Chapter 7
They were cruising at a sedate 35 while the traffic sailed past at close to 70.
<Here comes one . . . Nope . . . They'll be lucky to make it back to Boulder. Ah, here comes another. Pull over. >
Chet slipped the van to the shoulder and stopped. A moment later a beat up Chevy pickup sailed by, slowed, pulled to the side and backed up the shoulder to the van. A young man got out,
"Need some help?" he asked.
"Yeah, we sure do." Ivan said. "How about selling us your pickup? What would you take for it?" Ivan already knew the fellow was in debt and owed a lot more than the old pickup was worth. Ivan read the figure and before the guy could answer, he said,
"$9,000 and we'll toss in the van. Is it a deal?
"You bet," the young man replied, enthusiastically, hardly able to believe his luck. Ivan did just enough to the man's mind to delete the strangeness of the encounter and then paid out the money. The price cut their travel funds to the bone, but the guy was truly in need and Ivan could always wire for more. Besides, he would get about an hour out of the van before the FED's nailed him. Ivan thought of it as just a little bonus for the hassle facing the man.
Five minutes later they were on their way again. The map showed a dirt side road, fairly straight that lead toward a winding road back to Kingman. It was going to be close. The fellow would reach Boulder before they could reach interstate 40, no matter how fast Chet drove, but he floored it anyway. Ivan slowed the young man to thirty letting him believe there was something wrong with van and the race was on. They nearly missed the turn onto the side road. Bart sat in the middle hanging on for dear life as Chet negotiated the washboard dirt. After twenty minutes of bone jarring potholes they came onto a winding paved road and Chet let it all out, sliding through the curves.
"Interstate marker ahead!" He shouted. "Have they got him yet?"
"No, he has to cross the dam yet. Won't be back in Boulder for another few minutes. Shall I block the whole incident?"
"No, that will just make it harder for him. God, I'm glad we're on pavement again - I think I left my kidneys are back there somewhere! "
"None too soon for me either" Bart commented. He had holding on dear life and concentrating on keeping his head from hitting the roof. "Would you please tell me what the hell is going on. One minute I'm asleep, and the next I'm in a strange truck going ninety miles an hour. What happened?"
"Oh, nothing much, we're just running from the FBI, that's all. They blew up a highway a while back and it appears they took some real nifty pictures of you me and Ivan, and now we have about two minutes before they discover we're not in the van anymore. Other than that, hardly a thing has happened."
It wasn't a laughing matter, but he laughed anyway. With the interstate just ahead, they would be out of this bottlenecked part of Arizona in no time.
<Holy Shit, take a look at this! > Ivan sent a view of what the man was seeing through the windshield of the van. A barricade had suddenly swung out in front spewing a cloud of white smoke. The man slammed on the breaks. The smoke engulfed the van, pouring in through the ventilators and then the view went gray.
"They killed him!" Bart exclaimed.
"No, he's alive, just knocked out. That's what was waiting for us." He quickly filled Bart in. They communed for a few moments, their thoughts moving far faster than speech, then Bart said,
"A half hour, maybe less. When the kid comes around, we better be shed of this rig. We need a town in a hurry. Head for Kingman."
"But it's the wrong way," Chet protested, "We're a good ten miles east. Why not Flagstaff?"
"You want this thing seen on the highway?"
"But, Ivan can make people think it's a Rolls-Royce." Chet argued.
"Not from the air, he can't. I'll bet they've already got choppers warming up just waiting for a description of this heap. They've figured out what Ivan can do. Now with a ringer on their hands, they know exactly where to look, right on I-40. We've gotta get rid of this truck NOW before the kid can give a description of it."
Chet couldn't argue the logic. Thankfully, Bart was back to his old sharp self, looking at all the angles that he and Ivan might have missed. Bart directed them to a scrap yard on the edge of town. The truck looked right at home, Chet thought as he found a spot deep in the pack of beat up, dented vehicles. Ivan talked to the owner, casting a veil of forgetfulness on the man while Bart ripped the license plate loose and frisbied it into a nearby scrap pile. Then the three set out on foot, heading back toward the highway to a truck stop they passed on their way to the junkyard.
As the hours began piling up, Moore knew it was hopeless. The three were gone and only pure chance could spot them now. Harris, with a glum look on his face, brought the news to Moore,
"Not a sign of them, sir. They've covered the interstate from Barstow to Flag. They're not on the highway."
"Don't bet the farm on it." Moore responded, "They've ditched that truck, but they're heading east on 40. I'd stake my life on it."
"But, sir, the last destination they spoke of was Tijuana. Shouldn't we get set up there and wait for them?"
"Christ, Harris, use your head!" Moore snapped. It was close to 30 hours since Moore last closed his eyes. On edge over the losses of the day, he found himself yelling at everyone, even the rookie.
"I'm sorry, son, it's not your fault, I'm just tired. Can you rustle up some coffee?" When Harris returned, Moore gratefully accepted the Styrofoam cup and said,
"Thank you, Ron, just what the doctor ordered. Now, sit down and let's see if we can't figure out where those three are going, and why. Remember the camera? It wasn't a short, the thing was cooked. Intense heat for no more than a microsecond, or so they tell me, but it does give us another bit of information about Decoviak's abilities. In case you haven't heard yet, that's the third man's name, Ivan Decoviak."
"A Russian?"
"Only by ancestry. He's a high school art teacher from Alberta, Canada. Anyway, We've been over that tape a dozen times. Right near the end of it, they somehow found out about the bug. That talk of Tijuana was just for our benefit. If you study the tape you see them getting real casual all of a sudden, that's when they decided there might be a bug on board. Think about it. There's an accident up ahead, folks are out of their cars, wandering around, talking, but Decoviak suddenly decides to take a nap, only he's not relaxed, he's looking for the bug and I can pinpoint the moment he found it."
"Oh, hell. That means they might be headed anywhere now, even Canada."
"No, it's Mexico. Those plans were set before they realized there was a bug, and I don't think they can change them. They made a haul in Vegas. On the day they skipped they pulled in about hundred grand. In just a matter of hours, Latham himself cashed in jackpots at four different casinos. Add that to the five weeks they were there and it's a tidy sum I'm sure, and way too much to carry around. Harris, tomorrow morning I want a list of every money transfer made from Vegas and Boulder City banks to Mexican banks in the last thirty days. Better yet, make that all international transfers, just in case they're working a double blind. Maybe we can't track them at the moment, but we sure as hell can locate those assets."
Light dawned in Ron Harris's mind, and along with it a new respect for his boss. Of course! Lock down the money! That means they'll be scrambling, making mistakes, leaving a trail to follow. Old J. T. was sharp all right. Everyone said he was, only Harris couldn't see it at first. Riley had been the man, brash and confident where Moore was just an old black guy nit picking details and Harris had been none to pleased at being assigned to him. What a difference a day makes, he thought. In the course of only twenty-four hours everything had changed. Moore had been right all along. He was now in charge and only God knew where Riley was, but wherever he was, Harris was glad he wasn't with him. Harris looked at Moore and realized the man was exhausted,
"Sir, why don't you get some sleep. I'll wake you if anything comes up."
