Chapter 3
Walter P. Fennman sat at his desk going over the files on Latham. When Fennman first heard the rumors, he was sure a scam of some kind was being run on the U of M, yet as impossible as it seemed, Latham was the real McCoy. The aging process had actually reversed in him. Not only did Latham grow younger, his immune system now bordered on the unbelievable and his healing powers were equally dramatic. On three separate occasions Fennman's agents infected Latham with viruses he should have had no resistance to, and all three attempts had brought on not even a sniffle. He read the reports of old scar tissue regenerating into healthy skin, of a cut that healed in hours instead of days. It amazed Fennman that all the doctors and scientist at the U of M could find no answer to this phenomenon. What were they doing wrong, he wondered. He also wondered if someone had been performing genetic experiments on Latham, it seemed the only likely answer. He flipped through the pages searching for the DNA report, but was distracted by the images of Latham that lay strewn across the desk. A picture of the man at twenty-four lay next to a current photo. He picked them up. As much as they looked alike, there was a difference between the two. Latham's teeth were now perfect whereas in the earlier photo, unevenness existed, an overlapping of the central incisors. But what else about the man had altered? Something . . . Yes, his nose. It was shaped differently, not as large. He studied the first picture and realized the younger Latham must have suffered from sever sinusitis, a blockage that caused the compensating high arch. That was gone now and if the reports were correct, the current Latham was far healthier than his younger self had ever been. Did that mean Latham had somehow lost the undesirable genes and kept only the good ones? He mulled it over. The phone rang again for the tenth time in the last hour, but he didn't pick it up. Instead he leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head.
For years Fennman directed a quiet, unobtrusive low profile project called the Institute on Aging. His backers were the power brokers in Washington and his budget was increased every year without fail. It was Fennman's research into halting the effects of aging that made him so popular. Some of his backers had benefited directly from it, but even more important than the research itself was the other service he provided, the one no one talked openly about.
Medically speaking, Fennman had his finger on the pulse of the nation. If one of his benefactors needed a transplant organ to clinch a deal or to bring about a political concession, Fennman could always find the perfect match. No hassles, no delays, no publicity, just quiet efficiency. Fennman had already filled some two dozen such requests when Latham burst upon the scene and in doing so changed everything.
Now it appeared possible to restore youth, not simply put off dying for a few extra years, and Fennman's phone had not stopped ringing since. The problem now facing Fennman was twofold. First, Latham had refused all further testing which meant that research at the Institute would come to a halt as well when Abe Conner could no longer send on pilfered samples. His second problem was that Latham couldn't simply disappear. He was too famous for that . . . Or was he? He thought about it for a moment and then leaned forward to dial a number.
"Katz? Penn here. I think Latham is due for a vacation. He'll need a passport, an itinerary, all the usual stuff . . . Doesn't matter where, make it Borneo or some God forsaken place. There's a lawyer and an agent involved . . . Yeah, I know it complicates things . . . If it starts to stink, slap a National Security flag on it, that's worked before . . . See what you can come up with. I want him before he goes home at the end of the month. It should be easier in Ann Arbor than in his hometown. OK, call me when you've worked out the details. That's right, priority expense, whatever it takes . . . Bye."
"That's him, the one in green!" Floyd Barton said. The man beside him had not volunteered a name nor did Floyd ask. This was business and the less he knew of those who hired him, the better.
"He sneaks out here every evening to jog with a bunch of kids from the university. Pretty soon he'll take off to the right, around the pond. See? There he goes off by himself. It's two miles over those hills to where the roads cross. The kids keep straight on down the valley and they meet at the crossing for the run back. It's the same routine every day."
The man nodded, then turned and climbed into a nondescript blue Chevy and drove away. The guy gave Floyd the creeps, he looked like an spook, tall and skinny as a skeleton and always dressed in black. Well, the money was good and that's what matters. You don't have to like someone to work for them . . .
Two days later, Chet left the group of runners at the pond and took his usual route over the hills. He liked running by himself anyway, he especially liked the challenge of the hills ahead. The athletes ran only because their coach order it while Chet ran simply for enjoyment. He was enamored with the springy feeling in his step, the unbounded energy that coursed through his body. He had almost forgotten how good it felt to be young. Chet picked up the pace. He had to if he was to meet the group at the crossroads. Young whippersnappers he thought, letting an old man beat them at their own game. He laughed as he broke out of the jog and into the long, easy stride of a cross-country runner.
Chet came down the first hill at an easy lope, then picked up speed as he came to the bend. Just around the curve sat a blue Chevy, its driver's door hanging open out into the roadway. Chet came to a halt beside the car. Why would they leave the door open like that, he wondered. He scanned the woods all around and seeing no one, he took a closer look inside the car. There was a handwritten note on the seat, difficult to read in a crabbed style with the letters all leaning backwards. Chet looked at it closer and saw it was addressed to him.
