Chapter 16
Derek's Room... the next day
Nick heard the doorknob turn, followed by a squeak and the soft trod of a foot. He dragged his sleep starved brain back into action and saw Sloan, standing in the doorway, willing himself to enter the room. If anything, the older man, unshaven, with his split and swollen lip, looked worse than the former SEAL felt.
"No change?..." It wasn't really a question. William could see his friend, lying motionless in the bed. He stayed where he was. He didn't want to see the electrodes attached to chest and temples, didn't want to hear the beep, beep of the monitors.
"McLean's due.... I'm not holding my breath," Nick snarled, checking his watch. "At least his temperature's normal.... Well... maybe still a little on the low side, but OK. The heating pad is keeping him comfy.... Christ!... What an idiot I was!... Convincing everybody his fever was psychically induced... then not even giving the ice and the cold blanket a thought.... Just get the temperature down.... We could've froze the poor bastard."
"I think the sudden temperature drop was what convinced McLean that your theory was right... that it was his 'Sight'... not meningitis or some unknown infection... or a precursor to spontaneous human combustion." Sloan stepped in, pulled the stiff, institutional armchair into the far corner, on the opposite side of Derek's bed, and settled himself, facing Nick. "You realized the consequences in time.... We didn't have to fight hypothermia."
* * *
A silence lay on the room. At last, moments later, Sloan spoke again. "You've seen him like this before." It was another flat, but probing statement.
Nick grunted. It wasn't a topic he cared to discuss, but the memories would forever haunt. The nightmare would lie there, just beneath the surface... a more raw, more unhealing wound than any other, including those of his father. As Derek had lain, comatose, for months, he'd watched his friend reduced to a skeleton, a shadow of himself, and he'd been able to do nothing save change tubes, bathe, exercise a failing body, and talk, and talk, and talk.
"Jesus," he sighed with a desolation Sloan had never before heard from Derek's protege. "I... we... can't go through that again." Nick shuddered and looked away, out the window.
Sloan watched the young man. He had memories of his own, from another time, long ago, but even in the depths, it had been life and death. His friend would either die or recover, perhaps not to a normal, active life, but back then, he'd known he could help Derek find a new life, a new purpose if the body failed, but the mind was whole. Now, however, there was only life and death rolled into one unity... life in death and death in life.
He noted the clinching and unclinching of Nick's fist as he seemed to study the puffy clouds. Such a Derek gesture, he thought. He was worried about Boyle. Could Derek's "son".... There... he'd admitted it to himself.... Boyle had become Derek Rayne's son, in every way save blood. Could he stand to watch Derek deteriorate again? He doubted it. Nick needed protection from that... and there was a House without its precept... a nation under attack... and an unknown war to be waged. Not a good situation.... He smiled to himself at the understatement. He could do nothing at the moment about the world out there, but the world of the Legacy was a different matter. He might not be amongst the "in crowd" at the moment, but he wasn't off the chess board, and he still knew how to play the game. If the Ruling Council, overloaded with Cross, Loxley Millard, and their cronies found out Boyle was here... they were sure to find out why.... Sloan rejected that thought. He would do everything in his power to ensure they didn't... not yet... not until his own forces were marshaled.
Nick's voice broke his concentration. "Any news of Willem?" he asked in a tone weighted down with dejection and utter weariness. "You know... I was thinking... in there... in the cell... when you thought he was calling for you... he was shouting 'Willem'... not William."
Sloan grunted his agreement. Each time he'd seen Nick, it had been the same question, with the same dismal answer. "Nothing... no sign of him... nor any of his staff.... I've been trying to get news via the New York House, but it's been difficult. The precept may have lost a couple of his brothers... one was a police officer... the other a fireman." Sloan gave a deep, heaving sigh.
