known. Only by imposing an iron will was he able to restrain it, and several moments passed before he got hold of himself. But when he finally turned back, it was still there. An urge to kill provoked by some monstrous need to survive.
The others were much too preoccupied to notice his behavior. Watching them now, Tanner was struck by a sense of impending doom. Stacey and the director were positioned on opposite sides of the cryptography machine, and Curt Ruxton stood directly in front of the table. Knox concluded his instructions, warning that only one attempt would be permitted, but Ruxton gave no indication that he'd heard. His eyes appeared glazed, fixed in an intensely vacuous look, and he stared spellbound at the machine, like a holy man locked in a trance.
Tanner thought it an act. A very good act, but nothing more. It seemed to him less of a trance than the look of a man in deep concentration, trying to remember something very involved and very complicated. Like a code.
After a while, Ruxton blinked, as if awakening from a heavy sleep. His hand went to the control panel and, without hesitating, he flipped the on switch. The machine purred to life with a rhythmic hum. Then he placed his fingers lightly on the keyboard and slowly, one letter at a time, began typing. Twice he paused to reflect, clearly in no rush, but his pace was steady, very deliberate. Though it seemed longer, less than two minutes elapsed before he removed his fingers from the keyboard.
A momentary hush fell over the crypt. Everyone stood frozen, eyes glued to the machine. Suddenly it erupted. There was a muted buzz, followed by three strokes on a bell, and the machine spat out a single line of plaintext:
THIS IS THE REAL LUCAS BROKAW
Stacey and the director were literally flabbergasted. Their mouths popped open and they gaped at the printout in stunned disbelief. The unthinkable
had finally happened. The very thing neither of them had ever believed possible. Yet it was there before them in black and white.
Tanner evinced no surprise whatever. He'd known all along from the minute they entered the crypt that today was the day the code would be broken. His only uncertainty was where it would end. How far could Ruxton go without getting himself killed? And perhaps, in the process, killing them all.
Ruxton apparently saw nothing to be gained by delay. Assured, quite confident now, he spoke to the director, indicating the vault. Knox's reply was unintelligible, but he managed to bob his head in assent. Ruxton walked to the vault and paused, fingers pressed to his forehead, trancelike. Then he nodded to himself, opened his eyes, and began dialing the combination.
Watching him, Tanner suddenly remembered the door handle. Without a word, he grabbed Stacey and pulled her back through the entranceway. It offered protection of sorts, and there was always a chance they could escape up the staircase. But this time Ruxton fooled him. Instead of turning the door handle, he moved aside, motioning the director to stay back, and waited. Everyone again stood motionless, as if mesmerized, trapped in an instant of deafening quiet.
There was a loud thunk and the vault door swung open.
Tanner couldn't believe it. He swayed backward, confused and disoriented, jolted by the shock of what he'd seen. Ruxton hadn't touched the door handle.
Stacey and the director seemed momentarily paralyzed. Utterly dumbstruck, they stared wide-eyed into a vault that was last seen thirty years ago.
By Lucas Brokaw.
After a casual inspection of the vault, Ruxton turned in the doorway and regarded them with a diffident smile. It was a look of profound empathy, almost as though he was commiserating with their dismay. Yet the look was contrived, all part of the act, and he could scarcely conceal his contempt. He decided to press the advantage while they were still in a state of shock.
"Shall we proceed?" Ruxton inquired calmly. "I believe the next step is to open the question safe."
The director darted a quick glance into the vault. His mouth twitched in a nervous smile, and his voice was strained. "Yes, of course . . . the safe. Quite right, Mr. Ruxton. Please lead on."
"No!" Stacey cried.
Surprised, the two men turned from the doorway. Stacey's hand went out to the director, her eyes pleading with him. "There's no need for you to go in there. Let him open the safe by himself! Then you can ask him the questions."
Knox smiled, touched by her concern, but shook his head. "I'm sorry, my dear, but the will is quite specific as to procedure. I can't shirk the responsibility now. Not after all these years." He nodded to Ruxton and took hold of the door. "If you will, please step inside and allow me to close the door."
"I'm afraid that's impossible," Ruxton informed him. "The door can't be opened from the inside."
"Oh! And why not, Mr. Ruxton? The will made no mention of the door."
"Look, just take my word for it, all right? It's a specially built door, and that's the only way it works. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about."
Tanner stiffened, glaring at him.
How the hell could he know that? Unless . . .
Knox shrugged, motioning for Stacey and Tanner to remain where they were, and then followed Ruxton through the door. From the entranceway, their view into the vault was restricted; the inner edge of both safes was visible, but little else. Knox halted in the center of the vault, directly in their line of sight, and Ruxton moved to the wall safe on the right. It was apparent the instant he touched the combination knob. The director began fidgeting, and great pearls of sweat trickled down over his forehead.
Unable to look away, Tanner and Stacey braced themselves, waiting for the explosion. Absolute silence descended on the crypt, and for what seemed an eternity, they stared at the director in morbid fascination.
Then Ruxton's hand appeared, holding an envelope.
The director sighed, almost resigned now. He accepted the envelope, tore it open, and slowly scanned the contents. At last, clearly puzzled by what he'd read, he looked up.
"Mr. Ruxton, I will now ask you the questions."