Mr. Latham, Read this note and do exactly as it says. At this moment a marksman is in the woods with a high powered rifle. Make no sudden moves or you will be shot. Get into the car, drive slowly to the crossroad and turn right. Go exactly one mile to the vacant barn on the left, pull inside and wait. Follow these instructions precisely. This car contains explosives and any deviation from the above instructions will set them off.
Stunned, Chet reread the note. Was this a joke, he wondered. He heard a noise and started to turn when something stung him on the arm. He looked. A tiny red tassel glittered bright against the dark green of his sweat suit. He reached for it and then collapsed to the ground as the sun suddenly darkened and went out.
Chet awoke with an odd chemical/perfumed smell in his nostrils that seemed somehow familiar but that his foggy brain couldn't place. It was dark. Something held him to the ground like a great weight pressing down upon him. In his confused mind, the sun had just set, but where were the stars, he wondered? He heard a sound like the snapping of a twig and suddenly light glimmered off to his right. Turning his head toward the source, the light finally resolved itself into the glow from beneath a door. I'm not outside, he thought I'm in a darkened room. His head pounded. Just moving his eyes made it throb. His mind was sludge; each thought finding no coherence with the next. What happened he wondered, then he remembered the car and the note. This isn't a hospital, he realized, it smells different. It slowly came to Chet that he had been abducted. But why? Not for money certainly, he didn't have that much. There was only one reason he could think of and yet that seemed absurd. The best doctors and scientists in the world had studied him; there was nothing left to discover! He wiggled toes and fingers. What was holding him down? It felt like cloth stretched over him and anchored somehow to the surface below. A table? Metal, his fingers told him, cold and hard. The cloth was rough textured, like canvas. His head and feet were free, but he couldn't flex his knees or move his hands except for sliding them on the surface below. Whatever held him, it was like being in a cocoon and Chet fought the rise of claustrophobia that threatened to overwhelm him. He tried flexing his knees again, one at a time and this time the fabric gave a little, not much, just enough to allow his hands to move more freely. He discovered he was still dressed in his jogging clothes. Did they find his key or was it still in the change pouch? He began investigating that possibility when a ringing phone in the next room shattering the silence. A man answered, a man with a distinctive gravelly voice. Where have I heard that voice before? Chet wondered. He listened, trying to fit a face to it.
"I checked him just a few minutes ago. He's still out . . . No, no problem. He read the note and just stood there like a dummy until I got close enough to put a dart into him. Worked like a charm. That was a good idea, I'll have to remember it . . . OK, I'll call when they get here. That shit should keep him under for another four or five hours . . . No, Damn it, there's not a mark on him. Guess Penn want him for something besides spare parts, huh? Yeah, well, I'll take care of it. OK, talk to ya later."
Who the devil was Penn? Chet wondered. That spare parts comment upset the hell out of him; what if some crazy bastard decided to try it, hoping for a miracle. Good God! What if it worked!
Chet had never told the doctors about the missing finger. After his eyesight improved, he was fooling around in the garage with a power saw and took off the end of his little finger half way to the first joint. He wrapped it up and drove to the emergency room where an intern patched him up, saying he would need further surgery to put a pad on the stub, but a few days later when he changed the bandage himself, the finger was completely healed. A week after that, it was back to full length again, a little tender, but as good as gold. He never mentioned it to Burke, or anyone else. That would have meant even more tests, and Chet wasn't sure they wouldn't simply lop off parts of him to see if they grew back.
A chair scrapped the floor in the next room. A moment later the door opened and an overhead light flared. Chet pretended unconsciousness. The man checked his breathing, then chuckled,
"Sleep on sleeping beauty, your prince is on his way." He brushed bony fingers through Chet's hair. "Too bad. If you weren't making me a fortune . . ."
The light went out, the door closed and a few minutes later the light in the other room went out as well. Chet heard sounds of the man making himself comfortable in bed, or on a couch . . . A pillow being thumped, a few grunts, then all was silent.
With great difficulty, Chet worked his hand to the waistband of his joggers. His key was still there! The attached fob outlining itself hard under his probing finger. Carefully he fished it out, then painfully worked his other hand up to search for the nail grip on the side of the key holder. The grip swung away exposing the tiny one-inch blade that Chet had used for years to open mail. The blade was far from sharp, but it penetrated the taut fabric easily enough. Chet flexed his body against the fabric stretching it tighter still and with a slight tearing sound the blade sliced downward to the table. Chet thrust his hand through the opening and began working on the canvas from the outside. In twenty minutes he was free, panting from the effort, his head still swimming from the drug. He found he wasn't on a table after all, but on a hard metal gurney, the rough canvas of his cocoon, fastened underneath by webbing straps. He put a foot down, then the other and started toward where he thought the door was, only to bump into yet another gurney. He felt around and discovered to his horror that this gurney also held someone, only this person was rigid and cold as ice. The shock cleared away the last mind numbing effects of the drug That smell! He knew it now. It was a mortuary odor only stronger than he had ever encountered before. This must be an embalming room, he thought.
