The Mentor (41 page)

“No, I...
what did you say that sequence did?”

“Oh,” Patel
said, rolling his eyes.  He blushed and laughed again.  “I’m sorry.
 It’s to fight off cell degeneration. Permanently. Keep them intact.”
 Our blank faces asked the question we hadn’t.  “That process you
have, at least what I can infer from it, if it’s completed... it sets up a
process to, in a nutshell, switch off the aging gene.”

“Switch it
off?”

“Sure,”
Patel said and pocketed his notes.  “Sounds crazy, but I think you’ve got
a part of what ol’ Ponce de Leon died searching for.”

Impossible.
 I didn’t understand.

Patel
added-- sure, in his dramatic TV way, but still he actually seemed a bit shaken
himself-- “You have, essentially, a crack in the door there.  It's the opening
stages of a treatment that... well, would stop you from getting old.  Gene
therapy synonymous with the fountain of youth.”

“That's not
possible, though.  Right?"

The part-time
brain surgeon, part-time television personality stood up from his seat at the
edge of my friend’s desk.  He put both hands on my shoulders.

"I'd
love to talk to your friend, if I could.  This…"

"Well,
he… I don’t-- I can’t...”

 “Dexter,
if he's
really
worked out this sequence, and it can be implemented
real-world… this is beyond Nobel Prize.  You’d change the world with something
like that.”

If The Mentor's
employer was after this, after Jepson/Eller's formula, there would be no way in
hell this was some philanthropic venture.  Not these guys.

“What if
you... didn’t give it to the world?”  I asked.  “Kept it to yourself,
a secret.”

“Well,
people would begin to ask questions when you started outliving your
great-great-great grandkids?”  He saw that I wasn’t smiling and his face
lost all humor.  “You're asking… if someone kept this for themselves?”

I
hesitated, but Pavan jumped in: “Okay, so maybe like a small group of someones.
Crazy-rich, powerful people.”

Patel
nodded, looked between us.  This time, the smile-- even the fake
television one-- was long gone from his face.

“What's
this about, guys?"

I softened
the question: "As a thought experiment. We're not talking illuminati shit,
err, stuff here.  Just what if a small group had something like you're
describing?"

Someone
across the room called for Patel.  He nodded at them, and he slowly headed
their way.

My friend
and I were all silent, waiting for him to articulate the words… but both
already knew the answer.

As he
walked away, this is what he said:

“Well, I’m
not a fan of hyperbole, but...  powerful people with big bank accounts
and
near immortality?  They’d rule the world.”

I'D
PROMISED KAREN THE next time we had a chance to laugh over the old times there
would be plenty of warning before my visit.  I’d make an “appointment” to
see my busy friend.  Fine by me.  She was worth it.

When we’d
gotten to the bottom of the stairs, Pavan made a beeline for the bathrooms,
pushing past the bums and news vets who’d spent the afternoon sneaking sips of
vodka out of Deer Park water bottles.

Despite the
TV doctor's ominous prognosis, I felt good.  And it was the first time in
a long time it seemed like the truth to say that.

We'd found
what they were after and a small part of how yours truly played a part.  I was
getting my hands back on the steering wheel in my own life.

Well, maybe
a couple fingers.  But it was a strong start.

On the wall
opposite the security desk, there was a pictorial history of the network, and I
traced its thirty year history as I waited for my friend.

Looking
down the wall, at first, when I saw her, it didn’t register I was looking at
her
.
 She was just another pretty girl, very pretty, that I’d steal some
glances at, as I waited.

What
triggered me, I’m sure, was that she was staring intently at me. Strange.
 At some point, it seemed my Sorority She-Ra had tried to be a ghost, her
surveillance of me, a secret. Hidden in shadows, beneath dashboards or in the
company of fictional friends out for a night.

My heart
pressed against my throat, as she held my eyes.  Mesmerizing. Then, the
moment I realized
that was the point.
..

“Hello,
Dexter!”

