Chapter 13
It took a full day for Ivan to recover. He couldn't seem to reason properly, it was like being on an immense plain with only one point of reference. His thoughts kept going back to the blank spot that now lay in his mind - Ron Harris. . . Ronald David Harris, 24 years old - young, bright, his whole life ahead of him. . . Had it not been for Fennman! Ivan recognized the voice of Ron's killer - Erik Lance, Fennman's front man at the Institute, that accent was impossible to miss.
Even after he was functioning again, Ivan still felt stunned. Ron's death was possibly the worst thing he had ever experiences, but it was Jason who suffered the most. Jason thought of Ron as his protoge, they were friends, had a closness as only men who work in law enforcment feel. At first Jason wept, then he wanted to get his hands on Lance, even if it meant going to the Institute alone, but of course, that was impossible, the place was tighter than Fort Knox.
Ivan started the cascade, (the big flush as it would soon to be known) and then they began staking out the Institute looking for Erik Lance. Only he knew where to find Ron's body.
The next day Ivan read anyone who entered or left the facility but all he learned was that most employees didn't leave. They were housed there, out of sight behind tall shrubery and taller fences, completely cut off from the rest of humanity. Jason figured that security at the Insitute was even tighter than at the White House. The only people who came and went on a daily basis, drove delivery vans, or were grounds maintenance personnel, none of whom were allowed inside the buildings.
While Ivan read those in vehicles heading up the drive, Jason sat watching the gates and listened to news reports on an all news station out of DC. The cascade had started - there were a few rumblings already, "Congressman resigns - Details at the top of the hour" type announcments, then a real news flash: A ranking cabnet member confessed to taking bribes and he did so while making a press corps address. Pandora's box had finally opened and the contents were spilling all over Washington.
"The remorse is working, but this isn't." Ivan said as he watched yet another delivery truck turn up the drive to the Institute, "The same crews go back and forth - I need someone with inside access."
Jason rubbed his jaw,
"You could try zapping the gate cameras," He said "They'll probably send someone out to repair them."
Ivan spotted three articulated units between the inner and outer gates.
"All at the same time?"
"Better not. Try one, that might be enough."
As it turned out it was more than enough. Ivan concentrated . . . And the camera exploded like a 4th of July rocket. Sharpnel pounded into the concrete, rattling the chain link fence -nearby trees shook - both men jumped.
"What the hell. . ."
"Oh shit! It was booby trapped - heat sensitive! Fennman had to have seen the confidentual reports I worked up on you. Christ, look at that - the other two cameras have turned and are panning the drive. You'd better fry them too, Ivan, and lets get the hell out of here."
Two more explosions rocked the gates, collapsing them and with squeal of tires the sports utility blended with the traffic on the feeder road and dissapeared.
"You tripped his 'early warning device!' Man-o-Man, those were like big fragmentation grenades - had you been at the gate, or even close to it, those babies would have cooked your goose! We've got to get rid of this truck - if it isn't already on camera, someone is bound to remember it."
Ivan passed the memory on to the other three men. <We'll ditch the truck and be home in an hour - I think we better not park near the Institute for the next hour or so, but we can cruise by and see what's happening.>
That same afternoon the shit hit the fan. All regular broadcasts got knocked off the air by the unfolding saga in Washington. Congressmen, Senators, Presidential advisers - the movers and shakers of Capital Hill were coming forward in droves to confess their sins - and name names, some of who even Ivan didn't know. Fennman's name came up several time, but it was Senator Davis who struck the death knell for the Institute on Aging when he told of Fennman providing organs for transplant, then added that Fennman was also known as the infamous Penn, the man Chester Latham once claimed was behind his attempted kidnapping - and the murder of a U of M student.
"We have got to get back to the Institue!" Ivan exclaimed. This is coming apart so fast that both Fennman and Lance might get away."
They were only minutes away from the facility, luckily. It was chaos. The gates were completly down, torn out of the way, and people were streaming out by car and on foot. The police hadn't arrived yet, no one directed traffic there was simply no order to the hasty departure.
Ivan read those who streamed past and discovered one important fact; Fennman had been living in an aparment at the Instutute for the past 2 years and he was still inside, shredding documents. Also inside was the head of security, John Eritine and a few others.
