by Braun, Matt;
Of course he'd tricked Ruxton, lured him into the trap. But the sneaky bastard was an intruder in this house anyway. No better than a common ghoul! So what he got was little more than he deserved. Very final and damned appropriate.
"Oooh . . . God . . . no!"
He turned and saw her descend the last few steps. Her face was pale, one hand pressed to her mouth, but she was a vision of loveliness. The ruby pendant sparkled like dull fire against her breast, and in the dim light her russet evening gown seemed as dark as her hair. Yet that sense of vibrancy, undiminished by shadows or cold stone, radiated stronger than ever. She was exquisite.
Stacey halted at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes were fixed on the window—-on the insane face screaming soundlessly into glass—and she seemed to shrink back. Her stomach felt queasy. Something vile and brackish clogged her throat, but she knew she mustn't fall apart. She swallowed hard and clutched at the wall for support.
Then she felt his gaze, willed herself to look at him. There was an icy blue tint to his eyes, cruel and demonic, of another world. And when he spoke it was the voice of another man, a voice out of the past.
"You shouldn't have come down here, my dear. Now I don't mean to sound harsh, but I want you to wait for me upstairs. I'll join you shortly."
"No, I can't . . . I won't . . . oh, please, don't do it!" Ruxton saw her; suddenly his pounding became more frenetic. The water had risen to the bottom of the window, and he was struggling desperately not to be swept away. She kept her eyes averted, forcing herself to remain calm, and came down the last step. "Please, I'm asking you . . . let him out."
"Stephanie, I've always indulged you, but this time you're out of bounds. It's none of your affair! So be a good girl and run along upstairs."
It was unreal. Utterly, incomprehensibly unreal. Yet the name erased any vestige of doubt—he'd called her Stephanie!—and she knew it was true. His other self at last had possession. He was no longer Warren Tanner. He was now Lucas Brokaw.
Stacey took a deep breath and steadied herself. It was a desperate gamble, but she had to try. If he wouldn't do it for her, then perhaps he would do it for Stephanie. She willed herself to play the part—to become Stephanie Brokaw—and boldly crossed the line into his macabre nightmare.
"Lucas, listen to me! Surely you can stop it somehow. There must be a way. There has to be!"
"Of course there's a way. But I don't want to stop it. Damnit, Stephanie, don't you understand . . . he's got it comin'." He considered a moment, then the harsh look softened and he extended his hand. "C'mon. Long as you're here, you might as well see the finale. It's a real lulu, if I do say so myself."
His hand was cold and clammy, and she was appalled by the fierce gleam in his eye. Abruptly, it dawned on her that he really wasn't angry at all. He was exultant-enormously dazzled by himself and the wonder of what he'd done, almost giddy with delight now that he had an audience. And she had only to glance through the window to find the reason.
Ruxton gaged and spat, coughing seawater every time he screamed. But the thrashing and fighting, all his horrid shrieks for mercy, were to no avail. A surge of water washed over him and his head momentarily went under. Bubbles spouted from his mouth, then his eyes popped, and like a goldfish in a bowl, he floated to the top of the window.
Stacey clamped a hand to her mouth, felt the sting of tears. Yet she sensed there was still time, if only she could find the right words. Her eyes never left the window, but a look of repugnance came over her face and she slowly shook her head.
"This isn't the work of my husband."
"How's that?"
"You heard me, Lucas. The man I married wouldn't stoop to anything so . . . so barbaric."
"Now that's infernal nonsense and you know it. He's a swindler and a murderer. . . goddamnit, he tried to steal everything we've got!"
"Lucas, you can talk till doomsday and it won't change a thing. It's still revolting and . . . well, it's simply beneath a man of your stature."
"Awww, for chrissakes. You got no call to say that. I mean, hell's bells . . . it's no more'n he deserves!"
"I'm sorry, Lucas, but that doesn't make it right. You've degraded yourself—and our home!—and I'm thoroughly ashamed of you."
"Ashamed! Judas Priest, what would you have me do . . . pin a medal on him?"
"No, but I expect you to act like a man of decency and breeding. Let the law handle it, that's all I'm asking."
