Chapter 14
Wells Ward...
Kincaid pushed open the red door, then paused. He watched Sloan and Boyle suppress their shock and switch on expressionless faces. Pity they can't switch their emotions off as easily, he thought, gesturing with his head for them to precede him.
Nick bit his lip and used the pain. "Concentrate, Boyle," he told himself. "There's nothing you can do about lives lost in New York.... There is something you can do for this one life... this really important life... here and now. Please God... don't let Derek 'feel' me."
Sloan pushed through and saw his friend, curled in the farthest corner of the padded room. Held by a brawny man in hospital whites, Derek was twisting back and forth, crying weakly, "Wolken
... boiling clouds... blanken... dood... pijn.... Alstublieft, Gott!" he suddenly screamed. "Te laat...," he whimpered, "too late."Sloan quickly crossed the cell and dropped to his knees beside the two men. "Let me hold him," he snapped. Carter glanced towards Kincaid and received an imperceptible nod. He shifted Derek's weight to Sloan, then pushed himself to his feet and stepped away.
"You look like hell, my friend." Sloan tried hard, but couldn't disguise the tremor in his voice. He wrapped his arms protectively around the other man and held tight, knowing that this time he would not receive the customary rebuttal. "Hey, buster, did you really think you could do this without us?" he asked softly.
The room reeked of human misery... the stench of stale sweat, and worse. It tweaked a long ago memory of another such place... an "adventure" he and Derek had shared as young men. "You must be crazy," he chuckled. "You seem to make a habit of hanging out in these places... at least this one seems a step above Nairobi... and we can walk out of this bloody looney bin, if we want.... All you've got to do is get up... get off your sorry ass."
"Pijn... so much pain," Derek panted, "...so much fire... doood... dooooth... death," Derek murmured again, giving an exhausted, half-hearted wriggle to escape the tight grip.
* * *
Nick's eyes followed Carter. He watched the man lean against the door. His apparent nonchalance didn't fool the former SEAL. He read his history in his stance, his attitude, his observant eyes, which had briefly met Kincaid's. He's like me, Nick decided.... He's an ex-something... a certified member of the old man's stable. "Don't get in my way, bucko," Nick's gaze warned the orderly. He then turned his attention back to the men in the corner.
"Derek," he whispered, as he hunkered down to directly face his friend. "Boss?..." He reached for his precept's head. Placing a hand on either side of the helmet, he gently turned Derek's face towards him. He saw the anguish in the hazel eyes... the total lack of recognition. "Jesus," he whispered. Kincaid had warned them, but to see this... this... there was no word for it... in his friend's unfocused gaze... to see him here, bound in this canvas monstrosity. He looked so tired... so old.
"This is coming off." Nick's tone allowed no contradiction. His eyes challenged Carter... Kincaid... anyone... to try. He'd left his friend in these people's hands... and they'd damned near killed him. There was a score to be settled... later. He unbuckled the helmet, gently lifted it, and threw it contemptuously to the orderly. A soft sigh... of relief, Nick hoped... escaped the precept's lips. The former SEAL gently combed back the salt-and-pepper hair from the older man's face. It had grown long, was damp with sweat, tangled... and felt grimy. His fingers found a round, bare spot, then a second. Nick's muscles tensed.
Carter saw, and anticipated the reaction. He stepped closer and spoke softly. "They're for the electrodes... inside the helmet... for monitoring only. He gave his consent. You can read his instructions in his own handwriting."
"Rest assured, we will," Sloan growled, fixing the man with his deadliest stare.
Suddenly, Derek flinched from Nick's touch, as if uncertain of its source. Their attention was drawn back to the precept. "Can he see?" the former SEAL asked in panic.
"Yes," Carter replied. "But we don't know how well... or what he thinks he sees... or hears."
"Derek.... Can you hear me?... It's Nick.... I'm here.... It'll be OK.... You'll be OK.... I promise.... You hear?... I promise." He watched as a single tear escaped and trickled down the precept's face. In all the years he had known Derek Rayne, had suffered through pain with him, had shared heart rending sorrows with him, he never recalled seeing the man weep.... Never.
Nick reached for the glistening drop, gathered it on his finger, tenderly brushed his friend's cheek with his thumb. It was then that he realised that Derek had grown still. He'd stopped his frantic efforts to escape and had relaxed... a little. He seemed to sink into Sloan's arms and to draw "something".... Calmness?... Strength?... Perhaps, clarity... from his friend's tight bear hug.
Sloan met Nick's anxious eyes and managed a weak smile. For the first time since he'd entered this damned coffin of a room, he felt some hope. "He knows we're here," Sloan whispered. "He knows."
