Chapter 28
A few minutes later...
"I call... as my next witness," Franklin Cross announced, "Dr. Angus McLean, Precept Titularis and Chief Administrator of the Hospital of St. Michael and St. George in Dorset, where he is also Chief Medical Officer of the psychiatric wing." The Scotsman turned to Sloan. "Do you wish to challenge this witness' credentials?"
Sloan shook his head. How could he challenge McLean?... Dammit!... He had cared for the inhabitants of Wells Ward for years, and Derek had willingly placed himself in this man's charge. With a sigh, he removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. A headache was building.... McLean was a good man... a knowledgeable man.... Goddammit!
The Chief Investigator smiled as he watched the doctor step from the gallery behind the Council to take the empty seat in the horseshoe's center. "Dr. McLean... there's no need to state your qualifications.... The tribunal members have a copy of your most impressive CV before them. They have also studied your written submission outlining what is known of the experiments conducted by Ernst Reston at Cambridge back in the early 1970s... the experiments which ultimately lead to the establishment of Wells Ward... and provided all its unfortunate inmates."
McLean nodded, fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair, then ran a finger round his too tight collar. He glanced out the windows at the fireworks that lit the night. He realized that he was looking at life... as it continued... unaware... or uncaring... whilst a human being was being dissected in this room.
A blast vibrated the window panes as a spectacular chrysanthemum shell exploded in the sky. Showers, first of gold, then blue, then twinkling red, cascaded downward. As everyone in the room paused to give its beauty their full attention, they failed to hear the door open and to see a tall, thin figure slip into the room.
The Vicomte de Foix had ignored the colorful display. As a former boarder at Eton School, he, like all alumni, did not celebrate Guy Fawkes Night.... Guy had been an "old boy" of the school... and one didn't celebrate the burning of an "old boy." It just wasn't done! Thus, he had noticed the interloper. He had caught his eye and they had exchanged the briefest of nods as the figure had slipped into the shadows of the room. For the first time in months, de Foix felt optimism stir in his soul. There was hope now.... They could survive. He turned his attention back to the Chief Investigator.
"First of all, Doctor," said Cross. "I'd like you to examine these papers, identify them, and explain them for the tribunal." He handed McLean several documents.
The doctor slipped on his glasses and looked closely at the pages. "How did you get these, sir?" McLean asked. "These are from my private, confidential patient files."
"Your files, Dr. McLean, belong to the Legacy," Cross retorted. "As Chief Investigator I have every right to examine them with or without your knowledge."
"This is outrageous," McLean and Sloan declared simultaneously.
"Do as Mr. Cross requests," said Loxley Millard. "Our rules are binding upon all who have been initiated into our society... yourself and Dr. Rayne included.
"Very well," Dr. McLean sighed in irritation. "These pages," which he held high, "are a set of forms that Dr. Rayne completed and signed when he came to the Hospital of St. Michael and St. George... mere bureaucratic formalities."
"They are the equivalent of self-commitment papers... are they not?" said Cross.
"No.... They are admission papers.... Every hospital uses a variation of the same forms."
"But... within those he agrees to abide by certain conditions that are not normally a part of ordinary admissions procedures.... Does he not?"
"Yes... but we're not an ordinary facility," McLean replied.
"Please.... What is the other paper?"
The doctor hesitated and glanced down at the document again. "It's a set of instructions that Dr. Rayne wrote upon his arrival. He stipulates that he is to receive no psychological treatment nor counseling. His physical needs are to be met. He states that he may be monitored and tested... and that should any dangers arise... to himself or others... we may take whatever actions we deem necessary... including the use of drugs and restraints. If any other problem should arise and he is unable to consent... then his mother, Mrs. Barbara Rayne, may."
"Why do you think he did this, Doctor?" Cross asked.
Sloan rose. "I object.... It calls for 'guessing' or 'mind reading' by the witness."
"Hardly, sir," Cross responded, turning to face Sloan. "It calls for Dr. McLean's learned opinion as a psychiatrist who has come to know his patient."
"Answer Mr. Cross," Loxley Millard instructed.
Again McLean hesitated. "I... I think he foresaw all of this."
