Chapter 13
Wyre Piddle...
William Sloan's anger was palpable. As he slammed open the heavy, wooden door and stepped from "the Suckling Pig" into the mid-afternoon sun, rage hung in the air around him.
"Damn you all!" he snarled at Kincaid. "You... Barbara... Ingrid... even bloody Derek himself.... You all played me for a goddamned fool."
With Nick following at a distance, Kincaid pursued and caught the other man at the edge of the village. "Is it all about you, Willie?" he asked bitterly, stepping in front of Sloan, halting him in mid-stride. "It was necessary," he insisted, as he pulled the man into the wild flowers at the road's shoulder. Sloan jerked his arm away. "Where Derek's concerned," Ian persisted, "you have no... self-control... no perspective. You never have. You won't let go. You've never been content to let him make his own decisions. It always had to be your way... your plans for his future. You overplayed your hand once before and it cost you... but worse, it cost him his chance at what you have... a family. Then... even when you were feuding, you were spying on him... trying to manipulate from a distance... and he knew it. You're always the 'older brother'... always right... always charging in... usually with criticism... passing judgement... and even when not, your very presence has implied a lack of confidence in his abilities. Why the hell do you think he reverts to "lone wolf" every time he senses you watching?"
"That's bullshit!" Sloan growled, his eyes flashing. "...And you know it. What goes on between Derek and me is none of your damned business. Derek's impulsive... sometimes irresponsible, especially with his own life... but there's no one under God's creation whose abilities... whose bravery... whose friendship... I value more. He's my friend and always will be. Yet you didn't trust me... or his team. You tossed us... his 'friends'...." Sloan blasted out the word. "You tossed us in the same pig sty as the goddamned Ruling Council."
"I'll bet we know less than the Council," Nick injected, quietly joining the fray. He'd been uncharacteristically reserved. Kincaid's phone call had shaken him, and he had yet to recover his balance.... He wasn't sure what to think... whom to trust. Sloan seemed, at times, to despise the man, yet Nick's gut urged him to believe the Englishman... to place his confidence in Derek, as he always had.... But might not Kincaid really be the Ruling Council's man? Could the "excommunicant" persona be a masquerade... the anathema be an trick? He seemed close to Fr. Thomas, and the priest was, after all, the Council's senior advisor on many issues... including possession. Could they have manipulated Derek when he was vulnerable?... To get him here?... To get him locked away for good... as a step toward seizing control of the Luna Foundation... or at the very least... the numerous properties which the foundation leased to the Legacy?
"We thought he was in some nice, cozy, private apartment," the former SEAL finally said, "... having the skin grafts... getting his shit together.... After what happened, he deserved a 'time-out'." His voice bore traces of hurt... the pain of betrayal. "Dammit!... That's what's made all this bearable... the thought that he was getting better... stronger... that he was coming home soon. It's the only reason we've all hung in there... why I let him put that damned ring on my finger."
"Whatever you might think," Kincaid replied, "this is what he wanted. He didn't share his reasons."
"Says you," Sloan countered. "Whose hired gun are you? Whose money bought your soul this time?"
"Would you rather he'd gone it alone, like he did before? At least this way, we knew where he was." Ian sighed in weary frustration. "I swear the secrecy was necessary... for Derek's protection... for the foundation's safety... for their future... if Derek can pull out of this."
"Secrecy?... You mean deception," William flatly stated, unwilling to concede the last word. "You've played your cloak-and-dagger games for so damned long you don't know the difference." He then pushed past the old man and strode on down the lane, leaving Nick and Kincaid to follow in his wake.
< < + > >
Wells Ward...
Fr. Thomas hurried towards the padded room, trying to ignore the ache in his back that had turned his firm gait into a waddle. His brief nap had helped. He felt less tired, but he must have slept in an awkward position... or so he hoped. It was age, he told himself... plus the physical exertion and the constant bind it took to sit with Derek. Please God... that was all it was. Always the nagging doubts arrived with each little ache or pain. Had the cancer returned? Had it spread and lain hidden, biding its time until it could rally to an attack? No time for that now. He tapped on the red metal.
