Chapter 29
Tribunal Chamber...
Placing his hands on the table, William Sloan wearily boosted himself to his feet. For one of the few times in his adult life, he had no idea what to say. How could he even begin to refute Cross' case? That damned video!... Whatever expert testimony was given... whatever double-talk... whatever the mitigating factors... the evidence these people would truly believe was Derek's evidence... what they had seen with their own eyes.
The former Ruling Precept glanced around the room, saw sympathy on some faces, expressions of horror on others, but too many faces were empty, completely unmoved. It worried him. Trying to think, he ran his hand through his thinning hair. He prayed no one could see that the hand was trembling. He had to buy himself a moment or two. Slowly, he shuffled his papers and picked up his glasses, then pulled his handkerchief from his breast pocket, and looked down to wipe the lenses.
When he looked up again, the expressions had changed. Jaws had dropped; eyes had widened. He heard sharp breaths taken, followed by utter silence. The room held its breath. He saw Joseph, his face stark white, cross himself and saw his lips mime a "Thank you, Lord." Sloan turned to follow their gazes. Behind him, a figure had stepped forth from the shadows. Sloan's glasses clattered on the table. His hand sought the support of his chair.
"Goot evening."
Using every inch of his six-foot-plus frame, Derek Rayne stood tall before them. Another deliberate step took him into an halo of light. His charcoal, tweed blazer, black turtleneck, and long hair... shining more silver than salt-and-pepper, beneath the light... accentuated his thinness, his pallor, his evident fatigue, but his hazel eyes were crystal clear, his voice smooth and steady.
"As you can see," he said, "if I may paraphrase Mark Twain... the reports of my insanity have been greatly exaggerated.
"William...." He smiled softly at his dumbfounded friend. "Now that Mr. Cross has finished... I'll take over.... Thank you...," he added quietly, "for what you were trying to do. It's good to know that one has such allies."
"Wait!" Cross had quickly recovered from his shock. "Sergeant-at-Arms!... Call your security team. Remove this man.... He is no longer a precept, nor a part of this body.... He has no right to be here."
Sloan sprang to his feet. "He has every right to be here... as the defendant, whom I represent."
"Indeed he does," said Clare Spencer. "He may not, at this moment, be Precept of the San Francisco House, but he still holds status and seniority until this tribunal determines otherwise."
"Hear hears" and nods of agreement circled the room.
"Very well," Cross conceded, then countered, "How do we know this is Derek Rayne?... Or that he's not possessed by some... demon? How else can we account for this?... A miracle?"
"Really... Franklin...." Derek's eyebrow arched. "So many years in the Legacy... and still you refuse to believe?... Now, if I may continue...."
Sloan heard the amused affection in his friend's voice, but others, who didn't know Derek Rayne as well, might read the tone as one of condescension. He shook his head despairingly. His friend simply had to tease the cobra. Would he never learn... not even after West?
"SSStop... one moment!" Loxley Millard managed to splutter out. "Mr. Cross is right.... This may be an apparition... or a case of possession... or a doppelganger. The safety of the Council and of this House dictates that you be confined."
The Sergeant-at-Arms stepped towards Derek. With his hand resting on the pistol beneath his jacket, he glanced with uncertainty at Cross, then at the others. Dr. Rayne hardly seemed a threat, but he'd been a Legacy Security Officer long enough to know demons came in all shapes, sizes... and identities.
Derek laughed aloud. "Really... Sir James... if I were the Devil himself... or even one of his minions... do you think you could keep me prisoner!... But I'm not... and, if necessary, in due time... I'll place myself in the hands of Fr. Thomas, our foremost expert in possession... or anyone else you care to name... if that'll satisfy you. But first... we have the little matter of my competency to deal with."
Cross faced the tribunal members. "We can't allow this... this person... to continue.... It's completely unprecedented.... If he's insane, how can we accept his testimony?"
Derek clucked and shook his head. "Franklin... if this hearing is to determine my sanity, how can you possibly decide anything without my testimony?... Really... I am sorry to 'Rayne' on your parade... but... in all logic... all good conscience... you must allow me to speak."
