Chapter 6
England...
The car hit a dip and bounced as it sped along the narrow, country road. Ian Kincaid glanced over at the priest, belted into the passenger seat beside him. The old man's face was ashen. He played nervously with his rosary beads. Kincaid was driving fast... way too fast... but, following the frantic phone call from his man, Carter, the haste was more than justified.
In his mind, Ian replayed the phone conversation that had lasted only seconds, but had aged him ten years:
"Boss... you'd better get down here... fast. Something's wrong... really wrong.... Our Dutch friend... he's in a bad way." Carter had paused for a deep breath... and that pause had told Kincaid all he needed to know.... His hand-picked man was rattled and frightened. The former soldier had then continued. "They've called his mother.... I don't know if she's coming or not, but after her last visit... I hope not.... Just get here... quick."
...And that was precisely what Kincaid intended to do. "What did Barbara say?" he asked Fr. Thomas.
"What?" the old man struggled to regain his thoughts. "Barbara?... I talked to her."
"Yes... I know that... but what did she say?"
"She got a call from the doctor in charge.... What's his name?... No matter...," the priest rambled. "Derek's mental state has taken an unexpected turn for the worse.... He's become violent.... They had to restrain him."
"Violent!" Kincaid muttered, knowing full well that Derek Rayne had the ability to kill. Dammit!... Maj. Boyle had seen to that... and he, himself, given it the polish. "How violent?... Was anyone hurt?"
"Only himself," the priest said sadly. "Apparently he dug his nails into his arms... gouged deep wounds... on his wrists and elsewhere... and there was something about a fire."
"His wrists?..." Ian overtook another car, passed, and raced on through the verdant, rolling countryside of southern England. "Jesus... you mean he tried to kill himself?"
"I don't know.... No one knows," Fr. Thomas replied. "He seems to have sunk so deeply within himself... there's no reaching him."
"Did he start the fire?"
"Apparently so."
* * *
The pair once more grew quiet. With only the engine's hum to intrude upon the silence, Ian's thoughts turned to the terrible events of eight months before. A serial killer had brutally murdered one of the girls who had sought refuge at "New Beginnings," Derek's new charitable project... a hostel to help homeless, teenaged girls escape the streets of Hollywood. With Kincaid's help, the precept had gone undercover to follow a lead... to a tawdry, cable soap opera... but, Derek had underestimated his enemy.... Carlton West had become host to a powerful, ancient, obscene evil... as others had before him, including Ian's own grandfather, Dr. Sir John Kincaid, once the Legacy's Ruling Precept, whom the evil had recreated as Jack the Ripper... and there had been the early film actor/director, James Darke, who had gone insane trying to fight the monster within himself... and the Nazi scientist who had embraced it. A part of each prior host had remained... to continue their willing or unwilling enslavement to evil.
However, West had possessed his own form of insanity... grown from a sexually brutalized boy. In his warped mind, which grew to dominate the wickedness that it housed, Derek Rayne had become the "Professor," the boarding school teacher, who had initiated him into the world of sadism. He had been determined to return kind for kind, and so had subjected the precept, drugged into complete immobility, to torments, emotional and physical, that Ian found difficult to imagine... the thought of which still could turn his stomach.
The precept's "Sight" had been forced to bond with West's victims, whom he had savaged, then butchered alive.... Derek had shared each eternal moment of agony and terror. He had been left for days, taped to the rotting corpse of Trevor Watson, draped in the man's entrails, lying in his gore. Rats had then been allowed into the cell to devour the remains, while Derek lay naked, completely helpless, unable to protect himself from the creatures' bites or the horrors he was witnessing. It had been a plan designed to produce utter degradation and madness... and what no one had known at the time... not even West... was that Watson had AIDS.