Finally he found the door. Listening carefully, he heard slight snoring sounds emanating from the man in the next room. Chet took the chance. Feeling the wall, he found the light switch and tripped it on. As he suspected, an embalming room. Stainless steel utensils glittered all around him. Searching for a weapon he found a large mop wringer sitting in a bucket, the handle, a removable piece of pipe nearly three foot long. Not as handy as a baseball bat, he thought, but apropos since he intended to do a little mopping up of his own. He looked around, selected his spot, then snapped off the light and slung the mop bucket the length of the room. It made enough noise to wake the dead. Chet followed it with the mop wringer, crashing it into the stainless steel utensils at the sink.
"What the Hell . . .! Came a horse shout from the other room. Light again glimmered, then the door flew open. The man silhouetted against the light, reached for the switch and Chet swung the wringer handle catching him squarely in the gut. The guy went down, clutching his stomach. Chet rolled him over and put a foot on his throat and as he did so, he recognized the tall, cadaverous man as the guy who had asked for directions a few nights before. He knew that voice sounded familiar!
"Now, you son of bitch, move one inch and I'll stomp your fucking neck flat. What the hell is this all about and who the fuck is Penn?"
Chet might look like a callow kid, but there was a lifetime of experience behind him, get him riled it all came to the fore. He pressed until the man choked - the pain in his gut forgotten by a sudden need to breathe.
"OK, Ok, the man gasped. Chet released the pressure, keeping the handle ready in case of any sudden moves, but the guy just lay there, white faced, all the fight gone out of him.
"Penn wants you for some reason, I don't know why. I was supposed to bring you in, that's all."
"Who is Penn?" Chet demanded.
"Some guy. Honest, I don't know anything about him. I send him . . . Things . . . from time to time and he pays me, that's all I know."
"What kind of Things?"
"Corneas, tissue samples, organs, stuff like that."
"God, a fucking grave robber!" Chet exclaimed. Then it came to him . . . Organs were harvested right away, not after a corpse ends up at a mortuary.
"Holy Shit!" he said as he pressed down on the man's throat, "You're not a grave robber, you're a murderer!"
From the other room a buzzer clamored, three short bursts followed by a long one. To Chet it sounded like an identifying signal and he was pretty sure it was people the man had talked about on the phone.
Wasting no time in further conversation, Chet whacked the man up side the head, knocking him cold. He hoisted the guy onto the gurney and covering him with a sheet, then went to the outer room searching for another exit. From here a window looked out onto a street, and below it verdant bushes grew up to brush against the panes. He was in luck, he worried this might be a basement setup. For a long moment he fought the window mechanism. The buzzer sounded again, this time, yammering repeatedly. He got the window up and slipped outside. Someone was now pounding on the door with a fist. Carefully closing the sash behind him, Chet took off down the street on a dead run. He turned right at the first cross street and five minutes later disproved a theory that is held almost universally. Sometimes there IS a cop around when you need one.
Sid Katz got his men out just in time. When they had trouble raising Belzak, he knew something had gone wrong, he could feel it in his bones. A half an hour after ordering them away, he slowly drove past the funeral home. The alley was full of cop cars, lights blazed in the building and as he drove past he saw Belzak in handcuffs being lead away. He now would have to put a lid on it, nip it before the shit spreads. He made three phone calls to make, the first two got the clean up team rolling, the third he put off as long as possible. The man was not going to be happy, Katz thought as he punched in the number. He hated telling Penn that all they had to show for this fiasco was a single blood sample taken by Connor. What a fucking mess, he thought.
Chapter 4
Even in the middle of a crowd, Chet no longer felt safe. Eyes watched him, he could feel them. Add to that the photographers who now dogged his every move and paranoia ruled his life. It had been this way since the incident in the mortuary. The hearing and the publicity only made him feel more vulnerable. Penn, or whatever his name turned out to be, remained unidentified since Belzak never had a chance to talk. He died of a heart attack just hours after his arrest. If it hadn't been for the partially dissected corpse in the embalming room, Chet's story might have been passed over as a fantasy. Instead it made for gory headlines. The corpse was that of a student, a young man that no one even knew was missing yet. The young man's organs were gone, but why Belzak hadn't disposed of the body came to light only after the autopsy. Chet shivered at the thought. What a sicko, using a corpse for sex.