"Anyway... it's not looking good for van der Linden.... His offices were on the ninety-third floor on the north side of the North Tower... right where the first jet went in.... So anyone in those offices never knew what hit them.... Claudine, his wife, hasn't heard a thing. I think she knows he's gone. He'd have called her to tell her he was OK.... He was regular as a Swiss clock.... Even when he was in the middle of a meeting... or on the golf course, he'd call at ten Swiss time... to wish the kids goodnight... and tell Claudine about his day.... Dammit! Why do the good guys always get hurt!"
Nick looked around, surprised.... For William Sloan to make such a statement, aloud!...
"None of the hospitals or emergency trauma units received many casualties," William continued. "People either made it out OK... or not at all.... They think the police and fire departments took huge loses. They were in there, trying to get people down the stairs and out. I'm afraid, we have to assume the worst.... No news is bad news."
"Yeah...," Nick agreed. "Do we ever get anything else?"
Sloan rubbed his eyes and remained silent. The world, at the moment, seemed to have gone mad. Innocent people murdered.... Evil... stalking the earth... in its human form... apparently in the name of religion. Right now the Darkside might be a better survival option. "You need to get back to San Francisco," he said at last. "Before the Ruling Council puts two and two together.... Bean counters are good at adding things up."
"I can't leave him," Nick protested. "Besides, there's no flights."
"I've asked Kincaid to use his contacts to get you home," Sloan cut off a threatened interruption. "Your House... Derek's House... needs you.... So does Luna.... There's no Willem to help keep your end in order.... No one running interference.... How long before Cross scents blood?"
"Listen!..." The former SEAL's hostility grew. "I'm staying here.... At least, until he's conscious."
Before Sloan could utter the "What if?..." the door opened and McLean entered the room.
"Gentlemen...." The doctor smiled, ignoring the tense atmosphere. He'd have to remind these men not to assume that Derek couldn't hear what they were saying. He began to check his patient's vital signs. "So, Derek...." he spoke evenly, calmly as he undid the restraint that bound Derek's wrist to the bed. "How are you feeling today? We're all waiting for you to wake up.... Mr. Boyle has been sitting here all night.... You've got a good friend here."
"Are those necessary?" Sloan asked, indicating the padded, leather straps that bound his friend's wrists to the sides of the bed.
"It's safer for him," McLean assured them, going about his business. "He might waken gradually, peacefully, or he could come out of it disoriented... violent like he was before."
"You mean a raving lunatic?" Nick said bitterly.
* * *
After a few minutes, Sloan caught the doctor's eye and saw the regret in his face. McLean gestured towards the door with his head. Both men rose and joined him outside the room.
"He's still out of it... completely.... I think the fever.... It went way too high, but for some reason he didn't seizure," McLean explained. "I wish I could be optimistic about his long-term prognosis.... Once he awakens... we'll see. He either fights to regain his life... or...."
"He'll fight." Nick's tone was certain. He glanced over to the empty bed in the ward and remembered the wraithlike form that had inhabited it two years before. "What happened to Patterson?" he quietly asked.
"He died... awhile back." Dr. McLean shook his head sadly. "He had a very stubborn body... to hang on for so long. Derek was quite good with him.... He sat by his bed and read to him... from those books in there on the table.... One's by the Dalai Lama, another's on temporal physics, and the third one was what Patterson was reading when it all began... a Stephen King novel... something about Salem. He insisted Patterson knew he was there... and he was going to finish the book for him, because he'd been enjoying it so much all those years ago. Maybe he did know and hear.... Who knows? He did finish the book... and Patterson died the next day.... But, now I wonder... if his death in some way hastened Derek's decline. The dramatic turn came shortly afterwards. Did Derek see his own future in that poor man's fate?"
Nick looked round the now empty ward, at the austere surroundings. "Did he ever say why he wanted this?"
"No.... He refused all psychiatric help... all therapy.... He just wanted this place... no frills... no visitors other than Fr. Thomas and Mr. Kincaid.... The instructions were that we were to see to his physical needs only. Tests and monitoring were permissible... for the purpose of scientific investigation... but no treatments."
