Part 18

O.J.'s Office

Maggie and Derek were escorted into Oscar Simpson's office. The ruby red carpet felt thick underfoot. A solid mahogany desk squatted in front of a large well-stocked bookcase, the center of which was occupied by an even better stocked wet bar. To the left, a leather sofa and chairs were grouped around a low coffee table. In a corner, stood a large, prominently lit, Lalique figurine... a nearly life-sized, crystal reproduction of Botticelli's Birth of Venus, complete with clamshell. To the other side, a partly opened window admitted a gentle, evening breeze that smelled of the tropics and ruffled the fine net curtains.

Incongruously, amidst this "old world" elegance, one wall consisted of a bank of monitors, not unlike Angel Island's control room, that displayed every angle of the casino's gaming floor... and at present an angry crowd, milling about the tables.

"You might want to send down a few complimentary drinks," Maggie suggested. "Calm the folks down a tad, but don't get 'em liquored up or they could turn real mean. Wouldn't want that pretty place all trashed, would we?"

Oscar obviously decided this was good advice and spoke rapidly with someone in the outer office. He returned accompanied by Stan and Ollie, who stationed themselves on either side of the heavy, front door.

Derek watched the poor man's Brando and sensed panic as he stationed himself between his "heavies". Meanwhile, Stan fiddled nervously with his tie, then began to pick remnants of caviar from his lapels. He spotted an errant fish scale on his partner and reached towards it. Ollie slapped Stan's hand down and received a glare for his troubles.

Suddenly Oscar spoke in a voice that had an air of hysteria. "How'd you do it? Electronics? We can search you... if necessary, but you tell me how you did it... and maybe I'll let you walk out of here. If not... well... the boys'll take real good care of you!"

He shuffled his shoulders and "shot" his cuffs, then shifted his weight from foot to foot as the "boys" exchanged nervous glances. They could manage a menacing look if necessary... but real violence! Here?

Derek and Maggie paused, waiting for an invitation to sit. When one wasn't forthcoming they sat anyway. Relaxing into the sofa, Derek reached over to squeeze his companion's hand, reassuringly. Maggie smiled at the gesture. Surely he didn't really think this flimflam man would worry her. She'd had his sort before her in court many a time. All bluster and no substance. She knew the look of stone-cold killers, and none of these "gentlemen" had that look in the eyes. Derek, on the other hand, could when the occasion called.

"Oh, hush up... for goodness sake," Maggie snapped impatiently. "We came here for a good time. We expected to lose money... fair and square... that's what you do even in honest joints, but you've been caught with your hand in the cookie jar... own up, pay up and shut up!"

"I mean it," Oscar shot back, trying to summon up a sinister tone. "You cheated us. Tell me how you did it... Uncle Beppe'll want to know!"

"Uncle Beppe?" Maggie laughed. "You can't mean Beppe Roselli? Damned right Uncle Beppe will want to know... about how incompetent you are. Imagine... cheating all these rich folk at the gaming tables, when what you're really supposed to be doing is laundering money for the cartels. Skimming are we?"

Simpson strutted over to his desk, opened the center drawer, and dragged out a large handgun, which he waved it in their general direction. Stan yelped nervously and rushed over.

"Boss... Boss... put that thing away. Remember the last time?" He and Ollie exchanged nervous looks. The larger man gazed skywards in mute appeal and quickly crossed himself.

Oscar obviously remembered and paled visibly... shooting himself in the foot was not an experience he cared to repeat. He laid the gun on the desk with exaggerated care, then sat down in his office chair, which tippled backwards... almost too far.

Derek decided enough was enough... assuming a mask of tough nonchalance and flattening his Dutch accent toward something that might resemble Gloria's Brooklynese, he said, "Now... Oscar... you tell me if I get any of this wrong... but judging from what my wife just said, I'm guessing Uncle Beppe didn't know what to do with a putz like you... so he convinced the 'family' to dump you down here, figuring even you couldn't mess up a sweet deal like this."

Maggie smiled slightly at the thought of Dr. Derek Rayne, Ph.D. in theology, using such a word as "putz," considering its Yiddish meaning. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. The errant curl was back down over his brow... and the real "stone-cold" look gleamed in his now hard, green eyes. No doubt about it... the man could deliver a performance worthy of Olivier when he wanted to. But how much of a performance was it?

Glaring at Derek and Maggie, Oscar wondered how and where they got their information. Was the guy connected... one of the "old" family? He had a strange accent... maybe he was from Sicily, but he didn't look Italian. Maybe he was part of the Jewish mob... a protege of Meyer Lansky or Bugsy Siegel. He shivered under the gaze of those ice cold eyes.

"But you got greedy," Derek continued smoothly. "Bad mistake. Lots of witnesses... worse mistake. I sincerely doubt that you or your associates want any bad publicity... particularly when laundering money for the Columbians.... Time for a little crisis management, perhaps? We'll go reassure everyone it's all been a terrible mistake and the person responsible has been canned... that it will never happen again... which it won't!"

The precept had allowed his voice to become louder and more forceful. Maggie's sideways glance at his vernacular had not escaped him. He hoped he'd selected the correct slang... too late if not, so he plunged on. "You open that safe hidden behind your booze rack... and pay the folks what they're owed... in clean money. We don't want any white powder on our cash when we go back through customs, now do we?"

Oscar stood angrily, but got no further as an invisible force pushed him backwards, slamming him hard against the bookcase.

"What the hell?" Stan reached for the gun only to see it spin away, out through the open window. He and his "Boss" exchanged open-mouthed glances, then checked the desk again to make sure it hadn't been an illusion. The weapon was, indeed, gone.

Derek decided to go the whole hog. The window rattled, books flew from the shelves, liquor decanters shattered, and the monitors all crackled with static and sparks. A miniature tempest raged within the office.

"Now, now, Darlin'," Maggie drawled, patting Derek's arm. "Don't you get yourself all riled up. I'm sure these boys'll be reasonable. There's no need for unpleasantness." Wide-eyed with mock concern, she glanced towards Oscar. "Don't make him angry for heaven's sake.... The last time... it was soooo messy," she whispered theatrically. "Imagine... being turned inside out... literally! If it gets away from him, anything can happen."

Oscar was staring in panic at the elegant monster that was relaxing on his couch. He knew his horror films... his Stephen King and Clive Barker. What was he dealing with here? "What the devil is he?" he asked.

"Ssshh," Maggie hissed a warning. "He's got six-six-six tattooed on his tush.... What does that tell you!"

In a final burst, the Lalique Venus explosively shattered into a million pieces.

"No!" Oscar cried. "Not my Venus!"

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the noise and mayhem ceased. The monitors went blank, the last book fell with a thud, and Derek's cold, green gaze flickered menacingly towards Oscar.

"Ahh... toilet.. now!" the amateur mobster garbled as he scuttled stiff-legged toward a small door to the side of the bookcases.

"I think he just ruined a nice suit," Maggie whispered in an aside to Derek.

Ollie decided it was time to take charge. He nodded Stan towards the 'Boss', while he bravely approached the sofa. He stooped to pick up a now cracked, rosewood box from the floor, opened it, and offered Derek a cigar.

Derek smiled, accepted the offer, then, having clipped off the end, puffed enthusiastically as it was lit. "Hellava good cigar," he murmured, appreciatively blowing a cloud of pungent smoke. "I should know!"

The precept had noted that the man's movements were surprisingly delicate for someone of his size... an old mob soldier or mercenary, he thought... being rewarded with an easy job in paradise for long, loyal service... or a particularly nasty deed... but Derek sensed that those were days happily long gone.

"Now, how about a drink... ahh... sir?" Ollie asked in a voice that was nervous and deferential. "I know we can sort this mess out... amicably. It's nothing Mr. Roselli needs to know about. What's your poison? I mean... what can I get you? Just take a minute... you kinda did in the 'Boss'' liquor supply."

"Champagne for me," Maggie informed the retreating figure.