The hearing had brought him back into the news again - big time. Reporters wouldn't leave him alone for a minute, they hounded him and the tabloids were now printing even more outrageous junk than they had in the past. God, the actuality of that experience was bad enough, why did they have to embellish it? Even respected papers had jumped on the bandwagon headlining lurid details of Belzak's secret life and they never missed the chance to mention Chet. Just when he should have been fading out of the limelight, he was front-page news again. Not only that, he was sure the kidnapping attempt had given others ideas along those same lines. The feeling of constantly being watched only got worse after surgery failed so dismally. Out of desperation he had taken that step far earlier than he had originally planned. The doctor argued against it, saying there was nothing to improve and he was probably right in that respect. Actually Chet liked the moderate, slightly roman nose he now had: It looked masculine and quite handsome he thought, yet after his experience with Penn and his gang, he wanted desperately to disappear, to become as obscure as possible. The plastic surgeon did everything right, changed his profile, removed the birthmark, yet when the bandages came off, Chet's same old face stared back at him from the mirror. He should have expected it, he thought dolefully, especially after the finger regenerated.
He had to leave, that thought dwelled in his mind every moment. He made up his mind to go, to loose himself in the West somewhere, anyplace where people didn't know him personally. He could dye his hair, grow a moustache, disguise himself somehow and try to blend in. If not that, then just stay on the move, keep traveling until things settled down. Chet had about fifty thousand in the bank, plus his pension and social security. It should be enough. No fancy hotels of course, but modest living had always suited him. He made arrangements with the bank, put his affairs in the hands of his lawyer, and then in the dead of night drove out of town heading west. For a moment a chill ran down his spine. He saw headlights snap on and watched as a car pulled in behind. He breathed a sigh of relief when the car made a left turn at the next corner. He had no plans as yet, no thought of anything but to put as many miles as possible between him and the university . . . And especially to escape those knowing eyes that seemed to track his every move.
In Chicago he decided to trade cars. The flashy red Buick now felt like a beacon gaining unwanted stares. He shopped, going from dealer to dealer until settling on a used, dark blue Plymouth mini van. He really wanted one with a rear seat that made into a bed, so he mentioned it and the man promptly led Chet to the body shop were mechanics were stripping out the wrecked remains of van almost identical to the one he was looking at.
"I know it's not a pretty sight," the salesman commented, "But the owner walked away without a scratch. These vans are safe vehicles. Now I think the seat is exactly what you want, except the fabric might be different . . ." He looked at it, "No, it's the same. I can have the boys switch it if you'd like." Chet agreed. He signed the papers and then went back to watch the seats being changed. The wrecked van had a current Colorado plate, he noted. It lay loose among the salvaged doors and interior trim parts piled nearby. Chet picked it up and while the men did the installation in the rear, he slipped the filched plate under the driver's seat. Always be prepared, he told himself. Every move he had made so far left him feeling more secure, more comfortably anonymous. There were a million of vans on the road exactly like this one and he no longer worried about unwanted attention.
While in the Chicago area he shopped for sundries that he might need if he used the van for camping and for the first time in months Chet felt no eyes following his every move.
Later, he dislodged the temporary sticker from the van's rear window and attached the Colorado plate. Now it was up to him not to get stopped. Set the cruise, fasten the safety belt, be cautious and he should be OK, but as a further precaution he lay the paper tag on carpet as though it had just fallen there.
In Iowa the sky darkened and opened in a torrential downpour. It was hard to see the road and even harder to pass by a hitchhiker who looked half drowned as stood suitcase in his hand. Chet stopped. He reached back to fish a new towel from the bag of stuff he'd bought in Chicago and as the man got in he handed it to him. The fellow acted surprised. He accepting the towel with sincere thanks and as he pulled off his soggy baseball hat to dry his hair, Chet realized that the fellow had only one eye. The other eye was a closed, a sunken pit that a patch would have improved considerably. There was a down at the heels look about the fellow that the drenching didn't improve. He wasn't a kid, maybe thirty-five or so, Chet estimated and when he spoke his voice exactly matched the rest of him.
"Thanks, mister. It's damned wet out there. I really appreciate this. How far you goin'?"
"Fifty miles or so." Chet replied, not wanting to commit himself, "Where are you headed?"
"West, I've had enough of this God damned place. Sunny California maybe. Don't really have a destination in mind, just someplace where it ain't rainin'."
Chet smiled. Now isn't that a coincidence, he thought. We're both heading west without a plan. Wonder what he's running from? More than the rain, I'll bet! He looks like he just got out of jail. Now why would I think that? Chet wondered. Maybe it was the short, institutional looking haircut. Oh well, jail doesn't mean much in a land where misdemeanors have all become crimes. The world is crazy Chet mused. Shoot someone and you'll be out in a year and a half, but get caught growing pot and you might do life. The whole justice system was fucked, he thought. He decided to quiz the guy a bit, if he turned out OK, maybe he would just let him ride along for awhile.
"So, what do you do for a living?" Chet asked.