It was no
use running, and, in truth, as I turned, I suppose the wasp sting on my arm was
no surprise at all.  It was only a matter of time.

I said to
my tormentor, “I bet you don’t get invited to many parties.”

A deep
voice said, “We gonna say hurtful things, now?”

My head
swam and the most pressing thought I held as I slipped into the black, The
Mentor and his supermodel sidekick each taking an arm, I hoped to god Pavan was
taking his time unloading his gyro and would be a while in the john.

Because, I
couldn't allow anyone else I cared about getting hurt because of me.

This was my
fight.  Live or die, this was my fight.

Chapter
Twenty-three

Waking up,
the familiar drug haze pressing on my mind, I had to pry my eyes open.  

Would there
be sharks?  Zulu warriors with poisonous spears?  Giant, spinning blades
falling from the sky?

My hands
were bound and eyes were covered.  Strange as it may sound, that was
actually comforting.  Can't hope to fight off a piranha bath in this
condition, surely.

A dull hum
around me settled down and, while my inner ear told me I was moving, my
nostrils placed a heavy bet on leather upholstery being nearby.  I’d been
tossed into the back seat of a car.  

"He"
was driving, this I knew, because the smell of his sweat was unmistakable.
 Not unhealthy, in fact-- maybe too healthy.  Smelled like a 24-hour
gym: sweat, bare concrete and bleach.  Yeah.  That was about right.

“She” said
something to him, muttering, and I knew they were together.  My Sorority
She-Ra and The Mentor, of course, worked for the same folks.  

But, I had
a new piece now.  Professor Jepson had worked for Solomon-Bluth-- more
likely a larger group, it appears-- and was terrified enough of them to blow
his own his research facility to high hell and fake his death.

He'd said
to me on that horrible night:
They’re here for it, but they won’t find it.
 They’ll never find it.  But that doesn’t mean the rest of the world
shouldn’t know it.  It’s… it should be for the world, not for them.

He found
something
for
them, but realized almost too late it couldn't be theirs
to have.

What do you
get for the man or woman who's got everything? 

Wealth,
power,
everything
.

The only
thing that eludes them?

Time.

Sure, most
of the world’s wealthiest don’t likely have dark designs, secret science labs
and abductor-ninjas on their payroll.  

However, it
seemed my new circle of anonymous BFFs did.  

And if
their actions concerning me or my former professor were any indication,
ruling
the world
would only be a part of their game plan.

 In
his last moments, Professor Jepson-- the teacher with the squeaky clean
chalkboard, the man who never wrote things down-- gave his secret to the one
person he'd met who would never have to write it down either.  

A student
he'd met with near-perfect audio recall.

My mind
snapped back to the present as I was being jostled in the back of an automobile. 
But my thoughts lingered for a moment on what Pavan had said back at the campus--
I'd had Jepson for
three
of my first four semesters? That wasn't an
accident.  

Jepson had
liked me, sure, I know that.  But he'd kept me close-- judge my character,
maybe?  But, more than that.

My guess,
he was probably trying to find some way of carefully getting the sequence to
the right people.  Those who wouldn't abuse it.  That would take time.

But if,
before he accomplished that, his former employer
found him instead,
they'd never find the sequence because he wouldn't have written it down,
instead simply committing it to memory.

He'd
discovered the fountain of youth!  Yet, he couldn't tell anyone, for fear that
they
would get to it before anyone else did.

All of
this-- the loss of my Ruthie, my life in ruins, The Mentor's torture-- all of
it because of one small fact:

I was
simply Jepson's Plan B.

The
professor hadn't counted on,
how could he?
, the accident that would put
a blind spot in my mind.  Who knows?  Maybe
not
being aware of
the secret had kept me alive the past few years.  

We hit a
pothole and a knock of the car’s frame through the seat brought me back to the
present. We were on the interstate, but there wasn’t any indication of where we
might be going.