He took out a pen, ready to jot down the answers, and glanced at the sheet of paper. "The combination knob on the vault door was set at zero. What is the symbolism of that setting?"
"Life is an endless circle, and our karma guides us safely along the path of each new cycle in the journey."
"The combination on the vault door and on both safes was the same: 6-25-18-76. What is the meaning of this sequence?"
"It is the date of my birth. June 25, 1876."
"State the full name of my previous incarnation."
"John Roger Hughes."
"Now state the exact date of his death?"
"June 25, 1876."
"What is the significance between my date of birth and the date of John Hughes's death?"
"It was a sign that the circle would be joined on the day of my birth. An omen that I would be reincarnated on the day of my death."
The director stared at the paper for several seconds, seemingly transfixed. Finally he drew a long breath and nodded. "Very well, Mr. Ruxton, you may open the second safe."
It took Ruxton less than three minutes to disarm the booby trap and open the door. He reached into the safe, extracted the envelope, and silently handed it over. The director ripped it open and placed the two sheets of paper side by side. A slight tremor tugged at his fingers, rattling the paper, and his eyes flicked from page to page. Then his features drained of color and his lips moved in an incredulous whisper.
The answers were a perfect match, word for word.
Abruptly, he turned and walked away. His motions were jerky and disoriented, like a straw man tottering clumsily in the wind. He stepped through the door and halted, staring vacantly across the room. His face was ashen and his voice trembled as he held out the papers.
"It's him—he's come back! This man is Lucas Brokaw."
XXIV
The first check was for $51,228,649.
Yet the money was secondary in public interest. Of greater interest by far was the reincarnation of Lucas Brokaw; the story created a worldwide sensation. Newspapers and television reports quickly labeled it The Second Coming. The Vatican and various Christian organizations strenuously objected, but the allusion stuck. Prominent religious scholars, Occidental and Oriental alike, were unanimous in their verdict. In all of recorded history, never had there been a more clearly documented instance of a dead man being reborn.
By the terms of the will, Lucas Brokaw reincarnated was to regain control of his fortune over a period of six months. The transfer was to be accomplished as expeditiously as possible, but without placing undue hardship on the foundation. Since the bulk of the inheritance was invested in debentures and tax-free municipal bonds, the paperwork alone was expected to consume several months. The initial payment had been made in cash, as specified in the will, and represented 10 percent of the fortune. The balance would be transferred in successive increments on a month-to-month basis.
Current market value: $512,286,493.78.
Curt Ruxton was catapulted from obscurity to international fame within hours of the first news release. Virtually overnight he became the living symbol of man's search for immortality; his name swiftly attained the status of a household word around the globe. Newscasters, reporters, and photographers descended on San Francisco by the planeload. They besieged his apartment, clamoring for interviews, swarming over him like a pack of famished jackals whenever he emerged on the street.
Finally, on the following Monday, the deed was properly recorded and the Marin County estate was transferred to his name. With Jill and Birkhead, he fled across the Golden Gate Bridge, hounded all the way by a caravan of taxis and rent-a-cars filled with reporters. Once inside the front gate, however, he was safe. The guards were now working for him, and he issued orders that no one was to be admitted without an appointment. Privately he was somewhat amused
by the irony of the situation. This time he was on the right side of the electric fence.
And it was his fence!
The servants were another matter entirely. Ruxton wanted no spies under his own roof, and neither the housekeeper nor the caretaker could be trusted. Their loyalty would always remain a question mark; things they overheard might very well be reported to the foundation, which made their presence in the house a definite liability. So he wrote out checks for three months' severance pay and instructed both of them to be off the estate before dark. Until his plans were firm, Jill could look after the house and Birkhead could hire day laborers to maintain the grounds.
The rest of the afternoon they spent exploring the mansion, like tourists on a holiday. Their mood was festive; they wandered from room to room, laughing and excited, as though inspecting the ruins of some ancient castle. The one sobering moment in their tour was the crypt. Ruxton and Birkhead knew its secrets and were reminded that they'd come perilously close to failure. Jill was simply frightened. Even the outer chamber gave her the shudders, and despite a good deal of coaxing, she refused to set foot in the vault. Nor was she interested in hearing Birkhead's monologue on booby traps. She hung back near the entranceway, scarcely listening, and the men finally got the message. Ruxton suggested they leave.
Upstairs their festive mood returned. With the servants gone, they had the house to themselves, and everyone agreed that a celebration was in order. Ruxton and Jill retired to the drawing room while Birkhead went off to loot the wine cellar. He came back shortly with several bottles of vintage champagne, and the party began. After they'd toasted one another, Ruxton rolled a couple of joints, lighting one for Jill, and the big man fixed himself a quick snort of coke. Then, in dazzling good humor, they drank to their benefactor and resident spook, Lucas Brokaw.
Laughing, Jill swept airily around the room, a joint in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. Her hair was drawn back on the nape of her neck, accentuating the sleek contours of her face; her eyes were large and expressive, animated with a kind of childlike wonder as she gazed at the art collection on the walls. She felt giddy and foolish, intoxicated by the sheer opulence of the room, pausing from time to time to stare at a Renoir or a Degas, all the while marveling to herself that they had pulled it off. That it was over. That all of this was theirs at last.
