by Braun, Matt;
"Not entirely, although that's a common belief. In point of fact, exorcism had its origins long before the birth of Christ. Among ancient cultures, it was the accepted purgative when an alien spirit gained control of a man's mind and body. Even in the Middle Ages, after Satan became the symbol of evil, priests were frequently called upon to exorcise lesser demons—the alien spirit."
"So according to your theory, the alien spirit—"
"In this case, Lucas Brokaw."
"—is trying to take possession of my soul and . . . do what?"
"Force you to become the instrument of his will. By controlling your mind, he could then use your body to exact retribution. Assuming, of course, that Ruxton is the imposter you claim and that Lucas Brokaw does feel the need for vengeance."
"Oh, Ruxton's a phony, all right. But what if I resist?"
"How so?"
"What if I won't cooperate? Suppose I refuse to act as Brokaw's instrument of vengeance . . . then what?"
"Then Lucas Brokaw might very well take matters into his own hands. I've told you before, it's difficult to put the demon back in the bottle."
"Are you saying Brokaw could act on his own . . . somehow do it himself?"
"I'm saying it's one of several possibilities. There are documented cases of a spirit doing exactly that, just as there is documentation of clairvoyance and possession. Not to mention countless instances of a person assuming all the traits and physical manifestations of a previous incarnation."
"Then it really is a grab bag, isn't it?" Tanner demanded. "Sort of an any-or-all proposition."
"Given the circumstances. I would discount nothing. Lucas Brokaw was a vindictive man, and I see no reason to believe that death would have altered that in the slightest."
"In other words, you believe he's already come back . . . in one form or another."
"I never thought he was gone, Mr. Tanner. He's been here all along . . . merely waiting."
"For what?"
Ludmann chuckled. "Why, for you of course. The third party we discussed on your last visit. Or had you forgotten?"
Tanner averted his gaze, silent for a time. Then he straightened in his chair, tight-lipped, his voice brusque. "So what's your considered opinion, professor? Is he after me, or has he already got me?"
"We could find out easily enough."
"How?"
"Through hypnosis."
"Thanks, but no thanks."
"There's nothing to fear."
"Maybe not, but the answer's still no."
"Mr. Tanner, to paraphrase your own statement . . . either you are Lucas Brokaw reincarnated or else he means to possess your mortal soul. Wouldn't it be wise to find out which it is . . . while there's still time?"
"It's a bad idea, so let's forget it. I came here for advice, nothing else."
"That is my advice. In fact, it's perhaps the one step that . . ."
"Goddamn, are you deaf?" Tanner rose, towering over the desk. "I said no, and that's final! Now, have you got the message, or do you want me to spell it out?"
"I understand perfectly, Mr. Tanner." Ludmann met his look. "You fear the unknown far less than you do the truth. Isn't that about the gist of it?"
Tanner glowered down at him a moment, seething with anger, then turned and marched toward the door. But as he crossed the room, Ludmann caught something he hadn't noticed earlier. One thought triggered another, and he slowly removed the pipe from his mouth.
It was all there. The arrogant manner, that sudden outburst of temper, and so abruptly, the final link. Tanner was in pain, limping badly. Yet he wasn't aware of it. He simply didn't know and wouldn't believe it even if he were told. For his point of no return had come and gone as he passed through the door.
Now, within himself, the struggle began in earnest.
XXVII
The trees moaned and crackled in a stiff offshore breeze. Tanner filled his lungs with the ocean scent, thankful the weather had turned nippy. The cold and a thermos of black coffee were all that kept him awake. Leaning forward, he punched the dashboard lighter, waiting until it released. Then he lit another cigarette, cupping it with his hand to hide the glow. After a couple of quick drags, he held the tip of the cigarette over his watch and checked the time.
1:07.
A swift calculation, and then he set three o'clock as his deadline. The lights had gone off in the mansion shortly before one, which was earlier than usual but hardly suspicious in itself. If nothing happened within the next hour or so, it meant they were tucked in for the night. And still another stakeout could be chalked off to wasted effort.
