by Braun, Matt;
Then his bowels went cold.
XXX
The dawn sky began to brighten.
Curt Ruxton hurried from the bathroom with his toilet kit. He was packing a single suitcase, only the bare necessities to hold him over a couple of days. The balance of his wardrobe could be forwarded to the apartment. Or simply forgotten. Speed was essential, and at the moment, his personal effects hardly seemed to matter.
Across the hall, several lab men were finishing up in Birkhead's bedroom. The body had been removed some hours earlier, and detectives had already questioned Ruxton at length. Doubtless there would be other sessions, particularly after the car and Jill's body were recovered from the bottom of the cliff. But he knew that quite shortly the police would have completed their work in the mansion itself.
And when they left he meant to leave with them. Simply clear out. For after last night he couldn't risk being caught in the house alone. Nor would he return. Never again would he set foot on the Brokaw estate.
Almost too late, Ruxton had finally been convinced. He understood at last that he was running for his life. That Lucas Brokaw was stalking him even now. Whether it was a haunt or a spirit, or some earthier manifestation, he had no idea. But he knew it meant to kill him, just as it had stalked and killed first Birkhead and then Jill. Only the arrival of the police had forestalled his own death, and as long as he remained in the house, his life was in peril. Brokaw mustn't be allowed another chance!
He had no choice but to ran far and run fast.
Oddly enough, he saw in retrospect that Jill had been right. Not only about Brokaw but, more importantly, about the money. He already had part of the fortune, and there was no need to delay further. He could just as easily collect the remainder and arrange for sale of the estate from some distant corner of the earth. All of which sounded good, yet left him with the same problem Jill had faced. He first had to escape the mansion—and Lucas Brokaw.
Suitcase in hand, Ruxton joined the detectives as they walked past his door. The lab men had turned up nothing, neither fingerprints nor physical evidence, to indicate anyone had been in the bedroom with Birkhead at the time of his death. The homicide sergeant in charge observed that it had all the earmarks of murder, but he stopped there. As for Jill, until his team had a chance to inspect the car, which was even now being winched up the cliffs, he would reserve judgment. Somewhat pointedly he directed Ruxton not to travel farther than San Francisco. Without evidence to place the "mystery man" in the car with Jill, there were several puzzling questions still to be resolved.
Ruxton knew they suspected him of some bizarre murder scheme. He also knew they would find nothing revealing in the car. But he kept his thoughts to himself. There was simply no way to explain that their "mystery man" was in, truth a dead man. Nor could he very well afford to tell them why Lucas Brokaw had gone on a rampage. That would open a door best left closed—one that led to conspiracy, fraud, and a couple of other murders.
So he merely listened and agreed to place himself at their disposal. As they came down the stairs and trooped into the foyer, a telephone began ringing. Ruxton hesitated, on the verge of ignoring it, then excused himself and hurried into the drawing room. He caught the phone on the third ring.
"Hello."
"Mr. Ruxton? Henry here. At the gatehouse."
"Yes, Henry. What is it?"
"Sorry to bother you, but Mr. Tanner just arrived. Says he has to see you right away."
"What about?"
"Don't know for sure. All he said was to tell you it's a matter of business concerning the foundation."
Ruxton sighed inwardly. Damn the luck! He wanted nothing more than to be safely on his way. Regardless, he had no choice but to see Tanner. Better to satisfy their curiosity than to arouse further suspicion.
"All right, Henry. Send Mr. Tanner on up."
As he turned away from the phone, Ruxton wondered how the foundation had learned of the murders so quickly. Then he walked through the door of the drawing room and stopped in his tracks, visibly shaken. The foyer was empty. The detectives had gone, driven off without him.
He was alone.
Stacey came awake in a daze. She lay there a moment, numbed with sleep, yet strangely unsettled. Her hand went out, searching for him. Then her eyes flew open and she raised herself up on one elbow.
"Warren!"
No answer.
She threw aside the covers and jumped out of bed. She raced through the apartment calling his name and within moments returned to the bedroom. There she halted, and in the silty light of false dawn she suddenly saw it. The closet door was open. His clothes were gone.