"Thank you, Doctor.... Now... let's get to the real crux of the matter." Cross glanced down at his notes. "Dr. McLean... will you please give us your opinion of Dr Rayne's current condition and the prognosis for his future?"
"This violates every medical oath I've ever taken," the doctor objected.
"But you also took an oath to the Legacy, did you not?" Loxley Millard snapped.
"Aye... so I did," said the Scots burr. McLean loosened his tie slightly, then cleared his throat. "To understand Dr. Rayne's condition... it is necessary to also understand the impact of his recent past. As you all know, this past February and March, he was subjected to unbelievable brutality when he was kidnapped by Carlton West, a serial murderer, possessed by evil and insanity.
"In my opinion, the perpetrator's intent was... through this abuse, which was physical, sexual, emotional, and mental... things I can't even begin to imagine.... The intent was to first wear down his victim... to utterly debase and degrade him as a human being... to tear him down to the level of a starving, dependent beast... then to destroy Derek Rayne... mind, body, and soul.
"This monster, West...." A look of absolute revulsion crossed his ruddy face as McLean spat out the name. He paused to pour himself a glass of water from the carafe on the small table beside his chair. "I wish this was something a wee bit stronger," he awkwardly joked. "This monster... captured Dr. Rayne and continued to maintain control by the use of a drug or drugs that neither our lab in Dorset... nor the lab here in London House... has been able to completely analyse. It degraded rapidly in the system, but its affects remained.... It completely immobilized the victim, but left all senses functioning... perhaps even enhanced. As it wore off, it produced symptoms of withdrawal that mimicked Parkinson's Disease.... These symptoms, particularly the tremors, continued for nearly three months after his rescue."
The doctor paused once more to take a sip of his water, then, clearing his throat, he continued, "There is no doubt about the physical torments he suffered.... Within the packet that Mr. Cross gave you, there's an envelope which contains photos taken when Dr. Rayne arrived at our hospital to begin a series of skin grafts on his thighs and buttocks. Please, note the extensive damage, due to an extreme whipping administered with a riding crop. He was literally flayed.... Many of the gashes actually penetrated below the skin... into muscle. The large rectangular area on the inner thigh was where a section of skin had been sliced away by his captor. If he had not had the skin grafts, his range of movement would have been severely limited due to scarring. As it is, many scars remain... on his back... and elsewhere.
"But beyond the physical, there was the psychological trauma of being totally at the mercy of this madman... the appalling things he was forced to witness... the horrible mutilations... the rapes.... His psychic abilities would have made him a participant.... He would not only have felt the pain and terror of the victim, but also the elation of the perpetrator." The doctor's Scots accent with its comforting burr was at odds with the horrors he was describing.
"Then there was something that I cannot even conceive of... the effect of having his head totally encased in an iron mask that weighed between three and five kilos.... The weight alone produced soft tissue damage to his neck, back, and shoulders."
"Excuse me, Dr. McLean," Cross interrupted, as he signalled for the light to be dimmed. "I can provide a bit of footage of the actor, James Darke, wearing the item in question.... Can you please look at this and describe what the physical and emotional effects might be if someone were forced to wear it long-term."
McLean looked over at the scratchy black and white images, then took a deep steadying breath. "As you can see," he began in a monotone, "the slits for the eyes were quite small... and over the mouth, there is a grille with minimally sized holes, which is the only facility for breathing. The wearer's nose... even Mr. Darke's... would have been flattened by the solid metal of the face plate. There were no ear holes, because the helmet's opening seam circumvented the skull side to side. There was a hinge at the crown and faux bolts were inserted along the sides, but Mr. Darke would have been able to hear through a crack a few millemetres wide. Originally, the helmet was then held together and in place by a neck ring that clamped together on one side.
"It had been especially designed to fit Mr. Darke as part of this very authentic seventeenth-century costume." The doctor reached for his water and took a deep drink, then continued. "The one-piece construction of the front half... from the crown to the base of the neck... shaped to fit Mr. Darke, of course... would have limited the movement of the jaw... opening the mouth... thus limiting the ability to speak, eat, drink... or scream... perhaps, at times, even to swallow. I'm told that as an actor/director, Mr. Darke wanted the weight and various encumbrances to aid his silent portrayal of 'The Man in the Iron Mask'.... However, it was intended to be easily removed whenever necessary, because, even for Mr. Darke it would have been cumbersome and exhausting.... I'm told he fainted a few times during the making of the film.
