Chapter 15
Wells Ward... a few minutes later
"McLean.... He's quiet now.... He's exhausted himself." Kincaid surveyed his friend, lying still, his eyes open wide, but glazed, his rising and falling chest the only sign of life. "Please... now... can we get that goddamned 'thing'," he said the word with absolute disgust, "off him... and get him into a proper bed?"
In his heart, Ian feared Derek was dying. At least, they could give him a better death than this... a death in a proper bed... with his friends round him... not here, in this god-awful room.
The doctor knelt beside his patient and once more checked his temperature. "It's stabilized." He exhaled with relief. It's still way too high.... His pulse is rapid." McLean thought quickly.... In Derek's room they had access to oxygen... an EKG... an EEG... and with an electrical outlet there, they could use the "cold blanket".... An IV would be easier... safer... as would any other treatment. He could better monitor his patient's condition... and, with help immediately at hand, any physical outbursts could be controlled. Fire was the real worry... especially with the oxygen present... but he'd take the risk. Perhaps it's what he should have done in the first place.
"OK, Mr. Kincaid," McLean finally replied. "I don't like having my patients in here... in restraints." The doctor looked round the padded cell and shuddered. Great strides had been made in the pathology of the brain. McLean counted himself blessed to be here... with these very unique minds to study, to try to help... with the financial backing this man before him had given... but if this was the best science and money could offer.... He sadly shook his head... surely, there had to be a better way to treat the mentally disturbed. It couldn't be as futile as his depression sometimes told him it was. This place was clean... staffed by people who cared and did all they could to be gentle, yet was it really all that much different than the asylums of old? From what this very hospital had once been? Sloan had often called Wells Ward a "hell hole" and a part of Angus McLean agreed and cursed himself for being so inept.
He rose and called the orderly to one side. "Carter... tell the staff to remove the other patients from the ward.... By now, they should be sedated and restrained in their beds... so just have the beds relocated to the opposite end of the hospital... as far away from here as feasible.... Prepare Dr. Rayne's room for critical care... pad the bed rails in case he seizures... but we'll want leathers too.... Get the cold pad ready... and I'll want a Lumbar Puncture Tray... and alert the lab.... We've got to rule out other pathological causes."
"Meningitis?" Carter asked in a hushed tone.
"Perhaps... or infection from the wounds," McLean replied. "You and Malcolm bring a trolley.... It's time to get him out of here."
* * *
The two orderlies reappeared a few minutes later. With Nick's help, they lifted the unresponsive form and carried him into the corridor, where they placed him on the Gurney. Nick brushed the back of his hand over the precept's brow... felt the heat... then looked up to meet Sloan's equally concerned gaze.
"Let's get a move on," said the former SEAL, glancing at the two men, urging them to move the trolley. Malcolm, with Kincaid following, began to push the patient towards Wells Ward.
"Wait!" Nick angrily grabbed Kincaid's arm and stepped in front of the man. "Jesus!.. Don't tell me he's been in that snake pit for the last six months!... What about his suite?... Christ!... No wonder he's nuts!"
"Relax, Yank." Ian shrugged off the offending hand, stepped around, and continued towards the ward.
* * *
Carter, who had hurried ahead, punched in the admission code. Together, he and the burly Jamaican, carefully maneuvered the trolley through the door. Passing the attendant's station, they continued on, past the TV, displaying its scenes of horror that now had no audience, past the heavily sedated patients, tied in their beds.
"One of the towers collapsed," a nurse announced, unable to contain her terrible news.
"I said I want this ward cleared out... now!" McLean shouted.
Ian brushed by them and hurried on to open another door that led off the main ward. It was a door that Nick had failed to notice during his previous visit. As they pushed the Gurney through, Nick looked into the room. It was sparsely furnished in shades of white and grey.
There was a standard hospital bed with its railings heavily padded; a chair; a small table, bearing three books and a yellow notepad, that had, perhaps, served as a desk. A rustic, Rosicrucian cross hung high above the bed.... The floor was cold, bare linoleum. There were no mirrors, no photos, no mementos... nothing to offer warmth nor comfort. Through a door, which stood slightly ajar, he made out a cold, pristine bathroom. The only thing that seemed to belong to the living world was the window, with the garden beyond. Yet Nick's heart sank.... The window was curtainless and barred. The former SEAL forced down the lump in his throat.... He didn't want to think of Derek here... in these surroundings.
"He's my friend, too, Boyle," Kincaid whispered. "It may not be much, but he's been as comfortable as we could make him. He could've had anything he wanted. He wanted this... exactly as you see it. Joseph added the cross... afterwards...."