"This and that." the man replied. "Construction mostly when I can find it. I'm a pretty good carpenter, otherwise I do odd jobs. Hell, I guess I've done about everything at one time or another. What do you do?" he asked, throwing the question back at Chet.
What do I do? Chet wondered. Hell, I'm retired, but of course he couldn't say that to the guy.
"I'm unemployed at present, but I used to be a tool and die maker. By the way, my name is Ch. . arles, Charles Adams. Most people call me Charlie." He added quickly, hoping the man wouldn't notice the hesitation.
"Larry Craft," The man responded, thrusting out a hand. He looked piercingly at Chet. Perhaps it was only the singularity of that one dark eye that made the stare so intense. "Ya, know Charlie, you seem kinda young to be a tool and die man. Don't that take a five year apprenticeship?"
"Yeah it sure does, and thanks for the compliment, but I'm older than you might think." Chet said with a smile.
Craft began shedding his jacket, a windbreaker with a waterproof lining, but as he pulled it off one of the pockets dumped about a cup of water on the floor.
"Jesus!" Larry exclaimed. "I'm sorry man. Look, I've got some dry clothes in here" he indicated the suitcase, "At least I hope they're dry. If it won't bother you any, I'd like to change."
"Sure, go ahead. Only it'll be easier in the back seat. You can empty out that plastic shopping bag and use it for your wet clothes. Just toss my stuff in the back."
Larry crawled between the seats, negotiating his suitcase through the narrow space, then, crouching over, he began to strip. Chet glanced in the mirror and was surprised to see that under the misshapen, soggy clothing, Larry had a fine looking physique. In a moment the man sat naked, rifling through his suitcase. Chet was bemused. Like himself, Larry's skin looked almost flawless, no moles, no chest hair, and like himself Larry had a red birthmark. Odd, Chet thought. Our birthmarks are almost identical except Larry's was much larger. He stared at the port wine stain on the man's chest. It was the same distorted arc as the one Chet bore on his face. More than anything, he was surprised at the tingling in his groin he got from watching the man. It's been years, he thought, more that twenty since I've even thought about it . . . Except for Robert, the crazy kid who kept coming on to him in Ann Arbor. He said he was nineteen, only he looked more like fifteen and that turned Chet off. Now suddenly Chet was thinking erotic thoughts of Larry. He thrust them from his mind and studied the man's face. Larry would be a good-looking fellow if it weren't for his eye. In fact his body was downright wholesome, large and nicely defined . . . Everywhere! He noted as his mind kept drifting back to what he was trying to ignore. Chet turned his attention to the road just in time to see break lights flare on the rise ahead. Over that rise he was greeted by whole road full of lights and flashers. Stepping on the breaks he said,
"What's this! Hey, Larry, better hurry up, it looks like an accident ahead!"
He glanced in the rear view mirror again and this time nearly went into shock. Larry's eyes met his, BOTH of them - clear sparkling blue eyes. Chet knew he wasn't mistaken. Larry's single eye was black before, piercingly black. Of course! A glass eye and a contact lens. What a change, the man looked entirely different. Chet watched as Larry tugged on sweat pants and a Tee shirt, then calmly reach into the bag and pulled out a gun.
"That's a road block, Charlie. Now just stay calm and everything will be OK." Sliding back into the passenger's seat, he lay the gun in his lap, dropping the towel across it.
Chet gripped the wheel tightly as fear crawled up his spine. He hated guns, he had not held one in his hands since leaving the army at the end of the war. The fear he felt must have shown on his face, for Larry said,
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to scare you. You're a nice kid and I wouldn't do this if I weren't desperate. I just can't go back. I've done six already and I'll die in that fucking place. Anyway, I never hurt nobody, I ain't no angel, but I didn't kill those people, no matter what they say."
Chet stared at him. For some reason he couldn't explain, he believed what the man was saying. Maybe it was just the fact he seemed sincerely concerned over frightening him. Murderous types seldom apologies for scaring the shit out you, even if they don't end up killing you.
"Is Craft your real name?" Chet asked. The man shook his head. Chet didn't know why he even considered it, yet he decided to help Larry. It was just a feeling that the man deserved another chance. After all, he had been given a second chance, why not Larry?
"Well, I hope you've got some identification in that bag, you're going to need it for sure."
"Maybe not. They're looking for a one eyed man."
Chet thought about it only for a second.
"OK, we'll go for it, only, leave the talking to me. And put that fucking gun in the glove compartment. It won't do anything but get up both killed." Larry looked a Chet for a moment then did as he was told.
Slowly they inched toward the barricade until finally a roving cop rapped on the glass.
"What's up, officer?" Chet asked, rolling down the window.
"Can I see some identification, sir?"