"Good enough," Jason responded when he heard the news, "But where is Erik Lance?"
"That's odd, that name doesn't come up in any of the memories I've read so far. Well, we all know what the bastard looks like - keep your eyes peeled, we shouldn't have any trouble spotting him - he stands out like a snow drift in summer."
The crowd thinned to a dribble and still no cops, finally two cars came through the gates, the first driven by a dark haired man of medium build.
"THATS HIM!" Ivan exclaimed.
"Who?"
"Lance! Only his name's not Lance, it's John Eritine!"
Ivan scanned the man, Fennman was in the second car. Ivan scanned him as well, but closed down on Eritine making him come to a stop. The second car suddenly sped up, careening past and hitting the access road with its tires smoking. It was out of sight in seconds.
"Fennman," Ivan commented, "But he's mine now - he can't hide any longer."
Jason was out of the van even before Fennman passed. He had only one thing in mind: Erik Lance or Eritine, or whatever the fuck his name was. He jerked open the car door dragging the unresisting man to his feet. "You Rotten Motherfucker!" he growled as he punched the man square in the nose. Blood flew and so did the dark wig disguising Eritine's white hair.
Finally the cops arrived along with a contingent of FBI agents. Eritine talked a steady stream. In a matter of hours forensics experts came and began a systematic unearthing of the truth behind the Institute on Aging.
Three days later, Ron's funeral went almost unnoticed in the tide of larger events. The whole country was in shock. People still came forward with tales of personal dishonor but many who did were simply volunteers. The country seemed caught up in a sudden rush to truthfulness. To Ivan, it was eerie, but not nearly as eerie as seeing into Fennman's mind. The man was a psychopath more ruthless than anyone Ivan had ever read. It made Ivan's skin crawl, what's more, there was no way to cascade Fennman's conscious - he had none!
"So how is our Mr. Penn doing?" Chat asked.
"Living high on a log - a log cabin that is. He hired a bush pilot to fly him in and he plans on staying the winter. It would probably be a great hideout if I hadn't read him. He's right here." Ivan marked the place on the map.
"Ontario?"
"Yep, in the northwest part of the Province, miles from the nearest settlement. We can have him picked up anytime. Damn I'm glad this is over. In case you haven't noticed I've been living on pain killers lately."
"I've noticed. Are you ready for the transfusion now?"
<As ready as I'll ever be. I'm really going to miss the communion, the closeness we all share, but I sure as hell won't miss the pain. I have to tell you though, I think I will miss not growing old. I really envy you. >
<For God's sake, why? Those last years before I started getting younger were rough as hell, not anything I'd wish on my worst enemy. >
<Yes, but don't you see, it was those rough times that made you what you are. You're wise in ways that I've never been. I've always had it easy, and now I don't even have to worry about growing old.>
Chet Laughed, "It's not suffering that makes a man smarter, it's just that time brings us a little bit of wisdom. You know the old saying, "Too soon old, too late smart"? Well there's a lot of truth in that. Some people never smarten up no matter how long they live, but I can tell you one thing for sure - there isn't one old man or woman who wouldn't give their left tit to be young again - to try it one more time and see if they couldn't avoid all those stupid mistakes they made. We just need time, that's all there is to gaining wisdom."
Chet stuck both pinkies in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle,
"Gather around, Guys! Ivan the Terrible is about to take the plunge. Vun moorre time the Vampirre strikes!" He said, rolling his R's, Bela Lagose style. "Which one is going to be the lucky donor?"
"Now who do you think?" Bart smiled as he rolled up his sleeve. "If you don't feel heat, Babe then we'll switch to Chet . . ." <And in case we can't talk this way again, just let me say that I love you with all my heart. >
<I know, but don't stop saying it. >
A few minutes later,
"Wow, that does feel weird - reminds me of that stuff my dad used to use when he pulled a muscle - hot and cold at the same time - this is more hot than cold though. Now my head feels hot too. Oh Christ, I knew it, I'm going to lose my ESP." <Good-bye Bart, Chet, Jason, Sven - I'll really miss not being able to talk to you any time I want. >
A tear found its way down Ivan's tired face.