"But you gave him drugs... against his expressed wishes... and with his history," Sloan challenged.
"Yes," the doctor replied. "With Mrs. Rayne's permission. She was kept fully appraised... and they were only given when his condition became extreme... and there was risk of heart attack, stroke, or physical injury to himself and others. His instructions fully covered such an eventuality."
The Scotsman paused, to clear a gruffness from his voice. "I didn't know Dr. Rayne well before," he said, leading them to the chairs that surrounded the television, gesturing for them to sit. "On his periodic visits, he had always seemed a quiet, but forceful man... a strong intellect, who cared. He seemed OK at first, considering the abuse he'd suffered. The skin grafts were, of course, painful, but went well. But... Fr. Thomas and Mr. Kincaid both remarked that he was abnormally quiet and pliant. They were concerned. He was bothered by odors and we could all see that there were moments of flashback.... After Patterson's death, he grew more and more remote... less responsive to outside stimuli. We became increasingly responsible for all of his physical needs. The flashbacks became more pronounced. We could recognize the mask, occasionally the Portal... but there were other traumas that we could only guess at, which is why we ultimately called you in."
He glanced momentarily at the darkened television and seemed to consider his next words carefully. "I'm afraid I have to disagree with Dr. Hazmi's assessment," he said, speaking of the physician who had cared for Derek after his rescue from West's torture chamber. "What I know of her career indicates that she's had a great deal of experience with refugees and torture victims, but she's not a psychiatrist.... The physical evidence leaves room for argument, but... in my opinion, there was severe sexual abuse... oral rape... sodomy... God knows what. In fact, I fear that his ordeal was a form of continuous rape. It was an attempt to demolish him... physically, mentally, emotionally... first as revenge... then in order to recreate Dr. Rayne in his captor's murderous, depraved image."
Sloan nodded to hear his own early opinion reinforced.
"But they weren't flashbacks," Nick objected, not wanting to hear the doctor's assessment... not wanting to hear his own worst fears given voice. "They were premonitions... and some form of empathy."
"Yes... some were," Dr. McLean hesitantly concurred. "But... wherever he's gone... within himself... he couldn't escape to warn us. He tried.... He knew what a catastrophe awaited and did what he could to communicate, but he couldn't break free of whatever prison his mind has created.... He existed within that hell."
"But what if it's a repeat of before... the coma.... Maybe he's 'out-of-body'...," Nick persisted. "The other time it began with hypothermia.... What if this time it began with fever... or what if we threw him into hypothermia with trying to get his temperature down?"
"Doubtful...," the doctor firmly responded. "I have those files now.... It took
awhile, but I have all the data from Stanford.... That was a spontaneous, immediately
deep coma. In a coma, a person is unresponsive to stimuli, non-reactive to bodily
needs. The progression here has been entirely different... and the current state was
hardly spontaneous.... All we can do is wait and see."
< < + > >
Later...
Mumbling quietly in the corner of the room, Sloan held the phone close and ignored the looks he was receiving from Boyle. Finally, he ended the call and slipped the phone back into the breast pocket of his tweed jacket.
"If you don't wanna be here...," Nick hissed angrily.
"Button it, Boyle. Of course, I want to be here.... Dammit!... The world's falling apart on us. I've got responsibilities... to other people... people Derek cared about."
"Cares about," Nick angrily corrected. "People Derek 'cares' about."
The older man decided not to rise to the bait. He was tired, worried, and he had no wish to continue indulging in spats with Nick Boyle. Instead, he opened the latest newspaper with its scenes of horror splashed across its front page. He would plow through it, hoping for something... anything... new.
"Hey...." Nick's voice had changed. "Welcome back, sleepy head," he said softly, as if to a wakening child.
Sloan eagerly looked towards the bed. Both men watched as their friend's eyes opened, shut, then struggled to open again. Feeling a huge weight lift from his heart, the former Ruling Precept smiled. "Thank God," he murmured, then once more offered their ritual greeting, "You look like hell, my friend."
