Chapter 8
Wells Ward... midnight
Ian Kincaid sat with his back braced against the soft padding of the cell's wall. He held Derek tightly, trying to keep him still, to reassure him, to stop his constant, repetitive rocking.
Standing beside the door, speaking softly with Fr. Thomas, Dr. McLean welcomed the help, even if it was untrained. An exhausted Carter had gone off bed and, with the other inmates in the ward sensing the emotional upheaval and becoming increasingly agitated, he had no one to spare for "comfort" duty. He glanced over at his patient and his friend, then back to the old man beside him. He appraised the situation.... Confined in the jacket and with the helmet on, Derek was helpless to do further harm. If he once more began to thrash out with his legs, they could bind his ankles... or haul a bed into the room to strap him down... a move that could bring still more harm to the fragile mind. Kincaid seemed fit, and knowing what little he did about the man, McLean surmised that he could take care of himself... and the priest's voice was hypnotic. It was now more a matter of soothing the distraught patient... of trying to reach him. His gut, more than his science, told him that there was still a mind and soul deep inside the body of Derek Rayne that was waging a war... but against what?
"I'll leave you two alone with him," he said. "I'll be watching the monitors... if you begin to have serious difficulties, I'll call Carter back to duty. Try to find out what memory he's enmeshed in... what he's seeing. We can't help him until we get the flashbacks sorted out... if they are flashbacks. If you want me... just shout. The mikes are on."
As the latches clicked behind him, Fr. Thomas looked down at the pair in the corner. Ian's face had been chiseled by weary despair into an anguished mask... but there was something more in the man's grey eyes... something he'd never thought to see in the old mercenary... fear. The priest crouched down once more beside his friends, took Derek's head between his hands, looked into the wild, hazel eyes... eyes that screamed back.... "Help me... help!"
"My son... can you hear me?... Tell us what's wrong... please!"
< < + > >
Amsterdam... Sunday morning
Barbara Rayne pulled aside the velvet drapes to welcome the morning's light. She stood, looking down through lace at the canal that flowed past her home. Three storeys below, a single, Sunday morning cyclist pedaled down the street. Clutching at the fuzzy, purple robe that had been a gift from her son on his last visit home, she turned back to the fire upon her hearth.
Her sitting room, with its decorative, plaster moldings, Chinoiserie wallpaper, and elegant, Regency furnishings was her sanctuary. It was a world apart from the other rooms in her family's seventeenth-century home, which was filled with heavy woods, dark and carved... memories of the Dutch East India Company and Holland's days as a world trading power. On this morning, a morning that had arrived without sleep, not even this room could be a haven. Its fire gave no warmth... its coziness no safety.
As she heard the bong of the great, standing clock that had occupied the second-floor landing for two centuries, Barbara sat down on the edge of a chair. She stared at the telephone beside her hand and willed it not to ring.... If Ian... Joseph... or the doctor called again, she knew it would be more bad news. "Dear God, this is all wrong," she muttered. "I'm an old woman.... I should be the one in hospital. Not my son... not again. Why have you made him suffer so?... Why the coma?... Why did you destroy his body and make him rebuild it... only to have him face that monster?... What has he done to offend thee so?... What have I done?" she asked. "He told me once that you were a dreadful taskmaster... and I've come to believe it."
With her back ramrod straight, she took a deep breath and gazed up at the blue and white, porcelain clock, squatting upon the mantle... and subtracted nine hours. She had her own call to make. There were burdens to pass... to share.
Barbara picked up the receiver, hesitated, then gently set it back in its cradle. "No," she said. "Ingrid can't help.... I'll wait.... She deserves her night's rest. Suddenly the phone rang. She jumped, and with a trembling hand, picked it up and brought it to her ear.
"Hello, Mother."
"Ingrid...." Barbara sighed in relief. She had long ago ceased to be surprised by her children's "gifts".
"How is he?... What has the doctor said?" the nun quietly asked. Ingrid's tone told her mother she knew Derek was in trouble.
Should she lie to her daughter, Barbara wondered. She had been going to tell Ingrid the truth... in the morning.... Should she?... Or should she tell her that Derek was improving... not to worry. She quickly rejected the idea... "Faith hath need of the whole truth," and, in this, at least she would be truthful with his sister, who would "sense" the lie anyway.
Barbara sighed and took a deep breath, then began. "I've had a call from Ian. He had questions to ask about Derek's life that I couldn't answer.... He tried to 'soften' the situation, but it's not good." She had been surprised by Kincaid's attempt to protect her... the gentleness of his probing. Verdomme
!... She... and they... knew that she was a tough, old bird. That attempt to shield her... and its implications... had truly frightened her."Derek is under heavy sedation," she continued. "He hurt himself... his arms.... He dug wounds into his flesh." Barbara tried to remain calm, tried not to think of her son... so desperate... so miserable... the breaking of a magnificent mind... a stalwart soul. "He set a fire with his mind.... They've had to move him from the ward... into a... 'special' room.... So that he can't hurt himself again... nor anyone else."
"Mother... I can't stay here.... I could be in England in twelve hours. Maybe I can...."
"No!" Barbara was firm, emphatic. "Your presence would not help.... It might well do greater harm." Her voice softened. "I know how you feel.... I want to be with him... to hold mijn zoon... as only a mother can, but the doctor says not."
"Mother," said Ingrid, "I know what he's doing.... In my own way, I need to do the same. Derek's gone within himself to seek the truth, but now he can't find his way back out. I can help him."