"Good idea. Tell Norton to call off the search. Everyone stand down - tomorrow's going to be one long day."
Ivan warned. Chet began to rouse, coming awake with a yawn. He glanced across the aisle at Bart now twisted over in his seat, his rear end facing Chet as he stuffed loose items into a small zippered canvas carry on. The bus held a few more people now, he noted. They must have picked up passengers at Tulsa.
<What time is it? >
<3 A.M. >
<Well, I hope the restaurants are open, I'm starved. >
<Bart just said the same thing. Got any money left? >
<Forty-fifty bucks. Are we broke? >
<Just about. Guess we should have held back more than ten grand, but who knew? I'll wire today, Bart thinks its safe to lay up here for awhile. >
Bart swung around to look at Chet, a big smile on his face. He winked, and Chet received a picture of himself, his sleep mussed hair sticking out at odd angles.
<He say's you're cute too. > Ivan's chuckle overlay the message.
The next day Ivan read bank employees, sifting through them until coming to Sally Arno. She was the one he needed. He read the procedures from her before making the request and the whole operation went smoothly.
When Sally Arno sent the wire, it started a tiny ripple in international banking services so small it went completely unnoticed, except to observers of six particular Mexican accounts. Two weeks before, $90,000 at the rate of $9,000 at a time had gone from banks Boulder City to a bank in Tampico and into the account of one Jose Cardel. Like the other five accounts the Feds were watching, Cardel was unknown to the Tampico bank. It was a password account opened by deposit. Now $9,500 was coming back from that Tampico account to the First National Bank of Oklahoma City. The news rather surprised Moore. The men were still in the States. Why had they not gone directly to Mexico, he wondered and where have they been all this time. Not a whisper of them for a ten days and then suddenly, Oklahoma City. It didn't add up, just like the new shoot to kill order on Decoviak didn't add up, nor for that matter, even the original charges against the three. Latham was wanted for further questioning in an Ann Arbor murder case, but not by local authorities, this was a federal warrant. And what about Ludlow? An ex-cop with that vague accessory after the fact charge. True, Decoviak had broken the law. He was here illegally - along with about a million others - hardly a capital crime, and yet there was that damn shoot to kill order. It didn't make sense.
As JT pieced together the actions of the men during their six weeks in Nevada, there emerged a picture that didn't match the dire one coming out of Washington. Nothing the men had done so far jeopardized national security, unless removing a bit of excess profit from Vegas gamblers qualified. His team had gone through Vegas with a fine toothed comb, studying every tape, balancing daily losses in casinos where the men showed up. He could quote to the dollar what those three had taken and nearly all of that had gone to Mexico where it still lay untapped. It fit no terrorist pattern that Moore had ever heard of and yet that was exactly the implication being handed down. Was Decoviak's mind control ability really that dangerous, Moore wondered, or was he only dangerous to certain people. He didn't have to think twice about that one: Someone in Washington was scared shitless of Decoviak.
Moore punched a button on the intercom,
"Call the team leaders together for a briefing. Ten minutes, and find me Harris. I need him in five."
Poor kid, he thought, always stuck with shit work. Oh, well, it goes with being young. Moore liked working with rookies, their minds seemed to grasp new concepts far faster than most of the older men. The screw up in Bolder City should have taught them all a lesson, and yet even afterward, some on the team were still not convinced of what Decoviak could do. Not so with Harris. He might be a little up tight, a little prudish, but he was one sharp cookie. Not only sharp, Moore thought as he looked up to see Harris come bursting into the office, he's also fast.
"You wanted to see me, sir?"
" Yes. It seems our traveling trio has turned up again. We're heading for Oklahoma City in about an hour, so arrange for the flight. We'll need the same stuff we used at Bolder. Cameras, a gas delivery system, the works for an indoor set up this time."
"An hour?" Harris paled, "I can't put it together in an hour . . . Sir."
"Sure you can, Ron. I've watched you work and believe me, I have every confidence in your ability. Roust whoever you need, but we're leaving in one hour."
Harris shot out the door like the hounds of hell were after him. What a line of bullshit, Moore thought, and yet, bullshit or not, it usually worked. Ask the impossible and a kid like Harris will do it, whereas older men waste time arguing logistics. Yes, he found working with rookies an easy task, it just took patience to bring them along.
A few minutes later the team leaders arrived and Moore laid out the details. They had from closing time, until nine AM tomorrow to set up at the bank. Luckily, banking regulations made twenty- four hours the minimum required time for an international wire transfer.
"Gentlemen, it looks like another all nighter coming up, so get your men together. We're leaving as soon as the plane is loaded."
Since Boulder City, Ivan had been more cautious than ever and far more intent on getting a pipeline to those tracking them. Bart and Chet stayed in St Louis, Chet confined to the motel room the entire time, while Ivan headed east to Virginia. Conner was out of the loop, no longer a viable source of information and the same went for the rest of Fennman's employees from Ann Arbor. They were off the case, or at least no longer informed of what was going on. Ivan needed a new source, either in the FBI or Fennman himself, so he went east, only what he found there wasn't particularly enlightening. Fennman had left for Europe the day Ivan arrived. He missed the man by a matter of hours. Ivan did learn the heat was on concerning the three of them, and that the CIA was now involved, but FBI operations were so segmented that names was all he got. The man leading the FBI team was Moore, now in Kansas City, but that was all he learned. It was frustrating. Nothing but names that led to other names and no one in Washington directly involved - no one in the know. He headed back to St. Louis only slightly better informed than when he left.
At ten the following morning, Ivan checked Sally Arno's mind, looking to see if the money had arrived. He found it hadn't occurred to her to look. Sally was upset. Her boss, normally a genial man, had snapped at her over being a minute or two late. He in turn was upset over the auditors who had suddenly descended on the bank again last night. Ever since Weeks embezzled that forty grand, the bank had been subjected to these surprise audits. When was it ever going to end, she wondered . . .
Satisfied, Ivan nudged Sally's memory. She turned to the computer screen, punching in the information. The money was there, she transferred it to Cardel's new account and promptly forgot the matter.
"OK, all we have to do is make the withdrawal and we can be on our way."
"You mean YOU, can be on your way. Chet and I will be stuck in a motel room again. Let's forget Kansas City and head for Mexico."
"I wish we could, only with the CIA involved I've got to find a solid source and Moore looks like the man."
"Well, lets go out for awhile first, get something to eat and buy book or two.. ."
"Do the laundry!" Chet interjected. "I'm down to one change."
At one PM, they headed for the bank with Bart taking Ivan's place as the young, brown haired man in Sally's mind. Ivan and Chet waited across the street, Ivan lightly scanning the passersby.
