Chapter 9
Dorset... Sunday, noon
"Well, Mr. Kincaid...." Dr. McLean, his face grey with fatigue, spoke softly as he sipped his coffee.
He had pulled many an all-nighter and beyond as a young resident.... That was partly why residency included shifts that extended into days... so that a doctor would be prepared for times such as this... when a patient in crisis would demand round-the-clock care. However, the old man seated before his desk had put his own abilities to shame. In the twenty-four hours since his arrival with Fr. Thomas, Ian Kincaid had seen no rest... no sleep. He had, in fact, nearly taken over... ordering Carter to "stand down" for twelve hours.... From that moment, McLean had gained a certainty that the two men had already known each other... outside of their association here at the hospital. It had been Kincaid's commanding tone and Carter's very professional, very military acceptance of the superiority that had convinced him. Then Kincaid had insisted that he, the supervising physician, get some sleep... or, at least, rest... in Dr. Rayne's small room off the ward, while the elderly priest, whose stamina had been sapped by his illness and treatments, curled up on the couch here in the office.
Dr. McLean glanced at the couch, rose, and stepped quietly over to pull the blanket over Fr. Thomas, who was gently snoring in his sleep. He turned to reach for the fresh pot of coffee, brewing on the hot plate beside the window. "Refill?" he offered.
"I don't believe your suicide theory for one instant," Kincaid bluntly told the doctor. "Those wounds are too precise... to specific... they're deep, long, parallel stripes dug into the flesh... on both arms... and his chest and face. He's trying to tell us something." He paused, then continued when he saw doubt in the psychiatrist's eyes. "Look... if he had intended suicide, he's had the time and the freedom to do it long before now.... He had free range of the ward.... Carter didn't hover over him in the gardens... and you don't try to kill yourself by scratching your chest and face. There's something else here... something we're not seeing.
"I think we need to get Boyle and Sloan in here," said Ian, finally extending his cup for a refill. "Joseph and I just don't know enough to sort through these bits and pieces. It's like pieces from a dozen different jigsaw puzzles." He noted the negligible, yet stubborn shake of McLean's head... as if to say... "Laymen!... They understand nothing of the human mind."
"We both knew Derek's father," Kincaid persisted. "I've known Derek personally since 'eighty-four... and Joseph has known him all his life, but we've neither had a day to day relationship. I know you said that you fear their emotional involvement... but, I see no choice.... Sloan's connection was almost constant from the age of sixteen to thirty... and Boyle has been Derek's right hand for the past eight years. Derek wouldn't share the same things with Alex Moreau... or Dr. Corrigan... or Maggie Hamilton... that he would with another man.... Besides, when you ruled out Ingrid, you said another psychic's presence could be dangerous for both Derek and her... so I assume Alex would be in a similar danger. If we need him... I'm sure we could get Philip Callaghan to fill in the gap between Sloan and Boyle... and if he's not willing to come... I can persuade him"
Certain that Kincaid could arrange almost anything he chose to, the doctor nodded gravely. "Let's see how the next session goes," he replied. "There's a doctor in China that I want to consult with before we introduce any new presences." He paused to again sip his coffee, then continued, "There are so few researching the brain's connections to the paranormal.... In traditional medicine and psychology, it can doom a career.... Most are like myself... connected to the Legacy... and unfortunately, I cannot disclose Reston's 'temporal' experimentation to those who are not.... However, this woman has studied paranormal experiences induced by mescaline-like substances... such as peyote... and fungi... like ergot. She's been looking at the fact that flashbacks can occur many years later... and unlike post-traumatic stress... they are memories of hallucinations... not of real events. She's had some success in controlling the flashbacks with electroshock therapy. She believes that the shock, in some way, re-calibrates the brain... like pushing the 'reset' button on a computer.
"One thing is for certain," McLean continued, his tone grave. "We have to control these episodes. His body can't take much more. They produce an incredible adrenalin surge for a 'fight or flight' reaction. That surge overwhelms every drug.... His heart rate increases to a nearly unsustainable level."
"Check all you like, Doctor," Kincaid firmly countered as he rose to his feet, "but don't take too long. I'll place my calls when I see fit... and while the Legacy's Ruling Council might give an approval for electroshock, I can confidently say that neither Barbara Rayne, nor the Luna Foundation trustees will.... Now... Joseph and I will relieve Sgt. Carter."