Nick nodded. While this wasn't exactly the Ritz, he knew Derek. For a man accustomed to luxury... who liked the best money could buy... Derek Rayne could, oddly, be equally content with complete austerity. Perhaps, in some past life, he had been an ascetic... a monk in a bare cell... or perhaps, it was that same part of his soul that seemed to crave those wild, desolate places to which the precept sometimes escaped.
Fr. Thomas, who had caught up with the group, glanced around the ward. "What a waste... a terrible waste...," he commented. "All these fine minds... the potential of their lives... all lost... for what?"
Sloan grunted. Looking around, he recognised Reston... all these years... in this place.... He'd paid a terrible price for his arrogance. They all had. "Not the Legacy's finest moment," he agreed, bitterly.
They all attempted to crowd into the small room, until Dr. McLean held up his hand. "Please... wait outside."
Nick wanted to protest, but Sloan caught his eye and gave a warning glance. Instead, the former SEAL allowed himself a quick look back at the TV. The scenes of horror, which had already captured Kincaid's attention, seemed to be reflected from the ward's white walls. The phenomenon was surreal, until Nick realized that it was an optical illusion created by the television's wide screen, sunken in the wall behind protective plexiglass.
"My God," said the Brit. "That's the Pentagon."
One of the nurses, who had come to help move the other patients, joined them. "One tower in New York collapsed.... It just collapsed... like a sand castle built too high.... All those people...," she whispered, her horror evident in her eyes. "Besides the two jets that went into the World Trade Center... and one... into the Pentagon, they think there are other planes unaccounted for. I can't believe this."
"Do they have any idea who's responsible?" Sloan mumbled. His now swollen lip was becoming an annoyance. The view had switched back to New York... to the stark reality of the remaining tower... its twin gone... its upper levels swallowed by flame and smoke.
"Just that it's deliberate.... I think they've told all planes to land immediately... others are being diverted to Canada or turned back... if they have fuel," the disheveled woman explained. "They had some shots from a helicopter a few minutes ago... of people jumping... jumping!... from a hundred storeys up.... Dear Lord... they've got time to think on the way down."
Nick pulled his attention back to Derek. He closely watched every action as the medical staff seemed to deal efficiently, professionally, with his precept. McLean had placed an oxygen mask over the Derek's nose and mouth, then he and Malcolm covered him with what Nick thought must be the cold blanket.
The former SEAL listened to the conversations within the room. "What's his temperature now?" McLean asked as he connected up the EKG. A moment later his fingers sought the bare circles on Derek's scalp, where he placed the EEG's electrodes.
"Still one-oh-four," Carter replied quietly. "The ice packs haven't reduced it... just held it in check."
"Get him onto his side.... Carter.... Get the IVs set and secure... then you and Malcolm take the other side.... Get him into a fetal position. I want maximum spinal flexion.... Then hold it.... Ellen!" Dr. McLean called. "We have a procedure to do.... I'll need your assistance, if you please."
"Yes, Doctor," the nurse replied, tearing herself away from the television, and hurrying into the room.
"I'll need an antiseptic swab, then the anesthesia.... Quickly, please," said McLean.
Nick slid into the room beside the door. He couldn't stand outside... not while Derek was in danger. "What are you doing?" he demanded.
"Out!" the doctor ordered.
"No," Nick firmly refused. "What are you doing?"
"Oh... very well, man," the Scotsman said in exasperation, "but stay right where you are... out of the way... and be quiet.... I'm drawing cerebral spinal fluid from the lower back."
"Why?" Nick asked.
"Meningitis is always a possibility with intense, sudden fever.... We'll know very shortly.... Needle...," he demanded of the nurse. "You'll hear a pop as I pierce the membrane and enter the spinal canal. Don't panic about it," he explained to the young man.
The former SEAL watched as McLean slowly inserted the needle. There was, indeed, an eerie "pop".
"Malcolm... straighten his legs," said the doctor, watching a small gauge he'd attached to the needle. "OK...," he sighed, replacing the gage with a series of tubes. He drew a few drops of fluid into each.
Upon completion, he handed the tubes to Ellen. "Take these to the lab for immediate examination." He then turned back to apply pressure to the small puncture left by the needle. "Malcolm... I'll need dressings... and while we're at it, I want to change the bandages on the other wounds and check for infection."
"Yes, Boss," said the Jamaican, handing over an adhesive pad.
"Carter," said the doctor. "Let's get him over... flat... and get him secured.... Get the collar back on him.... If he wakes, we can't have him jerking his head about for a bit. I don't want a 'spinal tap headache' on top of everything else.... I'll want a fire extinguisher in here and someone in the room with him at all times."
