by Braun, Matt;
"Which means he must have been a damn good box man."
"No, not good. The best. And would you like to know what the homicide boys found underneath the floorboard of his closet?"
"Yes, I would, Jack. Very much."
"Well, you'd have to see it to believe it, but it's an electronic gizmo straight out of Buck Rogers. It allowed Mr. Fallon to see through doors, especially steel doors. Like the kind normally found on bank vaults."
There was a prolonged silence.
"Are you still with me, Warren?"
"Go ahead. I'm listening."
"That's good. Because now I've got a question for you. The dead man in Sausalito was named Chester Wilson. Ever heard of him?"
"Not that I recall. Why? Did he have a record?"
"Oh yeah . . . a very long record! Fifteen years as one of the top cryptanalysts in the State Department. With a security classification we never even heard of. Officially, he's been on leave for the past five weeks. Unofficially, we get the word he was a week overdue, and they've been turning Washington upside down trying to locate him."
"Thanks, Jack. I owe you one."
"You owe me a whole bunch! And you can start paying off right now. First, how the hell did you know about these murders? And second, what did one of the government's top cryps have to do with a safecracker? If there's a connection, Warren, I need some answers. And I need them—"
Tanner hung up. He took a long drag on his cigarette, pondering what he'd heard. It was all so simple. So very simple when the last piece was fitted into the puzzle. After a moment's reflection, he laughed, mocking himself, and stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray.
The phone began ringing as he went through the door.
"Warren!"
"Hi. Can I come in?"
"Of course. I've been trying to reach—"
Her look of surprise suddenly turned to shock. Tanner hobbled past her into the foyer. Lighted wall sconces clearly revealed his features, and she stifled a low gasp. His eyes were sunken with fatigue, bloodshot and rimmed by dark pouches. There was a haggard cast to his face, and he appeared to have aged overnight. Almost as though he'd been—crippled!
The thought jolted her. It was his limp! Yesterday he was merely favoring the leg, but now he was actually lame. The leg had stiffened, and he was pulling it along in a slow, crablike shuffle. She caught her breath, staring aghast as he limped across the living room and flopped down on the sofa.
Stacey slammed the door and hurried after him. Her mind was whirling, and she took scant comfort from the fact that he was safe. That he'd come to her. These past few weeks had been a hell of uncertainty. She never knew what to expect—his moods were wildly erratic—and she found herself constantly on the defensive. She had been afraid and bewildered, but since yesterday she'd been gripped by something that lay beyond simple fear. Terror. A dark premonition she wouldn't allow herself to consider.
Tonight there was a new concern. He seemed on the verge of a complete physical breakdown. Added to his emotional state, she knew it might very well push him over the edge. Warily, not at all sure how to begin, she seated herself beside him on the sofa.
"Warren . . . darling, aren't you feeling well?"
"I'm all right," he replied hollowly. "Just need a little sleep."
"Of course." Her sigh was more eloquent than words. "Would you like something to eat? Perhaps a cup of soup?"
"Nothing, thanks. All I want is a good night's rest." Something flared in his eyes, and he suddenly fixed her with an intent look. "No one is to know I'm here! If anybody calls—I don't give a damn who it is—tell 'em you haven't seen me. Okay?"
Stacey was afraid to ask the obvious question, and even more frightened of the answer. She merely nodded in a small sign of acknowledgment.
"Thanks. It's just for tonight, that's all. Tomorrow it won't matter."
"Tomorrow." She had to ask, couldn't stop herself. "What about tomorrow?"
"I've got him, Stace." Tanner tried to smile. A bleak flicker, it disappeared as if the effort was too much. "I've got Ruxton and his playmates. And tomorrow's the day I put 'em on ice."
She saw it then. With the vividness of extrasensory perception, she knew he meant to trap Ruxton. But she also knew he needed rest. And it occurred to her that tomorrow was another day. Soon enough to dissuade him from whatever madness he had in mind. When he was rational and himself again. Warren Tanner and not—
Whoever he was tonight.
Gently she touched his arm. He sat perfectly still, staring at her hand as though it was a butterfly and might be scared away by a sudden movement. They were silent for a time, then she smiled.