"Brandy will do nicely," said Derek. "Napoleon... if you have it."

Once they were alone, Maggie smiled. "Really Darlin'... you overplayed that hand a tad. Hope you had as much fun doin' it as I did watching it." She then noticed a slight trickle of blood from Derek's nose and pulled a tissue from her purse to blot it away. "Bend over for a minute," she instructed. "No more shenanigans tonight, OK?"

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Part 19

Seaside Cottage... later

Derek had been in a fine humor. On an emotional high, adrenaline had still coursed through his veins. Mr. O.J. Simpson's coffers had been emptied to cover everyone's losses, and then some. His own funds, and Maggie's, had been considerably enhanced. Stan and Ollie had promised to inform Uncle Beppe of the situation. Feeling very self-satisfied, the precept was certain that life was back on track and that his new talent had been tamed... and had even proven to be of some use.

Having shed most of his monkey suit and fixed himself a night cap, Derek had sprawled, fidgety, in the comfortable armchair to wait for Maggie, who was taking nearly as long to remove her enchanting costume as she had to concoct it. It was three a.m., which meant eleven in San Francisco. "It's not so late," he had reasoned. Alex should still be up. "I should check in... make sure everything's OK," he convinced himself. He then admitted a little ruefully that he wanted to tell her of his triumph in the casino. It had felt good to be back... to be strong and whole once more. It was a sensation that he had truly feared was gone forever.

* * *

Now pressing the disconnect button, Derek felt strangely flat. His conversation with Alex had not gone well.... She had assured him that everything was fine and had told him to enjoy the rest of his vacation, to take his time getting back.... Hell was taking some time off too. Life on Angel Island was downright boring, so she was working on old case files. However, while he had heard her words, he had felt something entirely different was being said in the spaces between those words. Had he imagined her assurances were hiding tears?

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, knowing that when he returned home, he must resolve the situation with her. He would have to discover whether "his Alex" felt the same as her "other-world" twin had.

Maggie emerged from the bathroom. Bundled in a plush, terry robe, with a towel turbaning her hair, she immediately sensed a change in the atmosphere. "Anything wrong, Sweet Pea?" she asked, trying to understand how she'd left a man bubbling over with excitement to find that a pensive man had taken his place.

"Nothing," he replied, more tersely than he'd intended. He saw her flinch and regretted his harsh tone. "Sorry... I just called home and talked to Alex."

"And?..." Maggie quizzed. Was this the only explanation? Would she have to use her feminine wiles to plumb the source of his mood? "Was something wrong? Have ghosts invaded city hall? Is Satan squatting on the Golden Gate? Have vampires taken over Alcatraz?" she joked.

A sad smile tweaked the corner of the precept's mouth. "She said everything was fine, but I think she was only telling me what she thought I needed to hear." He sighed again and turned his dark mood inward.

Maggie was not going to let a week's good work be ruined by a phone call. "Come on, Darlin'... what's really going on here?... Talk to me... I'm a judge... I'm a good listener."

With a drooping head, he sat in silence for a long time. Only his fingers moved, thumping the chair in contemplation. But Maggie knew her man... so she curled up on the floor at his feet, rested her crossed arms on his knees, and watched his face, searching his eyes for clues to unravel the mystery.

Within moments, Derek began to talk. In a voice, strangely devoid of emotion, he told his friend of the "other Alex" and how she had expressed her real feelings for his twin soul. How he had felt her passion beneath the parting kiss, and had felt the sorrow of his "other-self" at the musings of what might have been, when he had said a gentle good-bye to the unconscious woman at his feet.

"Afterwards... I awoke to a different Alex... my own," he explained in a husky voice. "My behavior towards her has been erratic and intolerable... awkward... cold... even angry. I don't know what to do... because I don't know if this Alex shares the other's feelings."

There was a long silence, which Maggie finally broke. "And now, Darlin', you're going home... and you know you have to resolve the situation.... Did you invite me to Angel Island to be your shield? Or do you want to throw a monkey wrench into the gear box?... Show Alex that your interests lie elsewhere, so you won't have to deal with it?"

"No," he protested. "I invited you because I want you to come... turn about's fair play. I want you to be my guest for a change." He paused, then suddenly asked, looking into her intelligent, blue eyes, "How?... How do I resolve the situation?"

"Darlin'... Derek... what do you want from Alex? Do you love her? Do you see yourself marrying her... having kids?" Maggie's Texas drawl faded to nothing.

"I care for her... very much," the precept proclaimed. "She's part of my family... my Legacy family. There's nothing I wouldn't risk for her. I'd die for her."

"Oh... Sugar... you're thinking like a man. She doesn't want you to die for her... she wants you to live for her," Maggie explained, as kindly as she could. For an intelligent man and a wonderful lover, Derek was very naive about women.

"I have my job, Maggie.... It's not like being a bank manager.... I can't work nine to five, then go home to a nice house, with a nice wife, three nice kids, and a dog sleeping on the hearth. Alex knows that.... It's her life too." He paused, trying to read his friend's eyes. "I don't want to hurt her... or be responsible for her unhappiness.

"I feel like I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't," he continued, miserably. "If I do say something to her... and she doesn't feel the same... I could lose her friendship... her respect.... It could damage the team. If I don't... and she stays with us because she hopes... for more... then I might be stopping her from living the life I'm sure she wants... which she certainly deserves."

"And what about your feelings, Darlin'? Do you want the emotional involvement that this relationship will bring."

Another unhappy sigh. "I can't risk it. I'm a precept. One of us... and frankly it would have to be her... would have to leave Angel Island... or leave the Legacy," he said firmly. "How could I send her out on a case and put her at risk?" he asked, then paused to gather his thoughts. "Maybe I'm already differentiating between her and the others. Do I endanger them, to protect her? I do tend to have Alex work at the House... doing research... but that's what she excels at... to send her out just to prove a point would be a foolish waste of resources, yet I know she wants more field experience. We've clashed about it.

"It's such a mess," he admitted, running his hand through his hair, "and the worst of it is that it may all be in my own mind.... I don't know what to do... me... Derek Rayne, precept... who always knows... who is always so damned certain... or pretends to be."

Maggie shook her head slowly. "Darlin', don't torture yourself. Maybe the best thing to do... is to do nothing." When there was no response, she continued, "Damn it all... Alex ain't exactly a wilting lily." She saw the hint of a memory flit across his face. "If she wants you bad enough, she'll let you know one of these days. Maybe she feels the same as you... she likes the idea... but fears that in practical terms it won't work... so, for the moment, half a loaf with a job and home she loves is better than risking it all. But, once she's made up her mind... either yes or no... then, Darlin', look out. She'll either hogtie you till you sort it out... or she'll find someone else and fly the coop."

"You think?" Derek asked hopefully. "Wait and see?... Is that the best course?" His expression grew lighter... happier.

"Sure is, Honey." Maggie watched as a weight seemed to lift from his shoulders.

Were she and Alex closer than she had thought? Sisters under the skin? Both attracted to this enigma of a man... both wanting our careers and to have our moments with him when we can snatch them?

Alex sees him every day... sees the noble, courageous soul, the manipulator, the warrior, the academic. She shares his dangers and his triumphs, but it's look, don't touch. I'm the old biddy that sees him once in a blue moon and finds that passionate, mischievous, fun loving spirit that makes the whole man.... but it's only because he comes to play in my world, or outside both our worlds. If I was in the Legacy, I'd be in Alex's shoes. A strange menage a trois, she thought.

"Would you like another brandy... before bed?" she smiled wickedly, "to keep your strength up."

"I'll show you who needs a brandy... you Texas hussy!" Derek grinned and lunged for her as she squealed in delight.

+

Maggie's House, Pasadena... 2 days later

"That's it.... That's all of them, I think," said Hallie Mattox as she handed another small, wet, brown and white bundle to Nick, who tenderly dried it with a fluffy, white towel and laid it down with its nine siblings. Marigold let out an enormous, tired sigh and immediately sniffed the newcomer, then began to bathe it with her large, pink tongue.