Later, there had been other abuses... whippings... unspeakable deeds of which only Derek knew the truth... and the "thing" that could only be called an abomination... the iron mask, a torment that Ian feared no mind could comprehend... and no mind, no matter how strong, could endure. In the end Derek had won... and had saved Alex from becoming yet another victim... by agreeing to death and consenting to join the monsters... the "IDs" of the past hosts... within West's mind, so that they could resist the director's potent insanity... so that they could regain control and continue to live and kill without risk of discovery. Derek's reward was to have been Alex's life. It had been at that instant of migration that Derek and Alex had been rescued. Ingrid, ever the bride of Christ, had called it God's miracle. Kincaid would never, ever, be able to erase that hellish scene from his memory... nor would he ever forgive himself for failing in his duty as a fellow "soldier's" backup.
All had seen the entities surrender to Sir John's commands to depart... had seen him hover protectively over the battered body of Derek Rayne... had seen the knife pulled from Derek's chest by the cleansing maelstrom that had swept away all that had pertained to Carlton West... but what if....
"Could it be that he found West's 'demons' within himself... after all?" Ian asked the priest. "Dear God... what if those monsters didn't leave?... What if they've won?... What if this is my grandfather's madness all over again... and Darke's as well?"
"It could be, Ian," Joseph said quietly. "It could be why Derek rejected your Canadian sanctuary... and chose to confine himself to Wells Ward.... Maybe he knew... maybe he had the strength to hold it together long enough to make his arrangements... to secure the succession... so to speak."
"Would an exorcism work?" Kincaid asked.
"Doubtful.... The Legacy probably tried that on your grandfather. These things aren't demons... nor what might be classed as malevolent spirits.... They're more like parasites... only part of the soul... that part which clings most fervently to life... life at its most basic levels. It will do anything to hold on and is always the last to die. We'll just have to wait and see.... At least the knives... their instruments of transition... are gone.... Thank the Lord for small blessings."
"Except for the one in the vault at Angel Island... and one that's missing," Ian reminded the priest.
Fr. Thomas looked over at his companion's craggy profile. "I've petitioned the Father-President of our order to include a special plea for Derek in each of our daily prayers. He's consented. God will hear about Derek Rayne's plight from the entire Rosicrucian Order... seven times a day... through the whole Liturgy of the Hours.... I must believe that we will be heard."
< < + > >
A half-hour later, the Jaguar skidded to a halt, peppering the other parked cars with gravel. A dust cloud filled the air. "Come on!" Kincaid shouted as he flung open the door and bounded up the front steps two at a time. The door swung open automatically. Without waiting for the receptionist to speak, he raced across the foyer and down the corridor towards Wells Ward.
Struggling to keep up with the other man, Fr. Thomas momentarily paused to lean against the young woman's desk to regain his breath. He then hurried on to find Kincaid standing before the ward's locked door.
"What is it?" he asked. "Didn't Miss Norris ring ahead? Try the intercom again."
"I haven't tried it yet.... I don't know why," Ian whispered. "Suddenly... I couldn't.... I've never had this happen before.... I'm afraid, Joseph... afraid of what we'll find."
The priest nodded in understanding. An anxiety shone in his companion's grey eyes... eyes whose look was usually as hard and cold as ice. "I know.... He's the last of his kind... the blood of our founder flows in his veins. If he's lost... what hope remains for the rest?"
"That's not it," Ian replied. "I'm an old man... and he's the last of my friends... and he's twenty-five years younger...." His voice had surrendered its usual calm, forceful control, and had taken on the tone of a lost, little boy. "Come on, Ian!" he chided himself. "Once more onto the breach...."
He pressed the red button beside the door and spoke into the microphone. "Malcolm... Carter... are you there? It's Ian Kincaid and Fr. Thomas." As he spoke, he felt the priest's hand upon his shoulder.
"I'm your friend, Ian."
Kincaid straightened with a wan smile on his face. "You're so ancient you don't count, Joseph. Besides, you're a priest.... It's your job to be a friend to all us sinners."
The moment of compassion was broken by the click of the lock. The dark face of Malcolm, the ward's regular attendant, appeared in the door's small window. Rather than his usual smile, his expression was grim. As the door swung open, the two men shoved by the orderly and rushed into the white-on-white world of Wells Ward.