She glanced at the clock. A few minutes after four.
Then it struck her, and she had a sinking feeling of dread. They hadn't returned to bed until shortly after three. Which meant he wasn't nearly as exhausted by last night's ordeal as he appeared. Obviously, he had waited for her to drift off and then he'd slipped out of the apartment.
And she knew exactly where he'd gone.
Hurriedly she began dressing, mentally calculating time and distance, trying to estimate his lead and how she might narrow the gap. Whether she could reach the estate before he was lost to her forever.
Before he became someone else. His other self.
At the last instant, she went to the phone and quickly dialed a number. There were several rings, then a gruff voice came on the line. "Mr. Knox, this is Stacey. No, don't interrupt, just listen! I haven't time to explain. Get out to the estate as fast as possible. It's an emergency!"
She slammed the phone down and rushed from the apartment.
Ruxton had a thin, fixed smile on his face. As Tanner limped across the foyer, his eyes narrowed in a cool look of appraisal. He took in the game leg and the haggard appearance, and his expression became solicitous.
"You seem a bit the worse for wear, Mr. Tanner. Hope it's nothing serious?"
"Nothing to trouble yourself about." Tanner hobbled past him into the drawing room. "I'm not here on a social call, Ruxton, so let's chuck the formalities and get down to business."
There was an abrasive quality to Tanner's voice. His square jaw was set in a scowl and his eyes were like chips of quartz. Nor was it lost on Ruxton that he hadn't offered to shake hands.
"Very well," Ruxton said with a trace of impatience. "What can I do for you? I was about to leave, so let's make it brief."
Tanner halted before the fireplace, his gaze drawn to the portrait of Stephanie Brokaw. He stared up at the painting for a long while, as if lost in thought. Then at last he turned, studying Ruxton's suitcase a moment, and looked around.
"Travelin' sorta light, aren't you?"
The inflection startled Ruxton. It was blunt and coarse, almost a peppery drawl, uncharacteristic of Tanner. A beat passed as they stared at each other, then Ruxton dismissed it with a quick gesture. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am in a hurry. Although I hardly see how that concerns you."
"Don’t, huh? Well, suppose we get down to brass tacks, and then maybe you'll see what's what. Like I said, it's business. Few irregularities we thought needed explainin'."
"Oh?" Ruxton's eyebrows rose briefly. "I presume you're talking about the murders."
"Which murders?"
"Why, last night! Isn't that why you're here?"
"Birkhead and the girl?" Tanner's smile was cold, hard. "No, what I had in mind was those other murders. You know, Fallon and that Wilson fellow."
Ruxton blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"C'mon, don't dummy up. Johnny Fallon! The safe-cracker. It was him and his electronic gadget that got you into the vault."
"Are you accusing me of—"
"Course I am! Hell, I got the goods on you. Chester Wilson? No mystery there. You imported him all the way from Washington so he could break the code. Did a good job, too."
"You're out of your mind!"
"Not today," Tanner grunted. "I'm talkin' facts. Take your pal, Birkhead. It's all in his army record. Alpi
ne training. Specialist in guerrilla raids. Hell, that's how he got your bunch up and down those cliffs. Real slick operation. Gotta hand it to you."
A glimmer of surprise passed over Ruxton's face, then his look became veiled. Tanner went on as though no response was necessary.
"Course, we shouldn't forget Jill Dvorak, should we? Quite a little lady. Holdin' that boat offshore while you came in here." He paused, considering. "Guess that was the tip-off. I traced the boat to your corporation, but it didn't hardly make sense. Not till I started puttin' the pieces together. Then all of a sudden the whole thing dovetailed and bingo! I had your number."
"How extraordinary." There was a moment of deliberation while Ruxton studied him. "Really remarkable, Tanner. And I must say, a very interesting theory. Of course you know you'll never be able to prove it."
"You've already done that," Tanner observed in even, brittle tones. "Murdering Fallon and Wilson was a mistake. Real dumb move. But even then I reckon it wasn't the worst mistake you made."
"Oh?" Ruxton shrugged noncommittally. "And what was my worst mistake?"