"I never realized getting born was so much work," said Nick, noting the tiny creature's exhaustion.

"Well," Hallie replied, gently helping each puppy to each find a faucet for its first real meal. "I'm sure they're all thinking there's a lot more room out than in... but gee... it's cold out here." She then gathered up the damp, dirtied blankets and towels and spread out fresh bedding. "I'll be back... I'm just going to dump these in the washer," she said, "and get myself cleaned up. Want to order pizza, or something?"

"Sounds good to me," Nick replied as he slumped into a chair to sleepily watch the new family. He had to laugh at himself, in an embarrassed sort of way. With all his medic training from the SEALs, he'd had to call Hallie, Maggie's law clerk, to deal with the puppy situation. One, even one human one, he thought he could have handled, but when the wet little bundles had started coming out in a steady stream, he'd panicked. He knew how much those dogs meant to Maggie and he was afraid he'd do something wrong... and though he knew the theory, he'd never actually seen anything born before. The Boyle household had never included pets.

He sat for a moment to allow the remaining adrenalin to seep away. At last he took a deep breath and reached for his cell phone, which lay nearby on a stack of law books. "From one classy broad to another," he murmured.

He confessed to himself that he liked Hallie Mattox... she was a trooper... softer... not as dominant as her boss, Judge Maggie, but every bit as competent.

As he pushed the speed dial, he realized who it was that Hallie reminded him of... it was Alex... a slightly darker, a slightly toothier Alex... but with that same gentle concern and beauty, mingled with intellect and expertise. Finally, he heard the ring of the other phone and the answering voice of his friend.

"Alex Moreau."

"Hi, how's the spy game?" he teased. "You get anything from Cross... well... any information, I mean."

"No, I didn't," she snapped, affronted. "The man has a one track mind, and, believe me, his true love is the Legacy Rule Book. He knows the damned thing back to front. I pity Patty Sloan... from one stiff-necked by-the-book man to another. Lord knows why, but I guess she likes the type!"

"Is he still there?" Nick asked, the euphoria of the puppies' birth swiftly disappearing as he considered Cross. What the hell was the man up to? Errand boy, or something more sinister?

"No, he left here last night. I'm afraid he's traced you and Derek to LA," Alex informed him.

"Shit!" How long would it be before he put two and two together and came up with Maggie Hamilton? Please, God, not tonight, Nick thought, then quickly added, "Hey, y'know, it's not so bad. Derek called just before the canine cavalcade got underway. We've now got ten little Marigolds and Mariguys," he proudly announced. "Anyway, he and Maggie are coming home... to San Francisco. I'll book a flight for myself out of Burbank for in the morning, then I'll have time to get the chopper checked and fueled, and fly them home in style... easier than dealing with all that construction that's going on."

"His timing's impeccable," Alex commented, worried by Nick's revelation. Maggie was coming home with Derek! No one ever comes home with Derek... well, rarely does anyone, she amended her thought.

"Yeah," Nick agreed. "Guess it was his 'Sight'.... Honey, whatever Cross is up to, he's sure makin' a mess of it." Nick thought quickly... his precept had sounded good, confident... back up to speed. "Derek'll take care of Cross... no problem," he firmly assured her, seeking to allay her worries, and his own. "It's time we all headed home and got back to work."

Suddenly something ice cold touched his arm... a frosty can of beer. He looked up to see Hallie smiling down at him. "Bye," he suddenly told Alex. "I'll see you tomorrow night.... I gotta go... duty... doggie duty calls."

&&&&&&&&&&&&

Part 20

Flight 805... the next day

Settling back into her deep, plush seat, Maggie reached over to grasp Derek's hand. She closed her eyes as she felt the speed of the San Francisco bound jet increase. Her stomach twitched in anxiety when the immense 747 left Miami's runway and began its lumbering climb into a clear, blue sky.

Derek smiled, brought his companion's hand to his lips, and bestowed a gentle kiss upon her white knuckles. "It's OK now," he said. "You can open your eyes.... We're on our way."

As the plane finally leveled, the "fasten seatbelt" sign flicked out. Derek released his belt, reclined his seat back as far as it would go, and stretched out his long legs. He glanced around the upper-deck... First Class... only another eight rows of high, well-cushioned seats. The flight attendant had already rolled out his beverage cart, which the precept noted carried a not unacceptable champagne. "This is much better than tourist," the sybarite in his soul commented. "Much better," he purred like a contented tomcat.

"Sure is, Darlin'," Maggie agreed. Happily adjusting her own seat, she accepted the champagne and passed a fluted glass to her friend. "Lucky Nick's meeting us at the airport... we can finish our vacation on a high note."

They clinked glasses, then sipped the sparkling, golden liquid. Derek felt the bubbles burst in his mouth and savored the chill in his throat as he swallowed the icy drink. "That's goot," he murmured.

Maggie took another sip, then set her glass aside and reached beneath her seat for her purse. "Want to see how my photos turned out, Sweat Pea?" she innocently asked as she pulled a bright blue envelope from her handbag.

Derek nodded, surprised that she had the opportunity to use her camera.... He couldn't recall seeing her snap a single photograph. Her tone, however, betrayed a hint of cleverness that he knew well... it meant "watch out!"... booby trap ahead, with a certain precept bound to be the prized booby. As each glossy three by five was handed over, he began to see why he couldn't remember.

"So, Darlin'," Maggie said with a chuckle, "here's you... asleep in the rear garden at the cottage... and here's you... asleep on the beach. This is a nice one... you're dozin' in the hammock."

He watched each picture go by. "I didn't sleep through the whole holiday, did I?"

"Noooo, Darlin'... we spent lots of time in the bedroom... but it sure wasn't all in sleep, and speaking of the bedroom... here's my favourite. You asleep on the bed."

Derek let out a surprised yelp. "I'm naked... Maggie! Where did you get these developed?" he asked in panic.

"On the island.... Don't worry, Sugar. They didn't bat an eye. Compared to what they must see, I'm sure these are mild. Though I suspect Jason would've probably raised... an eyebrow... at the very least!"

"But...," Derek spluttered.

"Sshh...." She placed her finger on his lips. "You can have the negative.... I'll just keep this to remind me of what I'm missing. You look so cute... like a little boy... well, not exactly little," she teased, returning the photographs to her purse.

Derek tucked the negative into a compartment of his wallet. Once safely back at the House it was going straight into the fire, he decided.

* * *

Allowing an excellent cordon bleu lunch to digest, Derek and Maggie sat in silent companionship... no need to talk. Maggie leaned her head against the headrest and gazed steadfastly at her friend, her lover, whose thoughts seemed to be focused somewhere beyond the small window. Such a nice profile, she thought... long, straight nose, strong jaw and chin. That was Derek all right... straight and strong. How long had they known each other? It seemed a lifetime, yet as she counted backwards it had been only fifteen years.

They had met when a San Francisco Legacy case had merged with a case she had been prosecuting as Assistant District Attorney in Los Angeles. She had seen the haunted look in Derek's eyes that bespoke of a soul that had borne unspeakable horrors, had suffered, and had lost, again and again. It was a look that she had known well.... She had seen it in cops... and in victims... but mostly it had been the look in her older brother's eyes when he had returned from Vietnam.

Matt Hamilton had lost his battle with the black Harpies of despair, but in Derek she had sensed a desire to live, to love, to fight another day... and so this enigmatic man had become her special cause. When he needed her, she would be his refuge against the Harpies, the demons, the Legacy's creatures of the night. She would offer him an escape where Derek Rayne, precept, could be Derek Rayne, sweet pea, sugar, darlin', or whatever it took to prick a hole in his ego and breech his fortress walls to make him laugh at the world and at himself.... When he did, she thought, it was a marvelous laugh, indeed.

