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 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've had no resistance to, and all three
attempts failed; they didn't even bring on a sniffle. He read the reports
of old scar tissue regenerating into healthy skin, of a cut which healed in
hours instead of days. It amazed Fennman 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 was performing genetic experiments
on Latham; it seemed the only likely answer.
He flipped through the pages searching for a DNA report but was distracted
by the images of Latham which 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. 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 was 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 severe sinusitis,
a blockage which 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 ever was. Did that mean Latham, 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 the 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
benefited directly from it, but even more importantly 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 all ready filled
several dozen such requests when Latham burst upon the scene, changing everything
overnight.
Now it appeared possible to restore youth, not simply put off dying for
a few extra years, and Fennman's phone hadn't stopped ringing since. The
problem now facing Fennman was twofold. First, Latham refused all further
testing which meant research at the Institute would come to a halt
as well when Abe Conner could no longer send along pilfered samples. His
second problem was 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 always worked before. Well,--- 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. Okay,
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 exclaimed. The man beside
him didn't volunteer a name nor did Floyd ask. This was business and the
less he knew about 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,
as Floyd watched him drive away. The guy gave him the creeps,--- he looked
like a spook, tall and skinny as a skeleton and always dressed in black.
Well,--- the money was good and that's what mattered. You don't have to like
someone to work for 'em.
* * * * * * *
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 ordered 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 almost forgot how good it felt to be young. Chet picked
up the pace. He had to if he wanted 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, 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 that
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 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 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 found 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
he was abducted. But why? Not for money certainly, he didn't have that much.
There was only one reason he could think of, but that seemed absurd. The
best doctors and scientists in the world 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? It was 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 the possibility
when a ringing phone in the next room shattered 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. Okay, 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 wants him for something besides spare parts,
huh? Yeah, well, I'll take care of it. Okay, talk to ya' later.”
Who the devil was Penn, Chet wondered? The 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 never told the doctors about
his 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 new. He never mentioned it
to Burke, or anyone else. That would've 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 scraped 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 Chet 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 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 appropriate 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 hoarse 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 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.
“Okay,---okay, 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 in 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 the people the man talked to on the phone.
Wasting no time in further conversation, Chet rapped the man's head sharply
with the pipe, knocking him cold. He hoisted the guy onto a gurney and covered
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 went 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 led away. He now would have to put
a lid on it, nip it before the shit spread. He made three phone calls. 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 all they had to show for this fiasco was
a single blood sample taken by Connor. 'What a fucking mess,' he thought.