"Birkhead's gun." Tanner's eyes bored into him. "You should've gotten rid of it. But you couldn't do that, could you? No way to explain it to the cops. Now all they've got to do is run it through ballistics and that'll tie you to both murders."
"It wasn't my gun!" Ruxton blustered. "It belonged to Birkhead. If anyone was murdered, he did it. As a matter of fact, that explains what happened last night. Whoever killed him had to be familiar with locks. So it's obvious! Some of Fallon's friends broke in here and killed him out of revenge."
"No, Ruxton. Last night was a different sort of revenge." Tanner's jawline hardened, and the words were barely audible. Yet there was a menacing undercurrent in his voice, and he suddenly started forward. "Would you like to know how Birkhead died? What really happened up in that bedroom?"
"Stay away from me! I mean it, don't come any closer!" Ruxton grabbed the phone and began dialing the gatehouse. "We'll just get the police up here and see what they think of your story. And I assure you, Tanner, they won't believe a word of it. Not a word!"
Tanner's hand closed around his neck, firmly shutting off the carotid artery. A sudden wave of dizziness staggered Ruxton. His vision blurred, swirling black mist shot through with red sparks. He dropped the phone. Then Tanner released him, and he reeled drunkenly toward the doorway.
In that single instant, Warren Tanner ceased to be himself.
His expression changed, turned immobile and dark. There was no remorse or pity in his gaze. It was a look of cold black hatred, naked and revealed. All about him emanated an evil so awesome that his face became a living mausoleum for the human spirit. A thing of life and death and the undead.
An instrument of the dead man he'd become.
"Think that hurt, do you, Ruxton? Throat a little sore?"
The voice was now raspy, the words rattled off in a staccato burst. His lips parted in a twisted grin as he limped toward Ruxton. "Hell, you haven't seen nothin' yet. Wait'll I show you what really croaked Birkhead!"
"It was you!" Ruxton lurched backward into the foyer. "You killed them!"
"They died at my hand. Deserved to die! But it was your bungling, Ruxton. That's what got 'em killed!"
"You—you're alive!" Ruxton stammered, his face wreathed in terror. "You're him!"
The smile became sinister. "Remember John Hughes?"
Ruxton's jaw fell open. He gasped, suddenly short of breath, and retreated across the foyer.
"I baited the trap and you took it. Remember now? Custer. The Little Big Horn. Sergeant John Hughes!"
Ashen-faced, completely unnerved, Ruxton wheeled away and ran to the front door. He twisted the doorknob and yanked. Nothing happened. He took it in both hands and yanked harder, tugging frantically with all his strength. The door wouldn't budge.
The voice grew louder, closer. "Get the drift, Ruxton? If you didn't know about Hughes, then how could you've known about the trick handle on the vault?" His movements were sluggish and unhurried, curiously deliberate. "There's only one way. You're a goddamn grave robber. You violated my crypt! And that's why I'm gonna kill you. Same way I killed your partners—only slower!"
Ruxton turned with his back to the door, fixed like a butterfly pinned to a board. Though he tried to speak, his voice failed, but in his mind he heard the words.
Crypt. Vault. Trick handle.
His face went slack with relief, and just for a moment he appeared to wilt. Then, as if galvanized, he charged across the foyer and went bounding down the subterranean stairway.
The tall figure scuttled after him, eyes alert and piercing, yet somehow without life. A moment later the winding corridor filled with the sound of ferocious metallic laughter. Then the echo died away, and footsteps on stone began the slow descent.
XXXI
Ruxton hurtled down the stairs. He took the last few steps in a flying leap and burst into the crypt. His throat felt dry as dust and his lungs were on fire. But inwardly he was laughing like a madman.
A slip of the tongue had saved him. That raving maniac upstairs had unintentionally spared his life. With words! Jolting him out of his panic, forcing him to think and collect himself. And at the very last instant, to use his wits.
All he had to do was activate the hidden door Fallon had discovered the night of the raid. Turn the handle on the vault and seal himself in the outer chamber. Which in turn would trigger the alarm system. Then settle back and wait for the guards to come and collect Tanner.