Laying
quietly, I listened hoping they'd speak… maybe pick up something they--

"Nice
to see you're awake," he said.  For a moment, I played possum.
 He sighed and added, "Your breathing changed.  All rushed now.
 Stick to what you're good… being all sly and shit, you are not good at
that, Dexter."

"What
are you doing?" she asked him with an edge to her voice.

That's when
I heard The Mentor's breathing change.  Even for someone not "good at
it," yep, I picked that one out.

He said
back to her, a short laugh, then, "Me and Dex, we go way back, I’m just
trying--"

"Well,
don't.  The less you flap your fucking gums the better."

"Listen,"
he said, calmly (I had learned with
this
man, that is not a good thing).
 "You and me, we ain't friends.  I don't care what your last
name is and I sure as hell don't care for you telling me how to conduct my
business."

She huffed.
 "You called
that
business?  If that--"

Clak
, something in the front seat took a hit.
 My best guess, it was the rear view mirror.  Sort of sounded like a
rear view mirror.

"Seriously,
little girl.  And, this is the last shred of calm that I have for this
endeavor, so don't try me, sister.  You don't tell me how to do my job,
and I won't turn you inside out with my free hand.  Trust me, I’ll do it
and won’t even swerve," he said.  The silence, then, was pure
electricity.  "I am very glad we have an understanding."

We traveled
in silence over the next twenty minutes-- only once did I hear him chuckling
quietly to himself-- then there was a series of slow, short turns.  The
roads got even worse, which told me we were off the interstate.

"Let
me off at the gate," she said quietly, but her words were poison-tipped.
 "That okay?"

"Yes,
glad to be rid of ya."

Less than a
minute later, the car crunched to a stop on gravel, a door opened and slammed
and we were off again.

My heart
picked up its pace a little.  While he was mad at
her
, he wasn't
pointing that anger toward me.  Now, she was gone, I was his only target left.

We'd been
on gravel for a few minutes and, incrementally, the drive got more and more
choppy.  His window was down, he may have been looking for something,
don't know.  But it smelled rank.  Like decay mixed with wet dog.

"Take
in that fresh evening air, Dexter," he said, and laughed.  This was a
guy who enjoyed his job, no question.  "Who knows, given what’s ahead
for you tonight, this may be the last time you get to do that.  So breathe
it in, Dex. Breathe deep."

A few
minutes later, we stopped, and I heard the window raise, close.

The
driver's side door opened and shut.  Footsteps, moving away from me.
 They stopped, then came back.

"We
gotta walk a bit but," he said talking through the glass, pausing for a
moment, "It's dark, the path here isn't so clear.  And while, hell,
you been living that way for a while… Me,
I
like to see where I’m
going."

I yelled
back:  "If you want, I can lead the way for you.  You know, if
you're scared."

The Mentor
laughed.  

"Listen,
man, I don't care what you think or whatever comes of tonight.  You
probably won't live through it," he said, his voice dimming a little as he
got farther and farther away from the car.  "But, let's be clear, you were
dead when I met ya.  I was the best thing to happen to you in years."

"Whatever,”
I yelled, lying on the backseat, blind and bound.  “You know, I got
chlamydia two years ago and--”

“Dexter,
what
the fu--!
"

“And
you
?
 You’re not the best thing to happen to me in years.  You’re a couple
fucking notches down from my dick burning when I peed."

He laughed
again.  "Man, I
will
miss you."  His voice getting
smaller as he walked into the darkness.  "I really will.  Your
hands are tied, the doors can't be opened from inside.  So, sit tight, fat
man.  Be right back."

I'd already
begun to struggle against the plastic tie around my wrists but doubt slowed me.
 Was this another one of his tests?  

Over the
next minute, the car got warm quickly with the windows up and I felt sweat
raise up on my arms and wrists, maybe they would get slick enough to--

A low clunk
made me flinch, then a
whoosh!
tumbled across my skin, as the cold night
air rushed in with the back door now popped open.