"It was a real good vacation, Darlin'... wasn't it?" she sighed. "I wish we could've stayed longer... but I have to get back to work... and, my furry baby'll be popping soon, if she hasn't already. Then there'll be lots of hungry, whimpering mouths all looking for faucets."

"I, too, have a million things on hold," Derek agreed, "but that can wait another day. I promise this trip to Angel Island will be more pleasant than your last."

Maggie reached over to take the precept's hand. "Sugar, I don't even want to think about last time," she said, as she fought the memory of a comatose Derek struggling to fend off death. She hesitated a moment, then continued, "You're sure about this? It won't make things... awkward... for Alex... if I spend the night at the House? You're not just using me to make a statement?"

"Nonsense.... It's my home," Derek replied. "I've enjoyed the hospitality of your roof many a time. I want you to enjoy the hospitality of mine for a change... something that should've happened long ago.... and, perhaps, we can lay a few ghosts to rest," he added with a small, crooked smile.

So I am being used, Maggie thought, but let it pass. "Honey bunch," she said instead, with a wicked twinkle in her eye. "I promise you that any 'laying' that goes on won't involve ghosts."

Derek warmly squeezed her hand, then brought it once more to his lips. "Thank you... for kidnaping me... for taking me to paradise... for every moment... even the windsurfing and the battered ego," he chuckled. "I feel like me again.... Does that make sense?"

"Hmmm... mmmm," she agreed, "speaking of feeling you again, are you up to a little adventure, Stud Muffin?"

Even as he blushed, Derek couldn't help but laugh. "What did you have in mind, Your Honor?" he asked uneasily. He loved her adventurous eccentricities, but she was a judge and he was a Legacy precept, about to resume his duties, and all that they entailed.

"You ever heard of the 'Mile High Club'?" she asked, glancing around the deck. Most of their fellow passengers were engrossed in their individual satellite TV and telephone systems, or were trying to get some sleep. "We might as well take our play time to an even higher note... don't you think?"

"Surely, you don't mean?..." Derek gulped. He, too, looked round to reassure himself that they had not been overheard. "Where?"

"They don't call it a 'privy' for nothin', Sugar... and it's here... right in front of our seats... I made sure of that," she explained. "I'll go first... give me a couple of minutes, then knock twice, and I'll let you in." A wide grin split her face. "Come on, Darlin'." She grabbed her purse, kissed the tip of his nose, then left her seat, turning back to whisper, "You only live once."

Chewing nervously on his thumb nail, Derek debated the wisdom of this little escapade. He imagined the newspaper headlines... Prominent Philanthropist and Superior Court Judge Arrested for Gross Indecency in Public Restroom.

He glanced around... no one was paying the least attention. He pushed himself to his feet, casually slipped off his jacket, stepped up to the door and tapped twice. The door opened and he sidled in. Scrunched face to face with Maggie, he declared, "There's not enough room in here."

"Oh, come on, Sugar," she whispered. "That excuse won't fly. Didn't you ever do it in a VW Beetle when you were a kid?"

"I'm not a kid any longer... nor a contortionist," Derek retorted.

Maggie paid no mind, but pulled his face down to hers, then nibbled on his lips while her hands were busy unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it free of his trousers. As one hand wandered to his chest, the other slid over his bronzed, flat stomach, and began to move downward.

Surrendering to the moment, Derek's long, delicate fingers found her blouse buttons and the clasp to her bra. In seconds she was free. He responded eagerly to her kisses... to the warm swell of her breasts against his body. He slid his hand beneath the floral rayon of her skirt, then up her long, smooth legs to discover that she had already discarded her panties. With a musician's touch he brushed a silken wetness and found what he sought.

At his touch, his lover's sharp intake of breath and happy sigh betrayed her eagerness. He was aware of her fingers at his belt... unbuckling... the sound of the zipper... his pants being pushed down. He felt her hands move along his erection... felt the tautness of himself, and the euphoria of her expert stimulation.

"So, you are up for it?" she whispered huskily.

"Ummm.... mmm," he murmured from the depths of a soul absorbing kiss.

+

Later...

Once again fully clothed and primped, Maggie smiled contentedly at her reflection over the wash basin.... she looked like that cat that got the cream. "I'm the cat that got the cream," she whispered in his ear.

"That was... incredible," he murmured in an accent that had thickened with emotion. "Was it my imagination... the earth moving?"

"Darlin', in case you've forgotten, we're in a plane.... Turbulence? Remember?" she said in a dead-panned flatness.

The precept laughed as Maggie helped him button up and smoothed his hair back into place.

"Hold me for a few more minutes... please, Darlin'," she begged. "Then I guess we'd better get back to our seats. They might be lining up outside. Wouldn't want any puddles on their nice carpeting."

Derek laughed again. "We're getting too old for this," he said. "It's a wonder one of us didn't get into a position that neither one of us could get out of. Could you imagine getting a kink in here and having to be pried from this shoe box by the flight attendants?" Again he chuckled at the image in his mind, even as he kissed the top of her head and wrapped his long arms round her slight body. "I'm going to store this moment," he told her. "Lock it away forever in my memory's treasure chest. No matter how bad things get... I'll have this. Thank you again, Liefje."

They stood in silence, wrapped in each other's arms for several, heavenly minutes, then after one last, deep kiss, Derek released her and they maneuvered the door open. Ever the gentleman, the precept allowed her to exit first.

Stepping out, Maggie whispered over her shoulder, "All's clear."

As Derek followed, a harshly familiar voice shattered his peaceful idyll. "Have you finished screwing around yet, Rayne? Are you ever going to get back to work?"

Derek turned in shock as a voice he'd thought never to hear again echoed through his brain. As he had been face to face with Maggie moments earlier, so he was now face to face with the smug countenance of William Sloan. His senses turned cartwheels... Sloan!... It couldn't be! He's gone! It must be a creature from the depths of Hell.

The precept felt his mind react to his own shock and panic... the PK!... pressure was building to lash out... to blast the creature back to the purgatory from whence it had come. Somewhere he heard glass explode and a woman's scream. "No!" he cried aloud, struggling. He couldn't lose control here... not on the plane! Searing waves of agony swept through his brain as he pulled the power back into himself.

As his knees turned to water, the last thing his eyes registered before welcoming blackness rushed in to claim his mind and consciousness was Sloan's look of utter shock as he staggered back against the bulkhead.

+

San Francisco International Airport

Wandering around the upper level, arrivals concourse, Nick Boyle felt good... relaxed and happy. The helicopter was fueled and ready. With it they'd be able to avoid the heat, the heavy, rush hour traffic, and the construction of SFO's new international concourse. He regretted having left Hallie back in Pasadena... he smiled to himself at the thought of her. She'd saved his bacon when the puppies started arriving... all ten of them, six males, four females and, thanks to Hallie, all healthy. "Ten," he murmured to himself. "Could've been a Disney cartoon." He felt in his pocket for her card... it was a phone number and E-mail addy that he definitely intended to use.

Now, Nick sighed with satisfaction... all he had to do was collect Maggie and Derek, give the judge the good news, and chopper them back to the island. The ex-SEAL offered up a silent prayer, "Please God, let him be a relaxed precept in a good mood." Absent mindedly, he watched a young black woman with billowing hair and suitcase in tow, scurry toward the escalator. He thought of Alex, and smiled, wondering what her mood would be at supper. Although he couldn't put his finger on it, he always sensed a prickliness in his friend, like that of an out-of-sorts porcupine, when an "old" or a "new" friend of Derek's parked her pantihose in the guest bath, which wasn't often. Derek didn't usually bring 'em home.

Unbidden, thoughts of Cross then crept into Nick's mind... thoughts that he promptly shoved to the rear. He'd worry about that bastard later... or an up-to-speed Derek would demolish the SOB. Suddenly, his ear caught the tail-end of an announcement... something about Flight 805 from Miami? He turned to see the arrival board's digital numbers change. It was landing now. Nick glanced at his watch... fifteen minutes early. "Nothing lands early," he muttered. "Hell, nothing lands on time any more." His gut began to churn, somehow he knew this was not a good sign.

