Burbank Airport
As Nick pulled the van into a parking space, he saw the Ruling Precept's
new, twin-engine Gulfstream glide in from the west, over the San Fernando
Valley's flatlands. God, what a beautiful plane, he thought... and all the way from
London non-stop. Must have cost the Legacy a mint. "Wonder how long it'll take
for Derek to want one too," he murmured without thinking. "That'll set Luna back
a pretty penny." Suddenly, the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach reminded
him. "Dammit!" he said.
He glanced at his watch. It would take a few minutes for Sloan to clear
customs. He reached into his jacket pocket for his cell phone, pressed auto-dial, and
waited for Rachel to answer.
"Dr. Corrigan," the psychiatrist said automatically.
"Rachel... how's he doing?" Nick asked anxiously. "Sloan just landed...
anything more I can tell him?"
"They're still running tests," she replied. "The doctor said he was hanging in
there... and relatively comfortable."
"Dammit!... What do I tell Sloan?"
"The truth," suggested Rachel. "...that Derek's a workaholic, who doesn't
take care of himself... he's in his mid-forties in an extremely stressful job. He was a
prime candidate for a heart attack."
"Call me as soon as you know more," said Nick. "We should be there in
about an hour."
"I will," she promised, "and play nice with Sloan. He's not going to be very
happy when he hears about this."
"Just so long as he doesn't try to shoot the messenger," Nick chuckled
humorlessly, "because this messenger shoots back."
< < + > >
Emerging from customs, Sloan glanced around. "Christ!" he mumbled.
"Where's the damned driver?" Peeved, he shifted his suitcase to his other hand, got
a better grip on his briefcase, and trudged across the concourse to the doors.
He reached the curb and set his bag down. "Taxi!" he yelled to a passing cab
that didn't even slow. "Dammit!" he swore. "Can't anything ever be easy? I take
that back, Lord," he mumbled with a glance toward the sky, "at least I got out of
London without having to take the damn train to Paris. Thank you for small... very
small... favors." No wonder the damn cab didn't pick me up... I'm talking to
myself! Soon I'll be as nuts as that Dutch lunatic, he thought.
"Sloan!"
The precept turned to see Nick Boyle coming across the parking lot toward
him. Though not much like his father in appearance, the former SEAL had inherited
the major's mannerisms. Like the soldier Sloan had known, he tended to shove his
fists in his jacket pockets, hunch his shoulders, and cock his head in an odd way
when the world decided to turn sour. Instantly, he knew that missing drivers and
rude cabbies were inconsequential.
"Mr. Boyle.... What's happened?" he asked, dreading the answer. "What did
your precept do?"
Nick took a deep breath. "Derek's in intensive care at UCLA.... He collapsed
after finishing with the entity." The younger man paused to watch a commuter jet
land. He waited for the noise to subside, then, with a sigh, continued. "We almost
lost him," he said, fighting his emotions as he seemed to study a helicopter lifting
off in the distance.
The Ruling Precept waited for the younger man
to collect himself.
Finally Nick turned back to face Sloan. "It's his heart."
"He channeled it, didn't he?" asked the precept in a taut voice. Suddenly, his
anger erupted. "Jesus Christ, Nick! You let him do that knowing he wasn't well?
Son-of-a-bitch, what were you all thinking!" he exploded. "Now I have two
precepts in the same hospital... both in intensive care.... Has to be a goddamned
record!"
"What the hell were we supposed to do?... Punch him out?... Drug him?"
Nick shot back. "Where were you? Alex and Rachel called you more than forty-eight hours ago. You could have left London in that shiny, new toy of yours and
been here before dark." Angry, he bent to pick up Sloan's suitcase. "Van's over
here," he muttered as he turned to lead the way.
Sloan removed his sunglasses, pulled out his handkerchief, and looked down
to polish the dark green lenses. "I don't need to explain myself to you, Mr. Boyle....
But, you're right," he admitted quietly. "If I had come then, instead of worrying
about a bunch of bean counting bureaucrats, I wouldn't have been able to prevent
Amanda's injury, but I could have planted Derek on his butt in a hospital bed. I
underestimated the situation and let things get out of control."
Nick abruptly turned back. A tone of harsh futility overlay a tremor. "Hell,
Sloan, if Lucifer himself can't stop Derek Rayne when his mind's made up, how
can we?"
< < + > >
UCLA Medical Center, ICU
The Ruling Precept smiled down at Amanda Drake as he stood at her
bedside. Her tousled, strawberry blond hair exaggerated the translucent pastiness of
her skin and the bluish circles beneath her eyes. "I don't know how they expect
anyone to get any rest in these places," he commented as a bustling nurse pushed
him aside to change the IV bag.
"Don't let Derek go near that house," Amanda said hoarsely once the nurse
had gone. "I had a dream... it was all confused, but I know it was a premonition
about Derek."
"Don't worry about Derek," responded Sloan, hoping that she wouldn't be
able to read is anxiety. "How are you doing?" he asked softly.