"That's Ludlow!" Moore exclaimed, looking over Norris's shoulder at the monitor. "Where the hell is Decoviak?" Other monitors displayed the entire lobby, showing not a sign of Decoviak or Latham. Harris looked out the window thinking maybe the two were still outside.
The movement in the second story window caught Ivan's eye and he reached out to touch the man.
<BART, it's a set up! Get out of there! > Too late. Familiar white mist spilled from the air conditioning vents, one of which was directly above where Bart stood.
<They've got him, damn, oh damn, they traced the money. I led them right to us and now they've got Bart! > Ivan was in a panic as he flashed it all to Chet.
<Calm down. There is bound to be a lot of confusion in there. Take advantage of it. The guy in the window is the key. Get him to call someone else over, the more the merrier. >
"Sir, you have take a look at this!" Harris exclaimed, "I've never seen anything like it in my life!"
Below, in the middle of the street two naked women wrestled, throwing punches, kicking, tearing at each other's hair while cars flowed around them on both sides, narrowly missed them.
"GOD Almighty!"
"What is it, Harris?"
"A fight, only you won't believe what's happening." One woman pulled loose a man hole cover, slinging it at the other like a frisbee. "Oh my GOD!" Harris exclaimed.
What the hell is going on, Moore wondered. He strode to the window, Harris merely glanced at Moore, but when he looked back, the fight was over.
"Where did they go?"
"Who?" Moore asked. Traffic flowed serenely on the street below.
"The two women . . ." Confused, Harris scanned the street and then became doubly confused when J. T. said,
"A soon as they get Ludlow bundled, I want you to escort him County. Stay with him and don't let anyone tell you differently."
"But, I thought you said . . ."
"Plans have changed. Ludlow goes to county until I hear from Washington."
Suddenly, all the nagging doubts about this case flooded Moore's thoughts. He wanted answers, especially the names of those behind the shoot to kill order on Decoviak. Why this now became vastly important, Moore couldn't explain, but it was, and he didn't question it, just as Harris never questioned the fight he saw.
For hours, Ivan sifted through the minds of Harris and Moore, comparing what the two knew or surmised. That Moore was a genius became evident at once, his deductive powers seemed almost unlimited. With Moore, when information didn't fit within the framework of experience, he didn't discount the data as others might, Moore simply shifted the frame of reference to where it would fit and so at fifty-nine, Moore's thoughts still retained the elasticity of youth. Ivan searching backward to the events at Boulder City, noted that while Harris had been turned off by what he saw on the tape, Moore's reaction was just the opposite. Ah ha, Ivan thought, a repressed homosexual, only that proved wrong. Moore was fully aware that he was gay, only it was a side issue as far as he was concerned. He had consciously sublimated his homosexuality, throwing himself totally into the work that he loved, and retaining but a few solitary outlets for sexual relief. His books and magazines, a number of videos and of course memories of experiences before the Bureau called. For 34 years Moore's life had consisted of work, a small circle of straight friends, celibacy and frequent masturbation, but his love of the work he did was still the driving force behind the man.
Ivan learned a great deal from Moore. He saw at once the mistakes he made in the wire transfers and from Moore's mind he discovered how to move money about without leaving a trail. This he implemented right away while leaving it to Chet to sort through the procedures the Bureau used in tracking suspects. Moore was now an open book to both men and as Ivan had reiterated so many times; it is difficult to dislike someone when you can see into their soul.
The next day a clerical error at County, released Bart by mistake and three days later, Ivan calmly walked into a branch of the First National Bank and withdrew twenty thousand dollars. Long before Bart was released, Ivan had read Moore's entire team, spending a short time with each man, and each man would forever think he had spoken with Harris.
Chapter 8
Cuidad del Carman
For a year they traveled, trying the west coast and the interior, yet found no place that suited them as well Cuidad del Carman, the old colonial town perched on the narrow spit of land separating the Gulf of Mexico from Laguna de Terminos. The lagoon, eighty miles long and forty wide, seemed large enough to qualify as a small sea itself. Calm and serene it beckoned the unwary, it's shallow waters offering full nets to those who still fished in the manner of their ancestors, the Mayans, yet the lagoon was far more dangerous than any sea. A wind hardly noticeable on the Gulf side, could turn the shallow lagoon into a deadly froth that could swamp small fishing boats in moments.
The Yucatan interior is hot and humid, but their leased house, called Casa del Sol stood high on stacked terraces that overlooked not only the lagoon and the city, but the Gulf as well, and from it's stately perch, the house collected the coolest breezes from both bodies of water. Inland across the lagoon was a jungle of mangrove swamps, hot and oppressive, yet at Casa del Sol the air was clear, pure and salt tanged. Like a latter day Mayan temple the house rose tall, each level reduced in breadth as it climbed upward until at the very top a single room with four broad windows surveyed the landscape in all directions. Even though other rooms were larger, this aerie was called the Great Room, and it was there visitors came for a view of the constant activity on the lagoon and in the city.
Casa del Sol lived up to its name. Its broad golden tiled terraces absorbed sunlight from dawn to dusk until it seemed as though the tiles had been beaten into shape by the weight of light itself. Here and there on each terrace sprang trees offering shade to the sun weary, little bowers of quiet coolness that provided seating among the flower beds so well maintained by Jose, the Casa's part time gardener. Jose, with his flock of active grandchildren, made sure that every floral bed stayed in perfect condition, each spent blossom removed, each twig carried away, and three days a week the sound of the children singing turned the Casa into a lively place indeed.
The house grew toward the sun, it's white stone facade accentuated on each level by long mysterious, darkly shaded porticos covered in the lush red/green growth of Bougainvillea vines. These same vines grew rampant on the wall surrounding the villa, nearly obscuring the fitted stonework as well as the little cottage lying against the inner wall, the quarters of Maria Yaxcaba, the housekeeper.
When Ivan first saw her, Maria was hawking pencil sketches to tourist at the harbor. He was taken by the obvious talent those drawings displayed, but it wasn't until he read her that he decided to help her. It caused a small scandal when the men chose Maria as housekeeper. She was eighteen, a deaf-mute Indiowho had a reputation as a loose woman. While there was much speculation about Maria, no one had ever bothered to investigate the rumors and it was only Ivan who saw the truth. Maria had suffered at the hands of a man named Juan Sanchez. He had taken advantage of her youth and gullibility, using her by pretext, then ultimately passing her back and forth between his friends with the sure knowledge that an uneducated mute Indio would never bring charges against him. She had been beaten and abused, with no family to protect her and no one who cared. She was after all, Indio and of very little consequence to the upper classes of Cuidad del Carmen.
