Chapter 4
Dorset, England... July 2001
Ian Kincaid slid his black Jaguar into a parking space, pressed his foot once more on the pedal, and was rewarded by a throaty purr. He glanced at his wrist watch, then smiled at his companion and said, "Broke the record this time."
Fr. Thomas returned the smile. The drive in Ian's magnificent car had been the only enjoyable aspect of these weekly trips. He looked up at the building before them and at the gilded sign above the door... Hospital of St. Michael and St. George. In the gentle English sun it took on an aura of timelessness. Ancient oak and chestnut trees formed a deep green backdrop to the rich, yellow stone of the former manor house.
"Indeed... you did," the priest replied. "It's reassuring to know, now that my cancer is in remission, that it will probably be your driving that'll kill me."
They sat in silence, looking towards the building, each remembering the last time they had seen their friend. "He's getting worse," Ian said quietly. "Each time I see him, it seems like a piece of his personality has gone.... He's becoming... less."
The old man nodded in agreement. His companion had not accompanied him last week. That had been a dreadful visit. To see such a fine, proud man sitting on a hospital bed, rocking silently back and forth in rhythm with his fist as it clinched and unclinched.... Oh, God!
"I hope this time... well... when I tell him my news... about the cancer... he'll know that things do get better.... God is still here... caring... wanting to help."
Ian nodded, ambivalently. God had not been much in evidence in his own life, and certainly not in recent months, but he wouldn't hurt the priest by openly doubting. He had too much respect for the man. "Let's go, Joseph," he said sadly.
Both men climbed from the car, then paused to enjoy the warmth of the sun, which was making one of its rare appearances this summer. Blackbirds sang joyfully, and from somewhere a lark joined in the welcoming chorus. Otherwise, the peace and quiet were staggering.
Crunching over the gravel drive, they reached the steps and slowly climbed, as if their years weighed heavily upon arthritic joints. Kincaid, as always, looked upward to see the small camera tracking their arrival. As his foot touched the top step, the great, oak door swung wide.
"Good morning, gentlemen," the receptionist ushered them in with a smile. "He's in the rose garden, enjoying the sunshine," she informed them. The "long stay" patients in this hospital rarely had visitors. Kincaid, tall and lean, muscular and fit despite his seventy some years, and Fr. Thomas, shorter and stouter, had been christened "the Odd Couple" by the staff. Every week for the past four months, one or the other had come to visit their "famous" patient. No one else was permitted without prior clearance from "above", which made them all the more of an oddity... a mystery. "Down the corridor, then round the side of the house.... Take the gravel path through the hedge," she instructed.
"Thank you, my child." Fr. Thomas returned her smile. He was old enough to safely call everyone "my child", without offending the non-Catholics.
The two men followed her directions, found the rose garden, and paused to breathe in the heaven of its scent. Seated on a wooden bench in the midst of a circular path, they saw their friend.
Ian glanced around.... Surely he wasn't here alone. Then he saw the orderly, a large, husky man, standing in the shade of a tree, enjoying a quiet cigarette. They exchanged nods of recognition. It hadn't been too difficult to get one of his own men in here. He had no intention of leaving his friend without protection... or leaving himself without eyes and ears. Carter was one of his best men, ex-SAS, able to handle anything, medically knowledgeable, multilingual, and totally loyal. Ian motioned for the priest to carry on, while he waited for Carter to join him.
The orderly stamped out his cigarette and hurried to meet his "boss".
"How's he been?" Kincaid asked quietly. "He looks thinner... tireder."
"Not good, sir," the former soldier responded, looking over at the patient, in his drab, grey sweats and hospital robe. "He's been very restless... disturbed... the last few days.... Not sleeping.... Meals have been... 'difficult'. Nothing specific triggered it.... At least, nothing I can see.... There's been no change in routine.... The other inmates in the ward have all been quiet. Mr. Sloan's been ringing, but nothing's come of it... yet."
"Nothing will," Kincaid said confidently. "That situation is under control."
Carter smiled. "Good," he replied, still focused on the man in disheveled grey. "He needs the quiet.... I sense it.... He needs everyone to be calm... unemotional and strong. I bring him out here when he gets anxious... upset by the odor he calls 'death'... or when he seems claustrophobic. It's post-traumatic stress... memories of his torture... the rotting entrails... the iron mask you told me of," he quietly explained. I can tell when it's that. I have to keep an eye on his hands then.... He wants to dig at his neck and face... so we put cotton gloves on. It helps to come out here and walk.... He likes it... whatever the weather.... We got soaked yesterday. He says he can hear the angels sing... and he feels free."
"Maybe he can," Ian said, hoping it was so. The thought of some small joy entering his friend's heart pleased him.... Even if it wasn't "real". "The other staff... the doctors... any changes there?"
"None, sir.... They're good with him... really," Carter assured. "Not just because he's the money-bags that pays for all this. They care.... They're steady and gentle.... They try really hard with all the patients.... I'd trust 'em with my own mother."