"For Dr. Rayne, a considerably larger man... it would not have fit properly at all. He said once that he felt as though his skull was gripped by a vise... the length of the neck and the shape of the jaw and the rear portion... the occipital area... at the base of the skull was wrong, he said... and pressed upward unyieldingly... without relief... forcing his neck into a permanently wrenched position. I can assure you that the pain would have been as monstrous as the mask itself. It was this wrenching that caused the physical damage to his neck. The constant rubbing of it caused sores... on his head, ears, nose, and around the neck.
"It would have severely limited his intake of breath. He would have felt as though there was never enough oxygen... and subsequent panic would have caused hyperventilation and the need for more air. That tiny grille was in no way sufficient for breathing... and food would have to be gotten through the grille as well.... Agonizingly slow death by thirst, starvation, strangulation.
With the seam welded closed, hearing would be minimal, yet under certain circumstances it would be like having your head inside a bell... if anything should hit the exterior... for example. According to records from his first examination, there had been considerable bleeding from the nose and ears, but the eardrums were intact."
McLean turned away; his gaze grew distant. His voice took on an intimate tone. "The very thought of having that 'thing' welded closed... knowing that it was there permanently... knowing that if I vomited, I might choke on it or smother... or at the very least the vomitus would remain in the mask, glued to my face... knowing that my growing hair and beard would ultimately suffocate me... the terror... the claustrophobia... the unremitting pain... the difficulties it would cause not just in breathing, but in seeing, hearing, eating, drinking, balance... movement of any kind... makes me...." He paused... hesitated to say what first came to mind. "Frankly... to avoid crudity... it makes me thankful that I'm wearing brown trousers." The room had grown so silent that everyone could hear the doctor swallow. "...And," he stammered, "...and all the while, that monster, who was his only hope of release, may have been molesting him... fondling him, pummelling him, penetrating him... and he could do nothing but endure it... and pray for death, because if there had ever been any hope, it would have been suffocated by that mask. That... ladies and gentlemen... is now my image of hell." He paused once more to take a sip of water, then continued. "I now have nightmares... and I'm sure some of you will too.
After a moment he added, "I find it amazing... an indication of the strength and character of that man... that he was able to emerge sane... and was able to... 'hold it together'... for the time that it took for him to make his arrangements.... Absolutely amazing."
Cross looked around, pleased to see the ashen faces of the Council and everyone in the room. Hearing such things voiced lent so much more impact than reading the dry, impersonal medical jargon.
Both Sloan and Fr. Thomas followed Cross' gaze. They then exchanged a glance. How could this sort of testimony be countered?... Derek would, of course, have sympathy... but, how could anyone convince the tribunal that a man subjected to such grotesque cruelty could ever heal... could survive such horrors with mind and soul intact?
The Chief Investigator allowed the silence to stretch to its limit. "Please... Doctor," he finally said, "continue.... Describe Dr. Rayne's deterioration while in your care.... We know that you are the best in the field and have done all you can."
"Very well," McLean responded with a sigh, "but please note in the record that I do this with extreme prejudice."
"So noted," said Loxley Millard.
"We know that, at least... up into September... Dr. Rayne was experiencing severe flashbacks. Even if he was to emerge from his current stupor, he will probably always suffer from these flashbacks, which, in my opinion, would be debilitating. They rob him of present reality... in episodes which may last from a few seconds to perhaps hours.
"However, during that time, we also believe that he was having premonitions, which he could not communicate, of the events in New York... and, it is possible that, at the very moment of impact, he experienced a psychic link with his cousin, Willem van der Linden, who died in the attack. Through those moments of conflagration... from the time the plane hit the tower to the moment of its collapse... Dr. Rayne suffered from a raging fever.... And while he didn't seizure, there may have been brain damage.
