by Braun, Matt;
Watching her glide about the room, Ruxton thought he'd never seen her so happy. Not even the night he'd come home with the check. In a curious sort of way, it was as though the nesting instinct had asserted itself. To her, the mansion, the estate, and the gallery of paintings represented permanence, a tangible reality. The money was still an illusion, a truth so abstract and of such magnitude that she hadn't yet accepted it as fact.
He glanced across at Birkhead. The big man was twisting and squirming in an ornate Victorian chair, trying to find a comfortable position. It appeared to be a losing battle, and Ruxton sensed that they were of one mind about the mansion. However grand, it simply wasn't their style. A whole new world awaited them once they had control of Brokaw's fortune—and perhaps tonight was the night to reveal the final step in his plan. After a while he caught Birkhead's eye and jerked his chin toward Jill.
Birkhead studied him a moment, then nodded. He wasn't certain what the look meant, but he'd suspected all along what Ruxton had in mind. If he was correct, that left only Jill to be convinced.
"Quite a layout, isn't it, Monk?" Ruxton lifted his champagne glass in a grand gesture, indicating the room. "All the comforts of home."
"Like hell!" Birkhead grunted sharply. "It's a goddamn mausoleum."
"Oh, it's not!" Jill laughed, arms thrown out, and pirouetted toward them in lazy circles. "It's wonderful! The most wonderful house I've ever seen."
"Yeah, it's really great." Birkhead grinned, baiting her. "Especially if you're a vampire. Tell you the truth, I about halfway expected to find Dracula stashed down in the wine cellar."
"Honestly, Monk! That's your whole problem. You have no appreciation for the finer things."
"No, he's got a point," Ruxton countered. "There's a funereal atmosphere about this place. Could get very depressing."
"Then we'll redecorate!" Jill responded brightly. "After all, it's ours now, isn't it?"
"Oh, it's ours, all right. But it won't be for long."
"It won't?" Jill cocked her head in an inquisitive frown. "I don't understand. Why won't it?"
"Because we're going to sell it."
"Do you mean—are you talking about the house?"
"The house. The paintings. The whole ball of wax."
"But why, Curt? We just got it."
"And in a few months we're going to unload it. Just as quickly as I get my hands on the rest of Brokaw's money."
"But what does the house have to do with the money?"
"Because I want to travel. See the world. London. Paris. Rome—"
"The Orient!" Birkhead interjected.
"And I don't want this albatross hanging around my neck. As a matter of fact, when we take off, I don't want any encumbrances left behind."
Jill gave him a quick, intent look. "You aren't talking about the house, are you? You're talking about something else."
"Someone else," Ruxton corrected her. "In a word, our silent partner."
To avoid complications, the rest of the gang had dropped out of sight the night of the raid. Chester Wilson was sequestered in the house north of Sausalito, and Johnny Fallon had a new hideout in the Mission district. They were to lie low and talk to no one while Ruxton attempted to pass himself off as Lucas Brokaw. If the plan succeeded, it was prearranged that Birkhead would deliver a first installment of $1,000,000 exactly two weeks after the foundation issued a check. Since the event had made world news, there was no need for further contact. Fallon and Wilson knew precisely which night to expect delivery.
Now Birkhead suddenly jackknifed out of his chair. He slammed a fist into his palm and uttered a jocular bark of laughter. "By God, I knew it! All along I kept telling myself you had a surprise in store for those bastards. Just flat-ass knew you wouldn't—"
"But why?" Jill cut him off, her eyes wide with horror, fixed on Ruxton. "It's not necessary, Curt. We've got it all, everything! So why—that?"
Ruxton shrugged. "Why waste $10,000,000?"
He paused, reflective a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was charged with malevolence. "Let's face it. Neither of them can be trusted. They'll keep quiet only until they've been paid off. And at that point, they'll get greedy. Especially Fallon. He'll start brooding on the half billion we got and his share will begin to look like peanuts. Then he threatens to blow the whistle, and we'll end up paying blackmail the rest of our lives."