< < + > >
San Francisco... early Monday
"Brnnnggg!... Brnngggg!..."
Through a sticky morass of deep sleep such as only the wee hours of the morning bring, Nick's mind tried to rationalize what his ears heard.
"Brnnngggg!"
Reality kicked in. The phone! Suddenly he was wide awake. He glanced apprehensively at the clock, which shone a bright green 3:00 AM. People didn't call with good news at three in the morning... or they weren't calling from the western hemisphere. His mind did a quick calculation... noon in Europe... but they'd know the hour here... again... bad news... no... maybe just "urgent" news.
As he grabbed the receiver, he swung his legs off the bed. "Yeah?" he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Shake a leg, Boyle!" a clipped British accent snapped.
"Kincaid?..." Nick's heart plunged into his stomach. "What's wrong?"
There was a momentary silence, which seemed to last to eons... then the other voice continued, quietly. "Derek's taken a turn for the worse.... He's... well... it's not good. I think you should get over here."
"A turn for the worse?... What the hell does that mean?... Has he asked for me?... What's going on?" Nick's fears poured out in rapid fire questions. "Last time I talked to Sloan... last time Alex heard from Ingrid... both said Derek was relaxing at some country estate... getting his head together... coming along fine."
"Whatever!..." Kincaid continued sharply. "Derek's been having 'flashbacks'.... The doctor's having problems... identifying Derek's real memory... versus what might be that 'other' Derek's memory.... His 'Sight'... his empathy... is complicating things... and we don't know if those damned 'IDs' could have left pieces behind. You know him.... You, more than anyone, has been with him through everything for the past few years.... We need your help sort the mess out."
"I'll call Tom," Nick replied, "...and tell him to file a flight plan, get the clearances from van der Linden to use the jet.... We'll be in the air by dawn."
"No!... Come commercial.... We don't want the Council to get wind of this.... They keep tabs on Derek's jet.... Don't tell anyone you're coming here... not even Miss Moreau... or Ingrid.... This is a 'silent' operation. Say you're flying to New York to consult with van der Linden... a financial discussion at his offices. You'll fly commercial because it's silly to spend the money on the jet when you don't need to. Book the flight yourself... with one of the 'other' passports I know you must have."
"What?... Dammit!... Kincaid!"
"Look... I can't talk about it over the phone." Nick heard the Englishman take a deep breath. "Boyle... do you trust me?"
Nick sat momentarily in a stunned silence. Why the conspiracy?... Obviously... only one reason... to protect Derek. "I guess I do," he finally admitted. Derek trusted this man... and, after that fiasco with West, he had seen Kincaid prove himself loyal to Derek, even if he didn't give a damn about the Legacy.
"Very well," Ian said clearly. "I believe it's imperative that you get here... as quickly as possible.... Isn't that enough for now?"
"He's not... dying...," Nick whispered. He'd read of rare cases in which AIDS had gone full-blown and progressed with amazing speed... affecting all parts of the body... the mind itself. "Did he go HIV positive?... Is it aggressive?"
"He's still HIV negative... but...," the other hesitantly replied, then abruptly continued. "Let me know your flight.... I'll arrange for someone to pick you up. Don't dawdle."
"Wait!... Don't leave me hangin' like this!... What's wrong with him?" the former SEAL pleaded... to a dead line.
Nick shuddered and dragged his blanket around him. The room was warm and stuffy.... San Francisco's few days of summer had arrived... but he was cold... from the inside. Suddenly, he realized that he'd been chilled... like this... for days.
< < + > >
Wells Ward... Monday, noon
"Hold tight, Ian," Fr. Thomas cautioned. He had seen the change reflected in those hazel depths that now shone more brown than green, revealing an ever growing weariness and illness.... He had seen madness flicker yet again.
It had been twelve hours since the priest and the mercenary had once more entered this padded hell. Carter, now off of his twelve-hour "stand down", had offered to take over once more, but both they and Dr. McLean sensed that if they had the strength ride Derek into absolute exhaustion, then Ian and Joseph might stand a chance of recognizing any sanity that remained... and, perhaps, old friends would be the only ones who could recognize the moment... who could sort present from past... fantasy from reality... past from past.
"Braaannnd!... Brand!... Vuurrr!..."
Derek screamed at the top of his lungs. "Fire!""'Fire'?... Does that mean the fires McLean says he started?" the priest asked. "Is he warning us about them?"