Sloan stared in surprise at the tall man... a pun.... Derek Rayne with a sense of humor!... A miracle, indeed!
"Mr. Wainwright," Clare Spencer said to the Sergeant-at-Arms, "stand down and take your place by the door, please.... I think this tribunal has the right to hear what Dr. Rayne has to say." The Ruling Precept glanced around at her colleagues and received nods of agreement from the majority. "He seems quite lucid and in control... for a raving lunatic." She shot Franklin Cross a look... one whose disdain all could read.
"Oui!...
Quite right," the Vicomte de Foix seconded.Derek nodded to Clare... thanking God that she had retained her independent streak. "I am at something of a disadvantage... not having heard Franklin's no doubt well rehearsed case... but I assume he dragged out every recent mistake... misjudgement... and disagreement."
"And then some...," Sloan muttered bitterly.
"Well... despite what some may think... I've never claimed to be perfect." Derek allowed a slight smile to tweak the corners of his lips. "I do occasionally act in a somewhat... impulsive manner."
Fr. Thomas returned the smile. "Only occasionally, Derek?"
"Oh... come on... now." Seething with frustration, Cross was on his feet again. "We're not talking about a little overeagerness," he stated. "You put yourself in the hands of that maniac, West.... You risked your life... the lives of your team... even of your sister and those unfortunate girls.... It was shear madness!"
"So... then... I may take it...." Derek faced Cross down. "...that this last affair and its aftermath was the crux of your case for my incompetence... that and perhaps the Reston matter... and my coma?... One incident stacked upon another so as to 'cast a new light' on things long dead and justly forgotten?"
"Perhaps, too conveniently forgotten," Cross snapped, suddenly angry with himself. Had Rayne lain a trap for him... dismissing all the evidence he had painstakingly produced... covering Rayne's history as a precept over the past five years?
"First of all," said Derek, "Providence has a hand in most things... and we, of the Legacy, are well aware of the machinations of Heaven and Hell.... Secondly, Reston was a long time ago... and if the Ruling Council will bother to go back into the its own minutes of that time, they will read the evidence and the truth.
"As for this most recent case...." Derek paused to look down at the floor, then raised his head to gaze directly into Cross' blue eyes. With a thickened Dutch accent, he continued, "I do have regrets about that case... that I couldn't save Trevor... or Jasmine... and that Alex was put at risk...."
"What about the conduct of the case?" Cross stepped closer and challenged. "A precept appearing naked in a tawdry television show... then allowing yourself to be captured... tortured... sexually abused."
"Franklin... I had a lead to follow up," Derek explained. "I took advantage of an opportunity that presented itself.... You used to be a goot investigator.... Have you forgotten all that... in your quest to become a 'company' man?"
"I'm not the one whose actions are being questioned," Cross retorted. "We've all seen the results of your investigation... the effect West's treatment had on you... and despite your appearance here... or whatever the correctness or incorrectness of your investigative decisions... those effects were real... are still real.... Your reactions were real.... Who knows when you might return to that madness?"
Cross studied Derek's face.... Now, he thought. Ask him now. "Dr. Rayne...." He allowed a sympathetic note to enter his voice. "Did you not commit yourself to Wells Ward because you knew... deep down... that your mental health was ruined... much as was your physical health?... You knew you were no longer fit to wear your ring... so you gave it away... to Nick Boyle.... Remember that... and leave with dignity. Don't further disgrace the Rayne name with this ongoing charade. If you feel you must remain connected to the Legacy, perhaps some nice, quiet, desk job could be found here in London... a position without stress... in which it wouldn't matter if you took a few days or weeks off to refresh yourself 'in the country'."
