Chapter 13
Ural Mountains, U.S.S.R.
With microphone in hand, a Soviet news reporter stood in the early morning
light. Behind her, amidst smouldering, crushed pines, lay the shattered remains of
Aeroflot Flight 510. Heat from the crash had melted the snow and turned the site into
a mud hole. Here and there small yellow flags flapped in the cold, winter wind. A
charred teddy bear hung obscenely from a tree branch.
In a controlled voice, she stated, "The jetliner took off from Sverdlovsk at half-past ten, local time, bound for New York, then Vancouver, Canada. Ten minutes later,
the pilot, in his last contact, reported electrical difficulties and an unknown power
surge." Her breath created a momentary fog in front of her face. "As you can see," she
continued, "there can be no survivors from this tragic air crash that last night took so
many young lives. Besides, the one hundred fifty-three orphans on their way to North
America to new homes and medical treatment, the flight carried a contingent of ten
nurses and a crew of eighteen. Sadly, the crew was abnormally large to deal with the
additional burden of transporting so many children.
"The governments of the United States and Canada have expressed their
condolences to the Soviet people, and General Secretary Yuri Andropov wishes to
extend his personal condolences to the families of the crew and medical staff.
"This has been Natasha Makarova reporting." The newswoman pulled up her
fur lined hood and turned away from the camera to wipe her eyes on her scarf. She
pulled her note pad out of her pocket and took a few cautious steps toward a group of
men who were gathered around one of the white sheets that littered the ground.
Though all were speaking Russian, she could tell by their accents that several
of the men were foreign, American or Canadian and British.
Makarova stretched her senses to hear what the group was saying, and to read
their lips.
"The bodies of the children are remarkably in tact," said one of the Russians as
he stamped his feet in the cold, "considering the altitude... and that the aircraft broke
up in flight."
"But it's odd that few of the adults fared as well," commented one of the
foreigners. "And what are these odd burns on the children?" he asked, pulling back the
sheet.
"Excuse me, comrade," said an armed Soviet soldier, "the press transport is
leaving. This is now a restricted area."
< < + > >
Christmas Night, Angel Island
"Where does this go?" asked Derek, dangling an unused silver gravy boat from
his finger.
Kym glanced over her shoulder as she reached to close the blinds and shut out
the foggy darkness beyond. "Top left cupboard," she replied, then turned to pull the
curtains together in the breakfast nook's bay window. "I can't believe you don't know
this," she commented, shaking her head. "It's your house."
"I can't believe you do. You've been here less than a year and you know all
this," her husband said in admiration and amazement. "I see this silver and china at
dinners and such... it comes from nowhere and goes back there."
Kym laughed and wiped her hands on her gingham apron. "Derek, dear," she
said. "You're the one who gave the staff the day off. It's time to pay the piper... and
you owe Dominick big time for staying to get dinner on the table. Leaving this kitchen
immaculate and in proper order is only partial payment." She waved her hand at the
mountains of dirty pots, pans, dishes, and utensils that littered every conceivable open
space. "Now... do you see anyone but us here?"
"But all of this for just a small dinner?" Derek asked in disbelief.
"Small dinner...? A turkey, roast beef, a dozen assorted side dishes, three
choices of dessert...." Kymberlee crossed over to her husband and loosened his
burgundy silk tie, then pulled it off. Having tossed it onto the back of a chair, she undid
his collar and rolled up the sleeves of his forest green shirt. "You don't do dishes all
done up like you're going to a business meeting," she instructed. "Here's a dish
towel... dry!"
As she slapped the cloth into his hands, she stood on tiptoes to give Derek a
quick peck on the cheek. "Sometime you and I are going to give the staff the night off
again and play house... like real grown-ups."
"I don't have to play house like a real 'grown-up'," the precept explained with
a wicked chuckle. "I pay other people to do that... and they do it quite well."
Kym's eyes sparkled. My God... had Derek Rayne made a joke? "Yes... they
do do it very well," she giggled. "But what if one day they all quit or call in sick and
you're hungry?"
"I'll manage," he said. "I'm not totally incompetent.... What's this?" He held
up a small egg whisk between his thumb and forefinger as if it might be a implement
of torture.
"It's an egg whisk, dear. It goes in that drawer," she said, pointing to the open
drawer containing the cooking utensils. "In the middle section."