Jill began a protest but he stopped her with an upraised palm. "Don't hassle me on this. It has to be done and that's it!" She blinked, staring at him through a prism of tears, and finally looked away. Then his gaze shifted to Birkhead.
"Let's make it permanent, Monk. Permanent silent partners."
XXV
"I admire your tenacity, Warren. But I question the—"
"Save the lecture! You're wasting your breath."
"Yes, I daresay I am. Be that as it may, however, I do question the soundness of your judgment. After all, it's been two weeks now, and you've uncovered nothing to alter the situation. Forgive my candor, but that has all the earmarks of a lost cause."
"And you've got all the earmarks of a man who's lost his stomach for a fight."
"You needn't be rude, Warren. I'm merely trying to point out the futility of carrying it further. Ruxton has established himself as the legitimate heir, and we're bound by the terms of the will. Those are the facts. There's nothing to be gained by turning it into some sort of personal vendetta."
"He'll slip. His kind always slips. Sooner or later he'll make a mistake. And when he does, I'll be standing right there waiting!"
The director glanced at Stacey, and she shook her head helplessly. Their concern was evident, yet neither of them seemed able to reach Tanner. Over the past week, his behavior had become aberrant. One moment he was withdrawn and unresponsive, aware of little that went on around him. The next he was surly and belligerent, given to violent outbursts of temper, almost as though he'd suddenly gone schizoid. It was unnerving to watch, and as he became more erratic, their apprehension had steadily mounted. He blamed himself for Ruxton's success, considered it a personal failure of the worst sort. Today, despite all their arguments, he still refused to admit defeat. And he also refused to close the file on Ruxton.
If not irrational, it was certainly unrealistic, and they were no longer merely worried. They were frightened.
Tanner stood at the window, gazing out across the campus. There was a faraway look in his eyes, as if he was staring toward something dimly visible in the distance. Quite the contrary, his thoughts were very much on the problem at hand. Hamilton Knox.
The director was demanding an end to his investigation. Yet he knew Ruxton was an impostor. Not just a hunch, but hard fact. Unwittingly, Ruxton had tripped himself that day in the crypt—by spieling off the name John Roger Hughes, when only a week before he'd disavowed any knowledge of Custer's Last Stand or the Little Big Horn. Lucas Brokaw had been intimately familiar with Sergeant John Hughes and the manner of his death. And Lucas Brokaw reincarnated would have made the connection instantly.
So it was quite obviously another of Lucas Brokaw's crafty little tricks. He'd purposely deleted the word sergeant from the question-and-answer lists, aware that its omission would ultimately force an imposter to betray himself. Which was precisely the case. Tanner now knew that it was Ruxton who had somehow gained entry to the vault—and escaped undetected. But he'd come away with only half the story. The half that branded him a fraud.
Perhaps it wouldn't hold up in court, but it was proof enough for Tanner. He felt outraged and vindictive—personally defiled by the hoax—and he knew he wouldn't quit until he'd exposed Ruxton. The more immediate problem, of course, was Hamilton Knox.
Oddly enough, Tanner had no explanation for his own secretiveness. It certainly wasn't the result of his promise to Professor Ludmann. Stacey already knew of the Brokaw tape, and with the foundation on the way down the tube, it served no purpose to withhold information from the director. But he still couldn't bring himself t
o divulge the entire story.
Stacey was confused and upset. Only last night, in a bitter argument, she had accused him of becoming paranoid. And while he agreed, he'd again extracted her promise not to talk until he had devised a way to trap Ruxton. So perhaps the director was right after all.
Perhaps it was a vendetta. Very personal and very private. A matter to be settled solely between himself and Curt Ruxton.
And Lucas Brokaw.
Several minutes passed in silence while Tanner stared out the window and the director stared at Tanner. Stacey, loyal to one and in love with the other, couldn't bring herself to look at either man. Presently, determined on a last-ditch effort, the director cleared his throat.
