Date: Mon, 27 Dec 1999 12:05:46 -0000
From: Ernie <ernies@ionia-mi.net>
Subject: Old Age

     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.

<Do that again> 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."

<Let me see what you feel. Give me a picture. Show me what he is to you. >

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?"