"We'll miss it too," Chet answered aloud, "But remember we can get cell phones, not as good, but we'll get by. Don't fight it, try to relax, let what's happening, happen. Would you like to sleep until it's over?"
"I think so. A shot of morphine or a double one of Demerol - hell, give me both. I don't want to be awake when it goes."
Chapter 14
Walter Fennman sat huddled near a campfire listening to the night sounds. For some reason he couldn't sleep in the cabin, but the fire wasn't much comfort either. A bird disturbed by the firelight or by the small creatures hunting in the dark, called out mournfully. Insects chirped then went silent as something larger moved through the undergrowth. A twig snapped. Fennman clutched the pistol tighter, but whatever stalked the darkness moved away. He hated the Canadian wilderness even more than he hated the moonless night, yet this vast vacant stretch of land was the only safe place left to him. He had searched diligently to discover this spot, several hundred miles north of Thunder Bay and miles from prying eyes. Toward spring, he intended to work his way back to civilization. He had a passport with his picture, head shaven and a full beard and a different name. All he had to do was alter himself to match the picture and escape to someplace where all those millions in his Swiss account would do him some good.
Decoviak/Latham/Ludlow, like a mantra the three names circled his thoughts. They were to blame for this disaster, all three of them, but Decoviak most of all. It was he who forced Davis and others to come forth with the facts behind every underhanded deal in Washington. Why didn't I realize what was happening? A couple of congressmen resigned and then it all came apart the day Decoviak arrived, the day the cameras exploded. Fennman had hoped to eliminate Decoviak if he tried any of his mind games tricks at the Institute, but instead all it had done was eliminate the gates.
After Senator Davis confessed there wasn't enough airtime to accommodate the number of congressmen, senators, administrators, department heads and lobbyist coming forward to incriminate themselves. Even the President at last spoke candidly of his sexual affairs and yet that news was trampled under the sheer number of confessions concerning theft, fraud, dirty dealings, purposeful mismanagement, outright lies and character assassination committed by hundreds of public servants of every stripe. Even sabotage and murder came to light and right in the middle of that mess, the Institute was exposed. He had to run. The FBI and other agencies that had once served him surreptitiously, were now tracking him and many other former Washington VIP's, people who for some reason had not been hypnotized into spilling their guts. Luckily for Fennman, those tracking him were increasingly hindered as many of their own agents resigned in disgrace. Newspaper wags were calling it the Big Flush and while Decoviak carried the blame for it, if it hadn't been for Chester Latham, none of this would have happened.
Another noise from the trees made Fennman start. Wolves, he wondered?
At that moment from a thousand miles to the south, Fennman's mind was being read. Ivan was well again. In only weeks the cancer dissipated while the ESP stayed intact.
"He's nervous, jumping at every noise. You know it might be kinder just to have him arrested and let the law take care of it."
"Kind, my ass." Jason responded, "That bastard ordered Harris killed. He doesn't deserve kindness."
"He's right, Ivan," Chet interjected, "And it's not just Harris. Think about that poor kid in the mortuary and all the other deaths he's responsible for. He fears you more than prison, even more than death, and he deserves the thing he fears the most."
"Alright, but I won't watch, I don't ever want to know." Ivan was miserable. It was one thing making people remorseful over actions they knew were wrong and quite another dealing with a psychopath like Fennman. The man had no conscience, even murder was acceptable if it provided even the slightest benefit for himself.
Fennman's greatest horror was losing control over his own mind. When he began to realize that Decoviak had that power, it frightened to the core. Without thinking about it, he began pulling his world in around him. Fear. It was the reason he managed the Institute from hiding these last few years, the reason he ordered Harris killed, all of it based on the fear of losing control or more accurately, being controlled by Decoviak. In the end he had lost it all anyway, thanks to the confessions of Davis and others. They had run him out of Washington to the one place he couldn't be touched by the law or by Decoviak - or so he thought.
Fennman sat mulling over his options. Europe first, then maybe on to China, some remote corner where tourist weren't allowed. He had the money to buy his way in, all he had to do was sit tight and wait for the media storm to blow over. In the spring, yes, in the spring . . .
<Is anyplace really safe? > A soft directionless voice spoke from the darkness.
"Who said that?" Fennman leapt to his feet, staring around in panic, the gun clutched tightly in his fist.