"Warren, let me be frank with you. By continuing to poke about in Ruxton's affairs, we've come dangerously close to charges of conflict of interest. You must realize that you've placed us all in a highly untenable position. Lucas Brokaw's will is unequivocal. Our responsibility is no longer to the foundation, but rather to his legitimate heir."
"Jesus Christ!" Tanner wheeled away from the window, fists clenched, and advanced on him. "Do you seriously believe Ruxton is—that he's Lucas Brokaw?"
"Please refrain from shouting, Warren. And bear in mind that my personal views on reincarnation are totally irrelevant. We deal in facts—nothing else! Curt Ruxton has established his claim and we will comply. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly clear. But if you think I'm going to back off now, you're mistaken. Ruxton will get everything coming to him all right, but it'll be more than he bargained for. A helluva lot more!"
"Then you leave me no choice, Warren." Knox's voice was grave, subdued. "I want your investigation terminated today. That is a direct order, and you may consider it effective immediately."
"Tell you what you can do with that order . . . turn it sideways and see if it'll fit."
Hamilton Knox was too astounded to reply. Tanner turned and stalked toward the door, nodding to Stacey as he crossed the room. There was no need to ask where he was going or what he intended to do. She already knew. Over the last two weeks his routine had become as regular as clockwork. Every night he vanished shortly before dark and returned sometime during the early morning hours. But today there was a difference. Some almost imperceptible change she couldn't define. Then she caught it out of the corner of her eye. A fleeting glimpse as he went through the door.
He was favoring his right leg, as though he had a sprained ankle or perhaps a stone bruise. Yet there was something odd. . . .
The door slammed and he was gone.
XXVI
Tanner lit a cigarette and slouched lower in his chair. There was a prolonged silence, and he shifted uncomfortably, aware of the older man's scrutiny. At last, with a bleak frown, he sighed and looked away.
"That's it, professor. Everything that's happened."
"I wish you had come to me sooner, Mr. Tanner. To be quite frank about it, I was afraid something like this would happen."
"Well, I thought I could handle it myself, but this afternoon everything went to pieces. When I told Knox to stuff it, I knew I needed some advice. And damned fast."
"Actually, Knox was little more than a catalyst. In light of what you've told me, I believe we can conclude that your anger was directed solely at Curt Ruxton."
"Even so, why should I feel that strongly about him? Hell, he's nothing to me. Not personally, anyway. But it's like an obsession. I can't let go! Something keeps pushing me to go after him, break him."
Across the desk, George Ludmann methodically filled his pipe. Then he struck a match, puffing smoke as he pondered the question. Tanner was desperate, on the verge of losing control. Yet it was all too obvious that the reason still eluded him. Or perhaps he was beyond reason, past the point of no return. Considering the story he'd told, it was a distinct possibility.
The solution had occurred to Ludmann almost immediately, but he knew it must be approached with caution. He stuck the pipe in his mouth and leaned back in his chair. He was determined to take it step by step, eliminating the alternatives as he went along. Suddenly he knew where to start.
"I presume you've heard of Carl Jung."
"The psychiatrist?"
"Yes, but a man with an open mind . . . despite his training. Along with Freud and a few others, he displayed a genuine interest in the occult."
"Interest or belief?"
"It's a moot point." Ludmann made a small gesture of dismissal. "The important thing is a theory Jung developed. He believed that the unconscious contains collective instincts common to mankind, but he postulated that these instincts are never exposed to the conscious mind. Thus the collective unconscious could appear in the form of dreams or hallucinations, and since there's no awareness of its origin, we immediately label it strange and uncanny . . . paranormal."
"Sorry," Tanner interjected. "I don't see the connection."
"It's really quite simple. Jung's theory provides an intellectual explanation for everything you've experienced. By projection, it could also account for your animosity toward Ruxton."
"Professor, there's no rational explanation for the things that have happened to me. And I think we both know it. So don't waltz me around with that intellectual number."