"Damnnation, it's got nothing to do with the law. It's personal!"
"Then do it for me. Won't you, Lucas . . . please . . . just for me? Before it's too late. . . ."
He frowned, muttering to himself, and finally threw up his hands in defeat. Stacey held her breath, waiting, not sure he would act in time. But he gave her a hang-dog look, sighed heavily, and stepped back. Then he stretched high, raising his arm above the arched entranceway, and placed his hand on the wall. He pushed hard, straining against the rock; slowly a section of the wall separated and moved, depressed inward. Stacey's eyes widened and she stifled a gasp. In the dim light the section of rock was barely visible, but its outline was unmistakable.
It was shaped like a small tombstone.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stiffen, head slightly cocked, listening intently. Then she heard it, the distant throb of machinery. He smiled, nodding to himself, and in the next instant a roaring whoosh shook the walls.
Everything inside the crypt blurred in a sudden vortex of turbulence. The sea wall began to close; distant pumps sucked water from the chamber through hidden floor ducts. Ruxton's mouth opened in a scream as he was whisked past the window in a swirl of water. Swiftly, within a matter of seconds, the roiling foam subsided. Then the pumps went silent and suddenly the water was gone. Several moments passed, then the floor vibrated with a faint humming noise. There was a massive groan, and as though on command, the stone slab rose back into its recess above the entranceway.
The crypt stood damp and silent, moist with the smell of brine. Ruxton lay sprawled in the corner, jammed up against the sea wall. His legs were tangled in the wreckage of the table, and the cryptography machine was wedged underneath one shoulder. He moaned, slowly regaining his senses, and rolled sideways out of the debris. Then he retched, heaving convulsively, and began spewing seawater across the floor.
"Thank you, Lucas." Stacey came up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "You did the right thing, and I'm very proud of you."
His eyes were fixed on Ruxton. "Maybe so, but I still say he'd have been a helluva lot less trouble dead than he is alive."
"On the contrary, if he were dead, it would be much more difficult to explain. This way, it's all very simple."
"Think so, huh?"
"Yes, I do." She gestured upward, indicating the section of stone above the entranceway. "That was the last secret, wasn't it? The one you revealed to . . . Warren Tanner."
For a moment, Stacey thought she had gone too far. He continued to stare at Ruxton, who was still coughing up his insides. Finally, he grunted and gave her a sharp glance. "Guess it was pretty obvious, wasn't it?"
"Symbolic, yes. Obvious, no."
"Yeah?" His expression brightened. "How's that?"
"Oh, really, Lucas! A grave filled with water and a blank tombstone? No one would ever have connected that with the disaster clause. I certainly didn't. Not till I saw what the disaster was and how you opened the crypt."
"Nifty as hell too!" He uttered a low gloating laugh and peered around the crypt. "Yessir, thirty years and it still worked like a Swiss clock. Better, by God!"
"And that means your fortune is safe, doesn't it?" Stacey suddenly had to know, felt compelled to ask. "But who's to claim it . . . you or Warren Tanner?"
His laugh dissolved into a slow, lopsided smile. He limped across the chamber, stooped down, and slung Ruxton over his shoulder. Then he walked back to her and nodded in the direction of the stairs.
"Let's get a move on! I've got some details to tidy up."
/> XXXII
The day was bright as new brass, without a cloud in the sky. An unseasonably warm breeze drifted in off the ocean as they emerged from the mansion. Ruxton was still slung over his shoulder, and he led the way down the pavilion steps. Stacey had not yet regained her composure, but daylight and fresh air were like an instant tonic after the horrors of the crypt. She was peppering him with questions, determined to hear the entire story detail by detail, however gruesome.
"So you knew all along . . . about the conspiracy?"
"Never any doubt!" His mood had changed, become faintly indulgent. "Except I couldn't prove it. Not till Birkhead killed Fallon and Wilson. Then it all fitted together."
"And you're absolutely certain Ruxton ordered the murders?"
"Naturally. He couldn't afford to be tied to a safe-cracker and a cryptanalyst. Hell, that would've blown the whole deal!"