"Oh," said Derek, in a somewhat baffled tone. "Somehow it looks a little
obscene. How do you whisk an egg? Why do you whisk an egg?" The small furrow
between his eyes deepened as he studied the wire device.
"No, Derek," she laughed. "You beat the egg... to make it fluffy." She took the
whisk from his hand to show him the proper motion... as he had shown her that
morning with his new dagger.
"Fluffy... whatever for?" he questioned, still puzzled.
"So you can cook it," Kym said plainly. "Haven't you ever scrambled an egg?"
She kept her laughter in check... somehow she couldn't see Derek Rayne cooking, but,
oddly enough, she could see William Sloan with spatula in hand.
"Yes," Derek replied. "I've scrambled an egg... with a fork. How was I to know
these little things existed? Actually," he continued proudly, "I can even make an
omelet."
"Can you, now?" said Kym mockingly. "Well... I'll alert the media."
"Yes... I can," the precept asserted. "William taught me."
Kym smiled... she had been right.
Derek continued, "He had a hot plate in his rooms at Balliol and said that I had
to learn to cook at least one thing from scratch. "Do you want to split what's left of
this wine?" he asked as he held the dark green bottle up to the light. "There's only
about a glassful."
"No, thanks," Kym replied, clearing the remaining china from the dishwasher
to make room for the first of the pots and pans. "You go ahead." She paused for a
moment's thought. "So," she continued, "what else did William teach you... other than
omelets?"
"I don't know," said Derek as he slowly poured the last of the Cabernet, then
took a sip. "He finally pounded into my head how to properly conjugate the Latin verb
portare.... Oh... and he taught me how to throw a curve ball."
"Cute," Kym commented, hating to think what kind of curve ball William Sloan
might have taught. She turned with a giggle to give her husband a quick rib tickle.
"You know what I mean," she said in mock exasperation. Kym knew that she couldn't
come right out and say it... Derek just didn't work that way.
Baffled, he replied, "No... I don't."
Kym covered the last few containers of leftovers. "Omelet fixings," she joked,
then hinted casually, "Legacy things."
"Oh," Derek whispered thoughtfully, "Legacy things." He nodded his dark head
in understanding. "That's where portare came in... porto, portas, portat... but usually
it was portas... you carry this... you carry that... rarely was it portat... he carries."
Kym laughed. "Derek," she declared, "I like you like this... you're different than
you used to be."
"Really?" he said. "I don't understand. How am I?" He knit his brows in
confusion as he gently dried and stacked the last of the gilt-edged dinner plates.
"Well," Kym hesitated. Worried that she might hurt her husband's feelings, she
wanted to find the right words. "You're acting... more like a human being now," she
said quickly.
The precept looked down at the floor and chuckled. "I'm just getting mellow in
my old age," he said. "Was I really that bad?"
"Old age?... Yes... you were that bad."
"Well... after all... I'll be thirty in eleven months." A flicker of a smile crossed
his face. "How was I?" he asked earnestly as a great desire to know overcame him.
Derek truly couldn't remember the last time he'd had a conversation like this. Heaven
forbid he and William should have one... they'd end up screaming at each other, or
something equally as violent.
"Lord...," Kym sighed, "you were so serious and uptight that I didn't see how
we could ever stand each other... let alone be married." Why did those seven years
seem like such a great difference to Kym? Sometimes she felt like she hadn't reached
sixteen, yet Derek had always seemed, at least in confidence and demeanor, so much
older than his years. He must be on his thousandth lifetime, she mused. A pang of
sadness hit Kym when she realized that they had both been robbed of their youths. She
should still be going out with her friends and laughing about stupid things like blind
dates and bad hair days... and Derek should just be settling down. Kym forced those
dark thoughts out of her mind... this was a happy day.
"The Legacy doesn't exactly offer a carefree environment," explained the
precept. "We've been lucky these past few months... the ghoulies, ghosties, and things
that go bump in the night have been on vacation. Our Legacy caseload has been way
down."
"Shhhh," Kym whispered. She kissed her finger and placed it on his lips.
"You'll jinx it."
He kissed the finger, then pulled her close. "It's like this," Derek said, still
holding her and looking down into her eyes, "nothing... then a dozen cases all at
once... feast or famine... I will have to admit, though... I've never had much room in
my life for anything but the Legacy, Luna, and the museum... plus I tend to enjoy
things that not many other people like."