Kincaid nodded. He had expected nothing less. Sloan's paranoia about Wells Ward was just that... paranoia. The Luna Foundation would not fund, nor be associated with anything "unworthy". It was a far cry from the days when his grandmother had described the place as a "Legacy madhouse" He gazed around at the climbing roses, which did their best to disguise the barred windows, and wondered which window had been his grandfather's?... The very ground upon which they stood had been the inmates' cemetery.... Somewhere here, in an unmarked grave, lay the bones of the poor wretch that had once been Sir John Kincaid, the Legacy's Ruling Precept.... He had hoped never to see this place, but....
Shaking such thoughts from his mind, he looked back at the orderly. "Keep up the good work, sergeant... It'll not be forgotten."
As he stepped away to join the priest, Carter touched his arm. "From what you've told me... he's one of us. I'd do it... remembered or not... for all those blokes he's been there for."
Kincaid smiled, then hurried to catch Fr. Thomas. They approached their friend together.
He was leaning back on the bench, face turned towards the sun, relishing its warm, gentle touch. His left hand clutched a rose, whose white petals lay scattered on the grey fabric.
"Damaging hospital property, old boy?" Ian teased.
Hazel eyes flew open in panic, observed the two men, but held no hint of recognition. Instead they glanced down in fear at the ruin of a rose.
Joseph quickly sat by his friend and patted his leg. "He's joking.... Don't worry.... It's only a joke," he said softly. It tore at the priest's heart to see the fear in his friend's eyes. Once the bravest soul he had ever met, he now seemed to live in fear... of everything.
Ian hunkered down and tried to meet the other man's gaze, but the hazel eyes glanced away, unwilling to make direct contact.
"It's OK, really." Kincaid reached up, tentatively, to brush the long, salt-and-pepper hair away from "the Dutchman's" eyes. He smiled wistfully at the thought of the codename he'd bestowed upon Derek Rayne all those years... all those battles ago. Should he pull the other man into his arms, hug him close, reassure him, and tell him everything would be all right? Instead, he squeezed his knee, gently. "That one's a bit of a mess. Shall I get you another?"
The patient nodded, then watched Ian rise and reach for a flower in full, glorious bloom.
"Niet rood
," the soft accent murmured. "White.. not red... niet bloet... no more blood."Ian returned with a bunch of yellow, white, and pink roses and placed the bouquet in his friend's lap. "How's that?" he asked. "Now I'll be on the gardener's 'most wanted' list."
At last, Derek met his eye and for the briefest of moments Kincaid saw recognition, sanity reflected in the brownish-green depths. He glanced over at Joseph, raised a questioning eyebrow, then joined the pair on the bench.
"Derek," the priest began, gently touching the wide, pink scar that ringed the thin wrist. He waited until the other man turned to face him. "I've had some good news. My specialist tells me my cancer is in full remission. No signs of secondaries. They're very hopeful... and so am I.... And your little prodigy in Los Angeles... Christy.... Ingrid says she's responding very well to her drug regimen."
Derek smiled and handed Fr. Thomas one of the roses. "Goot," he murmured, "very goot."
"Goot, indeed." The priest returned the smile. "...And your own blood tests... negative again.... That's wonderful news... only one more to go and you're in the clear... no HIV." Joseph paused... reassurances were what this man needed. He felt it in his bones. "The situation in London is under control. William's being kept occupied as you wanted. It's really rather amusing. Loxley Millard, Cross, and company can't figure out why attendance is up in all the meetings... including the bullshit and hot air ones.
"Our young Frenchy has been particularly diligent, much to everyone's puzzlement. He's a deceptive little cuss. He's practically moved into London House with the excuse that he's working on a book, his house in Belgravia is being renovated, and the chateau in the south of France is too damp and cold. The joke going round is that Madame la Vicomtesse has given him the boot for being such an unmittigated bore."
"His ancestors would be proud," Ian agreed cheerily, "...and you'll be pleased to know that Boyle's brat is doing a good job. He's had to call Willem... about the finances, but I suspect you knew he'd ultimately have to do that. Your 'arrangements' are working nicely. The mule had to go willingly to the trough."
"Your House is in safe hands," the priest concurred. "Nick does you credit. You've trained him well. He can do it, my dear friend, but he doesn't want to. He's determined to protect your position... keep things running... waiting for you to return.
"Derek...." Joseph took the large hand. "Can you 'see' into my soul?... See these
things for what I know them to be.... God's love.... God's forgiveness... if you will....
I know you feel guilt, though for the love of our Savior, I don't know why. Derek... I
think I know what you're doing. If you've not found your truth yet, then this isn't the
way. It's time to come out.... You mustn't go deeper. Your House... your friends... they
need your strength... the strength you've chosen to hide... even from yourself.... It's still
there," he said, placing a hand over his friend's heart. "It always was there. Only by
that have you survived time after time. You won. Come back to us now... please."
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