Walter Fennman sat huddled near a campfire listening to the night sounds.
For some reason he couldn't sleep in the cabin, but the fire wasn't much
comfort either. A bird disturbed by the firelight or by the small creatures
hunting in the dark, called out mournfully. Insects chirped then went silent
as something larger moved through the undergrowth. A twig snapped. Fennman
clutched the pistol tighter, but whatever stalked the darkness moved away.
He hated the Canadian wilderness and he hated the moonless night, yet this
vast, vacant stretch of land was the only safe place left to him. He searched
diligently to discover this spot, several hundred miles north of Thunder Bay
and miles from prying eyes. Toward spring, he intended to work his way back
to civilization. He had a passport under a different name with a picture of
himself, head shaven, a full beard. All he had to do was make sure by spring
he matched the picture and then make good his escape to some place where
all those millions in his Swiss account would do some good.
Decoviak/Latham/Ludlow, like a mantra the three names circled his thoughts.
They were to blame for this disaster, all three of them, but Decoviak most
of all. It was he who forced Davis and others to come forth with the facts
behind every underhanded deal in Washington. Why didn't I realize what was
happening? A couple of congressmen resigned and then it all came apart,
practically at the same moment the cameras exploded. Fennman hoped
to eliminate Decoviak if he tried any of his mind tricks at the Institute,
but instead all he'd done was eliminate the gates.
After Davis confessed there wasn't enough airtime available to accommodate
the number of congressmen, senators, administrators, department heads and
lobbyists coming forward to incriminate themselves. Even the President at
last spoke candidly of former substance abuse, but that news was trampled
under the sheer number of confessions concerning theft, fraud, dirty dealings,
purposeful mismanagement, outright lies and character assassination committed
by hundreds of public servants of every stripe. Even sabotage and murder
came to light and right in the middle of that mess, the Institute was exposed.
He was forced to run. The FBI and other agencies that once served him surreptitiously,
were now tracking him, and several other tough-minded VIP's who, like him,
hadn't been hypnotized into spilling their guts. Luckily those tracking
him were increasingly hindered as many of their own agents resigned in disgrace.
Newspaper wags were calling it the Big Flush and while Decoviak carried
the blame for it, if it hadn't been for Chester Latham, none of this would
have happened. Another noise from the trees made Fennman start. Wolves,
he wondered?
* * * * * * *
At that moment a thousand miles to the South, Ivan lay on a motel bed
reading Fennman's mind. The cancer had dissipated and to his relieve, his
ESP remained intact. It was anyone's guess whether cancer or a natural step
in evolution opened those pathways in Ivan's mind, but whatever the original
cause, the ESP still functioned and was truly all that mattered to Ivan.
“He's nervous, jumping at every noise. You know it might be kinder just
to have him arrested and let the law take care of it.”
“Kind, my ass,---” Jason responded, “the bastard ordered Harris killed.
He doesn't deserve kindness.”
“He's right, Ivan,” Chet interjected, “and it's not just Harris. Think
about that poor kid in the mortuary and all the other deaths the man is responsible
for. He fears you more than prison and he deserves the thing he fears most.”
“All right, I'll do it.” Ivan was miserable. It was one thing making people
remorseful over actions they knew were wrong and quite another dealing with
a psychopath like Fennman. The man had no conscience,--- even murder was
acceptable if it provided even the slightest benefit to himself. Ivan strip-searched
Fennman's psyche. The man's single greatest horror was losing control over
his own mind and when he realized Decoviak had that power, it frightened
him to the core. Without thinking Fennman pulled the world in around him,
turning the Institute into a fortress. Fear, was the reason he managed
the Institute from hiding these last few years; the reason he ordered Harris
killed, all of it based on fear of losing control or more accurately, being
controlled by Decoviak.
In the end he lost his fortress, thanks to the confessions of Davis and others,
but he rather prided himself in escaping the traps set for him. He made it
to the one place Decoviak couldn't touch him; a place with no foggy streets
to give him the willies. For the moment he was safe, even though he hated
the wilderness. Fennman sat mulling over his options. First Europe and then
maybe on to China; some remote corner where tourist weren't allowed. He
had money to buy his way in,--- all he had to do was sit tight and wait for
the media storm to blow over. In the spring,--- yes,--- in the spring.
<< Is any place really safe? >> A soft voice spoke in the darkness.
“Who said that?” Fennman leapt to his feet, staring around in panic, the
gun clutched tightly in his fist.
<< You know who I am, and now you know there is no place on earth
where you can hide from me. I've been watching you, Walter,--- day and night,---
I'm always watching. >>
Fennman began firing the pistol into the darkness, first at one shadow
and then another until the gun clicked on an empty chamber.
“Where are you, you bastard, where are you!”
<< Where you can't touch me, Walter, but where I can always watch
you. I know what you're doing every moment,-- what you're thinking. You
can't escape me Walter, no matter where you go,--- I'll be watching you.
>>
At last Fennman realized it wasn't a voice he was hearing. Decoviak was
in his mind, taking control, making him hear these things.