Life changed drastically for Maria when Senor Felix, as Ivan now called himself, hired her as housekeeper, providing a beautiful four room cottage to live in and an unbelievable wage for simply cleaning and cooking. Not only that, but Senor Felix presented her with all kinds of art supplies and demanded that she spend three hours a day at nothing but drawing pictures. He was a teacher and he instructed her in the mysteries of mixing colors, using chalk as well as colored pencils, oils and water-based paint. He explained how to add depth and texture by showing her the methods, all of which Maria absorbed it like a sponge. Within months, Maria's paintings, now displayed in splendid frames, hung throughout the main house, and Senor Felix assured her that someday she would be famous. To Maria, Casa del Sol was heaven and Senor Felix the right hand of God himself.
Maria had no idea how she understood what Senor Felix said to her, but she did. It came as sudden intuition that she learned to listen to it. Even when shopping it sometimes happened. For no reason at all, extra items would pop into her mind and always, they were things needed by Senors Felix, Charles or Larry. It was magical and yet after awhile it became so ordinary to Maria that she no longer questioned why she knew these things. Senor Felix also opened up the world of sign language and soon all three were speaking to her that way. Maria was amazed at how fast she learned it, Senor Felix started showing her the hand movements and a few days later she understood everything. It took far longer to train her hands to make the signs and longer yet for Senor Larry to become proficient at it, yet after only a few months it all seemed natural to her.
Senors Charles and Larry were also kind men and very considerate. Never did they ask her to pick up after them and never did they require more of her than the duties of keeping house and cooking. Maria could read a little, nouns mostly, memorized from a pre-school primer, but she was lost when it came to sentences. Senor Felix brought her more complicated picture books and as she read them, the sentences seemed to magically unscramble themselves in her head. She KNEW what the string of words meant and how they fitted together and with her perfect memory, it was only a matter of months until Maria was reading everything put before her. Senor Charles taught Maria the fine art of North American cooking; hamburgers, French fries, sausages on a bun, flapjacks, a sort of fluffy soft tortilla they spread with butter and honey. None of it to her as appetizing as the rich tastes of her land, but she learned to make these odd dishes and others as well and never once did the men complain about her cooking.
In her second year at Casa del Sol, something happened even stranger than all the rest. Juan Sanchez and his friends returned to Cuidad del Carmen. They saw Maria in town one day and tried once more to have their way with her. Surrounding her, they forced her into a cluttered alley and started tearing at her cloths. Suddenly three men appeared at the street opening and just stood looking at Juan. All at once Maria felt calm and safe, it was Senors Felix, Charles and Larry come to rescue her, only they did nothing, to Juan, said not a word. Sanchez and his friends stood like statues while Senor Felix motioned Maria away, then Sanchez began to cry, tears running down his cheeks as he started taking off his clothes and his friends did the same. They cried like Maria remembered crying as a child when she thought the whole world was against her. Senor Larry hustled Maria away so she never saw what went on in the alley, but next day the newspaper told of Juan Sanchez being arrested along with four others for the indecent behavior of parading naked through the city streets. When jailed, he voluntarily confessed to many crimes, among them theft and murder, rape and drug dealing. The list went on and on and it was said that if it were only partly true, Sanchez would spend the rest of his life in prison.
After that incident, Maria had no doubt Senor Felix was a magician, possibly even a witch, but it made no difference to her. He and his friends were kind considerate men who never looked on her with desire or contempt, men who had always treated her with respect. From that moment on Maria's loyalty was sealed. Nothing these three might do would sway her fidelity and that included her slow awakening as to why foreign men sometimes stayed overnight at the Casa. That was the business of the three Senors, not her's, and although she would not have minded if Senor Felix found her attractive, it was not a consuming passion with her. Ivan was very careful to quell any emotions along those lines and equally careful not to tamper with Maria in any other way. This young lady had talent and was going to be world famous someday, Ivan felt that in his bones and he intended to see that it happened as soon as their own danger was once and for all behind them.
In the nearly three years since Oklahoma City, much had changed. Moore retired the second year, unhappily forced out at age sixty. Norris now led the technical team and Harris had been reassigned to Washington. Ivan kept track of the active agents, checking on each every week or so, but as far as the FBI was concerned, Latham, Ludlow and Decoviak were old business while more pressing matters took their place. In the CIA however men still pursued the case, but none had ever gotten close with Ivan deftly diverted all their efforts elsewhere. It had been like this for three years. Each time a new name entered the scene, Ivan immediately went north to meet the man and thus added him to the watch roster. Still, for all the travel interruptions it was a pleasant life. The port of Cuidad del Carmen brought in a number of visitors, some even from the States, but no one who saw Chet these days would recognize him as the famous Rejuvenating man. Now a neat beard and longer sun streaked hair disguised his features making him appear somewhat older than his last tabloid pictures. Of course no one outside of the CIA was looking for him anyway. Fennman had planted the story of Chet's death somewhere in Africa, thus throwing the media off the search and leaving a clearer path for his own endeavors. From Cuidad del Carmen to the other nearby port, Puerto Real, Chet was known as Charles Adams, just another expatriate living in Mexico, one who with his friends provided good conversation, good meals and occasionally to a very select few, something more. Such was the case with Sven Nordof, a large, no longer young man serving aboard the cruise yacht, Star of Stockholm.
They ran across Sven at a bar in town, drinking with his Captain. Sven was a winner, weathered, strong, hard and masculine. Ivan, looking for compatible dinner guests for the evening read him and immediately liked what he saw. For one thing, Sven was articulate and in many ways far more intelligent than the Captain of the Star. He was also basically a good hearted fellow which was more than could be said for the other man, but what tipped the scales in his favor was the fact he turned Chet on and the feeling was obviously mutual. They kept glancing at each other across the bar and when the captain finally left, Chet approached him with the invitation.
Sven turned out to be a most enjoyable guest, that rare combination of down to earth gusto mixed with a sense of humor that reached the esoteric, his accented fluent English adding a fine Nordic twist to his dry, sharp wit. That accent rendered Felix as Flix, a name that stuck for the evening and long afterwards as it turned out. Bart loved the name saying it fit Ivan to a tee, and from that moment on, he became Flix to Bart as well. Like them, Sven was unmarried with no family to speak of and no real ties to anything except his job. His only failing was a deep seated prejudice against blacks, yet Ivan still considered him good candidate for an addition to their little group, saying that once one starts looking at life through the eyes of others, that kind of narrow thinking soon disappears. Bringing others into the group was a discussion that had been going on among the three for some time. Should they or shouldn't they? What was the use of Chet's and possibly now Bart's life giving ability if they never used it, or even tried to determine the extent of it. Bart was against doing anything until the CIA gave up the search, he felt it would just put the recipients in danger as well as adding even more of a burden on Ivan.
<Just select a few likely ones,> He argued,
Sven was added to that list and as the evening waned, he and Chet retired to a spare bedroom.
