Chapter 11
Heathrow Airport, London... Tuesday, 10 a.m.
William Sloan paced restlessly outside the doors of the arrivals area. He knew Heathrow like the back of his hand... Lord knows... he'd passed through these concourses enough times since he'd come to London, to the Ruling House.... How long ago?... Twenty years. He shook his head at the thought, and felt every single year of those two decades.
Heathrow was like airports all around the world... clean... soulless. The only differences were languages on the signs, directing you to customs, baggage claim, taxis, telephones.
He glanced at his watch again. "Goddammit, Boyle.... What's keeping you?"
At last, the first passengers from American Airlines 111 began to appear... tired businessmen, looking for chauffeurs... vacationers, wheeling impossibly full suitcases. Finally, Nick appeared with his small duffle bag, slung over his shoulder.
"You took your time," Sloan snapped. "This way." He turned on his heels and hurried towards the doors before the other man had a chance to open his mouth.
Nick hurried to catch up with the retreating figure. "What's the news?"
"You tell me," the older man replied. "I was hoping that Limey bastard might have confided in you.... You seemed to have favored nation status."
"Confide?... Kincaid?..." Nick gave a sarcastic chuckle and shook his head sadly. "All I got was a call in the middle of the night telling me to get over here... ASAP... and to fly commercial... as someone other than Nick Boyle." In mid-stride, he looked over at Sloan, and realised that the older man had also grasped the significance of the "cloak and dagger" approach.
"Car's over here." Sloan led the way to the "short stay" parking, opposite the terminal. "We've got a long drive. Traffic'll be bad this time of day."
"I know where we're going," Nick stated tersely, remembering another hurried trip to the Dorset hospital. "I've been there before."
Sloan grunted his response as they settled into his sleek, black Mercedes. As he started the engine, he glanced over at his companion... and really looked at him for the first time. Nick probably hadn't slept since that phone call... more than twenty-four hours for the former SEAL. "You look rough," he muttered. "Try and grab a couple hours' shut-eye."
Nick raised an eyebrow, but decided against commenting on the other man's disheveled appearance. "Sleep wasn't on my list of priorities." He looked round the car slyly admiring the sleek machine with its darkened windows and powerful engine. It was a good car for someone in their line of work... and it had William Sloan written all over it. "You got any coffee?" he asked.
"In the back...." Sloan indicated with a nod of his head. "In the thermos... strong enough to grow hair on your chest.... There's some stale bagels in the paper bag.... Didn't they feed you on the plane?"
Nick shuddered. "You tasted airline coffee?" He poured himself a cup of the still hot liquid. It smelled good, like real coffee should. He downed it in one gulp, screwed the lid back on the thermos, then dry washed his face and cricked his neck back and forth. Adjusting the car seat, he stretched out and got as comfortable as possible.... He should try to get some sleep. "Whatever we find, Derek will need me alert," his military mind reasoned.
"Have you tried Kincaid lately?" Sloan asked. "All I get is voice mail."
The younger man nodded and yawned. "Tried as soon as we landed.... Nothing." Half-closing his eyes, he watched Sloan's driving through his lashes. He noted the older man's regular checking of the rear view mirror, as he made sure they weren't being followed. Nick relaxed.... Some things you never forget, he decided, sinking back into the seat with a tired, silent sigh.
< < + > >
Wells Ward...
Derek lay on his side, exhausted, panting, drenched in sweat. From somewhere in his mind, consciousness rose from the darkness. His nose itched. A single, maddening drop trickled down, alongside his nostril. Reflexively, he sought to brush it away, but could not. Too tired to try again, he wiggled his nose, in an attempt to sooth the annoyance.
Why couldn't he swipe it away?... Why couldn't he move?... Slowly, he opened his eyes. "Where?" he murmured. What was he seeing? He struggled through the fogginess of his mind and vision. His heart pounded against his chest. "Calm down," his mind told his body. "Slow, deep breaths.... Focus." What was this darkness around his face.... He could see a shadow from the corners of his eyes, above his brows. Up, left, right... darkness. Why?... Ahead... a greyness... grey walls... grey floor.... If he focused on the surface a few inches in front of his nose, he could make out a basket weave of threads... rough cloth... padding.... He was lying on a padded floor.
Why did his own blood throb so loudly in his ears, when all else was silence? Something... on my head... he realized. It fits tight.... That's what I'm seeing.... Why I can't hear.... He tried to scrape the "thing" off on the floor. He could feel the slickness of perspiration, but the "thing" wouldn't budge.... Something pinched.... He worked his jaw to ease the discomfort... felt something gripping his chin.... A strap with a rubber chin cup... that's what it was. "What the hell?" he muttered. It's padded... not meant to hurt.... Doesn't cover your face.... A sparing helmet?... Were Nick and I working out and he kicked my ass... knocked me out.... "No," he reasoned. "He'd be here... guilt-ridden and hovering.... This isn't the gym at Angel Island.... Never mind.... You're OK!" he gasped. "Just breathe... in... out." Spittle dripped from the corner of his mouth... tickling. God! He was so tired... so thirsty. Every joint and muscle ached. His lower back was agony.... Viselike pain gripped his head, bringing tears to his eyes.
He tried to look down his body, but found his back held stiff... his neck unbending. There was only forward.... He could only look forward. The collar's back on he suddenly realized. He remembered the feel of it.... The soft pressure it placed on his Adam's apple and the base of his skull. Panic ground through his stomach. There was nothing else! There were no other memories! What was this place? How had he come here?... and the most indescribable terror of all.... Who am I?
