Kenya, 1979
Two burly police officers pushed their handcuffed charges down the crowded corridor. The stench of bodies sweating in the African heat was almost unbearable. Screams and raucous laughter echoed from all sides.
"This is intolerable.... I demand to see the American ambassador," shouted William Sloan.
Finally, the officers jerked their disheveled prisoners to a halt before a white gowned nun... a mountain of a woman well over six-feet in height, starched to within an inch of rigor mortis.
"They're all yours, Ma'am," the police sergeant said. "Both are definitely delusional... possibly paranoid.
"Out of diplomatic courtesy the judge is remanding them into the custody of the St. Ambrose Asylum for observation, rather than the state hospital. He will want a report next week."
Turning toward the steel door beside her, the sister pulled a six-inch key ring from beneath her tabard. The keys clattered as she unlocked the heavy bolt and swung open the door. The policemen unlocked their prisoners' handcuffs and shoved the men into the small cell.
"I am Sister Ursula, the Mother Superior and administrator of this facility," she explained in a thick German accent. "Now, meine Herrn, if you vill please strip und put these on," she ordered. "I vill vant you shoes as vell, bitte," she added as she handed what seemed to be folded sheets to older man.
"Excuse me, Reverend Mother... but, what are these?" Sloan asked tersely. Under his breath he muttered, "I can't believe this is happening."
"Hospital gowns, mein Herr... und, I assure you, it is happening," Sister Ursula replied flatly. "This is an hospital. You vill not be allowed to retain your own clothing while under observation."
"Observation?" he echoed. William Sloan, San Francisco's precept, pursed his lips as though he had just tasted an unripe persimmon.
"Ja... observation... Zo... bitte... if you please... zie behavior of you und your companion can hardly be considered normal," she replied patiently, but firmly. "Demon begone, indeed!... und, holy Wasser on zie Vice-president... Gott in Himmel! Who would have expected it from two such... formerly... dignified gentlemen as yourselves?"
"We're scientists!" Sloan exclaimed. Gott in Himmel, indeed! He'd set this non-perspiring, Mount Rushmore of a woman straight... you can't do this to a Legacy precept.
"Ja, ja ... of course, you are... und I am zie Pope... bitte... your clothing und your shoes, or I shall have my orderly, Hans, assist you," said Sister Ursula, who in her years at St. Ambrose's had heard every fantasy that could be imagined. She was not about to let this arrogant American try to convince her of his sanity... not when she knew better. "Sir," she continued in a no-nonsense tone, "you would be vise to comply. Hans can assist zie both of you at zie same time, if necessary."
"All right," the precept replied gruffly. "Derek," he said, slapping the younger man across the chest with one of the gowns, "do what the nice lady says."
Still rubbing his wrists, Derek Rayne cleared his throat and said in the most persuasive tone he could muster, "Reverend Mother... would you, please, be so kind as to inform someone that we're here.... We wouldn't want them to worry."
"You may call me Sister Ursula. Unfortunately, both zie Church und zie law require complete seclusion," she explained. "Then we shall notify someone... zo that you may retain counsel to speak for you at your hearing.... Left hands, meine Herrn, bitte," she requested.
As the two men extended their hands, the immense nun quickly fastened plastic hospital ID bracelets around their wrists. "Do not remove it," she ordered. "Hans vill be by for your things in fünf Minuten... I'm sorry... five minutes. I suggest that they be folded und waiting for him beside zie door," she continued without pause. "He vill also do a complete search. I assure you... your complete cooperation will make it much easier. Do I make myself clear?" she asked as she turned toward the door. "Pax vobiscum," she added, pulling it closed behind her.
The door slammed shut with a muffled thud. The two men heard the bolt rammed home and rattle of the keys.
"Et vobiscum, Sister Brunhilde," Sloan replied with a twinge of spite. "Well, I'm patient number 28395," he said sourly. "Who are you?"
Derek glanced at his wrist. "28394," he answered, then immediately tried the door. With only canvas padding on his side, there wasn't much to try. His long fingers probed along the edges of the small viewing port set high in the door, but it was tightly secured from the outside as well.
"It's locked tight," William commented flatly as he surveyed their new home, a completely padded ten by ten foot cubicle with no windows and a flickering flourescent light set deeply into the ceiling. With a sigh he began to unbutton his shirt.
"So I've noticed," said Derek. "Godverdomme!" he swore as he sent a shoe flying across the cell to bounce off the opposite wall... not that it had far to go.
The precept ducked. "Come on, Derek... no need for language."