Sven as it turned out was a little rough, a little demanding at first, but definitely a most satisfying encounter for Chet. Afterward, they lazed in the afterglow talking about nothing in particular as they floated on the warm feeling of companionship, then Sven tugged Chet close, wrapping him within large arms as he drifted toward sleep. To Chet who was somewhat claustrophobic, it was like being trapped. That thought crossed his mind each time he moved and Sven would rouse enough to pull him close again. Finally he gave up trying to escape and once relaxed found it very restful wrapped in those heavy arms. The warmth of Sven's breath against his neck made him think of all the times that he and Jim had slept like this. Funny, he was never a bit claustrophobic with Jim.
At sunup they repeated the night before, more gently this time, but no less passion, and this time Sven attempted to conquer Chet in every way in hopes that he would remember this night. To Sven, Chet was simply the most beautiful young man he had ever seen; as smooth as a child, yet as masculine and virile as himself. It was a blend that Sven considered perfect and it set him to thinking of his return trip here at the end of summer. At that time they would have an entire week instead of just a single night.
It was mid morning when Chet saw Sven off at the harbor. On his way back through town he stopped for coffee at his favorite outdoor cafe. The waiter Raul, knowing Chet's morning habits as well as his excellent tips, brought over an English language newspaper and Chet settled in to read the day old items of interest. Totally absorbed, he didn't notice a man wending his way past the cafe tables coming toward him until the fellow said,
"I must say, you look pretty lively for a dead man Mr. Latham."
Chet spilled his coffee. Looking up he saw an oddly familiar black man, but it took him a moment to place the face. JT Moore! What the hell was he doing here? Shocked, it took another second for Chet to recover, but when he did he said as casually as he could muster,
"Mr. Moore! Won't you sit down, sir?"
<IVAN, Moore is right here talking to me! >
"So, you know who I am." Moore replied, "I assumed as much."
He smiled, "If you're contacting your friends at this moment, please tell them I said, Hello. Also inform them they have nothing to fear from me, I'm retired now and out of the game."
<He's telling the truth, Chet. >
"How did you find us?"
"Oh, it wasn't too difficult. After retirement, I started concentrating on patterns. It was obvious to me that our minds had been read and thus you knew everything we did, but the question was, would you continue reading mine when I was no longer in the picture? I thought probably not and I'm glad to see I was right."
Ivan scanned Moore's memories of the past year and sent them on to Chet.
"My God, you were matching Mexican flights arriving in Washington right after each new CIA assignment. What a stroke of genius!"
"Why, thank you. I don't like to brag, but I can still use my head. I'm list keeper, one of those fellows who try to make sense out of disparate facts. Friends in the Bureau and the Agency knew of my interest in this case and were willing to keep me informed, so I kept track of agent assignments and Customs lists and discovered that the Yucatan coughed up a Mexican National to Washington about a week after the CIA assigned a new man to the case. That was Ivan Decoviak, I presume. Tracking you to Cuidad Del Carman was a bit more difficult, but then how many trios of young, rich North Americans live within driving distance of commercial airports in the Yucatan. Not many as it turns out, in fact only one such set came to the minds of the people I talked to, so here I am."
"That you are, Mr. Moore, only the problem is, what are we going to do with you? Understand, we just can't . . ."
"Before you do anything, let me say that I didn't track you for the government, I did it to prove a point. Ivan Decoviak can read minds and it's a wonderful talent I'm sure, yet even with that edge, I found you, and so will others. As long as people search, you won't be safe."
"Are you saying we should turn ourselves in?"
"Only if love pain and misery! Tell Ivan to read my mind concerning order 654."
Ivan did and flashed it back to Chet. A containment structure had already been built at the Institute on Aging specifically for the three of them. Three tiny rooms, hardly bigger than jail cells. Moore watched Latham and saw his eyes widen slightly,
"That's only part of it. Think no human contact and being routinely gassed each time they want to do a study. Also know, there is a panic button that releases cyanide, just in case they lose control. No, I wouldn't recommend turning myself in. The only safe way to halt the search is to eliminate those behind it."
That idea stopped Chet cold. Ivan couldn't kill anyone even if he wanted to and he doubted that either he or Bart could do the deed.
<No, we can't, but that's not what Moore has in mind. We'll be with you in a minute or two. Offer him a cup of coffee.>
Chet flagged the waiter and ordered a fresh pot.
"I take it you're thinking along different lines than just bumping them off."
Moore nodded, "Is Ivan coming? I'd like to meet him."
"He and Bart will be here shortly . . . Ah, here they are now." He said as a car pulled up to the curb.
Moore turned to look. He remembered Decoviak from the pictures, but it took him a moment longer to recognize the young man with him. It was Bart Ludlow after all, only much younger appearing than three years ago. Like Latham, he seemed to be in his twenties. My God, Moore thought, Latham can pass it on!
"Yes he can." Ivan said as he pulled out a chair. "And Fennman knows it. That's why the search was started in the first place, but of course now they wants me and Bart as well. Do you think your plan will work?"
"What plan?" Chet asked. Ivan flashed Moore's thoughts to him.
"Ah, ha . . ." he responded.
"That's a bit unnerving, you know, everybody seeing my thoughts." Moore said.
<Is this better? > Ivan replied. In one fell swoop Moore received the current view from all three men and nearly jumped out of his seat. In his mind there were three distinct pictures of himself, the table before him and those seated around it, one view from the front and one from each side.
"Now, that's really unnerving." He stuttered.
"You get used to it." Bart said, "It like rear view mirrors, after awhile they becomes natural reference points."
"Really?" Moore doubted it could ever seem natural to him.
"Why don't we finish our coffee and go back to the house." Ivan suggested, "We have much to discuss, and this isn't the place for it."
While Bart and Ivan collected ice and glasses, Chet led their guest up the steps to the Great Room were Moore was instantly drawn to the view. He stood gazing out over the gulf, his eyes coming to rest on steamer in the distance.
"I can see why you like it here. It's absolutely beautiful, it almost makes me want to take up painting!"
"It's gorgeous, alright, but of course we see the same thing everyday. It no longer holds quite the same impact it did at first, but wait till the weather gets heavy and gulf turns dark. Now that's a sight." Chet touched Moore's shoulder and indicated the window behind them,
"Over there is my favorite view, the harbor. Always something going on down there. He led the man to the window and pointed to the boats dancing on the waves. "Fisherman. If you like to fish, that's the place to do it."
He noticed the Star of Stockholm was just now getting underway. Sven said they were stopping again on the trip back from South America, but of course, that depended on the captain's mood. Time would tell, he thought.
"And over there is our city lookout." He said, indicating the third window. "From, here you can see to the plaza. When we first arrived they were holding a festival of some sort. It went on for nearly a week and I got the impression it was like that all the time down there." He laughed, "It's really a quiet town, but when they have a blow out, this place can rock."
"Looks as though you've discovered paradise."
"As close as one can get, I suppose. Of course paradise can be found anywhere. It's who you're with, not where you're at that counts. At least I've always found that to be true."