"Yes," his wife said slowly, "I know that feeling well."
"Oh, really? Do we have any of those things in common?" Derek grinned and
pulled his wife closer.
"Maybe," Kym answered, then smiled. "I really do like this new Derek... this
funny, almost open Derek." Open... that's the key. She pushed herself away to reach
for the leftovers, which she stacked and placed in the refrigerator.
Derek chuckled. "That Derek's always been there... he's just not allowed out
of his cage very often."
She closed the refrigerator door and turned abruptly."While things are slow, can
we run away for a while?"
"It's a thought," he replied. "When's your next break in classes?"
"A week at Easter."
"We could go to England," he suggested. "I'd like to show you the chapel at
Rayne in Essex, where my family came from. It's where my parents were married,"
he added. "Where would you like to go?"
"Somewhere warm... how about Rome?" Kym said casually as if she didn't
know a thing about the events of five years before. From the corner of her eye, she
watched her husband's reaction... nothing.
"We could," Derek said with a wistful smile. "There's a little ice cream stand
near the Spanish Steps... best ice cream in the world." He and Alicia had had ice cream
there once... on a warm spring day a very long time ago.
"You don't mean the almighty, workaholic precept vacations?... and here I
thought he only went on Legacy missions."
Derek hitched his leg onto the corner of the table. "There's been a vacation or
two," he replied with a twinkle in his hazel eyes. "I recall an Irish fishing trip with
William that turned into a Legacy mission... then descended into farce." He shook his
head and smiled as though he might laugh.
"Well... do tell... don't leave me hanging."
"To put it politely... William got snookered."
Kym laughed in amazement. "Drunk? William Sloan! That's an oxymoron."
"Yes," her husband agreed, "indeed, it is... and I got myself hogtied and dumped
in the 'mountainy' country in western Cork." He shook his head and smiled again.
"Once I got loose, I had to walk back... in the rain, of course. I ended up getting a lift
on a mackerel truck... on the mackerel. Not one of our most glorious episodes," he
laughed.
The image of her serious, dignified, bedraggled husband, young and full of
Dutch stuffiness, sitting on a pile of fish struck Kym's funny bone. What began as a
chuckle evolved into a rolling laugh wet with tears. "Oh," she sniffed at last, "I'm
sorry... why can't I picture that?"
"It's OK to picture it," said Derek. "Just be glad you can't smell it... and it was
all his fault," he added, facetiously.
"Isn't it always?" A taint of accusation floated beneath the fun.
Derek paused to reconsider. "No... I shouldn't say that. Of course, I'd always
say that to his face.... I misinterpreted my own vision," he admitted. "I mistook a
smuggling gang for a witches' coven. William tried to get information by drinking one
of them under the table.... William lost. While I was out there freezing like a drowned
rat in a trap, he was out cold under a table in a pub in Skibbereen.... He doesn't handle
a hangover well at all," the young man added drily.
"Ha!" his wife blurted. "Do you?"
The precept's eyebrow rose slightly. "I've never had one."
"Never?" asked Kym, allowing the skepticism to creep into her voice.
"Never," he replied, "scout's honor."
Kym's green eyes surveyed her husband with suspicion. She pursed her lips,
knowing that she was onto something. "Never been drunk... or just never had a
hangover?"
"Neither," Derek stated. "Milo tried... the cat passed out and the potted fern
died."
"Milo?"
"Someone I met in jail in Vladivostok." His smile became a laugh. "We were
saving the whales. I almost got myself kicked out of school for that one... it turned into
something of an international incident."
"You're going to have to hang out with my brothers one night when their Irish
side's showing." His wife thought for a second... she had never imagined Derek as a
demonstrator... out hugging trees and blocking trawlers. "So... jailbird," she continued,
"have you ever awakened with someone in your bed whose name you couldn't
remember?"
"Only the drunken cat... unless you count the odd succubus or two," he said
drily.
"OK," said Kym, playfully, "now we're on a roll.... Have you ever cheated on
a test?"
"Never needed to."
"And he's modest, too!" she exclaimed. "Have you ever...." Kym hesitated for
the effect. She smiled to herself... Derek was warming to the game. "Have you ever...
been turned down by a member of the opposite sex?"
