An hour or more later, Derek was still pacing. He had found the game of slamming his fist in the center of each row of padding as he passed by it.
Sloan was on the verge of murder. "Derek, will you, please, sit down!" he yelled. "You're becoming the lab rat that incessantly chases its tail. What happened to all that meditation training?" Another bang answered his question.
"I'm smothering! It must be 120o. There's not enough oxygen in here," Derek complained, then sniffed the air. "Jesus! You stink.... What do you live on... Limburger cheese?"
"You're living on the same thing, my friend," replied Sloan, wiping the sweat from his neck. "And your bodily hygiene isn't the most fragrant at the moment, either."
"At your age, maybe your body doesn't metabolize it as well," the younger man continued. Suddenly, his stomach growled with the intensity of thunder on a silent, summer day.
William laughed. "Or maybe mine conserves it," he suggested.
"And, I suppose, you're not hungry," Derek responded. "What was that they gave us last? I couldn't tell what it was supposed to be... just that it didn't move."
"Which is all we needed to know," the precept replied.
With restless anxiety, the his friend continued to wander around the cubicle. Suddenly, a shrill wail penetrated the cell. "Godverdomme!" Derek shouted. "There she goes again." He covered his ears and resumed his pacing... driving William closer to insanity
"Derek... the language," Sloan corrected.
The younger man stopped. Pulling himself up to his full height, he looked down at his friend. "If I didn't know better, I'd think old Hans lost a rubber glove somewhere during that search. When did your mouth become so squeaky clean? I seem to recall some very colorful words when you caused that power surge in the Underground," Derek said drily. "That certainly was some poltergeist! Remember that one?" he challenged. "Mistaking the Vice-president for a demon pales in comparison. You stopped traffic in central London for a whole day... and got the Queen stuck in an elevator."
"That didn't get us thrown in an asylum," replied Sloan.
"No... you had the sense to run," said Derek. "Christ! Shut that woman up!" he exclaimed as another scream pierced the walls.
Abruptly, silence reigned.
"There," said William, "are you happy, now?"
"No," retorted Derek, running a hand through his damp, unkempt hair. "But, at least I'm just suffocating now... instead of suffocating and going deaf.... How can you just sit there?"
"I'm old... remember," Sloan chuckled. "Think of it as a free sauna. You'll be like this when you're my age."
"Oh, saints preserve me!... You're not that much older.... Sometimes you remind me of Mother... only she'd have been screaming, 'I demand to see the Dutch ambassador!'"
"See?" the precept goaded. "She wouldn't have run either."
"No," Derek agreed as he slid to the floor. "Not in heels... but she'd have carried it off. I'll bet she'd have ended up having lunch with the Vice-president, instead of trying to suck up to the police chief in Swahili and calling him the son of a warthog.... And you don't even have the heels excuse to fall back on... or, do you?" he added with a snicker.
"And her brave son would have run away," William retorted. "Never a thought to offer a little Luna Foundation campaign contribution. Come on, Derek... you have more than enough to spare."
"He who runs away lives to fight another day... and doesn't get tossed in the monkey cage with a simian like you.... That's called 'bribery'... and we'd probably have ended up in prison for life."
"Respect your elders," scolded Sloan, letting the younger man know who was in charge here. Derek had a tendency to forget.
"Yes... Head Master Sloan," Derek mocked.
"Oh, please!"
"Oh, please!... Now you sound like Ingrid used to at that time of the month."
"You want to hear my impression of you?" William asked in an irritated tone. The stagnant heat of the cell was beginning to grate on his nerves as much as Derek was. He pulled the damp, clinging cotton of his gown away from his chest.
"Feel free," Derek responded sharply.
"Of course, I was right, William" mimicked Sloan in the thickest Dutch accent he could manage. "How could I not be? I'm Derek Rayne."
The younger man grinned. "I do have to admit that the gray matter has been slipping a bit of late... lack of intellectual discourse from the company I keep."
"Gray matter?" Sloan teased. "Come on, Derek. I tutored you. I know what's in your head... pure methane."