Tanner? Or Lucas Brokaw?
Time enough to think about that later. He heard the sound of footsteps bouncing off the walls of the corridor, and it occurred to him that he hadn't a moment to waste. There was barely enough time to put a barrier between himself and . . . that psycho. Whoever he was!
Ruxton hurried across the room and closed the vault door. One ear to the vault, the other cocked toward the stairs, he waited. It seemed an interminable wait, for the footsteps grew louder by the instant, but at last he heard the muffled thud of the lock rods. Quickly, he grasped the door handle with both hands and gave it a sharp twist to the left. There was a faint hissing noise as the hydraulic system in the ceiling was activated. For good measure, he worked the handle one final time before he turned to face the entranceway.
Shoes appeared on the staircase. Ruxton froze against the vault door. Legs came into view, slowly descending the last few steps. Ruxton stopped breathing, numb and petrified, with no place left to run. He watched in horror as the tall figure limped across the bottom landing and paused just outside the entranceway. They stared at each other, and again the face constricted in that hideous smile.
Suddenly a series of explosive reports, almost like firecrackers, detonated within the wall over the entranceway. Ruxton's eyes flicked upward—he knew the retaining bolts had been sheared—but the figure outside remained motionless. Merely watching, the grin broader. Then the room vibrated with a deep rumble; seam appeared along the overhead section of the entranceway, and a wedge of rock emerged. The rumble intensified, became an agonized groan of rock on rock, and in the next instant, a massive stone slab dropped downward into the entranceway.
The crypt was sealed.
Ruxton's knees went rubbery with relief, and he slowly let out his breath. Then he saw it and couldn't quite believe his good fortune. A thick plexiglass window was centered in the stone slab. It was perfect! An unexpected boon and a fitting end to this madness. With the entranceway blocked, he could watch in absolute safety while the guards overpowered Tanner . . . Brokaw . . . the lunatic outside.
In a fit of laughter, almost delirious with joy, Ruxton ran to the window. The face on the other side peered back at him, eyes glittering brightly, the grotesque smile even broader. Ruxton grinned and gave him the finger. No reaction. But the opportunity was tantalizing, too tempting to resist. He put his face to the window, forming long drawn-out syllables, as though talking to a lip reader.
"Sc
rew-w you-u-u!"
Still no reaction. If anything, the features became all the more monstrous, radiating a sort of satanic bliss. Which was strange, and curiously disturbing. Ruxton thought by now he'd be frothing at the mouth. Or at the very least frustrated and angry that he'd been outwitted. Instead, he looked happy, almost exhilarated.
A grating sound distracted Ruxton, slowly filling the chamber again with that deep rumble. The groan of rock on rock. Surprised, he turned away from the door. Then his face went ghastly and his eyes widened in disbelief.
The entire west wall was rising ponderously into the ceiling.
Seawater rushed through the opening. A mere trickle at first, it became a surging torrent as the crack between floor and wall yawned wider. A pulsating roar, not unlike the pounding beat of the surf, was clearly audible on the other side of the wall. The water deepened, churning and boiling, sloshing across the floor in angry waves. Seaweed and flotsam skimmed along on the rising crest, and then, with a swift dreamlike suddenness, the wall simply vanished behind a thunderous mountain of ocean.
Ruxton screamed. And when the salt spray lapped at his face, he screamed louder.
Outside, the screams were merely silent howls of terror. Ruxton had his face pressed to the window, pounding desperately on the stone slab, but no sound escaped the crypt. The plexiglass offered a clear view of Ruxton's frenzied horror. He was begging, mutely imploring mercy, deliverance.
His pleas were wasted. The tall figure peering through the window chortled softly to himself. He looked on with a sense of pride and accomplishment as seawater flooded the crypt. Everything had functioned perfectly, exactly as he'd planned it so long ago. Thirty years meant nothing! Time was never a factor, not when the design was right.
And the concept! Never had he imagined how intoxicating it would be to watch it in operation. There was a sense of poetic justice here today. Brutal, even atavistic, but nonetheless man's oldest law: simple vengeance for a wrong done.
