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, its 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 were
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 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, its 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 tourists
at the harbor. He was taken by the obvious talent her 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 Indio who had a reputation as a loose woman. While there was
much speculation about Maria, no one ever bothered to investigate the rumors
and it was only Ivan who saw the truth. Maria suffered at the hands of a
man named Juan Sanchez. He took advantage of her youth and gullibility,
using her by pretext, then ultimately passing her back and forth between
his friends with the sure knowledge an uneducated mute Indio would never
bring charges against him. She was 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 Señor 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 Señor Felix presented her with all kinds of art
supplies and demanded 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 like a sponge. Within months, Maria's paintings,
now displayed in splendid frames, hung throughout the main house, and Señor
Felix assured her someday she would be famous. To Maria, Casa del Sol was
heaven and Señor Felix the right hand of God himself.
Maria had no idea how she understood what Señor Felix said to her,
but she did. It came as sudden intuition she learned to listen to. 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 Señors Felix,
Charles or Larry. It was magical and yet after awhile it became so ordinary
to Maria she no longer questioned how she knew these things. Señor
Felix also opened up the world of sign language and soon all three were
speaking to her that way. Maria was amazed how fast she learned it, Señor
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 Señor Larry to become proficient at it, yet after
only a few months it all seemed natural to her.
Señors 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. Señor 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. Señor 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 was 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 clothes. Suddenly three men appeared at the street opening
and just stood looking at Juan. All at once Maria felt calm and safe, it was
Señors 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 Señor Felix motioned Maria away, then Sanchez began to
cry, tears running down his cheeks as he and his friends started taking off
their clothes. They cried like Maria remembered crying as a child when she
thought the whole world was against her. Señor 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 if it were only partly true, Sanchez
would spend the rest of his life in prison.
From that moment on Maria had no doubt Señor 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 nor contempt,
men who 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 Señors, not hers,
and although she would not have minded if Señor 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 it happened as
soon as their own danger was behind them.
In the nearly three years since Oklahoma City, much changed. Moore was
retired, unhappily forced out at age sixty. Norris now led the technical team
and Harris was 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 ever got close.
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 add him to the watch roster. Even with 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 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 fitted
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 a 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 an on-going topic 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 the 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 his heavy arms. The warmth of Sven's breath against
his neck reminded him of all the times he and Jim slept like this. Funny,
he never was a bit claustrophobic with Jim.
At sunup they repeated the night before, more gently this time, but with
no less passion, and this time Sven attempted to conquer Chet in every way
in hopes he would remember this night. To Sven, Chet was simply the most
beautiful young man he ever saw; as smooth as a child, yet as masculine
and virile as himself. It was a blend 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. J.T. 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! What a pleasant surprise. Won't you sit down, Sir?”
<< IVAN, J. T. Moore is sitting 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, Mr. Moore?”
“Oh, it wasn't too difficult. After retirement, I started concentrating
on patterns. It was obvious to me our minds were 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 a 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,
Customs lists and discovered the Yucatan coughed up a Mexican National to
Washington each time 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 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 you love pain and misery! Tell Ivan to read my mind concerning
order 654.”
Ivan did and flashed it back to Chet. A containment structure was all
ready built and waiting 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 either he or Bart could do the deed.
<< No, we can't, >> Ivan flashed to Chet, << 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 looking 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 want 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,--- everyone 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, all right, but of course we see the same thing every day.
It no longer holds quite the impact it did at first, but wait till the weather
gets heavy and the 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 whom you're with, not where you are that counts. At least I've always
found it 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, 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
also was much darker complexioned, 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
thirty 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 saw 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.”
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 all ready 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 J.T.? “
“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
J.T. 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 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 were 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 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 understand 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 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 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 his 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 placing 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 his 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 began 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.
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
he 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 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 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 his 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 the 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 saw 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 he 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, especially since not all those involved were conveniently located
in the DC area. Only after Ivan had those people on his roster could they
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. September was the target date for the foray into
Washington, until then Jason and Ivan would make the grand tour picking up
the 'strays': Those who knew of the search but were no longer actively involved.
Later, they would all go North, but only after Ivan read every agent involved.
Ivan and J. T. 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 left the ship at Caracas and never returned, but 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 Iverson
was padding the books and as you know, Sven's bonus depends on how much profit
the tours make. Another reason is 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 Sven? >>
<< 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 badly hurt, 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 made of it, he thought, Sven's hurt and now Ivan's
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 discussing his case. It's really bad, paralyzed from the waist down,
head injuries and a broken arm, but the thing is, Sven has all ready given
up hope. 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 through it.
<< Do you think I dare try? >> Ivan asked.
<< What harm can it do? He may think it's a 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'm saying Sven is about as perfect a test as you'll find. Anyway it worked
fine on both 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 anyone has ever lived.
Look, even if he does remains paralyzed, don't you think in twenty
years they may find a cure? I know you feel some things can be worse than
death and 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 perhaps there's
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 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 six forty-five, so we better get a move on. We'll
need a transfusion kit, 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, 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 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 habla Espanol” which worked only
after she checked the room and found everything in good order.
“Crazy Americans, she muttered, still suspicious 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, 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 the Bureau 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, wham, bam, thank you Sam, or in this case Donald. Now that
our club is growing, the coffers need 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. >>
<< Just don't get too cocky,--- remember Vegas,--- and don't forget
Fennman's containment cells are sitting there waiting for us to make a mistake!
>>
<< Believe me, both are in the forefront of my mind. I'm feeling
really good about this trip, though. We've learned a lot and I now have a
ton of new contacts right in the center of things. We even stopped to see
Jason's niece and nephew. Nice kids. You know, Chet, when this
business with Fennman is cleared up, you'll be able to contact your kids again,
too. >>
<< Now that should really make 'em happy! >> Chet replied
wryly, << They've probably all ready 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 okay Sven.
You're going to be fine.”
“But,--- no,--- no,---”
<< He thinking of the paralysis. 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 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
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 two years for
me 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 losing the swollen
look. Then it was his arm. The itching was driving him crazy, Chet removed
the cast, afraid 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 was worn away on the tarmac. He was
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 also 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 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 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 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 some good ones now.”
Sven looked at Charles. So young yet so wise, he thought. That very first
night he felt something for Charles he hadn't 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 too great;
yet, for the moment being in love again warmed his soul. Did Charles feel
the same, he wondered.
“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 if Maria hadn't
chose that moment to ring the breakfast bell.