A thoughtful half-smile brushed across her husband's lips. "Once or twice," he
admitted with a straight face, "...back when I had pimples and a much thicker accent."
"Stop making me laugh!" Kym demanded between giggles. "Have you ever...
been shot?" she suddenly asked.
Startled, Derek repeated, "Shot?" He didn't miss the direct gaze of those green
eyes. "Whatever makes you ask that?" he questioned as he turned away to wipe off the
gray granite counter top.
"Just following the line of questions." Kym opened the dishwasher to remove
the last batch of pots and pans, but from the corner of her eye she watched her
husband's reactions. He had definitely stiffened.
"That line took an odd turn.... The answer is no," he said firmly without looking
up.
She sensed the conversation was closed... the hatch had been battened down,
but she had to try one more tack. "No? Surely, you don't expect me to believe that
you've gone unscathed in this line of work?"
The precept paused, then answered carefully. "Not unscathed... it's just not
where you can see it," he said. "We'd better finish in here or Dominick will be
preparing breakfast before we've finished with dinner."
< < + > >
Kym ran the brush through her hair for the last of her usual one hundred strokes.
She laid it down on its silver vanity tray, then reached over to close the lid on her new
music box. "Thank you, Derek," she said as turned to gaze at her husband, who was
sitting in bed, reading. "I'll keep it always." She walked over to the bed, slipped off
her robe, and slid under the covers.
"Merry Christmas," she whispered, kissing him on the cheek. "It is still
Christmas." Kym pulled the papers from his fingers and laid them aside.
"Vrolijke Kerstmis," said Derek. "That wasn't work... it's a letter from
Mother," he sighed. "I wish she could have come over."
"We'll stop and see her at Easter." Kym snuggled into the crook of her
husband's arm. She slipped her fingers between the buttons of his pajama top to caress
his chest. "Just hold me," she said as she curved her leg across his and he pulled her
close into his side.
"Would you like to have a son one day?" she asked.
Derek looked down at the red head lying on his shoulder. "Yes... I suppose so,"
he said, a little off balance. "Are you planning on starting on the nursery soon?"
"No," Kym murmured. "I hadn't planned on it for a bit. I was just wondering
how you'd handle it... having a son, I mean."
The precept stroked his wife's arm through her silk pajamas. Hesitantly, he said,
"One never knows... I hope... I'd try to be there... as much as I could."
"Would you mold him?"
"Mold him?" He glanced down. "I don't understand."
Kym paused, reluctant to broach the subject, but feeling the necessity of it. "I
had a run-in with Johnny today... in the library. He was being really harsh with Nicky...
and I didn't like it." Knowing the respect the major and Derek had for each other... and
their long-standing friendship... she couldn't bring herself to say "abusive," though she
knew that was the accurate description.
"Johnny doesn't like intrusion into his personal life," he explained. He's a hard
man. It was that hardness that got him and his men through Vietnam... in two tours
over there, he never lost a soldier... the best record of any long-range recon officer
there."
Kym pushed herself up to look at Derek. "He said he was raising Nick as he had
been raised," Kym revealed. "Would you raise your son as you were raised?"
The precept remained silent for a few moments, studying his ring. "I don't think
anyone would want to be raised as I was. I certainly wouldn't wish it on my own
child." Suddenly he looked up at her. "Don't misunderstand... I love my parents very
much. It's just...." He paused. "We were split between them. Boarding school was
hard because I was different... I had the 'Sight,' but didn't dare let anyone know."
Kym, in a motherly urge, reached over to brush a dark wisp off her husband's
forehead. Her fingertips sensed a sadness.
"I used to look forward to the trips with my father," he continued. "I liked the
travel... the digs... I wanted us to be together, but we weren't... really together. I was
more like a piece of talking baggage... and... he expected me to know everything
immediately. My father was a very impatient man."
"Fathers needn't be impatient," Kym commented softly. Perhaps, Major Boyle
had been more right about Derek's upbringing than she would care to admit.
"No." He took a deep breath. "But, mine was.... He was obsessed.... I think he
knew his time was running out, and he wanted me to be ready... but, how could I be?"
Derek hesitated, then, as he twisted his signet, added, "After he was gone... I knew
everyone expected me to put on this ring as soon as possible... and I did."
The precept pushed himself up to kiss his wife, then turned away and slid down
into bed. "Good night, Liefje," he said.
| CHAPTER 14 |
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