His car was parked on a side road, deep in the grove of redwoods overlooking the estate. Starlight cast a milky haze over the earth, and from his vantage point on the knoll he had an unobstructed view of the front gate and the mansion. Every night for the past week—since Ruxton and his playmates had moved into the mansion—he'd kept them under almost constant surveillance. So far his vigil had produced nothing. Aside from loss of sleep and the brassy taste of too many cigarettes, there was little to distinguish one night from another. But he wasn't discouraged. He had not yet lost faith in his hunch.
Tanner never questioned the feeling. It was another of his premonitions, some dark complex of gut instinct. He couldn't explain it, but he was sustained by an almost mystical conviction that Ruxton would make a mistake.
If not tonight, then tomorrow night. Or the night after. Sooner or later, one of them would blunder. Probably not Ruxton, for he was much too clever to risk his own skin. But one of the others, more than likely Birkhead, would attempt to tie off the loose ends. There were always loose ends on any job—no matter how perfectly executed—and the slightest gaffe often blew the entire caper. Tanner was convinced someone would stumble, and he meant to be there when it happened.
Strangely enough, he also knew it would happen at night. In that sense, it was like the flashes of déjà vu and his dreams of Lucas Brokaw. Again, as so many times before, he'd been given a glimpse of things beyond his ken. Only in this instance, the message was clear and the warning too absolute to be misconstrued.
He was to wait and watch and simply let it happen.
A half hour later his wait suddenly ended. Headlights appeared on the driveway, and in the distance he heard the blast of a powerful engine. When the car stopped at the front gate, his pulse skipped a beat. It was the Jaguar XJS that had been delivered to the mansion earlier in the week. After a brief demonstration by the dealer, both Jill and Birkhead had taken turns road testing the car. But the odds dictated that it was Birkhead behind the wheel tonight.
Any lingering doubt was quickly dispelled. As the gates swung open, the Jaguar burned rubber and rocketed off in a burst of speed. The driver was fast and smooth, using a racer's shift, and within seconds had the car roaring flat out in fourth gear. On twisting back roads, only a maniac or a hophead drove at such speeds, and Birkhead qualified on both counts.
Tanner hit the ignition switch and barreled down out of the trees. As the taillights of the Jaguar disappeared, he jammed the accelerator to the floorboard and took off in pursuit.
Birkhead drove a car with the same indiscriminate deadliness that had kept him alive in Nam. The search-and-destroy missions, operating against an enemy skilled in guerrilla warfare, had taught him an axiom as old as man: Strike first, strike fast, and strike when least expected. Three years in the rice paddies had turned him into a killer who took emotional sustenance from his work, and while he could absorb punishment with a certain brute sensualism, he'd discovered that inflicting pain was by far the greater joy, an act of eroticism so profound that he would often come at the very instant he pulled the trigger. The memory was sharply etched, and as though the Jaguar transported him once again to the killing ground, he hurtled across Marin County with a bulge in his pants and a Colt Python stuck in his waistband.
Tonight he had an appointment with death.
Tanner skirted the parked Jaguar. A heavy stand of trees b
ordered the house, and he drifted quietly from tree to tree until he was opposite a side window. Avoiding the light spill, he darted forward and flattened himself against the house. Then he crouched, edging closer to the light, and slowly eased his head above the windowsill.
There were two men. Birkhead stood in the middle of the living room, an attaché case in his left hand. The other man sat on an overstuffed sofa, fully dressed but rubbing sleep from his eyes. Apparently he'd nodded off while waiting for Birkhead to arrive.
"C'mon, Chester, it's payday. Wake up and join the party!"
"Sorry. It's a bit past my bedtime. Must've dozed off."
"Well, snap out of it, for Christ's sake! I haven't got all night."
Birkhead wanted nothing to spoil the surprise, and for that he needed an attentive audience. His next remark struck directly at the sore spot, calculated to jar the man awake.
"Say, I almost forgot. Jill said to tell you she sends her love."
Wilson flinched, visibly stung. Then his features set in a petulant scowl. "How very endearing. I presume she and Curt are happily reunited?"