"Shall I turn down the covers, darling? You look exhausted."
"Good idea. Tell you the truth, I am bushed."
Stacey rose, extending her hand, and Tanner heaved himself to his feet. He yawned a wide, jaw-cracking yawn. Then she took his arm, leading him toward the bedroom, and like a weary old lion, he limped along behind her considering the word. His lips moved, mouthing it silently, until his jaw hardened around it and in his mind it became a litany. A word that brought a slow smile to his face, and at last, an easy awareness of how it would be done.
Then he turned and limped back to his car.
XXIX
Birkhead's eyes fluttered open.
There was a moment of groggy consideration, then he knew it wasn't the coke. He'd been flying high when he went to bed, but he wasn't strung out now. And his mind wasn't playing tricks on him.
Someone was in the room. Very near, watching him.
Without moving, he rolled his eyes downward, squinting in the darkness. There was a figure standing at the foot of the bed. For an instant, he couldn't quite believe it. The door was locked and the windows were locked, which meant his visitor had a nifty way with locks. But the sonofabitch had bought himself one big surprise.
Birkhead grabbed his pistol off the nightstand and triggered three quick blasts into the figure. Earlier he'd removed the silencer, and the Magnum reverberated like a cannon, spitting streaks of flame. The figure moved but it didn't fall. Incredulously, Birkhead watched it come around the side of the bed, silent as a shadow, apparently unharmed. He fired again as it came closer. Then again and again, emptying the gun.
The figure laughed. A wild, demonic laughter.
Birkhead roared back at it, enraged that he'd missed at such close range. Suddenly he went berserk, bounding out of bed, and flung himself at the figure. He delivered a crushing kick, then spun and brought his fist around in a karate blow aimed at the sternum. A steel band closed around his wrist, lifting him off his feet, and hurled him across the room. He slammed broadside into the dresser, splintering it in an explosion of wood and flying glass. Dazed, he pulled himself out of the wreckage, crouched low to attack, and advanced on the figure. This time his kick connected solidly against the bedpost, and the bed collapsed with a thunderous crash. His follow-through blow whistled harmlessly past a shadow, then an electrical shock coursed up his spine. Fingers of iron dug into the carotid artery at the base of his neck; paralysis instantly numbed his entire body. Star bursts erupted before his eyes, then his vision darkened and he slumped forward.
The bands of steel caught him, slipped under his armpits and crossed over his neck, clamping down in a viselock. His brain cleared in a fleeting moment of panic, and he threw all his brute strength into one last effort to break free. But the viselock held, pressing down with inexorable force, and his neck slowly bent.
In the hallway outside, Ruxton was pounding furiously on the door. Jill stood behind him, wide-eyed with fright, clutching a kimono over her breasts. At the sound of gunfire, they had hurried from their own bedroom, all the more alarmed when it became apparent Birkhead was involved in a savage struggle. Now, as suddenly as it began, the uproar subsided. Ruxton broke off his hammering and pressed an ear to the door, listening intently. There was absolute silence, an almost ominous quiet. Then the clatter of heavy footsteps sounded on t
he front stairs, and two guards came running along the hall.
Ruxton stepped back, gesturing at the door. "Break it down!"
The burly guards merely nodded, and without a word, positioned themselves opposite the door. Then they charged, shoulders low, hurling themselves against the door. The wood splintered, lock and hinges sprang loose, and the door buckled inward with a grinding screech.
The bedroom was demolished, bureau and bed and chairs reduced to a tangled pile of rubble. Birkhead lay sprawled on the floor, face down, his arms splayed backward. One eye was cocked askew, blank and sightless, and his head was crooked sideways at a grotesque angle. A trickle of blood seeped out of his mouth, and a large bump protruded near the base of his skull.
His neck was broken.
Jill began to scream. A scream without beginning or end. Sheer animal terror that echoed through the mansion in a wild, ululating howl.
Tanner bolted upright in bed. His eyes were glazed and distant. His mouth flew open and a low, rending moan began deep in his throat. The sound swelled in pitch and volume until the bedroom was filled with a cry of bestial pain.