"Franklin...." Derek managed a brief smile. "How compassionate of you to worry about my good name... but I think you can leave that to me.... As to my admission to Wells Ward... if you had chosen to read the document carefully... rather than in a slapdash fashion... making assumptions... you would not have found the word 'commit' anywhere. I chose to 'admit' myself to Wells Ward for several reasons. First, because I knew Dr. McLean and the reputation of the facility.... I fund it.... The medical standards of all the various departments are first class. Secondly, I wanted to get away from San Francisco... to allow Nick his freedom... his chance to grow into a role that he may not particularly aspire to, but at which he will ultimately excel. Thirdly, I wanted to reassure the Ruling Council... by being close to London... should I be needed. Lastly, my situation is unique. I am a Legacy precept.... I am Chairman of the Luna Foundation... but I was also a participant in Reston's experiments... and in many other affairs that the Legacy would hardly want known. For my surgeries, I was to be sedated. Would the Ruling Council have preferred that I be sedated in the Grand Central Station of Stanford Medical Center... or UCLA... or the Mayo Clinic... or perhaps at one of the fine hospitals here in London?"
He paused to allow a rueful smile to cross his face. "Unfortunately my own planning did not include... my 'illness'... perhaps I did underestimate my own frailty." Silence followed as Derek turned to look at the fireworks beyond the window. After a moment, he turned back to face the tribunal. "I wonder if you could replay the tape for me?" The precept's request surprised everyone in the room.
"Is that necessary?" de Foix asked anxiously.
"Yes," said Derek. "I want to verify the dates on the recording."
Cross turned back to his papers, which lay upon the table, to allow himself a private smile. He couldn't believe his luck.... After Rayne had maneuvered him into disregarding his carefully constructed evidence of past incompetence, the fool was asking for the most damning evidence of all to be rerun. He walked to the VCR, rewound, and pressed "play". The first scenes of Derek's despairing cries appeared on the screen.
"Fast forward, please, until I say 'stop'," Derek instructed.
They watched the scenes flow by until the Dutch accented voice said, "Stop!... Freeze it there... please."
The tribunal members saw the time/date stamp... "13:53:43... 11/09/01"... "September eleventh... one-fifty-three p.m. GMT... moments after Flight Eleven hit the World Trade Center in Manhattan," said de Foix.
Closing his eyes, Derek swayed unsteadily. He reached for the back of Sloan's chair to steady himself.
"Dr. Rayne... you're unwell.... We can reconvene later, if you need a break," Clare suggested, anxiety evident in her voice.
William rose from his chair and placed an arm around his friend's waist. "Sit," he instructed, as the vicomte hurried from his seat to offer support to the tall man.
Derek allowed himself to be steered into Sloan's chair. Shutting himself off from the emotional reverberations, he hung his head low, braced his elbow on the chair's arm, and rested his brow upon his hand. Sloan poured a glass of water and placed it in Derek's other hand.
At his patient's first sign of distress, Dr. McLean had hurried from the gallery and knelt down beside the chair, studying Derek's face. "Drink," he ordered. He then pulled down the turtleneck of Derek's sweater to check his pulse. As he looked at his watch and counted, the angry, red scars round Derek's neck were revealed for all to see. "Breathe slowly," the doctor urged.
Derek drew several deep breaths, sipped the water, then raised a haggard face to the tribunal. He tried to stand, but was held firmly in the chair by his worried friends. Self-conscious, he knew they were all staring at the scars. He first tugged at his sleeves, then dragged the turtleneck of his sweater up to cover the mementos of his purgatory in West's earthly hell.
"As I explained before, I chose to go to Wells Ward for my own reasons," he stated. "I needed to discover something about myself. It may have been a mistake.... It made me vulnerable.... I opened myself too much... delved too deeply... perhaps, for naught, in the end.
"Even now," he continued, "I 'see' it... the horror... the evil... of that day in September... of other days, as well! I feel your shock at the sight of that tape. Some of you have the 'Sight', but it's unique to each person. If you do not possess the 'Sight'... how can I explain it to you?... Imagine losing control of your senses.... Your eyes show you strange... dreadful images.... At the same time, floods of emotions... not your own feelings, but those of others... often in terror... in dreadful pain and anguish... suddenly consume your body... inflame your nerve endings.... You feel what they feel... sense what they sense... and all the while, one small part of your own brain remains you... remains in control... struggles to understand what you're experiencing."
"Dr. Rayne...," Loxley Millard's voice was quiet, concerned. "This tribunal seems to have departed from formal procedures already.... I think we can break with another tradition.... Please remain seated whilst you present your case."
