The Second Coming of Lucas Brokaw Read online

  It was sheer braggadocio, but it contained a kernel of truth, and the director glowered at Tanner. "By what authority did you perpetrate this farce? Were you merely indulging a whim, Mr. Tanner, or have you taken leave of your senses?"

  "Actually, neither one. I wanted to see that machine in operation, and Santini just happened along at the right time. Even if he'd broken the code, I would have stopped him from going any further."

  "Irresponsible! Wholly indefensible!" Knox's tone was clipped and stiff, and he stabbed out at Santini with a bony finger. "This man will go scot-free! Do you realize that, Mr. Tanner? What you've done constitutes entrapment, and we haven't the slightest chance of prosecuting him."

  Tanner shrugged. "It was a calculated risk. I needed some answers, and our friend here gave them to me. Offhand, I'd say we came out ahead."

  "That remains to be seen!" Knox sputtered to a halt, aware that Santini was listening with rapt attention. "We'll discuss your reasons another time. In privacy." He wheeled around and stalked from the crypt. "Follow me, Mr. Haskell or Santini or whatever it is you call yourself. And if you will, sir, please don't speak to me. I've had more than enough irritation for one day!"

  As they went through the entranceway, Stacey moved away from the machine and halted in front of Tanner. She gave him an eloquent look. "I don't know if this is a compliment or not, but you're the first man I've ever met who could make the director lose his cool."

  "No harm done. He'll calm down when I explain."

  "Then you found out what you wanted to know?"

  "Not altogether," Tanner admitted. "But at least I've proved my hunch. Brokaw meant for that code to be broken."

  "And I suppose you have a very logical argument to support your theory?"

  "As a matter of fact . . . I seem to recall a liquor cabinet up in the study. Why don't I tell you about it over a drink?"

  "Isn't it a little early? You know what they say about daytime drinkers."

  Tanner laughed. "Let 'em talk! Today's special and I feel like celebrating. Besides, the afternoon's half gone anyway."

  "Perhaps so, but we really should get back to the foundation. I mean, after all that's happened . . . the director probably . . . I'm sure he'll be expecting us."

  "To tell you the truth, I got the distinct impression he'd seen enough of me for one day. Suppose we play hooky and give him time to cool off?"

  "Well, since I drove out with you, I guess he wouldn't expect . . ."

  "That's right, he wouldn't. And if you need an excuse, just tell him you couldn't let me drink alone."

  Stacey hesitated a moment, then she smiled and took his arm. "Why not? You've earned a celebration."

  "Damned if I haven't. Come on, we'll hoist one to our friend Santini, and if you twist my arm, I might even take you to dinner."

  Tanner led the way out of the crypt, then stepped aside, releasing her arm as she started up the stairs. Stacey glanced at him as she went past, and he caught a hint of something he hadn't seen before. It was a curious look, almost an appraisal. But somehow enticing, a look of promise.

  "So as it turned out, all I had to do was keep my mouth shut and let Santini finish his act."

  "His act!" Stacey exclaimed. "Oooh no, you're the actor! And I'm not sure I like that very much either. The least you could have done was tell me. Or don't you trust me to keep a secret?"

  Tanner caught it again, in her voice this time. Something mischievous and teasing, strangely like a dare. Or perhaps an invitation. But he couldn't be certain. Since entering the study, he'd felt on edge, sensed that she felt it too. There was a peculiar sort of tension between them, like a couple of kids on a blind date, circling warily, drawn ever closer, yet somehow afraid to touch. Still, she kept giving him those glances and her voice seemed . . .

  He almost laughed. Coquettish was hardly a term applicable to Stacey Cameron. But there was definitely a change, apparent from the moment he'd aced Knox down in the crypt. A curious blend of intimacy, elusive but sultry.

  Then, too, they were already on their second drink, another sign in itself. Tension and jittery nerves acted like a sponge on alcohol, and neither of them had wasted any time on the first round. A thought nagged at him, and while he couldn't discount it, he knew a great deal would be lost if he were wrong. He splashed Scotch into their glasses, still very much in a quandary, and turned back from the liquor cabinet.