Carter quietly opened the door and smiled down at the old man. "Change of shift?" he asked. His hand flitted close to Joseph's elbow, ready to assist the elderly priest, if necessary, as he stepped onto the padding. "I'll be close by...," he said, leaving the "if you need me" to silence, but both men understood what lay unspoken.
The priest nodded. "Take a break," he told the former SAS man. "We'll be fine." He turned to Derek and asked, "How are you feeling?... I'm sorry I left you." He crossed the room and slowly sat down, close to his friend, then leaned back against the padded wall. "Doctor's orders. That youngster has no respect for the stamina of age," he chuckled.
The precept was quiet at the moment, rocking ever so slightly, back and forth, emitting a faint, high-pitched, keening whine. At Joseph's touch, he glanced fearfully towards the priest, then pulled away.
"Do you know, my friend... it's ironic that the treatment caused me more discomfort than the disease. Of course, the alternative...." His voice trailed away. "Old man...," he addressed himself, "stop this self-pity." He looked over at his friend. "You've got to warn Derek that he's about to receive visitors... unwanted visitors in his book... without causing him more distress."
"Dear friend," he began. Again he reached out towards the precept's arm, but held back at the last instant. "I know how many times you've laid your life on the line.... You're one of the bravest men I've ever known. Do you find me pitiable?... An old man... supposedly a man of God... afraid to die... afraid to face my own mortality. I tell myself that it's all those atrocities I've seen... victims of this or that monster... too many memories. This damned cancer... I know it's in remission... and I thank God for that, but lurking at the back of my mind... all the time... is that fear.... It's funny.... I visualize it as Jack Nicholson in that Stephen King film... ax in hand... grinning through the hole in the door... saying, 'I'm baaaaack.'" My faith is looking a little shaky, don't you think?"
Finally, slowly... he placed his hand gently on Derek's shoulder. He forced a calmness, a surety into his touch. The precept tried to turn, but was held firmly by his restraints. Joseph slid around to face him. The younger man looked up into the kindly eyes of the Legacy's expert in mass murder and demonic possession. Their gazes locked; Derek remained still. "What kind of man are you?" Joseph asked, looking into the hazel eyes that bore no resemblance to those of the Derek Rayne he'd always known. "That you can face death and spit in the bastard's eye?... It's as if you don't value your own life.... I know what our Lord said, 'There is no greater love than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends.' You've always done that... for friends... for unknown innocents... but don't you realize how much your friends value your life?
"Derek... you must come back to us. I think I know what you've done. Something happened... with West... that caused you to doubt yourself.... You always did secretly doubt yourself... your strength... your goodness... didn't you? It's where your obstinance and courage were born.... But something happened... perhaps, too much has happened.... So... you had to search within yourself. Instead of losing yourself in the wilderness without... listening for God's voice... you sought the wilderness within, but it's time to come back... no matter what you've found. Please, don't throw your life away.... It's a precious thing.... This is not the time for a noble sacrifice.... There is no nobility in... this... this horror.
"We all need you... your House... the Legacy... our Circle... but more importantly... your friends and family.... We need you back with us."
The priest grew silent for a moment, then continued, "Listen to me, rambling.... I have some news for you. Nick and William are coming to see you. They'll be here soon.... Ian's taken them to the pub in Wyre Piddle. That'll be jolly for young Nick... stuck between those old 'war horses'.... He'll need more than a pint or two to get through that lunch.... Poor boy... actually... he must be in his thirties now.... My God, I'm rambling again...." Joseph paused, hoping he had softened the news in a cascade of inconsequential blather.
His ploy failed. Derek's rocking abruptly grew more agitated. He cried aloud, "No!!!!... Fiiii....rrrreee!... No... words," he panted. "Too late!... No words.... Nooooo!!!!"
< < + > >
Ian Kincaid was not normally a man given to self-doubt. His own life and the lives of others had always depended on his ability to make correct, snap decisions, but at the moment, lagging behind, watching Sloan's retreating figure, his self-confidence was at a low ebb. He knew he'd failed miserably as Derek's backup in the West case. As he followed, he was now certain he'd fucked up Derek's stay in Wells Ward. He and Joseph had been the precept's link to the real world, but the link had disintegrated. Had it been their fault? What could they have done differently... better?