Derek looked down at the padded floor to probe a small hole with his finger. Thoughtfully, he pulled a long thread from the canvas. "You know, William," he said quietly, "I've always considered Patricia to be one of the brightest women I've ever met." Looking up through his hair, he gave a furtive half-smile. "You must certainly be good in bed, because all she'd have to do is call the information operator for a more stimulating conversation."
"I'm sure that's what the 'Hotel de Rayne' is for... stimulating conversation?" the older man quipped as he leaned his head back against the padding.
"Practice makes perfect," Derek taunted. "On second thought... maybe poor Patty had to do a lot of remedial education in that department."
"Excuse you?" said Sloan, raising his head to look straight into his friend's hazel eyes, which had again begun to twinkle at the game.
"No wonder... married two years... and no kids yet? Shooting blanks, are we?"
"And how many have you sired?... No... I shudder at the thought. The world can't handle any little Derek Raynes running around."
Derek gave an impish chuckle. "It'll probably be another decade before you get the technique sorted out."
"And I'm sure you get rave reviews?" Sloan badgered.
"Precisely... haven't had any complaints," the younger man boasted. "Lots of repeat performances."
"I'd rather have the same person attending for the rest of my life," William said quietly.
"I seem to recall a bit of a revolving door at Balliol," Derek laughed. "Not many came back for a second helping, did they? I guess Patricia's either a masochist or a natural born teacher."
"I'd ask you how you know, but with your history...."
"Guess who they came to for the second helping?... Even that brunette with the birthmark... what was her name... Lady Ashley Cecil?"
That dart had hit a little close to the mark. Slightly annoyed, Sloan asked in a caustic tone, "Did you take her under your blankie?"
"My blankie?" questioned Derek in confusion.
"The one from Nanny Ross?" William prompted. He eagerly watched his protégée's angular face for a break in the enigmatic facade. That'll teach him to make fun of my "abilities".
"My quilt?" the younger man asked in shock. "How did you know about that? Did Mother tell you? She did tell you. I can't believe she told you about Nanny Ross' quilt!"
The precept smiled... he had turned the tables. "Why wouldn't she? She trusts me.... We're friends," he stated proudly. "I was supposed to be keeping an eye on you."
"But to tell you about my quilt... how could she?" Derek murmured in a rather hurt tone. "The night we left San Francisco, Nanny Ross put that quilt around me," he quietly explained. "It was from her own bed... she made it... it smelled of her. I never saw her again," he sadly concluded. Remembering his beloved Nanny Ross, Derek paused a moment. Then an image flitted through his mind.
"While we're at it," he said as his eyebrow rose and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, "what about that dog you kept in the suitcase at the top of the closet? Fuzzy little guy... embroidered mouth... button eyes... wind up the tail and it played Zip-a-dee-do-dah... the great hit of 1947."
"When did you see that?" demanded William, pushing himself to his feet as though preparing for a confrontation.
"Let's just say I had a vision," Derek chuckled.
Fair's fair, thought the precept. "What about your little Indians?" he asked.
"What little Indians?"
"The little plastic ones that went with the cowboys," Sloan responded. Now I've got him!
"You son-of-a-bitch," the younger man whispered. "You searched my dresser. You found my cigar box with Roy Rogers and Trigger."
William laughed. "...with the cute little feather tail?"
"His tail broke off," Derek admitted with almost childlike simplicity. "Trigger had to have a tail. It was all I could think of."
"And I thought you were supposed to be bright... the Legacy's child prodigy," the precept needled. "Too bad you didn't get it in the right place... a little higher would have been good"
"That was bright," his friend countered. "It was very creative for a four-year-old."
"I suppose so," Sloan conceded. But, unwilling to yield, he continued, "Did you show all your girlfriends your toys?"
"Certainly," replied Derek. "Just like you cranked up the dog's tail to play Zip-a-dee-doo-dah for inspiration. Tell me," he asked pointedly, "did it help your performance? Should we market Fido as an aphrodisiac?"
Keys rattled in the lock. Both turned abruptly as the bolt was slammed back and Hans swung the door wide. Derek's heart sank at the sight of Barbara Rayne, cool and aristocratic in a Chanel suit, in deep discussion with the towering Mother Superior.