"Warren! For God's sake, Warren, wake up! Wake up! "
The cry lessened, broke off in a whimpering sob, and he slowly became aware that Stacey had his arms pinioned to his side. Blisters of sweat glistened on his forehead; his face was congested and hard knots pulsated at his temples. Gradually, the cloudy look faded from his eyes, but the expression on his face was manic, deranged. Then, so abruptly that Stacey jumped away, he laughed, a shrill laugh that was almost inhuman.
Stacey slapped him. Harder and harder she slapped him, until flecks of blood splattered across his mouth and the laugh abruptly stopped. A tear welled up in the corner of his eye and rolled down over his cheek. He shuddered, suddenly very cold, and a look of barren sorrow swept his features.
"He's dead, Stace. Killed . . . just now."
"Warren, it was a dream." Stacey edged closer, soothing him with her Voice. "Sweetheart, no one was killed. You dreamt it."
"No. I saw it. In his bedroom. Birkhead's bedroom. He fired . . . and then . . ."
"Darling, you couldn't have. You're here—with me! You've been here all night."
"You don't understand." He raised his hands, watching them clench into balled fists, and something odd happened to his face. "I was there! I think . . . someone killed him . . . broke his neck."
Stacey was unnerved by the conviction behind his words, frightened because she knew he believed what he was saying. He clearly couldn't comprehend that it had been a dream. Another of his nightmares. She knew she had to distract him. Do something, anything, to keep him calm and give him time to collect his wits.
"Darling, I'm sure there's an explanation. There has to be. What say we fix ourselves a drink—okay? Let things settle down a bit. Then you can tell me all about it. Doesn't that sound like a good idea?"
"Yeah, it does. I could use a drink. A stiff one."
Stacey helped him into his robe, chattering on as though nothing had happened, and led the way into the living room. But even before she had the first drink mixed, he began talking compulsively, his words confused. Telling her about Birkhead and gunfire—and then the darkness.
"That's crazy!"
"Crazy or not," Jill's voice was stark, "I'm getting out of here. With or without you, Curt. I'm leaving!"
Ruxton shook his head in exasperation. "You're being ridiculous, do you know that? Stop and think about it a minute. This is stupid!"
"Maybe so, but I'm not spending another night in this house." Jill finished buttoning her blouse and stepped into a skirt. "We aren't welcome here, Curt. And if you don't believe me, then walk across the hall and have a look at Monk."
"Come off it, will you? This isn't a haunted house, and there aren't any spooks wandering around the halls. And if you seriously think Lucas Brokaw did that to Monk, then I suggest you get yourself a shrink. You're ready for the funny farm."
"Go ahead and laugh. But that doesn't change anything. Curt. The door was locked and the windows were locked and someone still got in there. Can't you get that through your head? Someone killed him! And he'll kill us too, unless we get out of here."
"Don't be absurd," Ruxton scoffed. "Monk killed himself. It's the same old story . . . drugs and liquor don't mix. He freaked out and started firing that damn gun, and then broke his neck stumbling around in the dark fighting shadows. Come on, admit it! You saw what he did to that room."
Jill was no longer intimidated by Ruxton's overbearing manner. Even now, she was still in shock, attenuated as a wire sculpture. She had lost all restraint, and terror was her single emotion—terror of what the thing had done to Birkhead and what it might do to her.
"You're wrong, Curt, and we both know it." She threw a coat over her shoulders and collected her purse from the bureau. "Monk wasn't on speed or acid, and he wasn't freaked out. He was on coke, and he didn't kill himself. Lucas Brokaw killed him!"
Ruxton grabbed her by the arms as she started past and spun her around. "Listen to me, will you? We're in no danger here. There's a guard out in the hall and the police are on the way. So why run? Even if you don't believe me, wait and hear what they have to say. They'll tell you I'm right."
"You really are a fool." Jill tossed her head defiantly. "Monk had a gun, and what good did it do him? None, that's what! And armed guards can't save you either. If you don't get out of here tonight, you'll never live to spend all your precious money. Have you thought about that, Curt?"
"That's enough! I'm staying and you're staying with me. We'll just wait and let the cops talk some sense into your head."
"No, damn you! No!" There was a harried sharpness in her words, and she suddenly wrenched herself free of his grip. "I'm leaving, and don't you dare try to stop me. Just keep away from me!"