Fear turned to ice in their stomachs as they reached Derek's small room, just off the main ward. The rumpled bed was empty. Blood smeared the sheets. Crimson streaks covered the wall in wide, parallel stripes.
Reading the panic in their faces, Dr. McLean hurried towards the visitors. "We've had to put Derek in another room... both for his own safety and that of the other patients."
He ushered them out the way they had come, then down an adjacent corridor towards a red door with what looked like a covered porthole. Hesitating before turning the stout handle, the doctor took a deep breath. "It's a difficult situation, gentlemen," he cautioned, then pulled open the door. "Derek...," McLean announced in a cheery voice, "you've got visitors. Look... Mr. Kincaid... and Fr. Thomas are here."
Ian brushed past the physician and promptly tripped over the threshold, which was padded. He stopped. The whole room was padded. One wall was charred and damaged. "Dear God," he muttered, as stark reality struck home.
Derek sat on the floor in the corner. A straight jacket pinned his arms in place. He wore a strange, padded cap that resembled a boxer's sparring helmet, fastened tightly around his head. On his neck was a soft, cervical collar. With his legs curled beneath him, he rocked himself back and forth... whining, as if in pain.
"Derek...." Fr. Thomas stumbled across the padded canvas. He placed a steading hand upon the wall and carefully lowered himself to his knees. Brushing a long, wet strand of salt-and-pepper hair back from his friend's face, he crouched low and tried to look up into the hazel eyes, which were squeezed shut. "Derek, my son, can you hear me?" he asked as he tucked the hair into the helmet.
"Oh, my!... Look!" he said over his shoulder to his companion.
Two sets of parallel scratches bloodied the younger man's cheeks. The priest placed a finger under the chin and raised it so that Ian could see the gouges. "What is it, my boy? Please... tell me what's wrong."
The eyes flew open to display drug dilated pupils. Brimming with tears, they were filled with unbearable fear and grief. He cried aloud, as if all the demons of hell were tormenting him, then increased his frantic rocking.
Carter, who had been sitting in the opposite corner, watching, rose and joined his "boss". "You must have driven like a bat out of hell," he muttered, glancing at his watch.
"What happened?" Ian demanded. He had no time for pleasantries. "What's that damned noise?" A constant buzz, like that of a bumble bee, filled the room. "No wonder he's nuts with that sound," Kincaid snapped as he looked around, seeking its source. Christ! he thought. They'd have to get Derek out of here. He'd been a captive, obscenely tormented, in a concrete cell. That's what had put him here... and here he was... bound... confined... in agony... yet again. How could he not have flashbacks overlaying flashbacks?
"It's like white noise," Dr. McLean explained, interrupting his thoughts. "You'll get used to it. Derek and all the other inmates in the ward are intensely psychic. When one becomes disturbed, the others can feed from it... and when that happens... even though there are now only three others... it can turn into pandemonium. So, this room is rigged to dampen and block the transmission of brain waves... in or out. It's a sterile psychic environment.
"What about this thing on his head?" the priest asked. His tone was pure frustration as he vented his anger. "For God's sake, man... you know what he went through.... You know about the mask!... The last thing he needs is to feel something round his head and neck.... The way this thing's made... it cuts off his peripheral vision... limits it like blinders.... It must muffle sounds too... and this chin strap and cup won't let him open his mouth properly.... How heavy is it?... How badly did he hurt his neck?"
McLean chewed his lower lip for a moment, then checked his watch. "His neck is fine. The collar is a preventative.... I'm well aware of his history, gentlemen. However, I have to worry about the safety of this hospital, as well.... I'll allow Carter to explain.... We'll talk later... after you know the basics. We don't want to overwhelm him with too many people... and I have rounds to make."
Once the door had closed behind the doctor, Kincaid repeated, "What happened?"
"Careful...," Carter whispered. "We're bugged in here and there's cameras, too."
"Who gives a shit right now?.... What the hell happened?"