"I believe that all those events... combined with the 1999 hypothermia and repeated 'entity' contact... as well as those unknown drugs, administered by Reston long ago and by West a few months ago... were sufficient to accelerate... in Dr. Rayne... the illness that afflicts all the patients in Wells Ward. He's now in the later stages. He has regained consciousness.... At least, he's aware... at the most base level.... He's reacting to stimuli... to pain... to pressure.... He hears... sees.... He's breathing unaided, swallowing, blinking... all the automatic responses... but I fear even this most basic existence will soon pass... and he will slip, inevitably and irrevocably, into a deep coma... from which there will be no recovery."
Cross eagerly stepped towards his witness. "That's not an optimistic prognosis.... Is it your contention that Dr. Rayne will never again function as a competent human being... that this will inevitably result in diminishing physical health?"
"No... not quite that," McLean said hesitantly.
Cross sighed.... It was a repeat of Dr. Corrigan's testimony. Couldn't these medical people leave well enough alone... be definitive... and not explain to the laymen? But... he could do nothing. With his next witness, he would need to do nothing. "Please, explain, Doctor," he said.
McLean nodded and loosened his tie further. "You see... Dr. Rayne has never followed the pattern that the others did. None of Reston's guinea pigs took exactly the same drug combinations... and after the program was halted, Reston destroyed many of his notes. There's so much we just don't know.... I wish I could be more certain... but there must be some cause for hope. Remember... the others, at varying intervals, were stricken within a relatively short time. All were afflicted by 1978, but Derek was able to hold off the onset of the illness for possibly twenty-five years.... Plus, if West's torture is what induced this final stage... why didn't the torture he experienced in Libya in 1983?... According to the records I have available to me, that recovery was long, difficult, and uncertain.... Yet, he did fully recover.... So in light of these facts, there surely must be some hope."
The physician turned to meet the gaze of each Council member. "I wish I'd been called in when Dr. Rayne slipped into the coma... after the hypothermia in ninety-nine. Dr. Corrigan and Mr. Boyle visited Wells Ward, but it was made clear that Dr. Rayne would remain in San Francisco under the care of doctors at Stanford University. However, those doctors didn't know of my work, which was, of course, confidential.
"If I'd had the opportunity run tests back then.... Then compare his results with the late Mr. Patterson's... and the others... then perhaps I could be more definitive. But, as it is, I can't. Was that coma a result of the Reston experiments?... Was it a part of... or was not a part of the decline?... I can't say. If it was... then he emerged from that coma, which Patterson never did. If it was not, then he is still not 'with the program,' so to speak."
"Nevertheless, Doctor," Cross quickly interrupted.... His witness was going off into too many tangents. "We cannot rely on 'if onlies' and 'perhaps'. We must also be realists. Dr. Rayne has been living on borrowed time... for years now... and the past has finally caught up with him.
"One last question... if Dr. Rayne were to somehow emerge from his present state... would he still suffer from the psychological trauma of West's torture?"
"I fear so," the psychiatrist replied.
"Thank you, Dr. McLean," Cross preened. "Please, resume your seat. Mr. Sloan may have some questions for you... later."
< < + > >
"I call as my next witness... Mr. Malcolm Arthur," Cross declared, "currently serving as a ward orderly in Wells Ward at the Hospital of St. Michael and St. George." His voice and stance seemed to proclaim that this could be the "coup de grace".
"What!" Sloan surged to his feet. "I protest!... For God's sake!... A ward orderly!... What's next?... The janitor?... To give us an expert view of Dr. Rayne's lack of tidiness!"
"If you had given me sufficient time...," Cross smoothly countered, "I was about to add... that although he is currently serving as a ward orderly... Mr. Arthur is a member of the Internal Affairs Department of the Chief Investigator's Office!"
Shocked, his mind in chaos, Sloan tried to think back.... Had he ever seen the man prior to his visit to the hospital? Had he been so absorbed in Derek, that he'd missed that?... IA officers often retained anonymity, but he'd been Ruling Precept. If this Malcolm Arthur had been a Legacy member then... he'd have seen his dossier... at the very least. From the encounters at Wells Ward, he couldn't even recall what the man looked like... a large, very black man... with a Caribbean shaded, British accent... Jamaican maybe. That was it... nothing more.