Kincaid and Fr. Thomas exchanged glances.... Was Derek responding?... Was he finally becoming aware? They prayed so.
Nick removed the soft collar. He winced to once again see the cruel scars that marked his friend's neck.
Sloan reached for the buckles that imprisoned the precept's arms. Please God... he wasn't too late.... Somehow... he'd get through to Derek... find his friend... bring him back from the Abyss. "I'm taking this damned thing off, too," he declared.
Carter stepped forward. "That's not a good idea, sir.... You wouldn't believe how strong he is.... He'll hurt himself... or someone else. The spells of quiet... like this... alternate with violence."
Nick rose to angrily to face the man. "Hurt himself?... More than this?... Jesus!... If you knew anything about him... knew what he's been through... you'd understand.... This has to be killing him... inside... in his head."
Suddenly, Derek screamed, "No!!!" He slammed his head into Sloan's chin and twisted from his friend's arms. He screamed again and again. "Help me!" he panted. "Hulp mij!... No!!!" He was now having trouble drawing breath... as if he couldn't pull in enough oxygen to feed his desperate need. His face grew red; he now seemed to hold his breath. "No...," he gasped, struggling against each breath. "Will...em... no...."
"What?... Derek?..." said William, quickly wiping the blood from his split lip. "Shhh... it's me.... It's William.... I'm here." He reached up to stroke his friend's brow... to reassure him.
"He's hot," he said as he placed his hand squarely on Derek's forehead, then touched the back of his hand to his cheek. His girls might be grown, but he still remembered a father's skills. He looked over at Carter and repeated, "He's damned hot.... I think he's running a fever."
Nick reached for Derek to help Sloan control the violent movements, but Carter pushed him aside to kneel beside his patient.
"Let it go, Boyle!" the older man ordered, seeing the ex-SEAL angry enough to retaliate.
"You're right," said the orderly. "He's too hot.... Somebody!... Mr. Kincaid!... There's an emergency kit in that cabinet just outside the door... to the left.... Get it!..." he yelled as he felt Derek's brow. "I need the aural thermometer."
Within a moment, the instrument had been slapped into his open hand. "Hold his head," Carter told Sloan, as he placed the device in the precept's ear. "He's warm," he announced. "Ninety-nine-point-five... point-six.... Hold him!" he snapped as Derek violently lurched to one side and knocked the thermometer from his hand.
Nick stood by, watching helplessly, wanting to help... to do something... anything... wanting to kill the bastard. These people... this guy... Kincaid... the bunch of them... had thrown Derek in here... in restraints... left him in his own filth... and had let him get sick... and had done nothing about it... hadn't even noticed until Sloan had said something.
Carter grappled for the thermometer. "Hold him still, dammit!" he shouted as he checked the digital reading again. "One-hundred-point-one...." He gave a sigh of relief as the red numbers seemed to stabilize, but within a minute they had taken another lurch. "Bloody 'ell!... One-hundred-point-seven." He reached beneath Derek's jaw to take his pulse. "Shit!... His heart's gone mad.... Tachycardia.... Doc!" he shouted towards the mike. "Did you hear?... Rapid temperature rise.... Heartbeat is...." He looked at his watch and silently counted. "Shit! It's too fast to get an accurate reading.... I need help in here... now!"
Nick looked down into Sloan's blanched face and saw fear there.... He knew that it reflected his own.
"You!..." Carter barked, looking up at the former SEAL. "Get the doctor in here... now!... Tell him what I just said.... SEAL!..." he shouted over his shoulder. "The ward's code is two-five-four-nine!"
Even as he punched the numbers on the keypad beside the door, Nick knew that all was not well within.... Screaming... yelling... sobbing.... It had become a door to Hell. The sight stopped him in his tracks. All the patients in the ward, even Reston, were in an uproar.
Nurses and orderlies were desperately trying to control the wild movements, silence the agonized cries, calm the hysteria. Nick looked round the room.... It was still the cold, sterile, white on white world that he remembered from two years ago. One thing was different... Patterson's bed was empty... a bare mattress... and the machines, which had kept the comatose man alive, were gone. Where the hell was McLean?
"Out of the way, man!" a sharp Scots accent barked at him, as the doctor shoved his way into the room. "Malcolm... here!" He handed over drug vials to an orderly who hurried to meet him.
"Doc!" Nick grabbed the man's arm. "Derek.... He needs you.... He's like these...." His glance took in the ward. "...only worse."
McLean rounded on him. "How the hell did you get in here?... Kincaid?... I told him you were to see me first. Your presence may well have set off this... this chaos."
