Where we go wrong, I think—so many of us, and so often—is in our resistance to fair and impartial inquiry. Either we defend the faith so stoutly that we refuse (or are afraid) to look at the broken windows, or else we are so cynical that we will see nothing else.
Francois Mirabel's remarks about the religion industry were rather typical of that latter point of view. Yet the religionists themselves promote that sort of cynicism through their dogged insistence upon the infallibility of their own limited view.
There are scoundrels in religion. Why not admit that, expose them when we discover them, and go on with the quest?
There are errors in religion. Why not admit it, correct them when we find them, and go on with the quest?
But see, the problem—the real problem—is that none of us are gods or angels yet. We are human. Therefore we all possess to some degree every aspect of the human inheritance. And that estate includes arrogance as well as humility, greed as well as charity, fear as well as love, and all the other opposites of human personality. A good man can be moved to do an evil thing; an evil man can be moved to do a good thing.
Francois said that religion is money. That is true. But it is also good works, inspired acts, noble aspirations, and blind faith that man is more than a common animal.
With that in the record, let's go on now to consider this "religion industry." How big is it? It's big. The annual take of the combined churches of North America alone greatly exceeds the national income of most of the world's nations. In the United States, this runs close to thirty billion dollars every year. That figure does not include the haul of radio and television preachers or any of the itinerant evangelists, storefront groups or street-corner prophets. It does not include the activities of organizations such as the Hare Krishnas, the ashrams, the horde of gurus like Maharaj Ji and Rajneesh, outfits like Scientology, or any of the New Age groups. No one I have run across would venture a guess as to how much money accrues to these others. I will so venture, and I'd put it as roughly equal to that of the traditional churches. So we could be talking sixty billion dollars a year in this country alone. That is a lot of bread cast upon the waters of man's faith in something larger than himself.
So much bread, in fact, that it sometimes creates a feeding frenzy among those waiting in the stream.
Is religion money? Of course it is. And money is like blood in the stream of life, crazing the sharks who patrol the eddies of the stream.
Is Francois a shark? Of course he is.
So what is Reverend Annie? Only time—and enough blood—would tell.
"She's thirty-five years old, born in Azusa, graduated from Hollywood High seventeen years ago, married a classmate two weeks later, left him two weeks after that; he died by suicide while her petition for annulment was pending; let's see... worked in a fast-food restaurant, later as a cocktail waitress, married again at twenty-one; this one died of a heart attack in the third year...ummm...a gap here of several years...pick her up again at twenty-eight with her third marriage; that one died in a fiery freeway crash almost exactly a year later... identification by dental charts...she's at Pomona Valley College, psychology; short try at nursing school, Mount Sac; then to UCLA, more psychology, no degree...another short run at Science of Mind Institute, did not complete...ummm...okay, here it is, married the last victim four years ago, and she's in her present name now; guy was a cinematographer, guess he did okay before he married her; uh, slipped in the bathtub, says here... died without regaining consciousness...three months in coma...declared brain-dead, and disconnected from life support at spouse's request..
"When was this?"
"Fifteen months ago."
"Uh huh. And she chartered the church—?"
"Four months later."
"I see."
Actually I saw nothing whatever. I'd taken a chance on finding David Carver still at work at such an hour, dropped in on him, found him very hard at work and totally immersed in the enigma of Reverend Annie. Seems that he was putting a lot of his own time into this. There was no case on Annie. The cases were...
"Maybelle Flossie Turner, age seventy-two, widow, died of asphyxiation, gas leak, in her small apartment on March 14th. Her entire estate, valued at $22,832, went to Church of Light. Ann Farrel is executor."
"Eight weeks ago."
"Right. Then there is Charles Cohan McSweeney, age fifty-seven, reclusive bachelor—committed twice to Camarillo for child molestation, number of pornography indictments but no convictions—shot by police officer while resisting arrest on April 21st on complaint by—who else?— our Annie."
"Five weeks later."
"About that. And then yesterday, of course..."
I sighed and asked, "What was the complaint?"
Carver sighed too. "Indecent exposure and child fondling. In the church's nursery."