<You know who I am, Walter, and now you know there is no place on earth where you can hide from me. I've been watching you day and night, I'm always watching. >
Fennman began firing the pistol into the darkness, first at one shadow and then another until the gun clicked on empty chambers.
"Where are you, you bastard, where are you!"
<Where you can't touch me, Walter, but where I can always see you, I know what you are doing every moment, what you are thinking. You can't escape me Walter, no matter where you go, I'll be watching you. >
At last Fennman realized it wasn't a voice he was hearing. Decoviak was in his mind, taking control, making him hear these things.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God." Fennman moaned over and over, scattering bullets as he reloaded the pistol. His worst nightmares had come to pass. Decoviak would steal his will, his soul, make him into what Davis had become. NO! NO! He couldn't live with that . . .
Ivan retreated. He saw what was in Fennman's mind and it drove him out. He pulled back, hiding his face in his hands while tears streamed down his cheeks,
"I've killed him! Oh dear God I've murdered him."
"No you haven't! If he dies it's his own doing. Remember, it's only his own fear, nothing else."
The four men gathered around Ivan holding him tightly. The warmth and love they projected filled the room, protecting him, guarding him against what he knew would be the echo of a single gunshot shattering the dark Canadian night.
Epilogue
Several months later - after Ivan had erased the memory of the Fennman's manhunt from the minds of the former hunters, the five men returned to Casa Del Sol. Ivan found it impossible to remove all traces of themselves from the various agencies - files still existed even though the staff had changed. Reports lie buried in many offices in the interlocking bureaus of Washington, references made to Decoviak, Latham and Ludlow, but only reference, only speculation. Given time and lack of interest, the Decoviak name would become another 'Area 51', a myth.
The five talked of travel and perhaps even moving to the States, but the truth was, Casa Del Sol suited them - it met their needs, providing tranquility, comfort and security. It was all the things a home should be.
Ivan's foray into the Mexico City art world with a showing of Maria's painting had gone very well indeed. She was an instant hit and not only in Mexico. The world was opening for Maria and Ivan was pushing her into it.
The men spared no expense (or discomfort) for Maria's big night. It was a gala evening where five men dressed in tuxedos escorted a dazzled and dazzling Maria. Reporters covered the event, asking questions, taking photos - Maria signed her answers while one or another of her escorts repeated them verbally. It was Primo performance, all done in a grand style, and all six had a grand time, especially Maria. Tired, but satisfied they returned home a few days later. Maria made her first big sale at Mexico City and since then more offers. A gallery in the States wanted to display her work, another in Brussels. Ivan and his protg were both ecstatic.
It was spring, although at latitudes below the Tropic of Cancer, there is very little difference between one season and the next, still it was spring and Chet found himself restless for no reason that he could think of. He started taking long walks along the beaches, along the wharves and fishing piers, watching the boats unload. He used to love to fish. He and Jim went on lots of fishing trips - years ago - funny, he thought, why, I haven't been fishing once since Jim died . . .
He wandered down a long breakwater where men were line fishing. Most used long poles, only a few had casting gear. Idly he watched, his attention finally drawn to one fellow's casting technique. A little flick of the wrist and the line just seemed to sail off the reel. The fisherman wore tattered cotton pants and a pullover shirt, his face sun darkened and withered, he might have been 80, except he moved like a much younger man. Chet sauntered over for a closer look,
"Any luck?" he asked in Spanish.
"Only one bite so far," The fisherman replied, his English perfect, his voice a warm and mellow southern drawl, "Want to give it a try, Chet?"
Gapping at the man, Chet's eyes grew wide as the old wrinkled fisherman's countenance became smoother, darker and darker still until at last emerging as the Jim Locke Chet remembered. Exactly as he remembered - untouched by time!
"Ivan was correct," Jim said, smiling the same smile that had haunted Chet's dreams for the past 30 years. "He's not the only one with ESP - nor for that matter, are you five the only ones with the longevity virus, although it's not really a virus at all . . ." He put his arms around Chet's shoulders, pulling the stunned man into a close and tender embrace,
"Come, Love, I've been waited for you all these years - let me tell you all about it . . ."
The End
(Or perhaps, only the beginning)