"God knows!" Ian replied. "That damned cap seems to have stopped them.... Maybe he's trying to tell us to take it off."
"We can't risk that... not while he's like this," Joseph cautioned.
"Jesus! He's still strong... still fighting," Kincaid gasped as he struggled to maintain his grip around Derek's chest. "Just when I think he's wearing down...."
"Derek...." said Joseph. Once more he pushed the sweaty salt-and-pepper hair back from his friend's brow, grasped his head between his hands and looked into his eyes, seeking to hold their gaze, to make contact. "Are you at the portal?... Are you with that 'other' Derek?"
The younger man panted. His eyes wildly searched the room. The priest gave his head a slight shake to draw his attention. "Derek! Look at me!... Where are you?... When is this?... How old are you?"
"White," Derek gasped.
"White?" Ian said into his ear. "What's white?... Look at Joseph.... Listen to my voice." The old man glanced up and saw the priest nod.
"He's here... at least a little bit," Fr. Thomas murmured. "Should we tell him?"
Ian shook his head no. "Wait," he said. "Derek... what's white?" he repeated.
"Walls!... Posts!.... No!... Pilaars.... Pillars.... Kwahu...," he gasped.
"What's 'kwahu'... Derek?" the Englishman asked. "Joseph... do you know?... What's 'kwahu'?
"It's American Indian. I think it means 'eagle' in Apache... or something," Joseph replied, distracted. "Derek... are you in Kwahu Canyon?... Winston had a dig there," he explained in an aside to Kincaid but received a blank look in reply. "You know!" His voice grew impatient. "The Grand Canyon... Monument Valley... John Wayne's movies... all cliffs and spires. He finally bought the land to preserve the site."
"Blanke... white kwahu... bloed... blood.... No!!!!" Derek screamed. "Waves... white waves... tidal waves.... Fire!" he wept.
"Derek," said Joseph, in his most priestly tone. "Is this real? Is it the past? How old are you? Was it something your 'other-self' saw?"
"Stop it!" Derek cried. "Stop it!... Stop it!... Stop them!..." he continued to scream until his voice grew hoarse and he lapsed once more into his rocking... accompanied by the quiet, pain-filled whimpering.
< < + > >
London... early Tuesday
"Sloan?"
"Speaking." William Sloan rubbed sleepy eyes and glanced over at his wife. She was still asleep, or pretending to be. Patty did not appreciate phone calls in the wee hours.
"Is that you Kincaid?" He came instantly awake. "Hold on," he whispered as he climbed from the warm bed... his warm wife.... He shuddered. Was autumn arriving early... or was this just the typical British late summer? He grabbed his robe from the foot of the bed, ducked into the bathroom, and closed the door behind him.
"What is it?... Do you know what time it is!" he snapped as he sank down onto the toilet.
"If I'd wanted to know the time, I'd have rung the speaking clock," Kincaid retorted. "Listen... Willie... I'm with Derek... in Wells Ward."
"What the hell's he doing there?... How did you get in?" Sloan growled. "All I get is the 'He's as well as can be expected... progressing nicely' crap from the receptionist."
"Never mind the petty jealousies," the Brit replied tersely. "He's in a bad way, Willie. Jesus!... He's... well... I'm not sure he hasn't gone insane."
"What!... Dammit!... What the hell?... He's supposed to be resting... writing an account of that parallel world. He told us he was admitting himself to the hospital... to the 'royal' suite... not Wells Ward.... He wanted the peace... the solitude." William paused, sorting through the ramifications. "Have they sold him down the river?... Have you?... That place is a hell hole.... Was he committed... held against his will?... Did they lie to Barbara and Ingrid?... or did Barbara and Ingrid lie to me?"
"Stop looking for plots... conspiracies that don't exist," Kincaid sighed. "I don't have time for this... so shut up!... Nick Boyle's arriving at Heathrow at ten-thirty... aboard American Airlines 111. Pick him up and get down here."
"Am I to take it that the flight doesn't have Ruling Council sanction?" Sloan asked quietly.
"It's more a... 'what they don't know... won't hurt them'... scenario," Kincaid replied. "This will hit the fan... but we have to contain it for as long as possible... for Derek's sake."
"You've got it all planned, haven't you?" William said bitterly.
"No one planned or foresaw this... believe me, Willie.... No one... except
perhaps Derek...."
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