As he looked at Moore he realized how much the man reminded him of Jim. Moore was older and looked his age, while Jim at fifty, had appeared more like thirty-five, but there was a similarity in the way he held his head, the way he looked back with a clear intensity that most people lack. Jim had also been much darker complected, almost a midnight color, while Moore was medium in shade, a sort of warm brown. He decided they looked nothing alike, yet there was something very like Jim about him. Funny, he thought, almost 30 years and Jim is still fresh in my memory. Even Ivy has faded to a collage of imperfect views, but not Jim. It was as if I had seen him only yesterday . . .
<He's at it again. >
"Who?" Bart asked
<Chet, he's day dreaming about Jim, and Moore is wondering why Chet is staring at him like that. Go up and talk to them while I get the drinks around. >
An hour later they were having lunch on the terrace in the shade of an old Sepote tree, Bart and Moore were at the moment holding an animated conversation about going north.
<So what do you think? >
<Why ask? You already know. > Chet replied. Moore's plan seemed feasible and as long as Ivan felt confident, he had no qualms.
<Not the plan, J. T. Moore! Is he the kind of guy you could get along with for a few years, or maybe for a lot of years? >
<Sure, he's a nice guy. Why do you ask? >
<His lifeline. He's only got about five years, and I'm thinking it's a shame to let that much experience and talent die. >
<The three musketeers at last become four, is that what you mean? How about you, we can do two for the price of one >
<I'm not ready yet, I want to experience aging first hand. >
<Believe me, it ain't no picnic. I wouldn't give up ten minutes of this for fifty years of old age! Besides, there's more to it than that. Bart and I don't get sick and you had the flu twice last year. >
<I know, but I still want to wait awhile. Now what about JT? >
<It's up to him, but before you promise anything, you better make sure he doesn't have a weird blood type. No use offering something we can't deliver.>
That issue was put to rest for awhile. Instead, over the next few days JT learned about his hosts. Ivan worked his magic and each morning J T arose with an additional set of memories layered in among his own, memories of past events not his, yet when he searched through them, it seemed as though they were. Ivan held nothing back, the three were now imprinted perfectly in Moore, from childhood to the very moment of transfer. All Moore had to do was think back and he could touch the lives of each . . .
"There are no private matters anymore." J. T. said. On his forth day at Casa Del Sol, he and Latham sat on the terrace at sunset lingering over a drink. Maria had cleared the table, coming back only for a moment with a final round of drinks before gesturing good night. They were alone, Bart and Ivan off to town on some errand. Stirring the rum and tonic, J. T. watched the ice circle the glass without really seeing it. Instead, his mind's eye watched himself play the piano in the living room of his home in Alberta. It was a warm summer afternoon, the notes he played a backdrop to the sunlit dust motes dancing on the air. Moore's vision was so crystal clear it gave him the disjointed feeling of being in two places at once. He was not only Jason Moore, he was Ivan, feeling all the urges of an eight year old boy trying to hurry through the practice and get back to what he was doing before his mother called. Moore shook his head, clearing the vision.
"Not a one," Chet agreed. "Not between the four of us at least."
"I thought I understood it, but I never realized the depth. I feel each memory as if I had lived it and I see absolutely everything. Damn . . . Some things should remain private."
"I assume you're speaking of sexual matters."
"Among other things, but there are also day dreams, flights of fancy, notions, opinions and ideas. It disturbs me that none of mine are strictly mine anymore."
"I felt the same at first. It does take getting used to, but instead of concentrating on that, consider the gains. We no longer face life strictly alone nor do we feel the need to hide our innermost thoughts from one another. We understanding each other perfectly and acceptance is total. It's almost symbiotic the way we can share emotions, thoughts, and feelings and yet we remain distinctly ourselves. Remember, no matter how far apart we are, we can always speak to Ivan and through him to each other. For me that outweighs the loss of privacy. Besides, as Ivan has pointed out, there's no real privacy in the world today, just as there was no escaping from people the likes of Jason Thomas Moore." He smiled at the man and J. T. returned the smile wanly.
"What you need to do," Chet continued, "Is stop thinking about it. The thing to remember is that nothing about you is judged inappropriate by us, nor can it be unless you yourself judge it as such. The reason is simple. We see Jason Moore from the exact same point of view as Jason Moore sees himself and this includes your sexual fantasies, if they turn you on, they will turn us on as well. I can't explain it any better than that, but believe me, it's true. Here you can say anything, think anything, hell, you can run through the house naked if you want. With us, the only thing you have to worry about is being hit on."
Moore finally laughed,
"I'm an old man. That's one fear I no longer have."
"Don't bet on it. Once you're used to this mind thing, you discover that sex takes on a life of its own and age has very little to do with it. For instance, check my memories of Sven Nordof, he's almost as old as you."
To Moore, Nordof was only a name until he looked directly at the memory, and then he became part of it . . .
He sat on the bed - No, Latham sat on the bed. J. T. found it difficult to separate himself from Latham's memory. Excitement permeated the air. Sven pulled the shirt up over his head displaying a still hard muscled body under the smattering of gray chest hair. Next came the pants and as he dropped them to the floor, he grasped his already hard cock, stroking it, his eyes feasted on J. T. as he stepped toward him. He stood before J. T. while he (Latham?) ran his hands over Sven's stomach, no longer youthfully flat, but displaying the same muscled firmness as the rest of him. Sven reached out placing a large hand behind J. T.'s head, pulling him downward until his lips met the urgent cock now beading moisture at the tip. J. T. kissed it, laved it with his tongue before finally place his lips around the full, warm head. He could feel Sven's fingers running through his hair, the taste of the fluid that now freely flowed, Sven pressing him downward on the shaft . . .
J. T. became aware of Chet's hand on his leg fondling the erection brought on by the scene in his mind. The next thing he knew, his hard cock was somehow free from the confines of clothing and Chet was stroking him. Without a word, the man bent down to take J. T. in his mouth and J. T. became lost between two worlds. In one, Sven was forcing him down, his fingers now wound tightly in his hair as he begin to pump, his hips thrusting harder and harder. In the other, Chet was engulfing him, his tongue doing things J. T. never dreamed possible. Lost in a haze of sex, J. T.'s hands found Chet's hair and almost mirroring what was going in his mind - he too worked himself toward climax. The sudden hot flood from Sven, the taste of him, his own massive release, all blended together into the most intense orgasm J. T. had ever experienced. It left him weak, loosely hanging in the chair while Chet rearranged his clothing. Latham sat down again and with a smile on his face, reclaimed his glass. Raising it, he saluted Moore,
"Still think you'll miss the privacy?" He asked.
Jason Thomas Moore was speechless.
Age didn't matter, as J.T. soon found out, not one whit to those who knew his thoughts, his desires, his inner self. Sex is mostly in the mind and when the mind is receptive, the body becomes of secondary importance. He had never felt freer in his life, nor more welcomed. The three young men now sought him out, urging him to join them in everything, including their beds and he KNEW it wasn't simply out of pity or consideration, he knew it because Ivan shared the thoughts of all three with him. As Chet had said, privacy was a small price to pay for total and absolute acceptance.