"Calm down!" he told himself, fighting off a wave of vertigo and blurred vision. A chill coursed down his spine. "You'll remember.... It'll pass.... 'This too shall pass...'." That was a memory.... He was sure of it.... "This too shall pass...." Cling to that... and details.... He'd remembered Nick and Angel Island... so it was all still there.... Focus on the details of now.... "Other than the aches... are you injured?" he asked himself.... "Does anything feel like a wound or a break?" He forced the bile down from his throat. "Where are your hands?" He wiggled his fingers... tried to get a sense of how his body was positioned. "OK... hands are under my arms... criss-crossed... inside rough fabric.... Fingers work.... What about feet?" He swiveled his ankles and slid his legs forward. They, at least, could move freely. He cast his gaze downward through his lashes to glimpse his bare feet, protruding from grey and white striped pajama pants.... On the edge of his vision, he could see his folded arms, encased in tan cavas. He pushed his torso forward... testing the "thing" that held him fast.... His foggy mind studied the problem.... Could he work it upwards, perhaps over his head?... A pressure brought pain between his legs.... Something, held it taut. Again, he eased his rigid body forward.... He'd endure the pain to see this "thing".
Canvas... webbed straps... leather... at his groin... between his legs.... Somewhere... in his memory... was what this "thing" was... why it bound him. He wiggled again, strained to sit up... until his abdominal muscles seized. He fell back... hard... gasping in pain... gasping for breath. Though his legs were free, he was weak and off balance.... His body was top-heavy, unable to bend... without leverage.... He was doomed to grovel around on the tiny room's padded floor like a snake or to flop about like a fish out of water.
The attempt had taken what little strength he had. "Rest," he cautioned himself, fighting down the nausea that surged upward. "Face it... you're stuck."
Then the realization slammed into his gut with the force of a bullet.... A straightjacket!... A padded cell!.... Insanity!... Alstublieft, Gott!....
No!... I'm Derek!... Panic choked him... seizing every atom of his body. "Precept!" he gasped, then gagged at the stench of his own fear.... "No!" he screamed, clutching at lucidity as it slipped away. "Help me!" he wept. "Nooooo!!!!... I'm Derek!"A blaze of light and cold, vicious concrete bit into his soul. He retched at the odor of rotting flesh. He could see his body, now naked and paralyzed, cloaked with the slime of putrid, maggot-ridden entrails. The squeaks and gnawing of rats entered his mind, even as their curious noses tickled his lips, explored between his legs, and sought to enter his body.
With eyes squeezed tightly shut... and teeth clamped against the vermin, he screamed, and screamed again.
Then another world blasted through the dizzy maze of what some small, dying part of his consciousness told him must be the reality of a mad house. Pain seemed to sear every inch of his body, inside and out. Again, he looked down... to see a mass of raw, charred flesh... skinless, hairless... nothing more than a lump of cooked meat. He writhed in agony and screamed until there was no voice left.
Dear, God! Had he slipped back to the "other" world? Was this the body of his "twin-self"? Was this what the destruction of the Portal had wrought?... No! Not the same!... Was this the reality of Hell?... A body and soul stripped by hellfire and brimstone of all senses but pain?
Again came the image that he knew to be born of the "Sight".... Square, white posts.... a tidal wave of flame... black, red, orange... followed by a boiling avalanche, flecked with white feathers, floating on the updrafts.... Birds?... Angels?... Souls?
"Gott!" he wailed. "Alstublieft!... Helppppp!!!!!"
< < + > >
Dorset...
Nick woke suddenly. Startled, he looked around. The tenor of the engine had changed. The car had slowed. They'd left the smooth surface of the main highway and were now heading down a rough country lane. Tall, green hedgerows lined the road; lush fields of golden wheat rippled in a gentle breeze.
He recognised the church steeple on the horizon and realized they were approaching the village of Wyre Piddle. "We're here," he announced.
Nodding, Sloan carefully maneuvered the large car through the narrow gate and pulled up next to Kincaid's Jaguar. Through a haze of cigarette smoke and condensation, he made out the Brit, huddled in the back seat with a blanket wrapped about him. Stepping from the car, he pecked sharply on the window.
Kincaid uncoiled himself and crawled stiffly from the low slung vehicle. He ground out his cigarette with the toe of his Italian loafer, then stretched. "Nasty habit... I know.... Lately, some vices seem unimportant."
Sloan eyed the large number of cigarette butts littering the gravel, but refrained from comment. "Where is he?" he demanded. "Let's get on with this, shall we?"
Nick glanced up at the large, country house and remembered his last visit to Wells Ward. The ivy had been cut back to reveal more of the warm, yellow brick. It was a gorgeous day with a clear, blue sky and a gentle sun that bathed the house in gold and glanced off the windows with a blinding ferocity. "Get a grip, Boyle," he ordered himself. Squaring his shoulders, he was ready.
"Before you go in, we need to talk," said Ian. "There's a pub down the road.... They do a decent ploughman's." He read Nick's crinkled brows. "Homemade bread, local cheese, pickle, salad.... You know... lunch."
"I want to see him... now," Sloan insisted.
"Maybe...," the Brit countered enigmatically. "But this is for his sake... not
yours. I want you to know what to expect.... I want you prepared.... No nasty
emotional shocks for him to pick up on.... Trust me," Kincaid said... his tone self-mocking, knowing full well that it would be a cold day in hell before William Sloan
ever trusted him.
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