"For that he died."
"If for anything at all. Then last night the Milhaul kid. We're talking two months here, Ash, and three deaths that should not have been. There is a common denominator here and its name is not coincidence."
I shrugged and suggested, "Don't leap off the deep end too fast, David."
"Bullshit, don't give me that. I haven't found it yet but there's a tie somewhere. My gut knows it's true and the gut will not let go. This woman is like that Al Capp character, the little guy with the dark cloud always above him. Don't forget the four poor souls that married her. And all this is just what's in the record. God what I wouldn't give for a crystal ball!"
"You think maybe I've got one, eh?" I muttered.
"If not," he said, "then something just as good. I've seen your work. And let me tell—"
"I don't have one," I said flatly. "But..."
"But what?"
"I'm going to give it a whirl."
He grinned. "Hell, I knew that."
"See?" I said. "Anyone can read minds."
Carver kept on grinning as he inquired, "Where would you like to start?"
I told him, "Well, I'll...need to do some thinking and..." I showed him a smile. "Same as you, pal, the old-fashioned way. I'll have to scrape some shoe leather."
"Scraping for vibes, eh?"
"Something like that, yeah."
"Great. You need any doors opened, just let me know. Otherwise I guess you're on your own. Captain doesn't give me a lot of time for my gut. Right now we got a case load like you wouldn't believe. But I am pulling an early-morning—I tracked down one of Maybelle's old friends, sweet old gal up near Pasadena. Talked to her on the phone just this evening. She's an early riser, likes to spend her mornings feeding the birds in the park. So I've got a date at eight with Clara. She's going to bake up some fresh blueberry muffins and we're going to breakfast on her patio." He shot me a wink. "She's seventy-five. Want to make it a threesome?"
I winced and said, "Not if that's eight in the morning." Hell, it was already three o'clock; I'd be lucky to get to bed by four. "Let me know how you make out with Clara, though. I have a mobile number so you can..." I handed him a card. "It works most of the time. There's a message number there too if you have trouble running me down."
Carver grinned, said, "Shit, I figured you always knew when someone's trying to reach you."
"Female only," I said, and left him at his desk. I would not be seeing the young detective again, nor would he be trying me at any of my terrestrial numbers. Clara killed him at eight-thirty that morning.
Chapter Five: Sweet Memory
I don't mind saying that I am feeling a bit ragged at this point. David Carver and I have not exactly been friends, but he is a cop I have liked and respected so I feel the loss. Also I am experiencing mental fatigue along with something else I can only describe as a sort of spiritual brownout. It is nearly noon and I am seated in the office of Paul Stewart, Carver's boss. The lieutenant is clearly upset and feeling at least as ragged as I. He and Carver were close friends so his sense of loss is stronger than mine. I am aware of a growing anger building close beneath that layer of grief
. I do not know which way he is most likely to blow so I am prepared for anything. I am simply keeping my thoughts to myself, quietly going through the case file that Carver had been developing in the Church of Light matter.
Clara Boone sits just outside the cubicle. She seems dazed, unsure of exactly where she is and what is happening here. She has not been charged with any crime. It is likely that Carver's death will be ruled accidental and that no charges of any kind will be filed. Actually Clara is free to leave whenever she herself is ready to do that. Problem is, she is obviously not ready to do that and apparently there is no one at home to help her.
This is the way it happened, the best as Stewart and his people can put it together. Carver kept his eight o'clock appointment; he and Clara ate a light breakfast and talked on her patio. We don't know what they talked about. But Carver was done and ready to leave at eight-thirty. Clara was prepared to leave immediately behind him. She always fed her birds at a nearby park, same time every morning seven days a week rain or shine, and she was running a few minutes late and anxious about that.