He dumped Ruxton on the driveway, then grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and propped him up against the bottom step. Ruxton slumped forward, head in his hands, and promptly began coughing. He looked like a drowned cat, limp and wretched, plastered with a sleek coat of grit and ocean slime. Tendrils of seaweed matted his hair, and a puddle slowly formed around his feet.
Several moments passed as they stood watching him. At length, the coughing moderated and a bit of color returned to his face. Stacey appeared relieved but dubious.
"Proving conspiracy is one thing," she remarked, "but I'm not so sure about the murders. With everyone dead, it all seems very circumstantial."
"Not when he starts singin', it won't."
"Yes, but that's the whole point. Will he confess?"
"Easy enough to find out."
He bent down, one foot on the step, and spoke to Ruxton. "What about it, hotshot? Think you could oblige us with all the particulars?"
"Go to hell!" Ruxton croaked. "I want a lawyer."
He took a fistful of hair and jerked Ruxton's head back. A feral look surfaced in his eyes, and his mouth quirked again with that homicidal smile. "How would you like me to throw you back in that fish tank downstairs? Only this time it'd be the deep six and a long swim."
Ruxton froze, transfixed by the icy stare. Then his lips moved, leaking spittle. "You're crazy."
"Crazy enough, that's for damn sure. So what's it gonna be—me or the law?"
"The law." Ruxton closed his eyes. "All of it. The whole story."
"Well, that's fine! Just fine."
He turned away, dusting a speck of seaweed off his hands, and smiled at Stacey. "Looks like we're all set. Ruxton says he'll talk."
"You were serious, weren't you? About putting him back in the crypt."
"If I'd had my way, he wouldn't have got out in the first place. Only did it to please . . ."
A strange look came over his face. For an instant he appeared confused, staring at her suspiciously, then he shrugged and glanced away. "Guess the reason doesn't matter. It's done and that's that."
Stacey readily conceded the point. She sensed some inner struggle in the look he'd given her. For a moment he had wavered, torn between two women, one of them dead. But she knew he'd seen her just now—not Stephanie Brokaw—and the tempo of her pulsebeat suddenly quickened. It was a hopeful sign.
A car wheeled into the driveway, and Tanner's mouth split in a jocular grin.
"Well, now, talk about good timing. Just the fellow I wanted to see!"
Hamilton Knox stepped out of the car, trailed by one of the security guards, and hurried toward them. He had the look of a rumpled owl, bleary-eyed and testy. He still hadn't quite absorbed what he'd learned at the gatehouse.
"Poor Knox," Stacey murmured, watching him approach. "All this—and he's still lost his foundation."
"Don't kid yourself. Knox is hard as nails! Course today won't be one of his better days. He's in for a few surprises."
"You mean the money . . . your fortune."
His smile was veiled, sphinxlike. He turned, staring thoughtfully at the mansion for a moment. "You've always liked this house, haven't you?"
"Yes, always," Stacey replied doubtfully. "Why do you ask?"
"Well, in a manner of speaking, we're about to play a little poker. Knox and me, that is. Excuse the pun, but you might say I'm drawin' to a full house."
Before she could respond, the director halted in front of them, bristling with indignation. "Would someone kindly tell me what's going on here? I've just concluded a very disagreeable conversation with a police detective, who had the audacity—"
"Knox, quit bellyachin' and let's get down to cases. You owe me ten million dollars!"
The director squinted at him, astounded. "I beg your pardon?"
"Get the wax out of your ears." His tone was clipped, trenchant. "The reward! I've got the goods on Ruxton and his pals, and you owe me ten million." He jerked his thumb at Ruxton, who was huddled in a sodden ball, staring sightlessly into space. "He's had a rough mornin', but it did him a world of good. Fact is, he can't hardly wait to start talking. Got quite a story to tell."
"You!" His finger stabbed at the guard, who snapped to attention. "Watch over our friend here, and make damn sure he behaves himself. Any monkey business and you kick him in the rump good and hard."
Then he brusquely turned away, motioning to Knox, and walked off. "C'mon, shake a leg! Stacey will fill you in on the details."
Knox was totally nonplussed. "Where are we going?"