Derek looked across at the older man. As their eyes met, he knew they would always be enemies. Their views on the future of the Legacy were diametrically opposed, but at least the other man had retained his humanity. Cross, on the other hand, had more in common with the man whose identity had been usurped by Horton in that "other" world. The precept couldn't help but wonder if a similar fate awaited this Franklin Cross.
Derek uttered a deep sigh, but nonetheless chose to rise. He had a point to make. "I'm fine," he solidly declared. "I can't deny the reality of that film... but I won't be ashamed of it... or ashamed of what happened.
"All I can tell you is that for days... possibly weeks... I think... I lost track of time.... As that awful day approached, I saw and experienced what would happen.... I felt the pain... the terror... but try as I might, I couldn't break through to speak... to warn anyone... not even to save my cousin... my friend... Willem van der Linden.... I was there again and again and again.... I tried....
"In my desperation... I believe I somehow produced fire.... I tried to use it to write or paint, if you will... to signal... in some way... the horror that was coming...." His voice cracked and he took another sip of water, then drew himself up to his full height. "It's over now.... I've come through it.... I'm still here... and it's time to move on.... I bear that guilt, as I've borne others....
"Regarding West... I don't deny any of what happened... what he did... the pain he caused me.... It's in my formal depositions... but I'm still here.... I've survived and West is dead.... His reign of terror is over."
"Is it over?" Cross demanded, stepping forward. When he heard the embarrassed groans, the shocked gasps behind him, he turned to challenge. "I have the right to examine this witness.... Do I not?"
He then turned back to Derek. "Isn't it true that you live with it every day... with the pain... and the abuse?... Have you truly faced the reality of it?... Prior to your descent into madness, weren't you unwilling to undergo psychological therapy?... You can't admit that he raped you... used you.... Can you?... You were a proud man... a very heterosexual man... a Legacy precept... yet you were nothing more than his toy... his whore. He sodomized you when he wanted... beat you when he wanted... cut the flesh from you when he wanted... fed and watered you when he wanted... left you in shackles to grovel in your own waste.... He could have maimed you at any time...."
Coughs echoed round the room, accompanied by the shuffling of feet and the uncomfortable shifting of chairs. Cross paused, then drove onward in his challenge. "Just now... you cringed when you thought others might see the scar on your neck... a red ring caused by the iron mask intended to reduce you to an insane bestiality.... and it succeeded. Didn't it?... You have flashbacks, don't you?... Of the feel of Trevor Watson's entrails slung over your helpless, naked body... of the rats gnawing, brushing against your privates... of West's hand groping there... his knife against your skin... of the look in the eyes of that wretched, young woman when he disfigured her... for your benefit."
Once more Cross paused, stepped over to his seat, then turned to again face Derek. "We have West's film," he said, holding up a videotape. "This cassette contains the dozens of subliminal inserts he hid within the episodes of White Magic... the scenes of your brutalization... of the torture and butchery of the others... all enhanced with West's special technology that imprinted the emotions on the film itself. If you have trouble recalling the events, Dr. Rayne, I suggest you watch this. If the tribunal so wishes, I will show it. I've refrained out of deference for your long, distinguished service to the Legacy and because the emotional impact of those clips is so inflammatory that I would be accused of unfairly manipulating this tribunal. Watch it, Dr. Rayne.... Learn the truth. Then return to Well's Ward so that you can receive the care you so desperately need? It's where you belong.... I fear, where you will always belong."
With her eyes fixed on Derek's emotionless face, Clare Spencer said in a shaken voice, "Mr. Cross.... Stop this."
After a deep breath, Cross plowed onward. "Tell us... what happens the next time you face a creature of Darkness... or simply another human monster?... How will it affect your decisions... your judgement... your courage... the very safety of your team?" Cross turned to the tribunal and pointed back at Derek, who stood rooted in place before Sloan's chair. "I contend that this man, sane or not, will never again be fit to wear a precept's ring."