"Just like a couple of turtledoves."
"No doubt. But you can tell them for me that I won't soon forget their shabby treatment. All this lying and deception . . . it's inexcusable. And leaving me alone in this godforsaken house was the last straw. Tell them that, Monk. The last straw!"
"Bullshit!" Birkhead smiled. "Don't try to kid an old kidder, Chester. You could've taken off any time you wanted to. Right?"
Wilson shrugged, and a nervous flicker crossed his lips. "Well . . . yes . . . I suppose so. Except of course for the money."
"Damn right! The money. That's what this whole caper was about. Not some dippy chick."
Birkhead slapped the attaché case down on the coffee table separating them. "Go ahead, open it up. It's all yours. One million on account."
Wilson leaned forward and eagerly pressed the snap locks. His hands shook as he opened the top of the case and bent closer. Then he froze. Packets of currency were stacked in neat piles, and on top of the money was a crude, hand-lettered placard:
BANG! BANG! YOU'RE DEAD!
Wilson blinked and looked up. He found himself staring into the bore of a silencer. The chambers on either side of the pistol brimmed with pug-nosed, hollow point bullets. A moment passed. Then Birkhead grinned and pulled the trigger.
There was a sharp phftt and the back of Wilson's skull exploded. A glob of brains and bone matter splattered the wall behind him. Then his body went slack, like a rag doll with its stuffing torn loose, and he collapsed sideways across the sofa. An instant later, death voided his bowels and a noxious stench filled the room.
Birkhead studied the corpse for several seconds, clearly pleased with the success of his little joke. Still grinning, he stuck the pistol inside his windbreaker and snapped the lid closed on the attaché case.
Then he turned, briskly crossing the living room, and paused to wipe his fingerprints off the doorknob. As he stepped outside, Tanner faded into the darkness, lost once more among the trees.
A few minutes after four in the morning, Tanner stood with his ear pressed to the door of a third floor walk-up. The Mission district was deathly still at that hour, and he had little trouble following the gist of the conversation. Someone inside the apartment was angry, lashing out at Birkhead, and his voice carried through the door as though it was made of tissue paper.
"I don't give a fuck what Ruxton says. You kept me waiting the whole goddamn night and I don't like it! Not even a little bit."
"Hey, take it easy, Johnny." Birkhead seemed outwardly bluff and hearty, almost apologetic. "I'm not delivering food stamps, you know. Christ, I had to make sure I wasn't followed."
"Well, you're one goddamn careful delivery boy, I'll give you that."
"C'mon, don't rub it in. I went by to pay off Wilson first. And you would've done it the same way, too. Just stop and think about it a minute. You live in a rough neighborhood, Johnny. It's bad enough coming down here with a million."
Johnny Fallon was a shrewd, icy realist. The big man was too obliging tonight, not at all himself. Fallon had a sudden urge to see him gone. To put a door between them, with the bolt thrown and the chain latch in place.
"Okay, let's skip it. Lemme have the money and we'll call it a night."
"Sure thing, Johnny. If you want, I'll even wait while you count—"
Without warning, Birkhead tossed the attaché case. Fallon's reaction was one of sheer reflex. His hands flew up to catch it, then at the last instant he realized it was a sucker play. He ducked aside, deflecting the briefcase with an upraised arm, and his hand snaked inside his coat. Off balance, fumbling desperately, he jerked a snub-nosed .38 from his shoulder holster.
Birkhead shot him three times in the chest. Blown backward by the impact, Fallon slammed into the wall and his gun went skittering across the floor. He hung suspended there a moment, then his knees buckled and he slumped forward on his face. His breath came in ragged gasps and his eyes were wild and blood-gutted, bulging with pain. Yet he was dimly aware of everything about him. The footsteps. A hulking presence kneeling at his side. The cold snout of a silencer pressed behind his ear.
Then he heard a metallic click as the hammer was thumbed back. Sensed a finger tightening around the trigger. And at last, almost as though he'd waited forever, Birkhead spoke to him.
"One for the road, Johnny. Lights out."
