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 who 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 sick son of a bitch,---
using a corpse for sex.
The hearing 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 did in the past. God,
the actuality of the experience was bad enough, why did they have to embellish
it? Even respected papers 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've been fading out of the limelight, he was front-page
news again. Not only that, he was sure the kidnapping attempt gave others
ideas along those same lines.
The feeling of constantly being watched only got worse after surgery failed
so dismally. Out of desperation he took that step far earlier than he 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; however, 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 idea dwelled in his consciousness every waking
moment. He made up his mind to go, to lose himself in the West somewhere,---
any place 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 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;
especially, to escape the 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 where mechanics were stripping out the wrecked
remains of a 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 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 made so far left him feeling more secure,
more comfortably anonymous. There were a million vans on the road exactly
like this one and he no longer worried about drawing 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. He
would set the cruise, fasten his safety belt, be cautious and he should be
okay, but as a further precaution he laid the paper tag on the 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 he stood, suitcase in hand, beside the highway. 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 the fellow had only one eye.
The other eye was closed, a sunken pit a patch would've improved considerably.
There was a down-at-heels look about the fellow 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
you headed?”
“West, I've had enough of this Goddamned 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 okay, maybe he would just let him ride along for a while.
“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
his 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 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,--- 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 about 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 brake lights flare
on the rise ahead. Over the rise he was greeted by whole road full of lights
and flashers. Stepping on the brakes 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 t-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 okay.” Sliding back into the passenger's seat, he laid 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 hadn't 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 all
ready 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 apologizee 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 the man deserved another chance. After all, he was given a second
chance, why not Larry?
“Well, I hope you've got some identification in your 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.
“Okay, 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 at 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 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 who 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 younger.”
“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 looking
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 them 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 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 all right. I know being out of
work ain't no excuse, but when you're hard up you do things,--- really stupid
things, but 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 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. I 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 T.V. news. He's about five 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 “Okay, 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, Chet,--- 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, and his 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,
“Are you?" he chuckled, "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
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 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 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 man 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,
“Okay,--- 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 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, but continued to direct his thoughts to Ivan.
<< 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 life exists someplace else
in the universe among all the billions of stars, and I have to believe in
the billions of humans on earth there must be others with ESP. I haven't found
anyone yet. There's one drawback though,--- you see,--- 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. >> Chet sent to Ivan.
<< 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. >>
<< Jesus!” Chet exclaimed mentally. << 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 spoke 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 like 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, puu-leease,---- I live here, too.” Ivan chided, “Besides, I have
limits. 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's a feed back
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 all ready experienced the feedback in another direction.”
Ivan went on to explain how he became involved with Bart and how he fell
in love with the man simply because his tampering made Bart fall in
love with him.
“Believe me,--- I was only trying to make his last years meaningful; however,---
now,--- I can't stand the thought of losing him. The idea that the part of
me I created or invested in Bart which has become a part of him, and that
part of his original self he shared and unwittingly created in me, might soon
perish, is too devastating for me to even concieve. A huge part of me will
die with him. I'm afraid for him but not ashamed to admit I'm afraid
for me, too. 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. He's dying. 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 who 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.”
“I might reply, the man's going to die anyway and with leukemia it will
be horrible. If you had a fifty-fifty chance presented to you under
those circumstances wouldn't you want to try? However,--- there's more
you need to know. 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; however,
I've also 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 you asking? Hell, you could just plant the idea and I'd have
to do it,--- right?”
“Yes,--- only I know your soul,--- I've looked inside you, Chet. You would
despise me if you found out. If I forced you into doing this,--- I could
never share my mind with you again. The deceit would always be there, soiling
any communion between us.”
“Share your mind? Communion?"
“Letting you see my soul, just as I see yours. Letting you drink
from me, as I might need to drink from you.”
“You can do that?"
Ivan nodded. ”And I know it's necessary. You have it in your thoughts
I'm dangerous because of my gift. You'll never be convinced otherwise unless
we share,--- unless we bond,--- unless we commune,--- unless we drink from
each other.”
“What about Bart? Have you shared your mind with him? Do you commune with
him?”
“Of course. Why, else, would I care enough to be asking this of
you?”
“So he knows you manipulated him. You shared,--- communed, that
with him?”
“Yes.”
“Does he resent it?”
“No, but that's different. When you love,--- when you truly love,--- you
forgive. Anyway, he knows how I feel about him. He has no doubts.”
“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 helped steady his steps. A thousand pictures of Bart in all his
different moods, seen through the eyes of one who loved him unconditionally.
Then came a flood of sadness and despair, so heartbreaking,--- Bart looking
haggard with tubes in his arms and a nurse fussing over him. The last pictures
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!”