With a shout to clear the way, a team of paramedics came barreling through the concourse, pushing a gurney. Nick knew instantly that it was for Derek. Something had gone wrong!

Running after them, the former SEAL shouted, "What happened?" But he was ignored. As they disappeared down a ramp, he was firmly halted by airport security.

For twenty minutes Nick paced, tiger-like, back and forth, casting worried glances towards the entry ramp. He frantically quizzed the airline staff, but beyond their confirmation that the pilot had declared an emergency because a passenger had been taken ill, he could get nothing.

Every wild scenario imaginable flooded his mind. However, he knew that in the world of Derek Rayne and the Legacy nothing was unimaginable. At last, he spotted the paramedics pulling the gurney down the ramp. Maggie and several airline employees accompanied the medics. Nick jumped the rail, and, like a quarterback in a dead run for the goal line, made it to the precept's side.

"Derek!" he called anxiously. His eyes raked over the prone man... the front of the precept's shirt was crimson, his face pale, and a saline drip was already implanted in his arm. Nick searched Maggie's face, and read the barely concealed fear in her eyes. Christ! he thought.... There'd been another PK episode... on the plane this time.

But Derek was awake... he managed a weak smile. "It's OK," he said, trying to reassure his Security Officer, his friend. "No thanks to that bastard," he added, with a nod of his head, up and back. "So much for three years of peace and quiet."

Nick glanced up to see the face of William Sloan. He suddenly felt his own consciousness slip. He'd seen the man invite the "Winston-demon" into his own body. He had seen him step into the circle of sepulchres, turn the keys, and be sucked into Hell. As he felt Derek's hand grasp his wrist, Nick anchored himself in the feel of that touch, and looked down into the drowsy, hazel eyes. "Son-of-a-bitch!" he exclaimed.

Derek smiled again. "You did better than I. Look where I landed." He struggled to rise from the gurney, but one of the medics firmly pushed him back down. "I'm fine," he declared. "I want to go home.... Let me off this 'pram'."

"Sorry, mister... first stop is the ER, so you can get checked out." The medic glanced at the blood drenched shirt. "You're going to need more fluids than this," he said, thunking the saline bag.

"Come on, Darlin'," Maggie begged sweetly, trying to mask her anxiety in an accentuated drawl. "Let's play nice. Let these guys make sure you're OK.... Have a few glasses of orange juice... get a little sugar water pumped into the plumbing... maybe it'll sweeten up that sour disposition of yours."

With a sigh and a weary nod, Derek surrendered.

+

Airport Medical Clinic

Sloan glanced round the room where he, Boyle, and that harridan from Hell had been left stewing. Christ, were these rooms all the same, he wondered... all decked out in stained Formica... soulless, uncomfortable, little cells that resonated with human fear and misery.

Boyle was studiously ignoring him. Holding Maggie's hand, the ex-SEAL was getting her version of events. Sloan heard her vehemently voicing her opinion of him... words like crass, stupid, and vindictive nitwit, peppered the lady's impressive repertoire. Beneath those judge's robes lay the soul of a truck driver. He acknowledged to himself that he couldn't argue with her opinion of him right now.

"Damn it, man!" he berated himself. "You could've killed him. Please, God, let him be OK." Sloan knew the doctor on board the plane had initially feared a heart attack, or a seizure. Derek had been out cold for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably less than ten minutes.

Had the plane been further out and had no physician been aboard, the pilot would have diverted to Reno or Las Vegas... or wherever a 747 could land. As it was they got a straight in clearance... no mean trick at the seventh busiest airport in the world.

All three looked up as the door opened, and a harassed doctor appeared.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Part 21

San Francisco Legacy House, Nick Boyle's Room
Saturday, 2:57 a.m.

A high pressure bubble had settled a blanket of Great Basin heat over the whole of California. Even in the wee hours with the windows open, the interior of the great house in the midst of the bay sweltered.

"No!" Nick bolted up in bed. He gasped for breath and tossed his damp sheet aside. Had he cried aloud? In his sleep, he had seen his friend growing weaker and weaker... hazel eyes had pled for help while creatures... black, nameless things, with toothless, gaping mouths... Hell's leeches... had sucked the life from him. The foul smell of sulphur had permeated the air. Then he saw a coffin... God!... Derek!... his face as white as chalk... lying in a coffin... positioned before the portal... ready to be slid into the crematory of Hell's inferno.

The ex-SEAL breathed deeply, slowly... struggling to calm his nerves. No sounds of running... no anxious calls. His cry had been confined to his dream! He sighed with relief. "God, what a day!" he murmured as he ran his hands through his sweaty hair.

Snatching his plastic water bottle from the night stand, Nick took a deep swig and pushed the memory from his mind. This was all Sloan's fault. Damn the man!... damn, damn, damn him! "He should've stayed in Hell," he said as he took another deep swig. "I'll bet he was right at home there."

Was he being too hard on William Sloan? No!... not by half. London House had briefed Sloan... on everything... the destruction of the "other" San Francisco House... the portal... everything that had happened during his absence. He knew how much tragedy there had been... how badly Derek's health, physically and emotionally, had suffered during the past year. But... no!... three years in Hell hadn't changed him one bit.... As always, William Sloan knew best... but to spring that "surprise" on Derek, then wonder why he had collapsed!

Sinking back into the pillows, unwilling to go back to sleep until he had rid himself of that last nightmarish image... the mask of death on Derek's face... Nick allowed his mind to mull the situation.

What the hell was wrong with Sloan? He's supposed to be Derek's friend... in a weird sort of way. An unwelcome thought crossed Nick's mind. Did Sloan blame Derek for what had happened to him? Was this some sort of twisted revenge for his three years in purgatory, or wherever he had been? Did he hold Derek to blame for having succumbed to the demon that had presented itself as Winston Rayne? Sloan had chosen to invite the demon into himself and to then step into the sepulchres.... His choice... to save Derek... to save them all. It had been an heroic act of self-sacrifice. Had the Darkside won after all? Had he become Satan's double agent? Was his heart as black as Hell, corrupted beyond redemption?

As he watched his clock's red numbers... red like the blood on Derek's shirt... flick by, Nick fretted at the nagging feeling that Sloan might have started history repeating itself in some God-awful cycle.... What was it called?... a time loop? Never before had the nature time or space concerned him... but now?... Now he knew that it was as unstable and treacherous as the eddies and currents in the depths surrounding Angel Island.

The former SEAL took another long drink and pondered.... Derek has collapsed before, and everyone had thought he was OK... on the mend. He smiled, recalling the precept's constant assertion that he was "Fine." But he hadn't been fine... that collapse had led to eight months of coma, and nearly to his death... and that bastard Sloan might have restarted the whole damned thing.

And now... Derek's lying in the same room, snapping at everyone who gets close, telling everyone that he's "Fine" and wants to be left alone. Even Maggie had received a broadside. "Fine," Nick muttered to himself, "maybe in Dutch it means 'I'm in real bad shape... so watch out.'"

He shook his head to cast aside the night terrors, then picked up his journal from the night stand, and his pen, which Derek had given him all those years ago. He then calmly cleared his mind with a mental tai-chi exercise and began to write:

I couldn't believe the tale Sloan told us at the hospital, but a call to Cross confirmed it all. They think that when the other-world's portal to Hell blew and "Winston" was sucked down the rabbit hole of the sepulchres, it caused all sorts of weird events in our world, and maybe in countless other worlds.

Rachel! Eat your heart out! So it was all in Derek's mind? More psycho-babble from the attitude queen. No that's cruel. She lives it, but she can't face the reality of it. If she can bury it all in psychoanalytical bull shit, she can ignore what her own mind doesn't want to face - chaos.