"Dammit!... Internal Affairs!... That's even worse!" Sloan's voice seethed with undisguised rage. He balled his fists as if ready to physically attack Cross. "He stole McLean's files, didn't he?... You spied on him!... While he was in his sickbed!... In a hospital!... What did your lackey do?... Bug the bed pans?"
"Spy?..." Cross innocently, calmly repeated. "Well... that is an interpretation, of course.... However, in fact, it was with Dr. Rayne's welfare in mind that I had Mr. Arthur assume this role... to warrant Dr. Rayne's safety... and to ensure that no unfortunate security issues arose during his lack of lucidity."
"Wait one moment!" a Scots voice rang from the gallery. Dr. McLean left his seat and hurried back to the table. "This is abominable... against all medical ethics. Did this man... your agent... have the proper certification to care for patients... or were they expertly falsified?... You put my patients in danger.... As for security issues... that is a Legacy facility and I am a Legacy precept.... Was I a security risk?... Were you afraid that he'd tell me something about our society that I didn't already know?"
"Please... return to your seat, Doctor." Cross spoke with quiet vehemence... Scot's burr against Scot's burr. "I think it ill behooves you to claim the ethical high ground.... Did you not just testify about Dr. Rayne's medical condition... and... like all our investigators, Mr. Arthur has medical training... just as Mr. Kincaid's Sgt. Carter has his proper certifications."
At the mention of Carter's name, Sloan shot a questioning glance at Fr. Thomas, who confirmed the statement with a slight nod.
Loxley Millard's voice cut in to halt further objections. "I believe this testimony is relevant. Mr. Arthur was placed there with the full knowledge and consent of my office... for the stated reasons. Above all... the Legacy must be protected... and you, Dr. McLean, often seem to forget your position as a precept. You may be that in name only, without a House, but that hospital is your Legacy House... and, unfortunately, you seem to believe you owe a greater allegiance to your patients than to this organization. Miss Webster... please admit Mr. Arthur."
* * *
As the bulky man settled himself into the witness chair, which was slightly too small, Cross began. "Mr. Arthur... we've heard testimony from Dr. McLean, regarding Dr. Rayne's medical condition.... He paints a picture of a man at rest, lying serenely in his bed... albeit in a stupor... without awareness. Is this how you would describe his condition?"
"Well, sir...." Gone was the faint, Bahamian patois... replaced by a standard American accent. "Although I received extensive medical training when I was a crime scene investigator for the Kansas City PD... I'm not a doctor or a psychologist. I can't give you the fancy words... the complex psycho-medical assessments of Rayne's condition.... I've just been 'hands on,' so to speak... following the doctor's and nurses' orders... mopping up... bed pans... changing linens... changing dressings... doing guard duty... providing the muscle... and, on occasion... under supervision... administering medications... and acting as a physical therapist.
"But... no...," he said firmly. "I'd say that Dr. McLean's prognosis is overly optimistic and doesn't describe my view of Rayne's state."
"How do you account for the discrepancy in the opinions?" Cross asked with exaggerated interest.
"As you know, the Hospital of St. Michael and St. George is a hospital and research facility that operates partly under the facade of the National Health Service, while other parts remain private under the open auspices of the Luna Foundation... and more secretly under the Legacy. It services patients who need many forms of care... including long-term hospice care... care for those recovering from burns and massive injury.... That's why we were able to do Dr. Rayne's skin grafts. However, its specialty is psychiatric care.... People who are terminally ill or who have suffered massive injury commonly need such help.
"The Legacy and even certain branches of the British government have long used the hospital to care for those injured in the line of duty or who have suffered from psychological problems due to their work."
The former orderly, paused for a breath, then continued his well rehearsed speech... a fact apparent to all. "Therefore, Dr. McLean, as administrator, had other duties and other patients to attend to... those in Wells Ward, as well as any in the entire hospital who needed psychiatric attention. The psychiatric facility is separate from Wells Ward. It's at the other end of the building... the other wing... and occupied much of his time. His offices are halfway between. He usually saw Rayne when Rayne was placid... drugged out of his mind... or in the middle of a crisis... when one of us had him pinned down." The Internal Affairs officer paused again, looked toward the gallery and hesitantly added, "...And, although the Legacy has a part in the funding... even that money comes from the Luna Foundation in a round about way.... So... the foundation funds the larger portion directly... openly... and provides a smaller amount via the Legacy. If a new chairman was appointed, that funding might be changed... redirected. Dr. McLean might lose the grant provided for the study of those in Wells Ward... the time travel guinea pigs."