"Wish I knew, sir," the orderly replied. "He's been very low since your last visit... not talking at all... huddled in his bed.... He even refused to go outside... became totally unresponsive to any kind of stimulus.... He got worse and worse... started screaming in the night." He paused to glance up at the tiny camera. "They had to sedate him. I'm sorry, sir.... I was on duty for thirty-nine straight hours... doing all I could to keep him settled, but I had to sleep.
"When I came on duty this morning, I found him covered in blood.... Jesus... he'd gouged deep cuts into his arms... and smeared the bed and the walls with his own blood. Malcolm... who's a good chap... said he'd done it in the bed... under the covers... during the night. Dr. Rayne's door is always open.... As with the others, he's checked every half-hour, but what with his sleeping problems, we've not been turning the light on to do the check... for fear of waking him if he was asleep.
"When I raised the blind this morning, I discovered the blood and called for help. It was then that Derek screamed and fought. It took five of us to hold him while Dr. McLean dressed his wounds. Then, we got him into the jacket... and in here, so he can't hurt himself again. He's drugged to the eyeballs, sir... and still he won't pass out. He just keeps up that rocking... and wailing."
"Has there been any psychokinesis?" Ian asked, fearing a recurrance of past "difficulties".
"No... nothing's been flying round the room... not so much as a bent spoon," replied Carter. He hesitated, looked down at his patient, then met Kincaid's eye.
"Come on, Sergeant... spit it out.... What's been happening?"
"Look... I know the CIA... KGB... the East Germans were supposed to be doing experiments involving guys with psychic powers.... It was in all that shit you gave me to study when you placed me here.... There was no PK... no psychokinesis with Dr. Rayne... but there was pyrokinesis.... That fire...." Carter gestured towards the black streaks and charred fabric that snaked up the wall. "After we got him in here... that fire just sprang up.... I swear to God!... It started all by itself... all blue and weird. The Doc thinks he started it... with his mind. He said they had a case like that in here about seven years ago.... Some Aussie bloke who survived spontaneous human combustion. That's why he's got that damned helmet on.... It's supposed to stop any more fires."
"How?" asked Fr. Thomas. Still on his knees beside Derek, he closely inspected the device... feeling it with his fingers... visually examining it. Once more he looked into Derek's face, which was covered by a sheen of sweat. "It looks like the protective headgear a boxer or wrestler wears... stitched leather with padding. "It's awfully tight and hot.... Can we loosen it?... How much does it weigh?"
"No, sir," Carter replied. "It's got to stay secure and in place. It's filled with hi-tech shit... powered by an embedded lithium battery pack.... I don't quite understand the principles, but it apparently absorbs the psychic energies that manifest as fire... and it records the brain activity. The Doc changes the microchip every twelve hours, then disappears to study the readings.... It all weighs a little over a pound, which is why I put the collar back on... for a little extra support."
"Did Derek say anything?" Joseph asked. "Was it his voice speaking?"
"He'll scream gibberish at the top of his lungs, then go all quiet.... It's his voice, but it's impossible to make out the words...." Carter paused to consider. "It's not English... nor Dutch... maybe Arabic... or Farsi... or it could have been one of those ancient languages you said he knows about... but it wasn't what he said.... It was the absolute misery.... Whatever he was experiencing... it terrified him."
"Joseph...," Kincaid interrupted. "We've got to get him out of here. It's a repeat of West's cell... only padded.... In his state, it might as well be chains and an iron mask."
Carter spoke up, giving his voice a slow, firm clarity. He was once again a SAS
sergeant outlining a logical course of action in a crisis. "Sir... if you'll pardon... I
understand what you're saying, but I know about post-traumatic stress.... He needs to
stay here... to ride this through... if he can... where he can't hurt himself or anyone else.
Anyplace else, with people, colors, sounds, emotions would add to the terror.... He's
not perceiving things as you or I do. His mind isn't processing stimuli the way it
normally would. It's flashbacks of what he went through, but completely distorted...
and who knows what his 'Sight' is doing. This is a sterile world for him and the best
that you can do for him is to stay calm, unemotional, strong.... Be in control.... Help
him feel safe."
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