"Very well. Suppose we try another tack." Ludmann fussed with his pipe, thoughtful a moment, then glanced up. "Have you noticed any outward change in yourself . . . either physical or emotional?"
"No, why?"
"Because these outward manifestations are often the direct link to a previous life. If a man begins to exhibit unusual behavioral characteristics—a dramatic personality change—then we have grounds to suspect it's a former incarnation asserting itself."
"Hold it!" A querulous squint. "Are you telling me a former incarnation can actually take over the . . . new body . . . the living person?"
"Of course. I wouldn't say it's common, but it's by no means rare. There are numerous cases on record, and all of them are heavily documented. As a matter of fact, our studies indicate that the transition accelerates enormously once the living person starts to recall places and events from his previous existence."
"You're not talking about dreams, are you?"
"Dreams and recurrent nightmares, but more importantly, visions. These are all part and parcel of a former incarnation asserting itself. Curiously, a subject who has visions of a past life generally died a violent death in that previous existence."
"Like the dreams Brokaw had about Sergeant Hughes?"
"Yes . . . and the dream you've had about Lucas Brokaw."
"Are you suggesting . . ."
"I'm suggesting nothing, Mr. Tanner. It's merely an observation. And perhaps not altogether relevant, at that. You see, in cases involving violent death, we generally find direct recall of some sort. Either visions or spells of involuntary memory."
"So dreams and déjà vu don't really count?"
"Oh, it all counts," Ludmann informed him. "In the paranormal we're hardly limited to one method of scorekeeping."
"What about the premonitions I've had—" Tanner hesitated, unsure exactly what he wanted to say. "The premonitions about the crypt. How does that tie in with dreams and the rest of it?"
"Actually, there are no hard and fast rules in terms of the occult. Clairvoyance and precognition are accepted phenomena in virtually all instances. It could be another means of a previous incarnation asserting itself. On the other hand, it might easily be the spirit of Lucas Brokaw transmitting a telepathic message."
"Wait a minute, are you talking about ghosts?"
"Spirit, ghost, haunt—the terms aren't incompatible. The critical factor is the message, whatever its source. Within the last few years, we've gathered sufficient evidence to indicate that telepathy does cross the gap between living and dead. Generally, it's all quite spontaneous—a product of the unconscious—which further indicates that the spirit chooses the time and place to make his thoughts known."
"Very enlightening, profe
ssor. But you still haven't answered my question. What does all that have to do with these premonitions?"
Ludmann studied his nails, pedantic now. "One of the constants we find in clairvoyance and precognition is the crisis factor. The spirit frequently sends a telepathic message while undergoing a crisis, and the living person then exteriorizes that message in a form apparent to the senses."
"You're saying Lucas Brokaw knew of the danger to his crypt and flashed me a message about the impending crisis. Is that it?"
"Precisely."
"Bullshit!"
"Not at all. In your case it resulted in a highly visible paranoia concerning the crypt. And a form of paranoia, I might add, not unlike that which afflicted Lucas Brokaw himself."
"Jesus Christ. It's like a candy store: there's something to suit everyone's taste. First, you hint that I'm Brokaw reincarnated, and now you say it might be Brokaw's spook working some sort of voodoo on me. Any more goodies?"
"Yes, now that you mention it, there is another possibility." Ludmann tamped the dottle in his pipe and lit a match. "Let's go back for a moment to your feelings of animosity toward Ruxton. You admitted yourself that it was a strange reaction; I believe the word you used was inexplicable." He puffed smoke, blew out the match, and tossed it in an ashtray. "Yet, I wonder . . . doesn't it strike you as the very reaction Lucas Brokaw would experience?"
"I don't follow you, professor. What's the point?"
"I'm merely theorizing, you understand, but it suggests the possibility of a possession."
"Possession?" Tanner shook his head, astounded. "I thought that only had to do with demons . . . the devil. Isn't that what exorcism is all about, drive Satan out and purify the soul?"