Cross - I couldn't believe I was listening to that jackass, much less trusting him. He said that no one really understands what happened. They even called in Stephen Hawking, that physicist guy at Cambridge. The best guess is that waves of energy were disbursed throughout all time lines in all universes - or whatever they are - and weaknesses in the time lines gave way for an instant. That light that exploded around us in Derek's room was repeated elsewhere - wherever there was a weakness.

In our world, it returned Derek to his own body, destroyed the Jawa creatures (destroyed them in real life, but they still haunt my dreams), and spat Sloan out like a cork from a bottle. He'd never made it to Hell. Since he'd stepped into the sepulchres of his own will, knowing what he was doing, and it was his physical body as well as his soul that went in, he ended up in that limbo that Derek had talked about - where the strands of light criss-cross - neither here nor there nor anywhere - and then when the portal blew or when Derek was catapulted back through the void into his own body, in his own world - it caused the total disruption.

Sloan suddenly appeared at home - pop goes the weasel! - gave his poor wife the shock of her life. She had just about reconciled herself to widowhood and had even started seeing someone - Mr. Franklin Cross, of all people. I thought she had better taste. The only way they can explain it is that Sloan landed at the source of his strongest emotional attachment, his family.

Since he was in pretty dicey shape and it took a while for the Council to give him a clean bill of health - physically, mentally, spiritually - they decided that Sloan's return would be kept hush-hush. Then, even after he'd been vetted out, Derek was still in lousy shape, so they kept it from us all. Cross was supposed to be conducting a "recon" on how ready we... or rather Derek... was for the news.

I don't think they know what to do with Sloan. After all, there's a new Ruling Precept. I just don't get why he had to surprise Derek... like some teenaged prank. He's no idiot. Like Derek, he's had six months to absorb what he's missed, to cope with the shock. No! That's not right - he was on vacation in limboland. He hasn't been through half of what Derek's been through.

"Good thing Patty didn't marry," Nick sniggered to himself. "Especially to Cross... Mrs. Patricia Cross? It might have gotten interesting." He laid down the pen and glanced towards his bedroom door. Should he go check on Derek again? Make sure he's just sleeping and not slipped into a coma?

"No," he muttered indecisively, "he didn't appreciate the last visit." Sometime after midnight, he had crept into Derek's room. He had stood staring intently at the sleeping figure, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. But fear had taken over... had it been sleep... or something more nefarious?

He had nervously shaken Derek's shoulder, called to him, watched his still face apprehensively. Relief had swept through him when the groggy, Dutch voice told him, in no uncertain terms to 'rot op'... no translation needed.

"Oh, hell...," he said, once more running his hand through his short hair, "maybe I'll check one more time. He can have my head on a platter if he wants it, but I'll die knowing he's OK and I did my job." He pushed himself off the bed, grabbed his robe, and headed for the door.

+

San Francisco Legacy House, William Sloan's Room
Saturday, 2:57 a.m.

"Damn the man! Damn, damn, damn him!" Sloan muttered vehemently. Realising there would be no sleep tonight, he wandered into the bathroom to get a glass of water, then returned to sit on the edge of his rumpled bed.

He couldn't rid himself of the image of Derek's face... the complete loss of color, the shock and horror... written across it before he had collapsed. "Christ, I thought I'd killed him."

He had stupidly stood aside and stared as Maggie and the flight attendants had clustered around, trying to find a pulse, trying to make sure Derek was breathing. They had called for a doctor on board. "Sloan... my boy... you're not up to par yourself.... It was a bonehead play, and a worse response.... You froze."

Paralysed, he had watched crimson flow from Derek's nose. His own breathing had stopped, as he had concentrated all his senses on his friend... willed him to be OK.

As soon as Derek had come round, that harridan Maggie Hamilton had pulled him into the galley. "My God that woman has a mouth on her!" Sloan thought aloud. "'Peckerwood'... that's a good, old Southern one I've not heard in a while... but 'vindictive'? Can she really think I'd ever hurt that Dutch nincompoop?"

"OK," he argued with himself, a habit he'd developed to stay sane in his timeless netherworld of non-existence, where three years had seemed but three days, and three days had seemed an eternity. "Maybe I did want to shake him up a little... see the look on his face... that fantasy kept me going. Besides I know him better than any of them. I know his strengths... which are formidable. I know his weaknesses. He wastes his energy contemplating his own navel... playing his own mind games... and they all let him.... They pander to that side of his character.... like he's some sort of mysterious mage. All except Rachel, who seems to think we're all a bunch of dictators.

"For an arrogant man, Derek's so goddamned insecure... always fretting about his own weaknesses... fretting about matching up to what he expects of himself... hell! No one could match up to that... then concealing the doubts and fears under a camouflage of secrecy and absolute, obnoxious certainty. "He needed a good, swift kick in the ass," Sloan muttered. "I give him something else to concentrate on. Fighting me! Proving me wrong."

He began to pace round his room... trying not to let Boyle's obvious anxieties over Derek's health get to him, and failing miserably. Boyle's changed, he realized.... the edginess is still there, but the rage is gone. He's grown up... become a rock.... He's truly become Derek's right hand and 'watcher'... and slipped into his father's shoes. "I wonder if he realizes.

"Nick's got a good head on his shoulders... good nerves... and he's scared," the precept admitted to himself. "Shit, what if Derek does fall into a coma? The Council said it was touch and go for months... and it's been a hard road back.... Another coma?..." His gut told him his friend wouldn't survive another such illness.

Sloan paused by the window to stare morosely out into the black night. In his current mood, the distant lights of the city no longer enticed, all that life... all that bustle... mocked him. His own image mocked him... a tangled mass of thinning, gray hair atop a gaunt face reminded him of a photo he'd once seen of an elderly orangutang.

This is that idiot Cross' fault, he thought, all he was supposed to do was sound out Derek's team to find out how strong he was... mentally and physically, see how he'd take the news of my return. But the pompous idiot wrapped a simple job in so much red tape he got nowhere.... "What else could I do?" he asked himself. I had to check myself... Hell, Derek seemed fine... thin, but fine... having a jolly, old time with Maggie... including their little rendezvous in the john. How was I to know?

"And that unsubtle, inept moron, Cross, only succeeded in spreading fear and paranoia in Derek's team.... Of course, they'd keep the PK a secret from him.... I sure as hell would." Sloan shook his head in amazement. "How could the Council ever think he was 'precept' material?... And what did Patty see in him?" He shivered at that thought.

"Hmm, another of Derek's little foibles that needs curbing," Sloan muttered. "His fears and paranoia infect the others. Doesn't he... or his team... realise how valuable he is to the Legacy? Can they all be that dense? The Ruling Council bends over backwards to accommodate his idiosyncrasies, because we know how much we need him. Hell... who but Derek Rayne could be gutsy enough to trap the vampire, Charles Banyon, or sneaky and brave enough to defeat the Portal and the demon of the sepulchres... and survive? What if he had lost? How many worlds, how many times would have suffered?"

William walked over to pick up his watch from the dresser. With a shake of his head, he raised his eyes skyward. He had checked on Derek little more than an hour before and had not been thanked for his concern... and here he was, looking at his damned watch again. "Jesus," he muttered, "I've only been exposed to Rayne a few hours and already the 'nanny' gene is dominant. Damn the man!

"But it was my fault.... a stupid prank.... I'll go check again... just make sure he's OK," he suddenly decided, and grabbing his robe, he headed for the door.

+

San Francisco Legacy House, Derek Rayne's Room
Saturday, 2:57 a.m.

Derek glanced at his clock, and sighed... he wasn't likely to get back to sleep now. His mind was jumbled, his thought patterns totally out of kilter... racing.