Then came the offer to accept the transfusion and join with them permanently, with all its ramifications. He would probably outlive every one of nieces and nephews, and perhaps even their children's children, in fact when he begin looking younger he would have to cut all ties with family and friends. It was a steep price to pay and had that offer been made before the mind sharing, J.T. might have refused it. Now he accepted readily and in doing so added another thread to the pattern Ivan was unknowingly weaving. No one appreciates youth more than the aged, nor good health more than the sick and no one yearns for inclusion more than those who were forced to live a solitary life.
It wasn't until the day of the transfusion that Ivan told J. T. of the lifelines and what he had seen in store for him, but to Jason that was a side issue. Far more important was the fact that he was working again, using the skills honed over a lifetime in an attempt to derail Fennman. The old joy filled his soul as he concentrated on the task. Once he realized Ivan's limitations, he felt getting rid of Fennman would not be quite as easy as he first visualized, but it could be done, he was sure of it. It was a brand new goal and he relished it even more than the sure knowledge that he had escaped the death waiting for him in a few years time.
J. T.'s plan was basically an extension of what Ivan was already doing, only it required someone on the inside to make it work the way Jason visualized and that someone was Jason himself. What he had to do was dig out every last person in the Bureau and in the Agency who knew anything about the search and introduce them to Ivan. This he realized would take time, several weeks a least, but after Ivan had those people on his roster, they could move on to bigger game. Fennman and those behind him would be last. When it came together as planned, Ivan could erase all knowledge of the three fugitives, but this would only work if done from Fennman outward to the least knowledgeable agent. August was the target date for the trip to Washington, this time just Jason and Ivan. Later, all four would go, but only after Ivan had read the agents involved.
They were gone three weeks when the Star of Stockholm returned. Chet went down to the quay to meet Sven, only to find he wasn't aboard. Captain Iverson said Sven had left the ship at Caracas and not returned, yet he didn't seem very upset about losing his first officer, in fact he wasn't upset at all. Chet learned this when he contacted Ivan.
<What's Iverson not telling me?>
<Only that he wasn't sad to see Sven go. Sven discovered that Iverson had padded the books and as you know, Sven's bonus depends on how much profit the tours make. Another reason is that if Sven doesn't complete the tour, he loses everything, even base pay. The bigger the profit, the bigger the captain's share. When Sven didn't return to the ship, he never bothered to look for him, just wrote him off.>
<Can you locate him?>
<I can feel him. . . He's either asleep or unconscious, but I don't know which, so I won't try rousing him. I'll keep checking and let you know as soon as he wakes up.>
Two hours later Ivan was back,
<He's been hurt, pretty seriously I think. He's in a hospital doped to the gills and still in pain, only I don't know what happened to him. He's so foggy at the moment all he wants to do is sleep. I did see a nurse bending over him wearing a tag that said Santa del Rosa, but whether that's the name of a town or a hospital is anybody's guess. I'll keep track and let you know the second I learn anything new.>
"Well?" Bart asked.
"He's been hurt, badly from what Ivan says. God, it's more than a week since the Star left Caracas, do you suppose he's been in the hospital all this time? Ivan's trying to find the location, only Sven is so full of pain killer he's asleep most of the time."
"We'll just have to wait, I guess." Bart turned to stare out the window. His insistence on deferring Nordof weighed heavily at that moment. Damn what a mess I've had made of it, he thought, Sven hurt and now Ivan working twice as hard to sort it out . . .
<Ah, the ramblings a true flagellant. Well, my love, when I get home remind me to beat you with something hard and meaty for a very long time. Meanwhile, why don't you arrange for a pair of tickets to Caracas, pronto, while I speak to Chet. I'll be back to fill you in babe, and then we can spend some quality time together. Just you, me and that little whip you're beating yourself with. >
<Chet, Sven was hit by a car. A couple of doctors came by and were talking about his case. It's really bad, paralyzed from the waist down, head injuries and a broken arm, but the thing is, Sven has already given up. He doesn't want to live in a wheel chair for the rest of his life. When he's awake that's all he thinks about. >
He flashed an idea to Chet and gave him a moment to sort it out.
<Do you think I dare try? > Ivan asked.
<What harm can it do? He may think it's an hallucination, but it's better than nothing. What I'm wondering though, is will a transfusion cure him. Nerve damage has always been the most permanent kind of injury.>
<Not a month ago you were saying we needed more information. Well, I'd say Sven was about as perfect a test as you'll find. Anyway it worked fine on Bart and Jason. It might take Sven awhile longer to recover, but I'll bet that's the only difference.>
<And if we trap him in a wheel chair for the next hundred years, what then?>
<Then we try to make it the best century that anyone has ever lived. Look, even if he does remains paralyzed, don't you think that in twenty years they may find a cure? I know you feel that some things can be worse than death and that you hate the idea of being responsible for anyone suffering, but we have to do this. What's the use of having our gifts if we're just going to sit on them? Hell, we might as well go live in a cave somewhere. Jason thinks you and I may be a next step in human evolution and that perhaps theres others like us, but that's only supposition. We need to know what these gifts will do, maybe then we can figure out what to do with them.>
<I never said I wasn't willing to try, it's just that at heart I'm still a cautious old man looking at all the angles . . .>
"Seven o'clock," Bart interrupted, hanging up the phone. "We have to be at the Mirida airport by 6:45, so we better get a move on. We'll need a transfusion kit, the one with a hand pump and I'll pack a few duds for us. We've got to MOVE if we're gonna catch that plane."
Sven Nordof had the strangest dream. Charlie, the sweet young man from Cuidad del Carman was talking to him, telling him a tale about time and how pain went away and how everything would be right again. In his dream, Charlie and his friend Larry were at this moment on their way to help. It was so clear it almost seemed real.
Sven lay strapped to a board supporting his back, a tube in his good arm feeding a steady drip of liquid from a collection of bags hanging from a bedside pole. He was hardly recognizable, his face a black and blue swollen mess, one arm in a cast, the rest of him encased in bandages. Looking at him, Chet realizing it was miracle Sven had survived.
<What do we do? > He asked Ivan who was watching the scene through Chet's eyes.
<First keep the nurses out. It'll take about twenty minutes. I see there's no extra bed, so you'll have to improvise. You'll must to be on about the same level as Sven.>
Chet checked the hall and found a short ladder and a couple of sturdy chairs. These he quickly brought inside and set up next to the bed with the ladder across the chair backs. Now, if the fellow washing walls didn't miss it for minutes, everything was set. Chet reclined on the ladder trying to find a comfortable position while Bart inserted the needles.