"Sure." Chet replied, pulling out his wallet. Chet had wanted to disappear completely, yet at this moment it helped to be himself. The cop looked at the license then peered at Chet again,
"Say . . . You're that fella from Michigan, the one that got young all of a sudden!" Excitedly he called to his partner who was just coming up to Larry's side of the car. "Ned! Come here, you gotta see this, you won't believe it. Look at this license!"
The other officer walked around, glanced at Chet and then at the license.
"So?"
"Look at the date of birth!"
"What the Hell . . .!"
"It's him, the guy that got young."
"You don't really believe that shit, do ya?" Ned snorted.
"It's true, Officer." Chet interjected. "No one knows how or why, but it sure as hell happened. I've also got my old license here if you want to see it and a bunch of affidavits from the doctors at the U of M."
The man looked doubtful. Chet pulled out his old license and there was enough similarity in the pictures to convince him, especially the distinctive little port wine birthmark on his cheek. Both officers got so wound up in talking to Chet, they barely glanced at Larry. Finally Officer Ned did look his way and Chet spoke up quickly,
"My friend and I are on a little vacation, so if there's nothing else, gentlemen, we'd really like to be going."
They waved him on, still amazed at meeting the world's youngest septuagenarian.
Through it all, Larry uttered not a word. He sat there as though he too was amazed at this revelation.
"Are you really Chet Latham?" he asked.
" 'Fraid so. Now, why don't you tell me who you are and where you got that glass eye? You sure as hell didn't make that in a prison workshop."'
"A friend got it for me. He was supposed to meet me, but I guess he chickened out. At least he left the suitcase. I'm Ike Lake. You've probably read about me, but honest to God, I didn't kill those people, I was just boosting some stuff and got caught. When the cops came they found those folks in the basement, beat to death. It wasn't me that did it, hell I didn't even know they were down there. The thing is, I was on the scene, so they nailed me. Guess it saved them the expense of finding out who really did it. Hell, I even passed a lie detector, only the judge wouldn't allow it in court."
"That's quite a leap." Chet responded, "A few minutes ago you were a carpenter, now you're a burglar. Any other talents you want to tell me about?"
"You don't believe me, do you?"
"Strangely enough I do . . . At least the part about not killing anyone. I remember that trial." Chet went on, "The evidence didn't hold up, but I also recall reading that even if they couldn't pin the murders on you, as a career criminal, you were facing life in prison."
Ike laughed, "Yeah, I'm a real bad ass alright. I know being out of work ain't no excuse, but when you're hard up you do things, really stupid things, and I always got caught. Do ya know what it takes to be a career criminal in this state? Three felony convictions, no matter how piddling. I sold some hot fertilizer for a guy and got nailed. Sure, I knew it was hot and I did a year for it. Another time I contracted a carpentry job that I didn't do. I was drinking then, Hell, I don't even remember getting paid for the job, but the guy hauled me into court and when I couldn't cough up the dough, they nailed me for fraud. Then there was shoplifting. Needed a pair of steel-toed boots. I was going to work for a company that had a rule you couldn't go on the job site without 'em, so I went to K-mart, tried on a pair and tried walking out. Did six months for that. Do enough little shit and all of a sudden you're a big bad career criminal."
"So, you're just a victim of circumstance, huh?"
"No, hell no. I've got no one to blame but myself, only considering what other people get away with, I must have the worse luck in the world."
"Yeah, sure looks that way," Chet replied, "Except for one thing. I'm supposed to believe you're a guy who can't do anything right, yet here you are, free as a bird and feeding me a line of bullshit a mile wide. I remember Ike Lake from the TV news. He's about 5 feet tall and a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. You weren't in any danger back there. Even with only one eye you don't fit Lake's description. No more bullshit, Larry, I want to know who you are and what you're up to!"
Larry looked at him for a moment.
"Damn, I'm getting rusty." He muttered "OK, the truth. My name is Ivan Decoviak, and I was waiting for you back there on the highway. I figured if I looked miserable enough, you'd pick me up. Believe me, it only took a little nudge."
A nudge? What the hell is he talking about? Was he one of Penn's cronies? Could they really track me this fast? There was a thousand questions running through his mind, but instead of sorting them out logically he snapped,
"What do you people want from me!" Chet scanned the interstate ahead looking for a exit ramp or a cop car, anything . . .
"Calm down, I'm not with Penn, or anyone else, and I don't want anything you're not willing to give freely. Look at me!" He commanded.
Chet glanced at the man. He seemed oddly different. His eyes! They were green instead of blue. As Chet watched Ivan changed even more. His hair appeared to lighten, or was it just the afternoon sun that broke through the clouds? Then Ivan's eyes made another startling change. He blinked and they went from green to brown. His face altered, the hair lengthened. It was subtle little changes that made the man look completely different. Chet was awestruck.
"How . . .?" He was too flabbergasted to finish the sentence.