Two hands
grabbed my feet, yanked me out of the car and I fell to the ground, hard.

"
Shit!
"

I felt a
hand at my face, twisting it upward.  Above me, a wild-eyed, brown face.

"Pavan?"

"Dude,
we gotta get the fuck outta here?  Is
that
big sonovabitch you're
guy?" he said, helping me out of the binds on my wrists.  They were
like the plastic ties police use and he sliced through with his pocket knife
with a quick swipe.

"Yeah,"
I said, rolling up into a crouch.  "Where'd he go?"

"He
went down there," Pavan pointed to the dark.  "Toward the old
zoo."

We moved
around the back of the car, a black Lincoln and Pavan told me he'd seen me
nabbed as he left the bathroom, got the car and was able to follow.  Once
he saw what exit they took, he backed off, knowing where they were headed.

Pavan
whispered, “We were broke as a kid.  ‘Broker than the Ten Commandments,’
as mama used to say.  So, this place was free until they closed it up.
 Maybe because it was free is because why they closed it up.”

"Jesus,"
I said, trying to get a bead on our surroundings.  "Any animals still
here?"

"Maybe
squirrels or possums," Pavan said, reeking of dope.  "But years
ago, I damn near grew up here with the monkeys and lions and shit
.”

In the
black ahead of us, I saw movement.  The Mentor was coming back.
 Outta time.

"Damn,
there he is," I whispered.

"
Man
oh man oh man
."

There was
no way we'd out run him.  Not a chance.  And I wasn't going to get my
friend hurt.

"Get
back to your car and head up the street, wherever, find a pay phone.  Call
Detective Clower at the Marietta police department."

"That
cop dude, why?"

"Let
him know I’m here," I said pushing my friend slowly.  "Go man,
or we're both nabbed."

"But--"

"We
can't both out run him, no way.  Call Clower, tell him where I am," I
said, and choked a little.  "Fuck man, what a rock star.  I
can't believe you followed us!"

"All
incognito, man," he said, then his smile faltered.  "Come with
me, man.  Let's bolt!"

I shook my
head.  "No way.  We'd never made it.  I'll get his
attention, you get to Clower.  Go!"

Once Pavan
had slipped back into the dark brush, I looked up and saw The Mentor heading my
way.  Now, I was all for making sure my friend didn't get caught but that
didn't mean
I
would necessarily have to.

Creeping
the length of the car, I headed to the front.  The moment he got close
enough, he'd see the backseat minus one less me, and I'd be hard pressed to
outrun the guy.

Looking
down the road, the moon barely helping, and the majority of my vision was hints
of the gravel road and empty beer cans and waterlogged cardboard boxes.
 These were mostly faded 12-pack beer boxes of the “premium” variety:
Busch, Miller, Keystone.  If Hansel and Gretel had been
real
Germans, they’d have left a path like
this
into the woods (albeit, with
much better beer).

Small rocks
sounded like popcorn snaps beneath my shoes, even as I moved as slow as
possible.

To my
right, the car between me and him, a chain had long given way to either age or
the people who'd littered all those empty beer cans everywhere.  It lay,
rusted and discarded, in dried out tire tracks that had sliced into a mantle of
mud.

Above us, I
saw why it was so jet-black dark: the canopy of trees had gotten thick.
 The moonlight came in tendrils through rotted-earth air and the branches
of dead and dying trees.

I’d read a
book some time ago about people who make decisions, take action, in the blink
of an eye—not the
time
it takes to blink, but rather, the moment they
blink.  Something inside them weighs the options, the opportunities, the
assets and liabilities, and then makes an instant choice in a blink.

Closer now,
my tormentor was preoccupied with the phone in his hand as he walked closer.
 He didn't strike me as the kind that would be texting his BFF or checking
actor Nathan Fillion’s twitter feed.  I was pretty sure he was doing
something that would eventually cause me ample amounts of pain, like plugging
some coordinates into its GPS for the next "lesson."