Unable to look at his friend's face during Cross' diatribe, Sloan watched Derek's left hand, which hung at his side. The fingers clinched and unclinched in a grip so tight that his knuckles whitened at each motion. Finally, he looked up to see the blanched face, the knotted muscles in Derek's neck and jaw, the blue vein bulging in his temple. Was he never going to speak? Was he going to let Cross run rampant over what little reputation he had left?
Finally, Sloan could stand it no longer. He charged to the defense of his friend. "Cross!... This is unconscionable. It's nothing but obscene grandstanding.... We all know what happened.... We all know what this man faced and will continue to face. We, of the Legacy, all have our nightmares... our demons... but...."
"But nothing!" His ruddy face reddening even more, Cross rounded on Sloan with eyes that seemed to flash with hatred. "I simply restate the facts... to remind this tribunal of what has happened... as is my duty as Chief Investigator and advocate," the Scotsman said loudly in a thickening burr.
"Bullshit!" spat Sloan. "You've just seen your whole case for incompetence blown to hell. These people will believe what they see before them.... Somehow you've got to pull your own fat out of the fire... and give your puppet masters what they want."
"I've no 'fat' to worry about, Mr. Sloan.... Look to yourself. You... along with members of the San Francisco House and the Los Angeles House tried to conceal that tape. Did you really think that the experts here wouldn't detect the presence of those inserts within that tawdry soap opera? There will be an investigation, sir... and while we are at it, we'll learn the truth of your little 'holiday in Limbo'... or was it an escapade in Tahiti with some floozie?... Perhaps, you and your protegee, Derek Rayne, concocted the whole fairytale of the Sepulchres sucking you in to cover your indiscretions. When Dr. Rayne emerged from that coma, you were afraid his mind might have been affected and the truth might come out, so you made use if it and miraculously reappeared... in your own shower, no less. It seems to smack of Dallas, if you ask me.... Bobby Ewing in the shower.... Do you recall that episode?... And isn't it convenient that Nick Boyle, the only other witness to your noble sacrifice, has been conveniently disposed of... lost in Afghanistan?"
"Mr. Cross!" Loxley Millard shouted at last, as he hammered his gavel. "Enough! You've overstepped the bounds of propriety, sir."
The Chief Investigator smiled to himself. Loxley Millard had waited until all his points had been made. That smart, old bastard, he thought, he let me do the dirty work... now he gets to play the kind, even-handed magistrate.
"Mr. Cross," Derek interrupted in a tone of quietly cracking ice. "I have made numerous statements... under oath... regarding all those incidents... including West's treatment of me.... I believe those matters are closed." The precept gave Loxley Millard a hard look, then turned to walk over to the window, to stare once more at the bursting, fiery chrysanthemums.
"Those matters might be closed, Dr. Rayne," Franklin Cross said loudly, speaking to Derek's back, "but can you live with the fact that you saw that disaster... knew thousands of people would die... but you couldn't break free of your madness... your self-imposed prison... to warn the world... and they all died because of your failure. Can you live with that guilt, Dr. Rayne?"
The room held its breath once more, listening to the muffled explosions of the fireworks outside, while Derek Rayne composed himself, and seemed to collect his remaining strength. Finally, with shoulders straight and his most inscrutable expression in place, he returned to Sloan's place at the end of the table. He stood for a moment with his head bowed; his fingertips resting upon the dark, wood surface. Save for the fireworks, the room was absolute silence, as everyone present waited for him to speak.
Lying by his hand, Sloan's notebook caught his eye. His long, musician's finger traced the ancient crest... followed the gentle line of the "L" and the sword that lay bound atop. "Faith," Derek murmured, echoing a faintly heard whisper. The hint of a private smile tweaked the corner of his lips. "You placed it before my eyes.... Thank you."
Suddenly, he looked up and fixed Chief Investigator with a cold, hard gaze. "Let's cut to the chase, Cross," he said in a tone so harsh that it surprised his friends. "If I wasn't Chairman of the Luna Foundation, this case would never have arisen. There might have been an inquiry about my decisions... my health... but there would certainly have been no attempt to declare me incompetent with the sole intent of breaking down the structure of the foundation and seizing its assets. There would have been no attempt to drive me back to that madness.
"The irony is," he softly added, "that even if you win... Cross... you still lose."
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