Both men waited for Derek's traditional response, but, ominously, there was no reply... not even the hint of a smile on the lips or in the eyes.
"Derek?" Nick leaned forward and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You OK?"
The precept turned his head slightly, looked towards the young man, but there was no recognition.... Dull eyes surveyed him from a blank face.
"Get McLean," Sloan instructed.
* * *
Nick returned quickly with the doctor in tow.
"So... you're back with us.... That's good.... Let's raise this a bit, shall we?" he said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact as he pressed the button to raise the head of the bed to a slight cant. "It's OK," he said calmly, when he saw a brief panic in his patient's eyes as the bed's mechanisms whirred and Derek felt his upper body lifted, but when the movement stopped, the fear seemed to subside.
As he undid the buckle restraining Derek's left wrist, then gently took it in hand, McLean realized that his every action was being watched. Never taking his eyes from his patient's face, he counted the slow, regular pulse and noted that, though Derek followed his motions, he seemed to have no sense of what was happening.
Releasing the arm, he was surprised when, instead of allowing it to drop back onto the bed, Derek left the arm elevated.
"Let's just put that back," he said, keeping up his monologue. There was no resistance when he pushed the arm back onto the covers. "Can you hear me, Derek?" he asked. Behind his back, the doctor tapped his pen against the table.
Again the blank, hazel eyes turned in the direction of the sound. Slack jawed, the precept's face betrayed no sense of awareness.
"What's wrong?" Nick hissed.
"He can hear.... He responds to sound... to our voices...," the doctor mused aloud. "I'm just going to test your reflexes." He uncovered the bare feet, ran the pen along the sole, and saw the expected response. "Good." As he undid the buckle on the ankle restraint, he smiled up at the uncomprehending face.
"Now, your knee," he announced. "Do you know... Derek...," he said, continuing to talk to his patient, continuing to study his face. "My father wanted me to be an engineer.... We, Scots, are the best engineers in the world.... I was tempted.... I love to know how things work... to make them function better... more efficiently... but I decided machines were too easy.... Now human beings... the human mind... that's where the real challenges lie."
* * *
After completing all his tests, McLean remained obviously puzzled. "You're testing my abilities here, Derek.... All your reactions are normal." He reached for his patient's left hand, opened the fingers, and placed his pen on the flat palm. When he let go, the pen fell. He repeated the process several times, until he finally wrapped the long fingers around the instrument.
"So...." He smiled again. "We've got to do things for you.... The body will work... but... your mind is busy... elsewhere.... Is that it?
"OK.... I don't think we'll be needing these restraints any longer.... Let's get rid of them and get you comfortable." He looked to Nick for assistance. "You look at the garden for a while," he told his patient. "Mr. Sloan will open the window and let in some of this beautiful Dorset air... and you can listen to the songbirds."
Between them, they got the precept into what they hoped was a secure position. Pillows were placed around him for support, but the doctor was certain Derek would remain exactly as they left him.
He remembered when he'd first joined the staff on Wells Ward.... Patterson had been like this.... His automatic bodily functions... breathing... blinking... movement... had worked... but everything else had to be done for him. They had determined that he saw... and heard... but his mind did not process the information... and exercised only minimal direction over his body. He had been incapable of walking, talking, feeding himself.
"What's wrong?" Nick asked again, frustrated, a sickening feeling churning in his stomach. "He's awake...."
"Let's talk outside," Sloan said quietly, then in a louder tone announced, "Derek, we're going for coffee.... We'll be back."
In the meantime, Fr. Thomas had appeared at the door, looking much better after his enforced rest. Dr. McLean had sent him off with a mild sedative and instructions.... "No praying.... No bedside vigils.... Eat... bathe... sleep." He had been adamant, and he had been right.
"No need to hurry," the priest informed the others. "Derek and I can enjoy the
view together."
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