ow, just a shell of the man he once was, Eric Burgman lay dictating the story of his life. He was attended daily by the best medical staff money could buy. But despite the thousands upon thousands of dollars he'd spent he faced the final chapter of his life. The doctors and research centers were still trying to pinpoint the mysterious illness that had befallen him. Before they could even hope to cure him, they had to find the cause. Mr. Burgman, as even his children and wife addressed him, was a fighter. He had never failed to accomplish something he set out to do, and he definitely wasn't going to start now. So as he spoke, the biographer listened intently. He not only recorded every word Mr. Burgman uttered, but also the facial features and gestures, voice inflections, and overall mood displayed were important to him. It was critical, the way he saw it, to include everything. Otherwise his finished work would be just words on paper. This man, not because of his wealth, deserved the best rendering of his life possible. As incredible as his story was, the man inside was even more challenging to imagine. Up till now Mr. Burgman had related chilling events from his past, but today the story had taken an unexpected turn.

Over the past few weeks the biographer had chronicled the unconscientable savage deeds Mr. Burgman had kept secret for so many years. Initially, the visions of this man haunted his sleep as he tried to come to terms with the terrible tale that was locked away in this man's mind. History had recorded some horrors of its own, some on such a scale that people still had difficulty accepting them. But they had involved groups of people, nations working together to test the fate of humanity. But Mr. Burgman, in his quest for money, had demonstrated almost beyond words, how ruthless one man can be. This dense forrest of greed, avorice, and mayhem had started as a small seed planted in the heart of a much different man. Back then Mr. Burgman was just Eric. Up until today that man had remained forgotten. Regardless of the reason, now the biographer had to take a step back. He had to now finish the rest of the story from the beginning. Did Mr. Burgman sense his hour was near? If not that, what had caused this sudden change? What had caused this man to abruptly begin talking about a past he had obviously chosen to forget, that he had buried in the deep dark well of yesteryear?

Working backward to a time some 19 years after his birth, Mr. Burgman began to lay the pieces of the puzzle on the board. As each piece was placed into position, the biographer began to consider something that had escaped him weeks ago. When he first accepted the task of writing this man's story, it never crossed his mind as to why a man of his wealth felt it necessary to tell his story. Now, as he reflected, he wondered what possible purpose it could serve. There was no doubt it would probably be a best seller, but Mr. Burgman would never see a penny of the money. Not only that, his family didn't need the money. There was already more wealth than they could spend in generations to come. Since the first session, when Mr. Burgman told him his job was to listen, he had sat like a sponge absorbing every thought the rich man expressed. He had never wanted, thought about, or even thought about questioning what he heard. But now, with this new revelation, something stirred inside him. Finally there was something that began to awaken his imagination in a different way, to stir his curiosity. Now he felt the need to examine the motivation behind the man. But should he dare ask? At this point, he concluded finally, it wouldn't hurt to ask one question. When he looked up from his note pad he could hardly believe his eyes. There, laying before him, Mr. Eric Burgman, (the personification of everything the biographer knew and felt was wrong), had tears running down his cheeks. As the writer looked closer, the man's lower lip quivered as he spoke and it appeared his struggle for life was becoming more difficult. This was a sight, the biographer was sure, that not a single person living or dead had ever witnessed. This was now a puzzle he had to see completed. His patience, once waning, was now fully restored. But his curiosity was peaked. He listened now with new vigor as the philanthroper expelled the words like a volcano erupting. Then unexpectedly, Eric burgman, the man most people tried very hard to avoid, took a brief pause in his tale and really shocked the middle-aged writer. "You can call me Eric. What would you like to be called?" His words hung in the air like fog filling the room with an unnatural silence. Then before Eric repeated his question, the man said, "Theodore, Theodore Walcott. But everyone calls me Ted."

Still reeling form this sudden exit from character, Ted listened with a new perspective as Eric finally set the last piece of the puzzle in place. Eric detailed the events that started his self-imposed isolation from humanity and his turn toward the dark recesses of greed. At the age of 19, Eric Burgman took abeautiful young woman for his bride. Elizabeth Waynewright was a kind loving person, a person that cast a spell on everyone she met. He outlook on life and easy manner made it easy for everyone to share their lives with her. She cared not about status or any of the other social excuses people used to segregate themselves. As Eric shared the memory with Ted, years of pent up heartache and bitterness poured out. When nurses rushed to fill his body with all types of medication, Eric Burgman unveiled the final act, the last scene that was the turning point in his life. Eric took sever deep breaths and began to fill in the story.

"One of the most violent periods in America raged in the city. A struggle for territory, for the right to control people and illegal operations had a far reaching impact. Although the well planned attacks were equally well executed, there were mistakes. Elizabeth was working as a waitress during one of those well planned attacks, but the driver of the lead car pulled in front of the wrong restaurant. Just 10 minutes before I arrived for my usual luncheon date with my new bride, it was all over. The entire building, riddled with holes and smoldering from the crude bomb, became yet another testimony of the growing struggle for power. I, Eric Burgman, had been working for one of the 'families' for about six months, but I was planning to start my own business. My dream was to provide, through my new business, the opportunity for my family to have all the things I'd never had. But that terrible thing, that terrible day, changed my mind about any business. After that I had no purpose, no reason to pursue my goal. I made a decision to not only continue in my present work, but I vowed to make the ones responsible pay. And although I later married and had a family, I never stopped making people pay for that day."

