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

Chapter 7


<Look for a four wheeler with a tank full of gas. > 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."

#####

<Oklahoma City coming up> 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. >

<Tell Bart I said he has a cute butt. >

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, <We can always bring them in
later.>

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. >

<Maybe we better wait and see if it actually cures Sven before trying
again.>

<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. >

<You be careful. Donald has cameras too. >

<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.