Sloan looked over to see the fury in McLean's face, but the man remained silent.
"Can you describe your experiences with the patient?" asked Cross, who had stood by and allowed his witness to talk.
"As I said, Rayne came to us for skin grafts... but he was a psychological mess because of what had happened.... I mean... after all, he had been brutalized... repeatedly sodomized... raped... and was under the threat of AIDS."
"I object!" Sloan shouted. "No doctor... no physical examination has been able to confirm that Dr. Rayne was raped in any way... and this 'witness' is not competent to make such a statement."
"I was a crime scene investigator," the man retorted. "I look at records... at evidence... differently than doctors do.... That is my assessment from the medical records, physical, and behavioral evidence I've seen."
"Conceded, Mr. Sloan," Cross injected. He could afford to yield a point in order to be magnanimous.... Often a point yielded, meant three won later. He smiled to himself. "Mr. Arthur, kindly confine your statement to what you, yourself, have witnessed."
"OK," was the terse reply. "Even though Rayne arrived more than a month after his rescue... his injuries were still apparent... not just the areas in need of the skin grafts, but he was still swollen.... Infection had been a difficulty.... His genitals had been severely battered. Pain was a problem. It was difficult, even that long after the events, for him to find a position of rest. Dreams and flashbacks were also a problem.... In order to sleep, he had to be given sedatives.... Something that might not appear on official records. He didn't like to be touched... and constantly complained of 'the stench of death'. Carter... the orderly who was his primary care giver... often had to walk him in the garden for hours on end to calm him and wear him out."
"As time passed, he became more and more withdrawn... functioning less and less... more dependent on the staff. Then, along about mid-July, I think it was, he began to get violent. He engaged in self-mutilation and tried to kill himself.... Despite huge drug doses, he spent most of his time in a straight jacket... in a padded cell... raving about fire and death.... He's lost control of his bodily functions... to put it crudely, he messes himself... and doesn't even know it.... I'd say he's dangerous."
"Really?" said Cross, still maintaining his air of innocent ignorance. "Dangerous?... Has he hurt anyone?"
"He bit me... a nasty wound.... It drew blood... and this was when he could still have been HIV positive. Who knows what might have happened if he hadn't been in restraints. As it is, I've been bruised... kicked... bloodied... so have all the attendants.... He bashed Mr. Sloan in the mouth. He's like a wild animal... a rabid one that would turn on anybody.... And there's the fires.... It's only pure luck that nobody's got killed... or, at the very least, been seriously hurt.... Personally, I think that Carlton West's plan to reduce him to a ravenous beast worked."
"Fires?..." Cross leaned forward; everyone noted the eagerness in his voice. "What do you mean by fires?... Dr. McLean mentioned no fires."
"He wouldn't, sir." Malcolm looked directly at the physician. "He knows some aspects of his handling of the situation could be construed as gross negligence."
McLean rose to his feet and shouted. "I object to this flagrant slander!"
"Sit down, Doctor," Loxley Millard ordered. "I would advise best behavior... since you, yourself, may be facing an inquiry.... Continue, Mr. Arthur.... Please explain these fires."
"Well, sir... Dr. Rayne has somehow developed the ability to start fires... using his mind.... There have been at least two conflagrations that I know of.... There could have been more... that were 'hushed up'."
"Is there any control of this 'ability'?" Cross asked. "Or is it indiscriminate?"
"I can't say, sir," the black man replied. "Except it seemed to occur when he was physically restrained."
"Thank you, Mr. Arthur," said the Chief Investigator. "You may go, but, please, remain on call in the building." He then turned to face the panel. "If I might now introduce further evidence.... Mr. Arthur has provided a videotape. This will give you an opportunity to weigh the two opinions regarding Dr. Rayne's condition... and decide which to accept."
"What sort of videotape?" Sloan asked. His anger and distaste were evident. "I object.... As defense counsel, I was informed of no such tape."