"No," her mother repeated. "Remember your vow of obedience... and apply it now. I've had several meetings with Dr. McLean. He said that Derek's 'Sight' has become extreme... dangerous... unstable. It's mingled with the post-traumatic stress.... My presence that last time... Ingrid... it was awful. It upset him so dreadfully. They're afraid of what another visit might drive him to. If they think you can help, they'll call you."
What she didn't tell her daughter was McLean's real fear... that the close psychic bond between brother and sister might result in Derek "infecting" his sister with his "madness"... possibly doing her permanent damage... or... what if the "IDs" were there and could migrate by mere psychic contact?
"Do you trust Dr. McLean, Mother?" Ingrid asked. "William said...."
Barbara firmly interrupted her daughter. "Yes," she declared. "I trust Dr. McLean... and Mr. Kincaid... and Fr. Thomas. Despite being Legacy through and through, William's paranoia about such matters goes back a long way... all the way to those dreadful time travel experiments. Despite once having been Ruling Precept, he still blames the Legacy and suspects the Ruling Council's motives when it comes to finances.
"Derek provides the funds for that hospital and all its research. He was aware of everything. I trust your brother.... He chose that place and that doctor... and he chose Ian and Joseph to be his links to this world... not you nor me... nor William... nor Mr. Boyle. He chose more distant, 'intellectual relationships'... men without psychic gifts, but some understanding... and trusted them to keep their emotions under control." She sighed deeply. "I thought I could. I thought I was. I was calm and cool on the exterior, but I guess, in this extreme state, he felt what was in my heart... and couldn't bear the pain and panic he felt there.
"My dear... you must carry on at the hostel," Barbara instructed. "You know how much that endeavor means to your brother. That place... those girls.... I think they're another lifeline for him... a link with the real world of here and now... not demons and ancient history."
"Very well...," Ingrid slowly agreed.
Barbara could hear the hesitancy in her daughter's voice. "Yes... Inger?... Continue.... There was a 'but' that was going to follow that." Silence hung on the phone line. "Ingrid...." the old woman repeated more firmly.
"I must return to the cloister soon. In my own way, I must follow Derek's lead.... I must make my peace with God... discover the truth about my own failings... my anger at Him... and my doubts.... Alex Moreau wants to leave San Francisco. Maggie is being pushed to her very limits. She can't continue to bear both the burdens of her job and the hostel.... So Alex has petitioned the Legacy for an extended leave of absence so that she can come down here and take over running the hostel. Then I can go home... and Maggie can scale back her involvement."
"The three of you seem to have it all settled... now that your brother is not there to be the focus of your feuds."
Ingrid hesitated, uncertain of her mother's meaning. Finally, she asked, "What should I tell Maggie?... Alex has asked, as well.... They've not been able to get any information at all... through normal channels... nor via their usual Legacy contacts."
"Just continue with the standard line that we've been giving to William and the Council," Barbara advised. "Say that Derek's recovery is progressing. He has his private suite at the hospital.... He's been reading and writing... resting... and considering the options that the Council has given him. I know you don't like to lie... but you are protecting his privacy at a moment of extreme vulnerability. God will understand.
"Do you know what I found... last night?" she asked, changing the subject. "I was looking through the attic... at some of Derek's things... for something that might offer him some small comfort. I found Mr. Bruno.... Do you remember him?... Bruintje Beer?"
"Mr. Bruno?" Ingrid was puzzled. "Oh... my... not that awful, old teddy bear... the bald one with one eye?"
"Yes... and age has not improved his appearance." Barbara smiled, glancing at the moth-eaten, stuffed toy sitting in the chair beside her. "Derek loved him so."
"Yes... he did." Barbara could hear the wistful smile in her daughter's voice. "He will recover," Ingrid insisted. "I'm certain of it... really... Mother.... God gave him back to us... when I'd despaired of ever seeing him again. He's done it twice now.... Really, more times than I care to ponder.... God will not take back his gift... truly.... Somewhere within the puzzle is God's plan. Even though I doubted and raged at God, denied His divine love, He granted a miracle."
The old woman paused, lifted the battered bear into her lap, and petted the furless head. There was something that she had been wanting to tell her daughter for some time. Was this the moment? "Inger... my dear... do you think that perhaps the tragedies of the past few years are God's way of drawing you back into this world.... Perhaps, the cloister is no longer your calling. First, Derek's coma... which... if we accept the idea of 'another' world... 'another' Derek... 'another' Angel Island with what lies beneath... was to serve that world... and to give us all warning of what might lie ahead... but perhaps some portion of that awful time was to give you an undeniable reason to leave the convent. Then Derek's windfall and New Beginnings... now this.... Think about it, my dear. Pray on it."
"I will, Mama... and I shall pray for him," Ingrid whispered. "He will be well.... I'm certain of it."
"Yes... I know," Barbara agreed, wishing she possessed the nun's certainty. "Now, I won't keep you. I know that you won't sleep tonight, but will spend it on your knees. At least put a pillow down. You're no longer a young novice. By the way," she added, "you won't be alone. Joseph told me the entire Rosicrucian Order is remembering our Derek in each and every one of their prayers all through the day and night. I'll call you... if I hear anything more. Ik liefheb jou.... Goede nacht, mijn muisje."
"I love you too, Mama."
Barbara heard the click on the other end of the line. She held the phone momentarily, then gently returned it to its place. Closing her eyes, she pictured her small boy... a blond angel... huge eyes brimming with tears... watching while she had sewn an ear back on Mr. Bruno.
"You made him better, Mama," he had cried, joyfully. "You can make anything better."
"Oh... my poor boy... mijn zoon." Hugging the ragged toy to her chest, she gave
into the tears that she would permit to flow only in private. "If only I could... make it
all better."
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