"Little unfinished business. Just tag along. You'll find out quick enough."
Stacey and Knox exchanged a puzzled glance, then hurried after him. He took off across the lawn at a brisk pace, angling toward the cliffs. While they walked, Stacey gave the director a brief summary of everything she'd learned. The conspiracy. The raid on the crypt. The murders. The tragic events of last night and this morning. The mass of physical evidence already gathered by the FBI and the police. All of which, linked together with Ruxton's confession and Tanner's testimony, would establish an airtight case. Curt Ruxton was not Lucas Brokaw reincarnated! It had been a hoax from beginning to end.
Yet she stopped short of telling him everything. She couldn't bring herself to reveal that final truth: that the figure striding along ahead of them was, to all intents and purposes, the dead man himself. It was at once frightening and wondrous, and she simply couldn't articulate it. In some inexplicable manner, the Second Coming of Lucas Brokaw was, after all, no hoax.
He was alive and well and . . .
How very strange! His limp had disappeared. He was walking tall and straight, with no visible sign of affliction. Then she realized he had led them to the small family gravesite, and when he turned, she had to suppress a cry of astonishment. The haggard look of exhaustion was gone. His features were no longer drawn and forbidding. All physical manifestations of Lucas Brokaw had simply vanished.
He was again himself. His real self. Warren Tanner.
Hamilton Knox was no less startled by the transformation. There was something odd about Tanner's behavior this morning. Quite reminiscent, in fact, of another man he'd known. An old man, long ago, and a man he'd hoped never to meet again. Nor was he satisfied with Stacey's sketchy explanation of the peculiar circumstances surrounding the previous night. It was apparent that something ghastly had occurred in the mansion. Two highly unnatural deaths within the space of a few hours. And Ruxton reduced to a vegetable, almost catatonic with terror. It was all very strange and immediately raised a chilling possibility. But he quickly shunted the thought aside. The good of the foundation was at stake here today, and he decided to play it very cagey. Better to leave certain questions unanswered and remind himself that a wise man knew when to keep his mouth shut.
Tanner walked around the graves and halted behind the tombstone of Lucas Brokaw. Then he turned, facing them. His gaze settled on the director.
"Would you like to have your foundation back?"
"Of course! I should think that goes without saying."
"You'll need my testimony to prove
Ruxton was a phony."
"Yes, I'm sure we will." Knox pursed his lips solemnly. "But then, how else would you be entitled to the reward?"
"Good point. Except that convicting Ruxton won't turn the trick. Not by itself." Tanner smiled, savoring the moment. "In order to get your foundation back—and keep it—you've got to do away with that last secret. The one in the will."
Stacey's mouth popped open. She caught her breath, on the verge of speaking, but he hushed her with a gesture. Then he grinned, eyes boring into Knox. "Otherwise, somebody will come along one of these days and spring it on you. Exactly the way it's spelled out in the will. Matter of fact, you could just about count on it."
"Yes, I daresay you're right." Knox studied his face for a time—a long look of recognition—and at last shrugged his acceptance. "Apparently you have something specific in mind. An arrangement, no doubt."
"Yeah, something like that. Only I'd say it's more on the order of a game of showdown."
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Simple. You call the bet and I'll show you my ace in the hole."
Tanner underscored the words with a quiet note of triumph. Then his gaze shifted to Stacey. "You're sure you want the mansion? Think on it a minute. I've got a hunch the old landlord won't move out just because we move in."
"Now that you mention it," Stacey gave him a sly, mischievous look, "I rather like the idea of a haunted castle . . . yes, I'm very sure!"
"That's it, then." Tanner turned back to the director. "We'll trade. Stacey and I get the mansion—tax free, of course—and you get your foundation. Fair enough?"
"Fair! Why it's robbery . . . blackmail! The paintings alone are worth twenty million."
"Don't be greedy. Seems to me you're getting more than half the loaf . . . about $450,000,000. And the alternative is a long string of zeros."
Knox fell silent, weighing the alternative, then nodded. "Yes, I see your point." He sighed, pondering it a moment longer, and finally threw up his hands in resignation. "Very well. You have yourself a deal."