  She stood by the window watching him. When he handed her the glass, she accepted it with a faint nod. Then he remembered her question. Altogether preoccupied, he'd forgotten to answer, and saw now that she was waiting. He shrugged, offering her a lame smile.

  "Sorry, guess I strayed off for a minute. Now, as to your question, the answer is an emphatic, unqualified yes. I'd trust you with my last ten bucks. But—consider carefully now!—if I had told you about Santini, would you have gone along with the idea? Be honest, you won't hurt my feelings."

  "I might have." She took a sip of her drink, gazing at him over the rim of the glass. "Maybe it would have taken a little convincing, but then, you're a very convincing man."

  "Oh, am I now? And what brought you to that conclusion?"

  "The way you handled the director was very convincing."

  "How so?"

  "I don't know . . . you just seemed so sure of yourself."

  "Like I had things under control."

  "Yes, exactly. You were very confident and self-assured and . . . well, sort of in command. It's really true, you know, that old adage . . . confidence is contagious."

  "So I've heard. Anything else?"

  "Now you're fishing for compliments."

  "Never!"

  "Yes, you are. I'm serious, and all you're looking for is a little ego massage."

  "Perish the thought."

  "See, now you're making fun of me! And don't deny it, I can tell. You always get that very tolerant grin on your face when you're amused by someone."

  "Are you really serious?"

  "Of course I am. It was perfect . . . the way you set it up and fooled . . ."

  "Not that. You know what I mean."

  Her expression changed. She tilted her head to one side, very somber now, and searched his face intently. A long moment of deliberation passed in silence, and they both understood she was on the verge of decision.

  The light from the window sent flecks of amber and gold dancing through her hair. A warm, smoky look touched her eyes, and once again he was struck by the exotic, wildfire quality of her beauty. Slowly, like the stirring of a faint breeze, he became aware of the scent of her, sensual and cloyed with a heavy musk smell, beyond temptation.

  Suddenly he was afraid, unwilling to risk her decision. Not until she knew how he felt. Not unless she trusted him and believed. He took the glass from her hand and set it with his own on a nearby table. She waited, silent and still, watching as he moved closer, touched her hair, gently brushed a stray curl from her forehead. Then his hand cupped her chin, their eyes met, and his voice was barely audible.

  "Some things in life . . . you never know unless you try."

  Her lips parted and he kissed her, warm and soft, almost tenderly. She trembled. A hot yearning flooded her body and her arms slowly encircled his neck. Then she came up on tiptoe and kissed him with a fierce, demanding urgency. His embrace tightened, banding them together, and he felt the movement of her hips. Suddenly she moaned and pulled away, buried her face into his chest, holding him with a wild, desperate possession.

  "Oh, Warren, I want you. I need you. I've always needed you."

  She pressed against his hardness and he groaned. "Jesus God! It's a two-hour drive back to your place."

  "I can't wait. I've already waited too long."

  "We could go upstairs. One of the bedrooms."

  "No, not there. The housekeeper . . . she'd know."

  "The fireplace. There's a bearskin rug . . . I could build a fire."

  "Oh, yes. But the door . . . lock the door."

  He kis
sed the tip of her nose, then walked quickly to the door and twisted the key. A whispery, rustling sound filled the room, and as he turned back, her skirt dropped to the floor. Their eyes met, a fragmented heartbeat frozen in time.

  Then she smiled and began unbuttoning her blouse.

  VII

  The sun settled into the ocean with a spray of fire.

  As dusk fell over the coastline, bats began stitching through the sky, and Curt Ruxton slowly lowered his binoculars. He was seated in the grove of redwoods that bordered the estate, hidden by the shadow of the forest. On a slight elevation, his position commanded a sweeping view of the grounds and the mansion.

  This was the fifth day he'd come here, and it would be his last. The pattern was clear now, confirmed a moment ago when a guard and his attack dog had halted short of the cliffs and turned back along the fenceline. The implications of that single act, at last verified, swept over him so suddenly he felt as if his ears had come unplugged.

  It could be done! At night, under the cover of darkness, by way of the sea. Not easily nor without considerable risk. But their vaunted security system wasn't so impregnable after all, and it could be done.