He took Sloan's scorn willingly enough. As he had just told him to his face, the man had no sense of judgement as far as Derek was concerned... and never had. But he'd read the look in Boyle's eye... and there was a man whose opinion he respected.... Boyle blood... SEAL training... Rayne grooming... hellava combination, he thought. Perhaps the future of the Legacy rested with that young man. He smiled to himself. Hadn't that been what Sloan, what all of them, had thought of Derek Rayne?
"What's done is done," Ian told himself, ushering his two companions into the lobby before him. His senses instantly came on alert.... Something was wrong. He glanced around... at the carved staircase... the high, ornate ceiling with its triple chandelier... the second floor landing... the corridors that converged on what had once been a grand ballroom. Where was the receptionist?... His hand sought a non-existent weapon. Was this a threat? Fool!... He'd taken safety for granted.
"Mr. Kincaid!" He heard a young woman's pleasant, rural accent, then turned to see the receptionist leaning from the door behind her desk. "Oh, sir... something awful's happened... in New York.... Come... see.... We've got it on TV."
The three men exchanged quizzical glances and entered the office, where they found several staff members, their faces dumbfounded, clustered around a small, black-and-white television.
"What's happened?" Sloan asked, slipping on his glasses and seeing flames, plumes of black smoke, billowing from a distant skyscraper.
"A plane.... They said a jetliner... hit the World Trade Center." One of the men, dressed in grey coveralls, turned to face the newcomers. "I heard a news flash on my radio. I always have it on when I'm muckin' about in the gardens... pullin' weeds an' such.... It happened about ten minutes ago." An inappropriate smile crossed his face and he babbled on. "Sorry, sir.... It's just that I can't believe it.... I can see it... but I can't believe it. I was there on holiday... not six months ago... and had tea at the top with my sister's boy... a fine lad.... He works there... for Lloyd's.... It's like a movie," he whispered, "but it's real, isn't it?"
"How could it happen?" one of the others asked. "They've said it's nowhere near a regular flight path. How could a pilot be so lost?... It's broad daylight on a clear day. Wouldn't a pilot crash his plane into the river... rather than the building... or the city?"
The image shifted to an ashen faced man. "Reports are that the aircraft... described as a jumbo jet... either a Boeing 757 or 767 or an Airbus... has hit the north side of the North Tower of the World Trade Center... at about the one hundredth floor," he stated.
"That's Peter Jennings," Nick commented absently. "They've picked up an ABC feed." Suddenly, he turned to Sloan and said in a shaky voice. "My God... Willem's offices are in the North Tower. When I talked to him during my layover in New York... to concoct my alibi... he said he was going in late today.... He had a golf game planned.... I hope he stuck to those plans... but his offices... that secretary I talked to... Naomi.... Maybe she wasn't at work yet...." Nick left the sentence open... to hope.
Sloan nodded. "Depends if the fire takes hold.... They'll have to evacuate using the stairs.... What are they on... the eightieth... the ninetieth?... I don't remember. It's below the hundredth, but I can't recall where the stairs are.... I suppose the center, along side the elevator shafts... maybe."
The burning building, towering above the Manhattan skyline, again appeared on the small screen. They watched, horrified, as another jet entered the image from the right. Moving slowly... falsely so... it banked and vanished behind the twin spires. A second later, a fireball burst through the structure on the left... the South Tower... into the camera's view.
"Oh... no!" the receptionist cried aloud. "What's happening?... I don't understand.... What's happening?"
"This isn't real," Nick muttered, shocked.
"I fear it is, Yank," Kincaid replied. He was a harsh man used to dealing with harsh realities. "...And I fear we are at war... but the question is... with whom? Who's the enemy?... It's not a military power," he reasoned aloud. "A real power wouldn't waste jumbo jets... not like that... on a civilian target.... It's underhanded... demolishes the rules of war... has no military advantage other than shock... and a financial blow to the world's financial capital... a burp in the stock market.... No.... Whoever did this... hates... and whoever did this is either a small, tight group... or outside the normal mercenary-intelligence world.... We've all overlooked or underestimated someone. They got under our radar."
"Come on, Limey," Sloan brusquely interrupted. "At this moment, we've got other
fish to fry."
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