"An illusion, a little trick I played on your mind. This is my real self." He said, turning to face Chet directly. He was now an average good-looking man with light brown hair, warm brown eyes and younger than he had appeared before.
"Are you an alien?" Chet asked. It was the only thing he could think of that would explain what he had just seen. The man shrugged,
"Let's try to define that term, shall we? Alien simply means strange or different. I suppose that might apply to you as well. Do you consider yourself alien just because you've grown younger?"
"NO, of course not!"
"No doubts at all?"
The question stopped Chet cold. What was the man getting at?
"You see, Chet, I can make people see exactly what I want them to and that is certainly as alien to the average person as growing younger. Like it or not, you and I have become aliens of sorts. We're different and there are people who will always despise or envy our strangeness. In your case they desperately want to know the secret of growing younger. People like Penn are a real and constant threat to us both. You were lucky to escape, even luckier for being hounded by paparazzi, it was their constant presence that prevented Penn from nabbing you again. By the way, Penn's real name is Walter Fennman. He heads a Government research facility and he thinks that if he throws enough money at the problem, he can solve the riddle of your regeneration. Fennman wants you, Chet, and he want's you badly"
"Is he looking for you as well?"
"No, Penn doesn't know that I exist and I intend to keep it that way. What you need to do is disappear from the face of the earth. Penn hasn't traced you as yet, so unless you want him breathing down your neck, don't tap your bank account or use a credit card. You better go easy on the five grand, Chet. Make it last."
What the devil! That was the exact amount he had in his wallet!
Startled, Chet blurted out, "How did you know that? Can you read my mind?"
Ivan smiled at him, giving a little nod of assent. Good Lord, Chet thought, does that mean he can see everything, even my memories?
The idea made him cringe.
"Absolutely." Ivan replied, reaching over to pat Chet's leg, "But don't worry, I'm not the least bit homophobic, in fact just the opposite."
An image popped into Chet's mind that almost made him blush. Startled, he gripped the wheel while the picture of Ivan and another men having exuberant sex flashed across his consciousness. A car swept past in the fast lane, a child in the rear staring at him. Chet was thankful the kid couldn't see what was burning in his mind at that moment . . . He shook his head trying to clear the image, then looked accusingly at Ivan,
"OK, so you can make me see pictures, but you're forgetting one thing. Penn can track me now. The cops back at the road block know exactly who I am."
"I didn't forget them, but they've forgotten all about us. Believe me, they won't remember a thing."
"You can do that?
"Yes, but it does have some limitations," Ivan replied, "I can't fool a camera, I found that out in Las Vegas. I was there with Bart . . ." He paused, "Anyway we needed money, so I made everyone at the black jack table believe Bart had the winning hand and I did that several times in a row. Not very smart. They have cameras watching the action." He projected the entire memory, including the part where casino security descended on the table en masse, hauling off both Bart and the dealer. "It was a little tricky getting us out of that one." he concluded with a chuckle.
Chet was awed. It was just as though he had experienced it himself. He could even feel the consternation and worry what Ivan felt at the time.
"It's like I was there!" Chet exclaimed, "How do you do that?"
"How did you grow young? I can't explain it any more than you can. It just is. I see, I feel. I read thoughts and memories and I can display my own back to you. In fact we can talk to each other in the same way." <Like this. Can you hear me?>
Ivan's last words were crystal clear, and yet sounded oddly non-directional.
Chet shot back mentally
<My, you picked up on that quickly. > Ivan responded, <It's very handy when you don't want others to hear. >
Chet shivered.
"I can't believe it. It's like an old story I once read called Wild Talent. Are there others who can do what you do?"
<I don't know. Most everyone believes that life exists someplace else in the universe among all the in the billions of stars, and I have to believe that in the billions of humans on earth there must be others with ESP. I haven't found anyone yet, but the thing is I have to lay eyes on a person in order to read them. >
He held up his hand to halt Chet for a moment. There was a look of intense concentration on his face.
"Sorry, Bart wanted to know what was going on." He smiled ruefully, "I can't hold two mental conversations at the same time. Anyway I 'downloaded' the memories for him, which is about as good a simile of it as I can come up with. By the way, Bart says hello."
"I didn't hear any of it."
"It's directional, maybe that's why I can't talk to more than one at a time. Of course, I've never really needed to before . . ."
He leaned back against the seat, eyes closed,
<I'll -I'll -I'll try -try -try . . . >
"Jesus!" Chet exclaimed. <Jesus -Jesus -Jesus...> came the echo
Ivan shook his head. By the look on his face he was talking to Bart again.
"Whew, that's kind of scary" Ivan said at last.
"The whole thing scares me." Chet replied. Mostly, because nothing is private anymore. He thought.