"I'm OK," she replied. "I don't think I'll be needing 'the pill' any more
though.... Oh, well," she added with a tired sigh, "I'd always planned on adopting
anyway.
"I'll write up a full report for you in a couple of days... if that's OK. Could I
have some water, please?"
William picked up a cup from the side table and held the straw to the
younger precept's lips. "Take your time," he said. "No hurry.... Tremayne's coming
out of retirement to handle House affairs until you're back on your feet."
"Thanks." Amanda gave a wicked, but weak, smile. "Tremayne?... in
Hollywood?"
"Um... umm," mumbled Sloan. "...and I'm going to have the pleasure of
giving him the guided tour," he chuckled as a wry smile escaped the corner of his
mouth.
"Oh, Lordy... I'll want all the details," she whispered. "Try to do your dirty
work in front of the security cameras. It'll give an invalid a chuckle or two.
"But, you need to know about the entity," she continued solemnly. "It was
vicious."
William hesitated, then told her, "The entity has moved on."
"What? How?" Amanda asked in surprise. "Derek? Is he OK?" Worried that
she had failed to warn her mentor of the premonition, she searched Sloan's
inscrutable face.
Mindful of the IV tubes, William gently patted her hand and lied, "He's
fine.... I haven't seen him to get the details yet, but from what I understand, the
entity was the baby boy the Mattoxes were expecting. His nickname was Shaq and
he liked Mozart. He died during the emergency Caesarian, was looking for his
mother, and when he didn't find her, he became angry and terrified. Derek
connected with him and pointed him in the right direction."
"William," said Rachel, leaning in the door.
He glanced around to catch the urgency in the psychiatrist's blue eyes. He
turned back to Amanda. "You just rest," he instructed, "and be a good patient. I'll
see you later."
"Women are always good patients," Los Angeles' precept commented with a
straight face.
Sloan turned back with a smile. "I have two daughters," he said. "Need I say
more?"
< < + > >
"I don't understand any of this," Sloan said impatiently. Walking over to
stand behind Rachel's chair, he continued, "Dr. Rayne had his annual checkup last
November... a comprehensive one demanded by his board of directors. He came
through with flying colors."
"As I was saying...," the doctor replied testily.
Sloan interrupted, "I had our medical consultant, Dr. Jacob Kaplan, review
his files before I left London.... He saw no potential problems."
"William," Rachel said firmly, "give Dr. Nguyen a chance.... He's a fine
cardiologist."
"Thank you, Dr. Corrigan," said the physician as he cast an annoyed glance
in the Ruling Precept's direction. "Since you seem to need matters to be explicitly
delineated for you, Mr. Sloan, I shall deviate from ethical procedures. But, as Dr.
Corrigan is Dr. Rayne's physician-of-record there is some allowable latitude."
Opening a file, the doctor scanned through several papers. "We have done
every known test.... ECG, EKG, MRI, PET scan, X-rays, and so forth. We're still
awaiting results on the blood panels, but his arteries seem fine. Cholesterol levels
are excellent for a man his age." He paused to remove a long, folded paper tape
which he spread out on his desk. "But, as you can see by Dr. Rayne's EKG, his
heartbeat is highly irregular."
As Sloan put on his glasses, Rachel leaned over to pull the tape toward them.
"What about medication or a pacemaker?" she asked.
Dr. Nguyen pulled a large X-ray from its envelope and clipped it to a light
panel hanging on the wall. "If someone had shown me that data and this X-ray, I'd
have signed the death certificate without hesitation. I don't know how he's still
alive. I don't understand what this dark spot is," he said, pointing to an irregular
black circle to the lower left of the heart.
"At first I thought it was the equipment or the film, but we redid the X-rays
and tested all the machinery," the cardiologist explained as Rachel and Sloan
stepped to the panel for a closer look. "Look at the way this 'thing' seems to push
the heart and lung aside, causing a severe deformity in the chambers, valves, and
arteries. Hence, the high blood pressure, extremely irregular beat, and
accompanying edema. A pacemaker won't help, because the heart is physically
prevented from producing a regular beat. It's not a tumor," he added.
"What's the scar on Dr. Rayne's chest?"
"He was shot last year," the psychiatrist replied. "Could that be abnormal
scar tissue?" she suggested. "Or could some infection have been introduced that's
only now broken loose. His symptoms of the past six weeks rather indicate the
possibility."
"It's possible, I suppose," Dr. Nguyen said thoughtfully. "Surgery or the
bullet itself might have introduced a bacterium that's lain dormant. Then, because of
the flu or whatever infection he's been fighting, it could have cut loose... or," he
mused, "maybe a combination of the two has produced something not seen before."
The doctor pulled the film from its clips, then slipped it back into its
envelope. He turned to face the two people before him. "I'm afraid the only way to
find out is to go in... as soon as possible," he flatly stated. "Then, in all likelihood, a
heart-lung transplant... if he manages to hang on until we find a suitable donor."