“Oh God,--- oh God,--- oh God.” Fennman moaned over and over, scattering
bullets as he reloaded the pistol. His worst nightmares had come to pass.
Decoviak would steal his will, his soul, make him into what Davis had become.
NO! NO! He couldn't live with that. Ivan retreated. He saw what was in Fennman's
mind and it drove him out. He pulled back, hiding his face in his hands
while tears streamed down his cheeks,
“No,--- you haven't! If he dies, it's his own doing. Remember, it's only
his fear, nothing else.”
The four men gathered around Ivan holding him tightly. The warmth and
love they projected filled the room, protecting him, guarding him against
what he knew would be a single gunshot shattering the dark Canadian night.
Epilogue
Several months later,--- after Ivan erased the memory of the Fennman's
manhunt from the minds of former hunters, the five men returned to Casa Del
Sol. They found it impossible to remove all traces of themselves from the
various agencies. Even though much of the staff changed, files existed, reports
lie buried in many offices in the interlocking bureaus of Washington. There
were unrecoverable references made to Decoviak, Latham and Ludlow, but only
reference, only speculation. Given time and lack of interest, names other
than Latham's would become just another 'Area 51' myth, and Latham, of course,
was all ready listed as deceased.
The five talked of travel and perhaps even moving to the States, but the
truth was, Casa Del Sol suited them fine. It met their needs, providing tranquility,
comfort and security. It was all the things a home should be. In the future
they would need to move on; one doesn't stay young while neighbors grow
old and not raise comment, but that was in future. For now, Casa Del Sol
was perfect.
Ivan's foray into the Mexico City art world with a showing of Maria's
painting went very well. She was an instant hit and not just in Mexico.
The world was opening for Maria and Ivan was pushing her into it. The men
spared no expense (or personal discomfort) for Maria's big night. It was
a gala evening where five men dressed in tuxedos escorted a dazzled and dazzling
Maria through the halls of the city's best known gallery. Dozens of reporters
covered the event, asking questions, taking photos of Maria and her paintings.
Maria signed her answers while one or another of her escorts repeated them
verbally. It was a Primo performance, all done in a grand style, and all
six denizens of Casa Del Sol had a glorious time, especially Maria. Tired,
but satisfied they returned home a few days later. Maria made her first big
sale in Mexico City; twelve paintings in all and since then, more offers.
A gallery in the States wanted to display her work, another in Brussels.
Ivan and his protégé were ecstatic.
It was spring, although at latitudes below the Tropic of Cancer, there
is very little difference between one season and the next. Still, it was
spring and Chet found himself restless for no reason he could think of. He
started taking long walks along the beaches, rambling the afternoon's away
taking in the wharves and fishing piers. Without thinking why, his days suddenly
consisted of meandering about and watching fishing boats unload their daily
catch. He used to love to fish. He and Jim had gone on dozens of fishing
trips,--- years ago,--- funny, he thought. Why, I haven't been fishing once
since Jim died.
His wanderings led him to a long breakwater where men were line fishing.
Most were using long cane poles, very few had casting rods. Idly he watched.
Fish appeared to be plentiful, at least for the cane pole fishermen. The
men with casting gear had the reach, but not the luck. His attention was finally
drawn to one fellow off by himself who seemed to have an unusual casting
technique; a little flick of the wrist and the line just sailed off the reel.
The fisherman wore old tattered cotton pants and a ragged pullover shirt,
his face sun darkened and withered, was as wrinkled as a prune, he might
have been eighty, except he moved like a much younger man. Chet sauntered
over for a closer look,
“Any luck?” he asked in Spanish.
“Only one bite so far,” The fisherman replied in perfect English tinged
with a warm southern drawl, “Want to give it a whirl, Chet?”
Shocked the man knew his real name, Chet took a step backward and then
stood transfixed as a cascade of memories filled his mind. Suddenly the vague
dreams he'd always had were fresh in his consciousness; only, they weren't
dreams, they were memories of an ongoing nightly communion,--- a gentle touch
that had kept his soul alive through all the long, lonely years. He now remembered
everything,--- including the knowledge that five years ago the cancer returned
to his aged body. He now recalled the heat Ivan and the rest spoke
of; everything was as clear as if he had always been aware of it. Trying
to catch his breath, he watched as the fisherman changed. The old wrinkled
countenance became smoother, darker,--- and darker still until at last a
face emerged Chet knew well; Jim Locke,--- Jimmy,--- exactly as Chet saw
him last.--- untouched by time!
“Ivan was correct,” Jim said, smiling the same heart-stopping smile that
haunted Chet's dreams for the past thirty years.”He's not the only one with
ESP; nor, for that matter, are you five the only ones with the Methuselah
virus; although, in actuality, it's not a virus at all.”
He put an arm around Chet's shoulders, pulling the stunned man close.
His fingers traced Chet's jaw, then ran lightly through his sun-streaked
hair as though marveling at the youthful texture.
“Ah, Chet,” he whispered, “We've waited half a lifetime for this moment;
come,--- walk with me,--- I have so much to tell you."