His room, his sanctuary, had become the set for a French farce... Moliere at his best. First, Rachel had fussed over him. Then Alex had knocked on his door at midnight, to see if he wanted a drink of water or anything! Finally he had slipped off to sleep, and Nick had crept in to check on him and had ended up shaking him awake.... Then Sloan... who's next? The cat? or maybe Kat... or Christina with a rhyme... or maybe Ingrid will come flying down from the convent on a broomstick, he thought with a chuckle. All the while, the person he wanted in his room had yet to make an appearance... thanks to his unforgivable behavior. He had snapped her head off for daring to call him "Darlin'" and for telling Dominick that he'd be having his supper in his room... in bed... in front of the others.

"Godverdomme!" he had declared. "I am not an invalid... and it is not your place to tell Dominick anything, Madam." He felt such an idiot... fainting like a Victorian heroine with an attack of the vapours! All he'd wanted to do was put his "shameful swoon" behind him, but his temper had flared. He blushed in embarrassment at the memory of his childish tantrum. "Christ! Rayne... and on our last night together," he berated himself. "Some cordial host you are!"

"Why are they all so worried?" he pondered aloud. The most serious wound he had suffered had been to his pride. But Sloan!... appearing like that... Gott he'd thought it was a demon... after the Winston-creature's loss to the eternal time loop, Hell had conjured up another monstrosity to torment him. Who better than William Sloan?

His PK had been about to violently lash out, to blast the creature, but he was on a plane. He could have blown them out of the sky... killed everyone... perhaps even countless numbers on the ground. So, he'd dragged the power back into himself. It had seared through his mind... and had perhaps burned itself out. He hoped it had. That talent had its uses and its humorous moments, but it was too unstable, too difficult to control... and too dangerous to be uncontrolled. The pain stabbing through his mind was the last thing he remembered before blackness claimed him.

He had regained consciousness to find his shirt bloodied and to see a mass of pale faces surrounding him. Sloan's expression had been one he had rarely seen on the man... contriteness and fear. Maggie had demolished him and he'd had no easy, glib retort. Sloan had to be real... a demon would have withered under that onslaught.

He was certain it was William... it felt like William Sloan... his "Sight" seemed willing to accept him as the real McCoy. "All the same," Derek murmured, "I'll keep an eye on him... just in case." Could he be tainted? Has a deal been struck?

"Please, God... no," the precept prayed. "You've redeemed my greatest moment of weakness... my greatest mistake of all. I wasn't strong enough to resist the demon, and it cost my best friend his life... to save me... and my House. Now you've given him back... please, let it be so."

Gott... it was hot!... Derek walked to the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face. He missed the balmy, tropical breeze of St. Theodore's. He smiled at the memories that flooded back, the sun... the sea... the sand... the sex! Maggie... hmm... his body responded to the thought and a warm, insistent throb began to announce its presence.

He reached for his robe... time for a surreptitious visit... time to make amends. Would Maggie forgive him? Even before the blow-up, she had diplomatically ensconced herself in the guest suite at the far end of the corridor. Would the door now be locked? No.... Derek knew his Maggie... she'd forgive him. She would bluster a little. She had, as William had put it, "One hell of a mouth on her." He grinned in anticipation, thinking of her lovely mouth... maybe... if he was really lucky!...

+

San Francisco Legacy House, Corridor Outside Derek's Room
Saturday, 3:12 a.m.

Sloan hurried towards Derek's room from the east, Nick from the west. They met outside... each wondering how to explain why they were in the corridor at three in the morning.

"Ahhh... I thought I heard something...," Nick mumbled unconvincingly.

"So did I." Sloan leapt at the lifeline. "Maybe it was Derek?" They both nodded, relieved.... They had saved face, and could still check on their friend... after all someone must have made the noise they'd both so clearly "heard".

The bedroom door suddenly opened and Derek stepped out, nearly falling over Nick. He hastily stepped to the right and collided with Sloan.

"What's going on!" he exclaimed. "Dammit! Are you two holding a convention out here, or is the house on fire?"

"We heard something... a noise," they both said at once, aware of how feeble the story sounded. "So... why are you up?" Nick asked, pointedly turning the tables.

Derek blushed, pulled his robe around him, then realised Nick was wondering why he was out of bed... verdomme!... caught! He grasped at the same story. "Me, too... I heard something," he announced. If it was good enough for them, it was certainly good enough for him. "And... might I remind you... it is my house... I can be up when I please, Mr. Boyle... Mr. Sloan."

Nick had long since learned what he now thought of as the Rayne Playbook of Evasive Tactics... and he had developed a few countermeasures of his own. "How 'bout a nice cold beer?" he suggested, maintaining a straight face. Heard something... like hell, Derek was off to Maggie's room for some night maneuvers.

"There's plenty in the fridge... it's sooo damned hot.... Today's Saturday... nothing on the schedule... we can tie one on and sleep late."

Sloan smiled wryly, enjoying Derek's disconcerted expression... time for a little double teaming. "So, tell us about your vacation... What 'else' did you do... any other 'exotic' locales?"

Derek's mind skimmed past the "what elses in the exotic locales" and censored most of it. He bit back his frustration, maybe he could have a quick beer, then subtly extricate himself from his friends' company and hope that Maggie was still receptive to a "visit". No! he thought, subtle be damned... I'll bore them so much they'll be glad to see the back of me.

"I played golf, and I got a hole-in-one!" he announced proudly. "Shall I tell you all about it... all eighteen holes? Stroke by stroke. You should enjoy that, William."

"There are strokes and then there are strokes.... A hole-in-one, you say?" Sloan nodded knowingly as an image flitted through his mind. "I assume it was a case of knocking a single, white ball into a hole in the middle of a golf course?"

Derek spluttered, "A Titleist Three... and it was a miraculous shot on a par four."

A door down the hall opened and Maggie, attired in a flowing peignoir, stepped out. "Derek Rayne... what in the hell are you doin' outta bed?" she drawled as she strode down the corridor with aqua satin billowing behind her. "You get your behind back in that bed right now," she ordered, forcibly turning him around and pushing him back toward his room.

"Gentlemen... court is adjourned," she said with her blue, unwavering gaze locked upon their faces. "Good night."

Sloan and Nick exchanged panicky looks. Demons from hell were easy compared to this woman. With backs pressed closely to the wall, the two Legacy "warriors" edged past the door toward the stairs.

"Ahhh... well... uhmm... Maggie's right... Derek you go... get some rest," Sloan agreed, giving his friend an additional push towards the open door. Feeling as if he was offering up a sacrifice, he glimpsed Derek's expression as the precept glanced over his shoulder.... The amused, wicked twinkle in the hazel eyes told William the sacrifice was an eager lamb indeed.

"Now... you two... shooo! Get yourselves back to bed where you belong," Maggie ordered like a drill sergeant. "You can leave Dr. Rayne in my capable hands," she said as she pushed Derek into the room and closed the door behind them.

Both men clearly heard the click of the lock and gazed at each other with knowing smiles.

"Beer?" said Nick.

"Why not," replied Sloan.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

Part 22 - Epilog

London... the next night

William Sloan sat in a coffee shop with a large cup of cappuccino rapidly cooling on the table in front of him. He dejectedly stretched out his finger to doodle on the misted window. He had arrived at Heathrow a couple of hours before, but rather than heading straight home he had made his way into the city.

Now he was sitting, staring out the window at the bright lights of Soho that glittered enticingly. At night the old town put on her tawdry make-up and beckoned, but the bustle of London's street life held little interest. He needed to think, to be anonymous, and this was as good a place as any.

He should go home to Patty and make sure that idiot, Cross, wasn't still sniffing round! He'd like to drop kick the bastard into the middle of the Atlantic. Sloan thought of the time he'd spent in limbo, or wherever the hell he'd been... between universes perhaps, or in the space that binds molecules together... or between seconds. He'd been aware of his body... he'd felt the blood throbbing in his veins... the air rushing in and out of his lungs, but strangely he hadn't been conscious of time at all... a second or an hour or a year had all been the same. Yet a part of his intellectual mind had been certain that only a day or two had passed... not years!

