Old Age
By Ernest Shields

Chapter 4

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. >>

He leaned back against the seat, eyes closed,

<< I'll,--- I'll,--- I'll try,--- try,--- try,--- >>

<< 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!”

“Then you'll do it, Chet?”

“Need you ask?”