The younger man ran a frustrated hand through his dark hair. "He was a doppelganger.... I know it!... I saw it!" Quickly, he pulled off his socks and tossed them toward the door. "Dammit! I couldn't have been wrong... it was so clear."
"Well... you were wrong," countered Sloan, slipping on the white hospital gown. "And here we are... two loons in the looney bin. It almost serves us right."
A moment later, they heard the lock turn. The door swung open to reveal a giant of an orderly. "Gentlemen," he said, closing the door behind him "I am Hans. You will please step away from the door and face the wall."
"Is everyone around here related to the Jolly Green Giant?" William asked in sarcastic disbelief. Guessing at the indignity about to befall them, he watched Hans slowly pull a pair of rubber gloves onto his huge, black hands.
"Hands on the wall... gentlemen," the orderly repeated in a voice as deep as a bass fiddle. "Spread your legs... and do not move."
* * *
When Derek finally opened his eyes again, he glanced over to see an expression of controlled rage skim across his precept's hawkish profile.
"Sir," said Hans, "I will require your ring."
Sloan hesitated.
"William... give him the damned ring!" said Derek. He had seen the iciness in his friend's eyes and knew what emotions lay frozen beneath... he simply wasn't in the mood for another confrontation with the powers that be.
The precept smiled. "Of course," he said as he handed his precept's signet to the orderly. "Calm down, Derek," he cooly instructed.
"Danke," said Hans. Quickly, he turned to collect their clothing, then pulled the door to and locked it behind him.
"I am calm," Derek said quietly.
"Well... I'm not," William said from between clinched teeth. "That son-of-a-bitch just found nooks and crannies in my body that I never even knew existed... with a rubber glove that felt like a busboy's reject."
Derek sighed as he slid down the wall. "By the way, William," he commented drily, "you might want to hang onto your gown or else keep your back to the wall. Yours isn't the prettiest I've ever seen," he added. A sly half-smile crept across his face.
Sloan caught the twinkle in his friend's hazel eyes. "Like yours is such a prize?" he retorted as he plopped himself down beside the younger man.
"It has been on occasion," Derek replied with a quick grin. "Why in the hell didn't you run when I said, 'Run'? You stood there like an idiot waving your damned passport. 'I'm an American citizen'," he mocked, suppressing and flattening his Dutch lilt into something resembling Sloan's Yankee accent. "Like they care!"
Sloan rallied to the battle. "Why did you try to exorcize the Vice-president? Was it that damned 'Sight' of yours... or just some gut feeling? Maybe you should have poured the holy water on yourself... sometimes I think you're the one that's possessed."
"It was him," Derek insisted. He paused, then continued with hesitation, "Well, at least... I thought it was. It was a doppelganger at the Luna reception in San Francisco," he added with confidence.
"But it wasn't here?" William prompted. The precept cast a penetrating stare at his younger colleague. It was the most withering gaze he had in his repertoire and one guaranteed to melt anyone other than this stubborn, Dutch hellion. I only get myself into these situations when I'm with Derek, he thought. That's it! Next time... he stays home.... No, hell! he realized... I'm always chasing him.... Next time I stay home... let him fend for himself... then he'll come begging for my help... and I'll take my sweet time.
Toying with the edge of his cotton gown, Derek pondered for a moment. "No... I don't think so," he finally admitted. "Poor man," he continued with a chuckle, "Got! I hit him square in the face with the holy water and then the oil. You should have seen the look on his face."
Both men began to laugh as Derek added, "I'm surprised we haven't wound up in a place like this a long time ago.... It suits you perfectly."
"And what about you?" William countered. "You think you're getting out of here?" Still laughing, he gave his young friend a poke in the ribs. "Wait until I tell your mother."
"Yes... and look who's with me... her favorite watchdog," Derek responded with a touch of acid.
"And where would you be without me?"
"I'd have been a mile away," he retorted, "if you'd have run. I don't want to talk about it."
"Oh, please... run?" Sloan quipped. "You couldn't even run a morning mile with Croft and me, remember? They'd have caught you in ten seconds flat."
Derek pushed himself off the mattress-like floor. "Not if you hadn't stood there like a deer in the headlights," he said with a rising voice. "God!... and I thought Legacy precepts were supposed to be able to think on their feet. Your brains must be in your feet... and they must be made out of lead."
The younger man began to pace. "Christ!" he continued without pause. "What's Luna's Board of Directors going to say about this? I'm still not totally free of the damned trusteeship... and I've got a meeting with them on Friday... about funding for the museum, no less. Maybe they won't hear about it," he added with little hope.
"Right," William agreed, "and, maybe, a lightning bolt will strike them all down. Of course, you could fire them all. Don't you practically own them anyway?"