<Once the line is flushed, you can work the hand pump while Bart keeps the nurses out. Slow and easy, squeeze the bulb, hold it for three seconds and repeat. I'll tell you when to quit.>
"Ready?" Bart asked.
"Let her rip."
The transfusion itself went without incident, but as Bart returned the ladder to the hall, a nurse demanded to know what he was doing with it. He fended her off with a bright smile and "No hable Espanole" which worked only after she checked the room and found everything in good order.
"Crazy Americans, she muttered, still suspicious that he was up to something.
<It worked again! > Ivan's thoughts were jubilant. <Off the scale. His lifeline is the same as yours now. Next time let's see if Bart can pass it on as well. >
<There's not a doubt in my mind that it will. Sven will be fine if Jason is any indication. He's walking without a limp now and wearing me out keeping up with him. He knows a ton of people here and we're checking them all. >
<So, things are going in well Washington? >
<Swimmingly, I believe is the word. The higher we climb, the more parties we attend. Remember Agent Harris? He has Jason and me fixed up with dates tonight - some shindig for Senator Davis, probably a fundraiser. Anyway, VIP's from both the Agency and theBureau will be there, and hopefully they can tell us everything we need to know. If more leads develop we'll stick and follow them up, otherwise we'll be back in a week. Oh, by the way. Jason and I have decided to pass through Atlantic City on the way home. Just one day, slam, bam, thank you Sam, or in this case Donald. Now that the club is growing, the coffer needs a transfusion as well. >
<Jason thinks it will be OK if we don't over do it. Just go for one big jackpot and bail out right away. Someone has to win it, so why not a retired FBI agent on vacation? Since big jackpots are annuities spread over several years, we'll set up a direct deposit account, all nice and legal with taxes paid. I'm feeling really good about this. You know, Chet, that when this business with Fennman is cleared up, you'll be able to contact your kids again. >
<Now that should make 'em happy! > Chet replied wryly, <They've probably already spent their inheritance.>
<I'm sorry, Chet. I know it's a bitter pill having your children turn against you, but maybe they'll get over it someday. In the meantime you have a new family member to think of and he's waking up now. >
Chet turned to find Sven staring at him in disbelief.
"You did come, just like the dream. You did come!"
"Of course. Now, don't tell me an old Norseman doesn't believe in dreams. Wasn't it a dream that led Lief Ericson to the new world? It's OK Sven. You're going to be fine."
"But . . . No, no . . ."
<He thinking of the paralyses. He doesn't want to live if he can't walk. >
"No buts about it, you will walk again. I promise. As soon as you're able, we're going home to Casa del Sol where you can sit on the terrace and watch the ships in the harbor. Maria is right now learning to cook all your favorite dishes and you won't have to do a thing except get well."
"I must still be dreaming . . ."
Chet grasp Sven's hand, squeezing it between his own,
"No dream, my friend, not unless life itself is a dream. I'm here and so is Larry and Flix is too in a way. Now sleep. You need rest. Just dream the good dreams my friend."
<Good dreams coming up. Oh by the way, Sven's feeling a fire in his back, just like the thing Bart described. Told ya! >
When they left Caracas a week later, Sven's back showed no signs of the crushing damage so clearly visible in the first x- rays. Everyone declared it a miracle, nurses made the sign of the cross each time they came near him and where before two doctors tended him, now a half dozen visited each morning. Chet noticed one thing the doctors seemed to ignore and that was the very slow healing of Sven's other injuries. The day they left Caracas, Sven still looked almost as bad as when they arrived, although the pain was nearly gone. He still slept a great deal, waking only briefly before dropping off again, but Ivan assured them it was normal sleep.
"Why do you suppose he's healing in one place like a runaway freight while the rest is at a standstill?" Chet asked.
Bart shook his head. "I can't imagine, but I think the same thing happened to me. I was pretty near the end, you know, my kidneys were shot and everything else was going to hell in a bucket. Afterwards, I swear the worst damaged organs healed first, it was like a fever deep inside, first in one place and then another."
"Strange, I never the felt heat, only toothaches."
"Maybe there was nothing wrong with you."
"Except old age, you mean? I did have a bad heart, but maybe it wasn't as bad as Doc Burke thought. There's also the fact it took me two years to grow young, while you did it in thirteen months, so maybe it was slow enough I didn't notice it."
"Perhaps because you were older it just took longer. I think the healing power goes first to where it's needed the most."
"Smart blood cells?" Chet responded incredulously.
"Hell, I'll vote for plain old magic. It sure seemed like it to me. Watching Sven should give us more clues on how it works. WHY it works is another question altogether."
Bart was evidently right. Sven was moving his toes and complaining of needles and pins in his feet long before his face started loosing the swollen look. Then it was his arm. The itching was driving him crazy, Chet removed the cast, afraid that it might be too soon and replaced it with a removable splint so Sven could scratch at the itch deep inside. Sven's face was still a mass of heavy scabs where the skin and flesh had been worn away on the tarmac. He had been dragged under the car causing a fractured cheek bone that should have been disfiguring, yet a few days after the cast was removed, the scabs sloughed off revealing fresh, pink skin over a perfectly normal cheek and jaw line. In the process Sven's face acquired a definite asymmetrical look, one side as fresh and smooth as a baby's, while the other remained tanned and wrinkled by fifty odd years of sun and sea. But he was whole again, first moving around on a walker, then on canes and getting stronger every day. Sven still hadn't been told of the transfusion or what was in store for him, that would have to wait until Ivan returned, yet Sven was well aware something strange had happened and was full of questions,
"How can it be? It's not natural. Bones don't knit in just a week or so. How can it be?"
Chet gently chided in return,
"Gosh, I'm sorry it bothers you, I mean, most people would be happy to get well so quickly. Don't worry about it Sven, Felix will be back in a few days, maybe he can explain it. By the way, when I talked to him last he was really happy that you're recovering so nicely.
Sven shook his head,
"I am happy too, I just don't understand it . . ."
"Neither do I," Chet replied truthfully, "But I'm not going to waste a minute worrying about it." He reached out and brushed Sven's hair back, "You told me that a sailor has to take what the sea offers without complaint. Well isn't life like that as well? You've surely had bad days, maybe you're due for the good ones now."
Sven looked at Charles. So young yet so wise, he thought. That very first night he felt something for Charles that he had not felt for anyone in a long time, and now it had grown until it infused his being. So wonderful and yet so impossible. He was nearly sixty, Charles barely into his twenties. In a few years it would all be over, the age difference was far to great, yet for the moment being in love again warmed his soul. Did Charles feel the same, he wondered.
"And maybe I'm just dreaming all this!" Sven said, more to himself than to Charles.
"Well, if you are, you're having some mighty hot dreams, Sailor boy," Chet laughed, "I'm all raw from your whisker burns this morning."
At last Sven laughed. Grasping Chet's hand he pulled him close for a hug and nuzzle that might have developed into something more had not Maria chose that moment to ring the breakfast bell.