Tanner trailed Birkhead all the way back to the estate. Hidden once more in the redwoods, he crawled from his car and stood watching until the Jaguar halted in front of the mansion. Only then was he satisfied that Birkhead had killed all the outsiders. That the men named Chester and Johnny had comprised Ruxton's entire gang.
Except for those who occupied the mansion.
Standing there, with the starlight streaming down through the trees, he looked like some avenging apparition. His face was pale and drawn, blazing with suppressed fury, and his heart thudded against his chest. A sickness swept over him, became violently physical, and mingled with it was an overwhelming sense of rage. The longer he stared at the mansion the worse his hatred became; almost convulsively, his hands clenched in a stranglehold. An instant of cold blinding torment came over him, as though some winter demon had sucked the marrow of compassion from his bones. And all around him he felt the force. Whispering to him, tugging at his sleeve. Goading him to act. To destroy.
To kill.
A long time passed while he stood there.
XXVIII
Tanner shaved with dull concentration. He hadn't slept for nearly thirty-six hours, and the bathroom was warm and steamy after his shower. But he fought off the drowsiness, watching himself intently in the mirror.
The face staring back at him was distorted, like the blurred image in a fun house mirror. Blinking, he forced the reflection into sharper focus and finished shaving with slow, deliberate strokes. Then he splashed water over his face, toweling dry, and took a closer look. What he saw startled him. Even with the bearded stubble gone, the man in the mirror appeared sallow and weary, completely drained. A man who had pushed himself to the limit and was now operating on nerve alone.
A damn fool treading a very fine line.
Still, until he'd made the phone call, there could be no thought of sleep. And afterward he had to vanish. Otherwise, he'd get bogged down with the police and perhaps the bureau. Which would never do. Not if he meant to finish the job himself. So it was simply a matter of getting lost overnight. Keeping everything he had learned to himself a little while longer. Then tomorrow morning, with his batteries recharged, he'd tackle Ruxton. He was going to nail the bastard. For once and for all.
All things considered, it shouldn't prove too difficult. Not when he told them he'd trailed Birkhead. That he was the only eyewitness. The one man who could tie them to murder.
It would end there. Precisely the way he'd laid it out in his head this morning. The only way it could end.
; The phone jarred him out of his reverie. All day it had been ringing, and all day he'd ignored it. Upon returning to his apartment that morning, he had made one call, and then he'd spent the rest of the day thinking, formulating alternatives while he waited for the last piece of puzzle. Every time the phone rang he was tempted to answer, for he knew very well it was Stacey. By now she was probably frantic with worry and growing more desperate by the hour. But until the puzzle was complete, he refused to talk to her or anyone else. Particularly Hamilton Knox.
The director would order him back to the foundation, and that wouldn't do. It was essential that he retain his mobility and the freedom to act independently—on his own timetable—without interference from anyone. Not even Stacey.
So he had let the phone ring. And as the day wore on, he'd finally come to welcome the noise. It kept him awake and functioning.
Now, freshly shaved and showered, he waited until the phone went silent. Then he checked his watch. Quarter of five. Time to place the call.
He lit a cigarette and direct-dialed the office in San Francisco. There was a pause, then three swift rings, and a crisp voice came on the line.
"Good afternoon. Federal Bureau of Investigation."
"Agent Howard, please."
"One moment."
A click. "Good afternoon. This is Agent Howard. May I help you?"
"Hello, Jack. This is Warren. Any news for me yet?"
"You dirty, low-life son of a bitch!"
"That bad, huh?"
"Worse. You conned me, Warren. Just a little favor, right? Check out a couple of routine murders. Isn't that what you said?"
"I get the impression they weren't so routine."
"Routine! Jesus Christ, Warren, you really put me on the spot. The cops weren't even aware the murders had taken place. I've been on the horn the whole goddamned day trying to explain how—"
"Okay, Jack, simmer down. I'm sorry if I put you in a bind. But what I need right now are details."
"Details, the man says. All right, old friend, try this on for size. Item: Johnny Fallon. Suspected safecracker. Twenty-three arrests, no convictions."