Derek continued to pace. "I can just see the tabloids. 'Derek Rayne committed to African insane asylum. Is he fit to head the Luna Foundation?' Got! It'll probably even have a picture of my ass flapping in the wind.... Scheisse!" He gave his gown an aggravated tug toward the back.
"It'll serve you right," the precept said with infuriating calmness. "I hope London sees it and sends a copy to each House."
"... and yours right beside, don't forget," Derek added as his left eyebrow rose to accent the sarcasm.
* * *
"I wonder if they feed you in here," asked William, tiring of the silence that had ruled inside the cell for the past minutes or hours... they had no way of telling. Outside they could hear the muffled screams that seemed to unceasingly dominate that section of the hospital.
Derek shifted his position in boredom. "I think they stuffed this padding with horsehair," he commented at last. "It makes for a prickly seat." He tucked his gown beneath him as well as he could.
"Probably goat hair," corrected the precept. "That's what they raise around here.... Frankly I hate to think what creepy crawlies might be under this canvas."
"Nice thought."
Derek's attention wandered. "You know, William," he said at last, "you really should cut your toenails occasionally. Doesn't Patricia complain?"
Piqued, Sloan answered more harshly than he intended. "At least, I have someone to complain."
"Yes... so you do," Derek replied in a melancholy tone. "You're very lucky." He cast his eyes downward and began to toy again with his gown.
The precept immediately regretted his comment. He hadn't intended to hit so close to home. He'd never realized that this was something that Derek felt so strongly about. Gently, he placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Someday, my friend... but first we've got to get the hell out of this damned shoe box."
A wistful smile crossed Derek's lips. "I hate to say it, but I think we're stuck.... God!" he chuckled. "...and I get to look at your reet for God knows how many days.... I will be insane."
* * *
Time dragged on... the two Legacy members had no idea how much time or whether it was day or night. They had eaten six meals, of questionable quality, but whether that was three meals a day, two meals a day, or one meal a day, they knew not. Their eyes ached from the flickering of the flourescent light that remained constantly on. Always, there were the screams. A new tenant had been moved into the cell next door... a woman with vocal cords of tempered steel.
"Good Got!" Derek exclaimed. "I wish they'd shut that banshee up!" Curled against the wall, he folded his arms over his ears. "That goddamned light is giving me a headache and as soon as I manage to doze, she screams."
Slouched in the corner William, opened his eyes and said calmly, "At least we know there are other people alive in here."
"I'm not so sure about that... present company included." Derek pushed himself up to lean against the wall. "How long do you think it's been?" he asked, running a hand across his face. "My beard says three days."
The precept laughed. "Your beard?... Ha!"
"What? It's as itchy as hell," the younger man replied. "Speaking of which, yours looks like it's getting some gray in it." Derek climbed to his feet and stretched... the room was truly beginning to close in on him. Though he'd never been an overly anxious man, the desire to claw through the walls to get out... to get a breath of fresh air... was becoming overwhelming.
William could read his friend's growing anxiety. "At least it proves I'm past puberty," he baited.
"Yes... and edging toward Social Security."
"... that you're paying for," he countered.
Derek leaned against the wall and began to bounce his head against the padding. "Got! I think this observation is a ploy to make you go crazy."
"Too late for one of us," William jabbed.
"Don't I know it?" retorted Derek, looking down at the precept. "I should have signed the papers on you a long time ago.... I should leave you here.... No...." He paused for thought. "Can't commit one for just being stupid... doesn't know what 'run' means."
Sloan snickered. "Can't tell a demon from a human being.... I'll bet you're great at parties."
"Frankly," Derek replied evenly, "at the moment, I'd take the demon... at least I might get an intelligent conversation out of it."
"You'd just tell it to run, I suppose," the older man prodded.
Derek pushed himself away from the wall and, swinging his long arms, began to pace in circles around the small cell. "Well," he answered sarcastically, "it wouldn't stand there waving that damned US passport, screaming, 'You can't do this. I'm an American citizen!... I demand to see the President.' Good God! William... and you wonder why they call you people 'ugly Americans'?"
"Ugly... no, American... yes... and just what does your birth certificate read?"
Suddenly, there was the sound of a click and a fine spray issued from a sprinkler head nestled beside the light fixture. The volume of screams from the neighboring cells rose to a cacophony.
"What in the hell?" said Derek, shielding his eyes as he looked for the source of the acrid, almost gaseous mist.
Sloan coughed, then hung his head to wipe his face on his now damp gown. "I think we're being deloused. Don't breathe," he instructed.
"Shit!" Derek covered his nose and sighed, "What next?"
NEXT 