  His eyebrows drew together in a thoughtful frown, and he examined all he'd learned. Slowly, carefully, he sifted through it for the slightest flaw.

  In idle moments, he had toyed with the idea for nearly a month now, but he'd begun thinking of it in earnest less than ten days ago, the day the newspapers had reported an attempted hoax by one Alberto Santini and how he'd been exposed only at the last minute. A slick-talking con man had actually brazened his way into the mansion and the underground chamber. Of greater significance, if the stories were to be believed, he had come within a hair of outwitting the cryptography machine.

  To Ruxton, who had analyzed the stories thoroughly, a couple of things were apparent. Cryptanalysis was not a science to be mastered in a mere six months, and Santini had attempted a caper that demanded not one but several highly specialized skills. Any hope of success was clearly predicated on unraveling the secrets of Lucas Brokaw's crypt before approaching the foundation. And an individual, no matter how clever, could never accomplish that alone. The job called for an ultrasecret ferreting operation performed by a team of specialists. Only at the very last, with all the answers committed to memory, could a front man hope to pass himself off as Brokaw reincarnated.

  Yet it could be done. He was certain of that now.

  As darkness enveloped the land, he climbed to his feet and moved off through the redwoods toward his car. But he'd gone only a few paces when he suddenly stopped and laughed aloud, struck by a thought that had defied words until this very moment.

  The fact that Lucas Brokaw could be reincarnated was almost irrelevant. The world was full of weirdos who accepted that as an article of faith. What separated him from the dreamers was logic, intellect, knowledge. Like water slowly formed into an icicle, his fantasy had crystallized and become reality. He had the very thing all the others had missed. The key.

  Not only could it be done, he knew how to do it.

  An hour later he entered the apartment.

  Jill was puttering around in the kitchen, apparently overcome by one of her infrequent seizures of domesticity. Birkhead was sprawled out as usual on the sofa. A quick glance confirmed that neither of them was high, and he decided to lay it on them before the evening ritual got under way.

  What he was about to propose called for clear heads and straight thinking. So he ignored their greetings, feigning some deep, inner preoccupation, which had the immediate effect of putting them on guard. Whenever he suffered a low mood they had learned to treat him with extreme deference. It was a trick he could now perform at will, and he often used it merely to keep them in line.

  Jill tagged along from the kitchen, and he waved her to the sofa while he seated himself before the fireplace. A long silence ensued as he stared into the flames. Then, at last, he turned and leveled them with a piercing gaze.

  "I've decided to pass myself off as Lucas Brokaw reincarnated."

  His words claimed their attention like a clap of thunder. Birkhead jerked erect, staring at him, and Jill blinked, utterly bewildered, her mouth frozen in a breathless oval. Ruxton waited with spidery patience, allowing time for the shock to wear off. There was something of the phoenix about him—he forever arose anew and revitalized from their debaucheries—that gave him a source of strength his playmates lacked. In moments of reflection, particularly when he was stoned on pot, he often thought of himself as their messiah. Now he awaited their reaction. That they would be dumbfounded and perplexed he never doubted for an instant. Nor was he concerned. He would guide them and instruct them.

  It took Birkhead a long while to realize the statement hadn't been made in jest. Finally, he shook his head, one eye cocked awry. "You're serious, aren't you? Honest to Christ serious . . . you really mean it!"

  "Never more serious in my life. And I owe it all to you, old buddy. The idea germinated from our little talk about reincarnation. I simply added the finishing touches."

  "Then you're out of your gourd! That was over a month ago. And we were all stoned. Hell, you even gave me a big put-down . . . said I was spaced out. Remember?"

  Ruxton regarded him with great calmness. "You're not listening, Monk. I didn't say I've been converted by all that nonsense. I merely said I intend to pass myself off as Lucas Brokaw."

  "Oh, is that all?" Birkhead jeered. "Just a quick snow job and zappo! they buy your impersonation. Where's your head at, Curt? People have been trying that ever since Brokaw croaked, and nobody's pulled it off yet."

  "You're talking apples and oranges. And in case you've forgotten, I'm not people. I function on a whole different level, so let's hear no more garbage about the masses. Got it straight, old buddy?"