"Whatever!" Nick replied firmly. "Derek needs you... now!... The orderly said to tell you... his temperature's way too high... over a hundred and rising.... His heart's going nuts... 'tachycardia'.... You're guy can't get a reading."
"Go, Doctor.... We can handle things now," Malcolm assured him. "See to Dr. Rayne.... Here... you might need these." He handed back a vial with a disposable syringe.
McLean, with Nick at his shoulder, hurried out... down the corridor to the other room, where they found Carter and Sloan grappling with the precept... trying to hold his body still, while Fr. Thomas, pasty white with anxiety, leaned against the wall, rosary in hand... praying... fighting for Derek in his own way.
"What's his temperature now?" the doctor demanded as he reached beneath the precept's jaw to check his carotid pulse.
"One-oh-two-point-eight." Carter fought to hold the thermometer in his patient's ear. "Point-nine... one-oh-three... point-one.... It's still climbing," he said, shaking his head.
"Ice packs!" McLean ordered. "Quickly, man... all the packs you can get... in here... now."
"Come on!" The orderly grabbed Nick's arm. "You can help carry 'em."
"Carter!..." McLean shouted. "Tell them to pull any staff member who can be spared from the rest of the hospital.... Get them to the ward. Malcolm needs more help."
"Right!... Doctor!" Carter called back as he hurried down the hallway with Nick in tow.
* * *
Derek had ceased his frantic movements and lay still... panting.... His face was red, bathed in sweat, his eyes open, but unseeing. Fear glistened in the hazel depths. "Jesus...." Sloan could feel the heat radiating from his friend's body, even through the straightjacket's heavy canvas. "Do something!... For Chrissake!"
"I will, man." McLean checked Derek's temperature again. "Dear God.... Where are they?" In answer to his plea, Carter and Nick, laden with ice packs, rushed into the cell.
"OK...." McLean worked quickly at the buckles on the jacket. "Help me get this thing loosened.... We've got to get these packs next to his skin... especially at pulse points... under his arms.... at his groin... his neck."
"Can't we take it off it?" Kincaid asked.
"Not just yet," the doctor replied. "Besides, it'll help hold the ice in place if he struggles more."
Carter nodded and efficiently began to slide the packs under the jacket. Nick undid the strap between the precept's legs, then slid the bags of ice beneath the canvas, placing them over Derek's abdomen and between his thighs, while Sloan maintained his hold on the now limp body and willed the ice to do its work.
"Thermometer!" McLean reached for the instrument. No one spoke as they watched the doctor take a new reading. Each man prayed that Derek's temperature had fallen.
The Scotsman shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair in desperation. "Dammit!.... What's doing this?... Think, man.... You're losing him."
"Doctor," said Carter, looking over at McLean, "could he be containing the heat... rather than setting something on fire?... Could this be what happens with spontaneous human combustion?"
"Dammit!... You shouldn't have removed the helmet.... I needed those readings.... Maybe the helmet was suppressing the heat in toto... not just the manifestation of fire, but the patient's internal body temperature. We've got to get it back on... and I've got to check those last readings."
"No!" Sloan growled. "I forbid it. I suggest that neither you... nor your toadie... try it."
"Sloan...," Kincaid murmured. "What if he's right?"
"He's not," Nick answered. "All of that might have been raising his temperature all along... from the anxiety of it. Wouldn't you be smothering and panicky in that shit?"
"Shhh...," Sloan crooned, holding his friend in his arms. Nothing would make him let go... and there was no way in hell he'd allow more well-meaning torture to be inflicted. He refused to face the doctor's despair. Unable to accept the possibility that Derek could be dying in his arms, he struggled to control his voice. "It's OK.... I'll stay with you... for as long as you need me.... Listen to me.... Just breathe... calmly... in... out... deep breaths. Hold on.... Fight.... We've been here before.... Focus.... Find your center.... Set something on fire, if you have to.... No harm done.... We've got a fire extinguisher right here.
"Remember all those lessons... all those techniques.... Remember that old,
Tibetan lama you told me about.... What did he tell you?... I remember...," William
murmured, resuming his gentle stroking of the hot brow. "It was the same as St.
Teresa.... You always admired her.... 'Nada te turbe.... Nada te espante.... Todo es
pasa'.... Let nothing disturb you... nothing frighten you. All is passing.... Remember?...
This too shall pass.... Derek.... Listen to me.... Let it pass.... Let it go.... Let it all go."
| NEXT |
| CONTENTS |
| E-mail: Dubricus | E-mail: Susan Lay |