From the ward, Nick heard someone gasp, "It's collapsing... the other tower's collapsing!... Dear God!" He allowed himself another glance over his shoulder. As the skyscraper crumbled, the scene was mesmerizing.... Truly, it occurred in slow motion. He realized that, at that moment, everyone around the world, who was watching this horror, shared a single thought... that they were witnessing the deaths of thousands and thousands of ordinary human beings, trapped within... on crowded, possibly darkened staircases.
He heard Derek gasp as if in pain and forced events across the Atlantic from his mind. He turned back to the room as the precept groaned, then lay still.
Torn, the former SEAL once again glanced over his shoulder... now, to see an immense tidal wave of dust and debris billow out through Manhattan, concealing the skyscrapers, filling the sky with choking clouds. White bits of paper floated like specks in a snow globe.
"It's coming down...." a voice said. Puzzled, Nick turned back to the room. Carter was referring to Derek's temperature... not the building.
"One-oh-three-point-five.... We've done it, Doc." He offered up a relieved grin. "One-oh-three.... One-oh-two-point-seven.... One-oh-two-point-five...."
"Done what, I wonder?" McLean asked, as unsure about what was causing this rapid decrease in temperature as he had been about its sudden rise. "Heartbeat's returning to normal.... What just happened, Carter?"
Nick hurried to the bedside. "Doc... this fever.... It had to be his 'Sight'." His voice was urgent and confident. "Don't you see.... It was somehow connected with what happened in New York.... When the tower fell... the link broke.... His temperature began to drop."
He looked at the dressings on Derek's self-inflicted wounds and gently lifted the fresh bandage. On his friend's arm, he saw the two long, wide, parallel lines.... The same was repeated on the other arm, the chest, the face.... "Like two towers," he muttered in realization.
The doctor shook his head in doubt. "Laddie... I don't think anyone has that level of psychic ability... to link across oceans... thousands of miles."
"The blood on the walls and sheets were parallel streaks too," said Carter
"And the burn pattern on the wall of the cell," Nick added. "Listen...." The former SEAL looked up eagerly at Dr. McLean, then at Carter. "You said he's been crying out... shouting.... What did he say?... What were his exact words?"
Ian heard Nick's question and stepped inside the small room. "Not much that made sense.... Some was in another language... not English, nor Dutch... but he's repeatedly said things like... white clouds... no 'boiling clouds'... fire... pain... no words... no time... something about white pillars... the portal... switching back and forth between English and Dutch. We assumed he was back at the Portal... with his 'other-self'."
"Yes," agreed the priest, leaning in the doorway. "He said, 'The Horsemen ride.... They fly.' I assumed that he meant the Horsemen of the Apocalypse... an obtuse reference to the Portal."
"Kincaid!" Nick exclaimed. "For God's sake... he's not having flashbacks.... It was premonitions.... Look at these marks." His fingers traced the wounds. "Two lines... twin towers.... Look at the screen... boiling clouds... the Horsemen 'fly'." He emphasized the word "fly".
"Ian...," Fr. Thomas spoke quietly. "Remember... in the padded room... when you told him Nick was flying in from New York.... You were babbling and mentioned the flight number.... That's when he went mad.... That's when the second fire started.... We'd removed the helmet, but he went mad, and we were trying to control him... and the fire started."
The Brit nodded and called to Sloan. He knew his man and his ability to absorb administrative minutia. "Willie!... I heard them mention flight numbers.... What were they?"
"United 175 and American Airlines 11, both out of Boston's Logan bound for LAX, went into the Trade Center... American 77, Newark to San Francisco, went into the Pentagon," Sloan replied, quickly catching the gist of the conversation. "My God... eleven... seventy-seven... two parallel lines... two towers... and Boyle.... Your flight was American Airlines 111 from JFK... and the date.... nine-eleven... again parallel lines."
"Yeah," Nick mumbled. "Christ!" Suddenly, another thought intruded from nowhere. "I need to call Alex.... She thinks I'm meeting Willem at his office... this morning... to go over House finances.... Shit!" He looked over at Sloan, who read the anxious gaze. "She'll think I'm there."
"I'll see to it," the senior precept calmly replied, ready to shoulder the burden of attending to "details", "and I'll try to track Willem down. I'm sure he's out somewhere on the golf course or stuck in traffic. He's probably called Zurich by now."
Nick hesitantly suggested, "What if Derek's link... just now was to Willem?... not to the event or the building?"
Sloan hurried away without reply.