  "Hey, come on, Curt! Get off my back, will you? I didn't mean anything personal. It just sounds like bad news, that's all. Think about it a minute! Jesus Christ, they could put us in the slammer and throw away the key on a deal like this."

  "That's precisely my point. I have been thinking about it. Or, to be more correct, I've already thought it out. What if I told you I've spent the last five days doing a cloak-and-dagger routine on the Brokaw estate?"

  Birkhead groaned. "I don't even wanna hear about it."

  "And what if I told you I've figured out a way for us to get our hands on the Brokaw fortune? The plan I have in mind is still a little rough around the edges, but essentially it's all we need to get the job done."

  "Aww, holy shit! You've got rocks in your head. Those foundation guys are pros, real pros. You try working a scam on them and we'll lose everything we've got. The school and the franchise operation, the whole goddamn show. All of it!"

  "One more time, Monk. Same song, second verse, so pay attention. If I had the brains to put all that together—and never so much as a squawk out of anyone—then I've got the brains to steer clear of anything I can't handle. Now quit hassling me for a minute and maybe you'll remember what separates the foxes from the oxes."

  Ruxton's point was well taken. Their franchise operation amounted to little more than extortion. Outwardly legitimate, it involved a maze of fine print backed by implied threats that siphoned off a lion's share of the profits to the parent company. While Birkhead nodded, digesting the thought, his gaze settled on Jill. "What about you, kitten? It's one for all and all for one. So don't be bashful, speak up."

  Jill hugged herself, suddenly chilled, and gave him a brittle smile. "Truthfully, it scares the hell out of me. And Monk's right, luv. The people at that foundation aren't dumdums. So it could get hairy, especially if we're caught. But on the other hand—"

  "Go ahead, don't stop now. On the other hand—what?"

  Jill giggled mischievously and hugged herself tighter. "Well, not that I'm greedy or anything, but it's an awful lot of money. And if you have a plan that really would work, then maybe we ought to try it. Just for kicks. You know, like in the movies. A cap
er."

  "Hear that, Monk? The lady votes 'yea' for a caper. So how about it . . . still got the balls for a little action?"

  "Don't worry about my balls!" Birkhead flared angrily. "Come on, big shot. Lay it out! We'll see who backs off first."

  Ruxton looked like a tiger who had just eaten his keeper. He lounged back in his chair, gazing out the window at the harbor lights, and his smirk slowly widened into a smug grin. Then he told them what he had in mind.

  VIII

  Again be got that sharp stab of déjà vu.

  Night was coming on, and to the west billowing clouds scudded across a cobalt horizon. Standing at the window, Tanner watched the dying flare of day disappear into the ocean.

  It was as though it had all happened before.

  Not yesterday or last week, but at some distant, long ago time he couldn't quite remember. And still it was the same. Precisely as he saw it in his mind's eye. There in the study, looking out over the coastline, mesmerized by a sunset forever quenched in a watery grave.

  A sudden chill settled over him and passed just as quickly. Yet it left a residue of uneasiness, some deeper sensation that refused to be shunted aside. It was a feeling he often had these days, vague and disjointed, fuzzy in the way of an elusive dream. Certain parts of the grounds and the mansion now had a haunting familiarity; standing at the study window was particularly disconcerting. Perhaps oddest of all was that he traced it directly to his experiment with Alberto Santini.

  Tanner hadn't come away from the incident with anything near the equanimity he pretended. The director had eventually simmered down, satisfied Tanner had acted in the best of interests of the foundation (if not altogether pleased with his secretive methods). And Stacey, vastly impressed by the way he'd handled both the investigation and Hamilton Knox, thought it a marvelous piece of improvisation. But Tanner found himself more troubled than before, disquieted rather than encouraged by what he'd learned.

  Curiously, in the aftermath of the incident, he had grown increasingly concerned about the underground chamber. Although his hunch bad been confirmed—the code was meant to be broken—the implications were far more sinister than he'd first suspected. The cryptography machine was merely bait! Lucas Brokaw had apparently put it there, exposed and vulnerable, with the very sure knowledge that someone would unscramble the cipher. Which led to an inescapable conclusion.