Jill flung the door open and darted into the hall. Ruxton trailed after her, ignoring the guard's puzzled expression, and hurried down the stairs as she ran through the foyer. Before he could reach the front door, he heard the Jaguar rumble to life, followed by a screech of tires. Then there was a grinding clash of gears as she accelerated and the car roared off down the driveway. He paused, staring at the door a moment, and finally turned back toward the study.
Dizzy bitch. Dizzy stupid little bitch!
Tanner was on his third Scotch, but it hadn't helped. Slumped back against the sofa cushions, the drink forgotten, he was staring at a spot of light on the ceiling. He had talked himself out, and now his eyes were vacant, focused on some infinity in space and time. A personal limbo, where the living walked among the dead.
Beside him, Stacey sat quietly, her gaze fixed on him in a look of tragic disbelief. A cold and kindling light masked her features, like the reflection of moonlight on snow, and she found herself incapable of speech. Unwittingly, he had articulated what was deepest in her mind, the thing she couldn't bring herself to consider. The fear she had blunted with abstractions, excuses, and a dozen petty evasions. A fear not of the unknown but of Lucas Brokaw.
All her defenses had crumbled as he talked, and she now had no doubt whatever that Monk Birkhead was dead. His grisly account of the fight had convinced her. What occurred in that darkened bedroom tonight was no dream. Nor was there any question as to the manner of Birkhead's death.
And worse, she knew at last who it was that had killed him.
The glass suddenly dropped from Tanner's hand. His face went chalky and the muscles along his jaw grew taut. He straightened, staring intently into a void, and his eyes burned with a look of ungodly horror. Then a seizure swept over him. His body convulsed and he was jerked off the conch, trembling violently.
"No! Go back! Don't do it! Go back! "
Stumbling forward, eyes blindly fixed on some distant vision, he tripped over the coffee table and went crashing to the floor. Before he could rise, Stacey threw herself on him, fighting to restrain his arms and hold him down. But the struggle was brief, ending as quickly as it began. A
final spasm shook his body, then he collapsed beneath her, his face buried in the carpet.
He was unconscious.
Ruxton uncapped the decanter and poured himself a snifter of cognac. He was astounded by Jill's behavior and not a little annoyed that he'd lost control of the situation. Still, perhaps it was good riddance. With Monk dead, things wouldn't have been the same anyway, and a fresh start all the way round was probably best. Of course, he'd have to ensure Jill's silence, but that wouldn't present any—
The windows rattled.
A split second later he heard an explosion. Distant, muffled, yet he'd felt a tremor from the concussion.
The phone rang.
Ruxton jumped, still clutching the decanter, and whirled toward the desk. The phone jangled again, and he snatched it off the hook.
"Yes. Hello!"
"Mr. Ruxton, this is Henry . . . at the gatehouse. Are you okay?"
"Of course! What do you mean, am I okay? What was that explosion?"
"Well . . . don't you see? I thought it was you."
"Me! Make sense, Henry. What the hell are you talking about?"
"The guy in the car. The one with Miss Dvorak. That's what I'm trying to tell you—they just drove over the cliff!"
"Jill? Jill drove over the cliff?"
"No, it was him. The guy! She was fightin' him for the steering wheel and they came crashin' through the gate before I could get it open. You never saw anything like it, Mr. Ruxton. Honest to God, she was fightin' like a wildcat. But she couldn't beat him off . . . and . . . and then he drove that goddamn car straight off the cliff."
"You're mad! That's not possible."
"No, I'm not either, Mr. Ruxton. I saw it with my own eyes. Jesus Christ, I won't never forget that! I heard her screamin' all the way down."
"Not her, you fool! The man. She was alone in that car. Don't you understand—alone! "
"I'm only tellin' you . . . wait a minute, Mr. Ruxton. Hold on and lemme . . . yeah, it's them. It's the cops! You want me to send 'em—"
Ruxton hung up. His legs suddenly felt weak and he sat down in the chair. After a few moments, he realized be was still holding the decanter. He raised it to his lips and took a long pull, but there was no warmth in the brandy. An odd sensation, like chilled fire, crept slowly through his body.