Now lying in bed, attended by nurses and doctors around he clock, Eric Burgman was trying to do one thing right. He gradually made Ted come to understand, he slowly began to answer the unspoken question that was swimming in Ted's mind. Mr. Eric Burgman, now more human than he'd been in over 30 years, called Ted over closer. Then with uncharacteristic humility he made a request. "Ted, if you will permit me one indulgence, I would like to finish this with the recorder off and the note pad put away. What I'm about to tell you now I don't want included in the book. Is that acceptable to you? Can I depend on you to keep this from print? Drawing close, ted found himself in unfamiliar territory. Although well known as a novelist and biographer, Ted was a newsman at heart. He was driven by a very healthy curiosity and a burning desire to tell the untold story. Seeing the sincere visage of this bed ridden ambassador of gile and hearing the humility in his voice, he gridgingly agreed. Fighting his instincts, Ted settled in to listen as the new Eric Burgman disclosed the epilogue to his life story.

"I'm sure you have questions you want to ask me. And I'm sure that much I've told you has presented a quandry for you. I'll try to answer some of those questions and hopefully settle the churning tempest in your mind. Let me begin by explaining the events that led to the environment you walked into a few weeks ago. The illness that is now threatening my very existence was detected about six months ago. During a routine checkup my doctor noticed a change in my immune system. After some tests he told me that I had developed a weakened immune system. Initially we thought vitamin supplements and some routine injections would fix the situation. Within a matter of only a few weeks we began to realize the truth. My body, in direct opposition to the aggressive, conquering man I viewed myself to be, was starting to give up. My body lost the ability to fight. The doctor soon explained that even the common cold could prove life threatening. But I was not willing to concede, I was not willing to loose my first battle. Just as all the times before, I was determined to win. I began buying laboratories, adding wings to hospitals, and funding medical research. Where no answer existed I was going to provide one. As the weeks passed, this parasite, this thing, that was destroying my immune system gained an even stronger hold. Then, about three days before my call to you, I recieved a unannounced visitor one evening. An old man, a stranger, came to my home, to this very room, and talked with me. He talked with me about my own mortality and awakened a 33 year old memory. By the end of the conversation, the world I had built for myself began to crumble. Before he left, hours later, we talked as friends. It was rather strange how the whole thing developed. By the time he left, having traversed the yesteryears of my life, it was like a curtain had been drawn illuminating the darkness that had consumed me. The next morning, before a carefully selected assemblage of people, I dictated an extensive document, my new will. It substantially changed the disposition of my accumulated wealth. And with the stroke of a pen, hours before your arrival, I hopefully made it possible to one day identify and consequently fight this cursed illness. You see I'm not the only person afflicted with this malady, but I am one of very few with the funds to do something about it. I cannot repay the tremendous debt I accumulated with humanity. I have no recourse to restore the lives, careers, and families I've destroyed. All I can do with my remaining resources, is make an attempt, however small, to at least give others some hope. And, finally do something my family can be proud of. That is the reason for the book, it's my legacy to my family. I want them to know the real me, the man I was, the man I became, and the man I found again these past weeks. But up until yesterday, last night as a matter of fact, I was prepared basically to end the story where we stopped yesterday. I noticed the look on your face today when I dropped the bomb on you. It wasn't something I'd been planning. I hadn't held it back as a surprise. Last night, that old man paid me another visit. This time our discussion was different. Although we still talked as old friends, his words ran through me like ice water. He made me remember that just remembering wasn't good enough. I had to tell the rest, the truth about myself. I also had to face some things that I hadn't fully faced after our last conversation. I had wasted my life, devoted my energy to a futile, frivolous, game of power and control. Up until yesterday I hadn't really felt remorse or responsibility for my actions. But now I accept my fate, understand the travesty of my life, and am prepared to face the consequences."

Befuddled by this turn of events, this quirky last hour revelation, Theodore Walcott sat back in his chair. With his hand partially covering his face and mouth, he ran the other hand through his hair. Then he took a deep breath and as he exhaled he replayed the morning in his mind. If he hadn't given his word, this would have certainly changed the tone of the entire work. Even now he wasn't sure he could finish the book, end it incomplete, with this new insight he had been given. But it was a struggle he must win, after all he had given his word. Right?

As honest, straightforward, and revealing as Eric Burgman had been that day, he still reserved a few thoughts that he couldn't express. But when the time was right he would fulfill the last promise of his life, the promise he made the old man. What he had neglected to share with Ted, the doctors, and even his family, was the new path, the new light that hads removed his blindness.

Two days later, paralelling his former self, the pragmatic Mr. Eric Burgman began his morning signing the letter authorizing publication of his life story. With his lawyer standing near to review the document, he also handed Theodore Walcott his final check, concluding their arrangement. Immediately following Ted's departure, Eric's family joined him. Together they talked like they had never done before. Then with a nod and a brief wave of his hand, the minister joined them. Thetre, before his family, Eric Burgman, assisted by the minister, made an open-heart confession and a plea for salvation. His wife, who had stood by him, secretly praying for him, joined him and together they took that all important step.