"It is a compilation tape of Dr. Rayne," Cross replied, "showing several of the episodes in the padded cell.... There was no need to inform you. Unless you are an obtuse fool, you should have been well aware that the cell was completely monitored.... Everyone else was."
"This is monstrous.... I must protest!" Fr. Thomas exclaimed, his face pale. "This is completely unethical."
"Come now, Father," the Chief Investigator coldly responded. "Should you not recuse yourself from this tribunal?... You've a conflict of interest that you should have stated before these proceedings ever began.
"You've been a frequent visitor to Dr. Rayne.... In fact, you've been living at the hospital under the guise of receiving your cancer treatments.... Cancer that is now in remission and no longer being treated at all.... You've seen his condition.... How can you deny your fellow Council members an equal opportunity to make their own assessment?... Or are you afraid that they'll learn the truth?... That your efforts... in collusion with Ian Kincaid, I might add.... Your efforts at concealment have been in vain!"
His cheeks now flushed with anger, the priest rose unsteadily, leaning heavily on his walking stick. "These proceedings are a sick farce.... I cannot in good conscience remain... nor do I even possess the charity to pray for you.... You are as vile as that wicked creature, West.... You can all go to Hell.... That's where you belong."
The Vicomte de Foix looked up at Fr. Thomas, who had been seated to his left... then turned in his chair to search the dark corner beside the drapes. He caught a warning shake of the head, and forced himself to remained silent.
"Gentlemen... please!... Mr. Cross has the right to present any evidence that is relevant... and... somewhat reluctantly... I must agree that this is pertinent. If there has been an attempt made to conceal...." Loxley Millard paused to deliberately glance at the priest, then at McLean. "We will deal with that later.... We will proceed, Father... with or without your presence... and I am withdrawing your name from the upcoming vote.... Our alternate, Mr. Horii, of the Tokyo House, will be your replacement."
Sloan quickly stepped over to the old man, leaned across the table, and said softly, "Joseph... I know how you feel... but I need you here... whether you vote or not..... Please...."
Fr. Thomas nodded, then sat down heavily. Everyone in the room noticed his trembling hand as he reached for his carafe of water.
"Allow me...." The vicomte lifted the glass from the top of the small jug and poured. He gently squeezed the wrinkled, liver-spotted hand as he offered the water. "It's OK...," he whispered. "Everything will be all right.... Have faith." He smiled at the incomprehension he saw in the old man's face.
As Cross pressed the "play" button on the VCR, Fr. Thomas refused to look at the screen. "I won't," he said to de Foix, as he continued to stare at Cross, whose eyes glinted with conviction.... Conviction... or hatred, he wondered. Why?...
Clare Spencer shuffled uncomfortably in her chair. "I must agree with Mr. Sloan.... This isn't right.... It's squalid... not the action I'd expect from the Legacy."
"You'll notice the date stamps... from a period less than two months ago," the Scotsman pointed out, as the image grew clearer. "As the tape progresses, note the cell damaged by fire... flames... started by Dr. Rayne's diseased mind... or by some remnant of his many possessions by the Darkside... taking control of him... using him... to do its will.... The helmet-like device he wears in the following scenes was designed to suppress this 'ability'....I expect Mr. Sloan will first endeavour to convince you that these fires were accidental.... Then he will admit that they are the result of a confused psychic mind... rather than of any 'evil' origin... and, frankly, whichever explanation is true is immaterial.... Imagine an ability like that in the ruined mind we will see here."
The Council watched, sickened by what they saw, yet unable to avert their eyes. The disintegration of a man they all knew was so complete... so absolute....
Shaking his head, Cross walked over to stand beside the screen. "I had planned to call other
witnesses... to introduce other evidence... however, I believe this is all the evidence we need....
This man... this 'creature'... has no place in the real world.... He belongs nowhere but where we
see him... as we see him," he said sadly. "The man who used to be Derek Rayne... a gifted man... a
valiant precept... is lost to us.... Let us mourn his passing... and treat what has been left behind
with as much compassion as we can... confined in a suitable facility, where he will endanger no
one... not even himself. It's time we all accept the fact he's gone... forever.... I rest my case."
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