Dr. McLean, who had slowly taken in and read between the lines of the exchange, turned in compassion towards his patient. "Are you saying that days ago... he knew... he 'saw' these awful things and was trying to warn us... that just now, he was there?" He sighed. "The poor man... and we call this ability of his 'a gift'!... Dear Lord... what if that's what's wrong with Reston and the others?... They're having premonitions, but can't communicate them? They can't reach us and we can't reach them."
< < + > >
Blackness.... He floated in inky blackness... surrounded by nothingness. There was no sensation... no light, no touch, no sound. Had all light left the world?... In that awful, white blaze of heat and light... like an exploding star... a supernova? Had it left him... alone?... Was he to face death... alone?... Or had death arrived?... Was he a disembodied spirit?... Was this the thing for which he'd so often prayed?... Oblivion?....
No.... as awareness grew, so did pain.... His limbs ached with the agony of cold... icy cold... a cold that seemed to come from deep within his body. There was pressure... in his ears... in his chest. He couldn't move.
Was this water?... Yes!... He was deep... deep down... in an ocean of blackness. The surface!... He had to reach the surface... but which way... which way was up? He twisted round and round in panic... struggled not to breathe... not to draw the black, liquid enemy into his lungs.
"Swim!" his mind screamed in terror. "Swim!... Which way?... Which way!"
A whisper of a touch.... Whose touch?... What was it?... There it was again!... He pulled against the water.... Which way didn't matter... just away from that touch. Something knotted around his ankle... round his wrists... his head... held him... pulled him downward... pulled him deeper. He fought... kicked out... twisted round, but it twisted with him... growing tighter. More strands clutched at his legs. Tenuous filaments... snakelike in their tenacity... coiled about his body.
"Jesus!" He had to breathe!... Had to!... The pressure in his lungs had become unbearable.... They were bursting... filling with blood... Was he drowning in his own blood... in an ocean of black blood?
Reflexes could not be held at bay.... His mouth opened.... He gasped... gagged... choked.
"Which way?... God, help me!... Which way!"
He thrashed.... "Got to get free!..." Strength was fading.... "Got to get free!..."
Tentacles grasped his throat... wisps of nothingness that grew, entwining themselves round and round. His fingers tore at the slippery ropes of weed that, like dead men's cold fingers, stroked his face... his nose... his lips.
Again he thrashed... weaker now... back and forth.... "Jesus!... Jesus!... Help me!... It's so far.... I'm so deep.... I can't get home... I want to go home," he sobbed in despair.
"Am I still Derek Rayne?... Is this all I am?... Oh, God!... Enough!... Enough!"
A shaft of soft, blue light reached for him... guided him... drew him upward. The tendrils loosened and fell away. Is this it, he wondered. Is this death?... Am I going into the light?... Alone?... Am I dying... alone?
A impish chuckle... then a gentle voice... spoke... within him... in Latin. Dear God!... It was in Latin!... Why Latin?
"Shhh.....," it whispered. "We all die alone.... Calm yourself... and you will understand. Pax tecum
, Derek Emrys Rayne.... Peace.... Relax.... Allow yourself to float... drift.... You are in a good place, a safe place.... I... we... shall watch over you."You've fought so hard, my boy... to know yourself... to know what everyone else already knows. You've been used by the highest powers of good.... Do you doubt their choice?... Would they so use someone bearing the seed of Darkness... or a weak puppet?.... No... they use stubborn, opinionated jackasses... like Moses.... You carry no taint.... Cast out your fears.... Your heart is brave, your soul pure.... You are worthy of the sword you bear and of the ring that will always be yours.... Fides fidelem veritatem vult.... It's a riddle.... Don't you understand?... The whole truth is faith... in God... in goodness... in yourself.... That is the whole truth.... Reach... Emrys.... Reach.... Find that goodness within yourself.... Rediscover the inner you.... Derek.... Time to rebuild."
The turquoise transformed into an bright azure... and coalesced into the bluest eyes he had ever seen.... A snowy white eyebrow climbed in private humor as a face... an ancient face... formed round them.... He knew that face... from somewhere.... Compassion shone from it... through it... and steadfastness... and wisdom.... A stream of light... a rainbow... beckoned.
Derek stretched out his hand. "Help me... please.... Help me."
A veil of the softest velvet settled about his mind. His soul slipped into a gentle,
comforting, dreamless sleep. "Shhh.... fides tecum.... I will help you, Derek Rayne.... Rest....
You have much more to do... more to learn... more to teach... and more battles to be
fought. Gather your strength, my son.... I will come for you when it is time."
| NEXT |
| CONTENTS |
| E-mail: Dubricus | E-mail: Susan Lay |