"Gentlemen," she said in a tone that made both men feel like truant schoolboys.
"Mother!" said Derek, wide-eyed in complete shock. "What are you doing here?"
With the genteel disdain that only mothers can display, Barbara turned her back to continue her conversation with the hospital's administrator.
"Madam Rayne," said Sister Ursula as she patted Barbara's hand, "my deepest sympathies.... I certainly hope that they are not both yours. Is there, perhaps, some genetic problem in zie family?"
"Only one is mine," replied Barbara. "Thank the Lord."
"I shall remember you in my prayers," the good sister assured the smaller woman.
"Thank you, Reverend Mother... they are most needed and quite welcome," Barbara responded in her formal manner.
Finally, drawing her small frame up into her most regal posture, Derek's mother took a deep breath and turned back to step into the cell. "Derek Emrys Rayne," she said cooly as she looked up to fix her son with an icy stare. "I am here because you have created an international incident.
"Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall," she quoted from Proverbs. Her aloof expression displayed her reproach as she allowed her eyes to slowly survey the two bedraggled men standing before her in their rumpled, sweat stained hospital gowns. "How the mighty are brought low," she commented with phonetic precision. "Brought down to the level of the common unwashed, unclothed masses." For added emphasis, she pulled a dainty, scented handkerchief from her sleeve and held it to her nose for a moment... to conceal her smile.
Both men suddenly found their toes to be of immense interest.
"I shall leave you with these two 'children'," said the nun. "Hans vill be just outside should they become violent."
"It is I who would become violent, sister," Barbara corrected.
"I shall have a priest standing by to give you absolution," responded the Mother Superior. As she turned, a quick smile skimmed across her lips.
"Danke sehr, Reverend Mother," Mrs. Rayne replied with a nod of her dark blond head.
"Mother," Derek began.
"Silence."
"Barbara... thank goodness," said William. "Get me out of here... your son is driving me insane. You should sign the papers on him this instant."
"I should leave you both here until hell freezes over," said Barbara in a tone that had the sharpness of a well stropped razor. "Mr. Ombasso is furious. He's a personal friend of the Vice-president and he's demanding that the Ruling Council convene a board of inquiry."
"He started it," Sloan interrupted as he nodded his head toward Derek. "Got his damned wires crossed... not that they've ever been very straight."
Turning her steely gaze toward the older of the pair, Barbara held up her hand. "William, I am astounded. You had no business stepping into another precept's territory without informing him," she stated bluntly. "The Council has decided that you will remain here until you both write a formal apology, which will be posted to each Legacy House." Opening her purse, she pulled out two school composition books and several pencils. As she handed one to each man, she continued, "Then you will each issue a public apology to the Nairobi House, to its precept, Mr. Ombasso, and to the entire Legacy over closed-circuit television. Is that clear?"
"Mother... the man I met at the reception in San Francisco was a doppelganger. I will not apologize for being right," said Derek harshly as turned to slam the booklet against the wall.
"Excuse me, son," Barbara said calmly. "You had a charming little fanny at fifteen months, but somehow, at twenty-five, it isn't quite the same."
Derek grabbed for the back of his hospital gown and spun about to face his mother.
A laugh threatened to crack her voice at the sight of the blush that swept across her son's usually inscrutable face. "It obviously was not a doppelganger whom you hit with the holy water, was it?" she continued. "You, Master Rayne, will issue a formal, written apology to the Luna Foundation... it's board, staff, and volunteers, verstaat U? I shall return for the letters... sometime," Barbara added as she turned to exit. The door slammed shut behind her and the bolt rammed home.
"Dammit!" Derek shouted. "She's going to leave us to stew.... God knows when she'll be back."
"Serves you right," said Sloan.
"Yeah?" the younger man retorted. "Look who's got the other 'theme' book?"
"I can't believe this!" the precept croaked as he slumped to the padded floor.
"How the hell do we apologize without apologizing?" asked Derek, sliding down the wall to sit beside his friend.
"I don't know," William admitted. "We'll think of something. I've got the feeling that we'll have plenty of time."
The End
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