"Was it ever? Remember Robert, the boy who was trying to get you into bed? Guess who instigated that? Penn knows all about you. Every aspect of your life has been scrutinized. He knows everything, except, he doesn't really know you, he can't see into your soul as I can. There's a big difference between digging out secrets and living someone's life, totally, right down to the last detail of their childhood. I feel your strengths and weaknesses, your pleasure, your pain, your doubts, all as if they were my own."
Chet was at a loss for words. The old saw about absolute power corrupting anyone who had it, came to his mind. It seemed dangerous for a person to have that kind of power over the minds of others. Who could stop him from starting a war? He could just make someone push a button . . .
<Oh, Please - I live here too. > Ivan chided, <Besides, I have limits too. When I first discovered my talents, I thought I could do anything and get away with it, only it doesn't work that way. There is a feed back that I have no control over. Oh I can make people see what's not there, or forget want I don't them to remember, but I can't harm anyone. Even if I wanted to dust some nasty bastard, I couldn't do anything permanently harmful. The feedback would overwhelm me. >
"So, you've tried, huh?" Chet assumed as much. Anyone with Ivan's powers would have to test the limits, he was sure of it.
"Actually, no. But I do have a good idea what it would do to me. I've already experienced that feedback in another direction."
Ivan went on to explain what had done to Bart and how he fell in love with the man simply because his tampering had made Bart fall in love with him.
"Believe me, I was just trying to make his last years meaningful, only now I can't stand the thought of losing him. Chet, there is something I want from you. I was hoping my ruse would allow us a few days to get to know each other before I sprung this on you, but since that's not the case, I'll come right out with it. The thing is, Bart has leukemia. Right now he's living on transfusions. If you would be willing to donate blood, I know it would help him"
"God, Ivan they've done a million tests. There's nothing different about my blood."
"Oh, yes there is. Why do you suppose Penn is so hot to get his hands on you? It's an anomaly that went unnoticed because of the way they handle blood samples in the labs. You have in your blood something like a virus that dies the moment the temperature is reduced. Just a few degrees and it disappears without a trace. I got this information from the mind of a man named Conner, a scientist who works for Penn. It was a discovery Conner made from a blood sample taken at the mortuary. In the hospital the samples were always chilled before anyone looked at them. Conner was very excited over the find; unfortunately, I erased his memory too late to prevent Penn from learning about it. Since the hearing, Penn has had a half dozen men watching you at all times, and the night you split he was on the verge of picking you up."
"Did you have something to do with me leaving? The last few days I felt a pressure building, something was telling me to get out of there."
"I was nudging, yes, but not controlling, I promise never to do that. I did divert the two that followed you that night, as well as making a few people forgetful when they realized who you were."
"So you're convinced a transfusion from me will help him. It's kind of skimpy evidence, you know, one blood test and one man's idea. What if it does just the opposite? I don't want to be responsible for his death."
"One of my talents is seeing the future. That's not really an accurate description, I can't see the future itself, instead I see how an individual is tied to the future. We are all attached to it by what I call lifelines and when the line disappears, the individual no longer exists. Right now, I see yours going forward beyond the point where I can gauge it, I think a century at least. I find it difficult to accurately determine anything beyond a normal life span since the lines seem to get all tangled. When I met Bart I saw only a couple of years ahead for him, yet I found it's not set in stone. If conditions change, so does the lifeline. When a new treatment for leukemia was announced, Bart's lifeline got all fuzzy, but the moment we decided to try it, it jumped a full year. The same thing happened when Bart and I were reading about your kidnapping. Suddenly his line went fuzzy again. I believe it means your blood will help him."
"Why are asking? Hell, you could just plant the idea and I'd have to do it, right?"
"Yes, only I know your soul, Chet. You would despise me if you found out. If I forced you into doing this, I could never share my mind to you. That deceit would always be there."
<Share your mind? >
<Letting you see my soul, just as I see yours. >
<You can do that? >
Ivan nodded. "And I know it's necessary. You have it in your thoughts that I'm dangerous because of this gift. You'll never be convinced otherwise unless we share."
"What about Bart? Have you shared your mind with him?"
"Of course."
"So he knows you manipulated him."
"Yes."
"Does he resent it?"
"No, but that's different. When you love you forgive. Anyway, he knows how I feel about him."
Chet's mind flooded with a collage of images and feelings all woven together in a patchwork of pure emotion. Passion, tenderness, visions of Bart in a shower, sleeping nude, at a gaming table, laughing over some slight silliness, being sweetly tender and sexually aggressive, tipsy and mixing his metaphors while Ivan helps steady his steps. A thousand pictures of Bart in all his different moods seen through the eyes of love. Then came a flood of sadness and despair, Bart looking haggard with tubes in his arms and a nurse fussing over him. The last so filled with emotion it brought tears to Chet's eyes.
"My God, if I cared for someone that much, I'd rip these veins open with my teeth!"
"Then you'll do it?"
"Need you ask?"