His daughters had grown into young ladies. His wife had gained a few new wrinkles, and some well concealed grey hair.... And all he could really remember was being caught up in some sort of cosmic light show... spinning jewels and iridescent strands criss-crossing like spiders' webs... stretching off into all directions of infinity. Had he seen what bound the universe together? The mathematicians and physicists thought so, but the psychologists insisted that it was how his own mind chose to cope with it all. Idiots!... That didn't explain where his physical body had been for three years... and, oddly, though he had taken no nourishment in all that time, he'd lost only fifteen pounds. He'd been weak and stiff from inactivity, but not like it should have been. Hell, he should be dead... or in Hell.

No matter where he had been, the return had been difficult... to fight through the disorientation, to regain health... to adjust, to come to terms with the missing years. What now?... There was a new Ruling Precept. He could hardly expect the job to have been left open. They were promising him the next vacancy on the Ruling Council... but he had the feeling that it was an empty promise. Did they trust him? He felt uneasy with his friends, his family as they tiptoed around him. Dammit! The only person who could possibly understand how... and what... he felt... was Derek. His waking from his coma came damned close to what Sloan had experienced. The precept instantly regretted that thought... Derek's waking hadn't been like his... not at all.

The urge to write came over him. From his jacket's inner pocket, he pulled the small notebook that he always carried... only to realize that he had filled the last page halfway across the Atlantic. Sloan snorted in frustration, then noticed the blank back of the cafe's paper menu. He could scribble his thoughts and transcribe later.

It's comforting for me to believe that Derek's experience was like my own, but I do my friend an injustice. As I floated there in a cosmic isolation chamber, he lived two lives at once. His deteriorating body lay clinging to life, while his mind participated in the defeat of the ultimate evil and experienced all the pain and desolation of seeing the San Francisco House - not his House, but in almost all ways identical - destroyed. I must wonder if his "other-self" was a totally separate soul or are we all in these many separate universes part of one soul that is the being called Derek Rayne or William Sloan? Either way, he witnessed his life destroyed - all for the greater good, of course.

Derek's battle back has been as heroic and obstinate as the rest of his life has been - mine, in comparison, has been easy. Like a child studying for a history exam, I am dealing with a blank slate of three years. Derek, in catching up on the events of this world, now had two sets of memories, both real, but only the learned one valid for this world.

The Council is still worried about his health. It's ironic - all these years they have tolerated his idiosyncrasies for a multitude of reasons: the wealth and financial knowledge he shares with the Legacy; the fact that he is so damned good at what he does; and the debt that we all owe him. But for years, they have regarded it as a debt only - recompense to an "anointed" sacrifice who, to everyone's consternation, survived his fate - a truly terrifying thought.

Now, however, they know his destiny may yet lie open. To all of them, friend and foe alike, he has once more become the Legacy's most valuable asset. I've not been enlightened, but they know that what happened in that "other" world was real. They want to wrap Derek in cotton wool to protect him - to tuck him away, like a secret, biological weapon, until needed in that ultimate battle - and it is that very "protectiveness" which will drive him to take foolish risks.

Since I'm at loose ends for the time being and they want to get Cross back at his books, where the tactless idiot belongs, I'm being detailed to step into that bastard's shoes to keep an eye on things in San Francisco. That won't sit well with the "Lord of the Manor", but he'll have to live with it. At least I know how to handle Derek Rayne - no mollycoddling. Challenge the bastard - raise the rail twice as high. Make him think. Make him work.

William allowed his gaze to drift back to the hustle-bustle beyond the window. He thought of Derek and suddenly realised that part of the combativeness of their relationship was that Derek had always made him feel slightly inferior... not intellectually nor physically. He cared for Derek... always had... like a proud, older brother.... Though not that much younger, Derek had been his charge, his challenge... a challenge like a wild, stubborn jackass... his protege, and his "gift" to the Legacy. Why did he think of that word "gift"? Was it because he sensed something in his friend's soul... some nobility or goodness, that he felt missing in his own?

Again he turned to his makeshift journal.

Sloan, my boy - admit it. You didn't do so bad yourself. I stepped into that circle and I don't regret it. Not one damned moment of it. I'd do it again... to save Derek... the others... everyone... from that bastard, Winston. Whatever it was that I enticed from Derek's mind and body into my own had once been Winston Rayne. I'm certain of it, but how do I tell Derek? Could he tell? Only God and Satan know what monster he's become. But that was why Derek couldn't fight it. He'd fought possession once before and had both lost and won, but with Winston, he had lost before the battle could begin.

Sloan's thoughts ran to an irreverent rhyme... what was it now?...

"They fuck you up, your mum and dad,
They may not mean to, but they do,
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you!"

Shaking his head, he glanced at his watch and frowned irritably when he realised it was still on San Francisco time. What would Derek be doing now, he wondered. The damned man... Sloan shook his head ruefully, then paused, as he ran over the events of the past twenty-four hours.

Once more he scribbled:

The Universe does, indeed, work in mysterious ways. Early Saturday morning, we all made idiots of ourselves - Derek, Boyle and I - when we did a cut-rate Three Stooges act in the corridor. Naturally, Ms. Hanging Judge came onto the scene and took charge of her Dutch lover-boy. Thank God - I'd not care to be the focus of that tongue again. The woman doesn't breathe.

Boyle and I slipped downstairs to ponder Derek's fate at the hands of that Texas tornado and to discuss the ways of the world over a couple of cold beers. I like the kid - he's a good man. I think he's Derek's "gift" to the Legacy.

The irony of the Universe! He chuckled at the memory. Later, at breakfast, Boyle had been reading the paper, when he had noticed that a recent lottery jackpot had gone unclaimed... and that the winning ticket had been sold near LAX. He asked Derek if he had checked the ticket he had bought on the way to the airport. Derek had forgotten the thing and hadn't even realised he was supposed to check the numbers. Sloan remembered that they had all rounded on him for being so out of touch with the real world.

"What a prize idiot!" he had declared none too gently.

Derek had snapped back, "If you're so curious about the damned thing you can trot upstairs and get it yourself. It's in my wallet in my jacket pocket."

Sloan had trudged upstairs, cussing the man. When he had come back down he had picked up the newspaper and had cried aloud, "My God! I don't believe it!" and with a shaking hand he had offered the ticket to Boyle to double-check. Derek Rayne, multi-millionaire, had won the damned lottery.

Was this God's little game? Or.. maybe, Sloan considered reluctantly, Satan's show. How the hell could Derek be "blessed" with such amazing luck on one hand and be tortured by fate on the other. The phrase, "lucky at cards... unlucky in love," ran through Sloan's mind. But was Derek unlucky in love? He considered all the tragedies, but then his mind wandered forward to all the people who loved Derek Rayne... despite his arrogance, his high-handedness... all his many faults. There was Boyle, Alex, Ingrid, Dominick, Rachel, Maggie, Kat... Dammit!... the list went on and on. He wished he had such a list. And you, Sloan, he conceded, you can't help but care for the Dutch nincompoop.

He shook his head... maybe he was the fool for trying to make sense of any of it. Perhaps he should admit that it was all really a celestial chess match... maybe the Greeks had it right with their tumultuous gods and goddesses. Perhaps, he should accept his role as pawn. He reached into his pocket to pay his bill and pulled out a negative. Shit! It had been in Derek's wallet and had fallen out when he had found the lottery ticket. He'd meant to put it back. Sloan held the dark square to the light and studied the reverse image. A grin split his face and he chuckled aloud, ignoring the surprised glances from his fellow customers.

The image was of Derek, fast asleep, with his head pillowed on his hands, clasped together as if in prayer. His expression was one Sloan had seen on his own children. Derek's face looked... angelic.... Sloan grinned... but the naked body... that looked downright erotic as it had responded to his dreams... and it was damned obvious what the dreams had been about.

"This is better than the lottery!" Sloan decided as he pocketed the image. "Thank you, God! I'll need the ammunition because I sure as hell won't be welcomed back on Angel Island with open arms next time around."

THE END