Carver said good-bye and went to his vehicle which was parked at the curb in front of her house. He did not leave right away, though; apparently he sat there for several minutes and went over some notes he'd taken during the interview. Clara's car was in her garage. Carver was still on the scene when she backed it onto the narrow drive outside. She was getting out of the car to close the garage door when Carver appeared on foot to help her. He closed the garage door for her. She put the car into reverse, she thought, preparing to back on out to the street. But then her sack of birdseed toppled over and began spilling onto the seat. She made a grab for the birdseed. Next thing she knew Detective Carver was pinned to her garage door by the grill of her car. It is an old car, with a fancy hood ornament up front. The ornament pierced Carver's heart. He died instantly. This is the story as it appears on the official report.
Stewart has granted me access to Carver's files. There is also the small notebook that was found on the seat of his vehicle opened to some hastily jotted, cryptic notes—apparently covering his visit with Clara. I have made several trips to the copy machine and I now have duplicates of the more pertinent items in Carver's file as well as his final notes.
Frankly, I do not have a hell of a lot of anything. The gut does not translate too well into official reports. Most of what Carver had working was in the gut. Apparently Lt. Stewart had not shared his subordinate's suspicions about the web of coincidence enshrouding Ann Farrel and the rash of violent deaths; even now his buried anger seems to have no direction and therefore no outlet.
This is where I am; where we are; and poor befuddled Clara seated just outside the door.
I got to my feet and said, "Thanks, Lieutenant. And, uh, thanks for the notification."
"What do you have in mind?" he asked gruffly.
I threw up the hands; told him, "The mind is fibrillating right now. I don't know what the hell. Except that David really thought he had something here. I told him last night I'd give it a whirl. So...I guess..."
"I'll put you on a voucher," Stewart said quietly. "Keep me advised."
I said, "Sure," and went on out.
Clara showed me a confused smile.
I stopped, turned around, returned to the office, asked Stewart, "Mind if I take Clara home?"
He gave me a very short look and replied with eyes already withdrawn, "Not at all."
So I gave the lady my arm and we both went away from there. It was intended as a gentle courtesy. Turned out to be the smartest thing I'd done all year.
Clara lives at the northeast fringe of the city in the Eagle Rock area. Couple of blocks east and her house would have been situated in the city of Pasadena. By freeway it's only about twenty minutes from downtown, but Clara had not ventured this far south since shortly after the end of World War II. No wonder she was disoriented. L.A. has changed a lot over the years. Whole new high-rise skyline. The fantastic freeway interchanges with their tiers of ramps curving away in every direction, literally highways in the sky. The downtown traffic in all its frenzy, packs of trucks and busses all running with too much abandon and not nearly enough courtesy toward the old, the timid, and the confused.
Clara had never even seen Dodger Stadium. I tried to point it out to her as we buzzed past Chavez Ravine, but we were moving too fast in too much company and I doubt that she was particularly interested anyway. Guess she thought I was a cop. She did not understand why her car had been impounded, and I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was wondering how she would ever get it back to Eagle Rock. We did not talk a lot during that drive except for comments on the traffic and the passing scenery. I knew that her mind was still clouded and I did not want to add to that. So we small-talked, when at all, and I simply left her to find her own mind her own way.
I think the drive settled her down a bit. She perked up noticeably when we reached familiar territory and she was checking her hair in the visor mirror when I pulled into her driveway. It was one of the old-style California bungalows, small stucco with a red-tile roof maybe as old as her but neat and trim and probably very gracious inside. I wondered idly what the years had brought to her through that home—how much joy?—how many regrets? Was the sum total of Clara Boone contained within those stucco walls?
Maybe she was wondering the same thing at the same time. If so, it had not been all joy because she was gazing at that house with obvious distaste. Or maybe it was just the immediate past that was on her mind. She asked me, "Is the young man going to be all right?"
Damn! She didn't even realize that...
I told her, "It's okay, Clara."
"This was a very nice neighborhood at one time," she said wistfully.
I could believe that. But all things change. I asked her, very gently, "Is there someone you could stay with for a few days?"
"No one," she replied without even wondering about it.
A car had pulled up across the street. A guy was fussing with camera equipment. The insatiable press had smelt the blood.
I thought about it for all of two seconds then asked Clara, "Would you like to spend a few days at the beach?"
"Oh I couldn't afford that," she said with a small laugh.
"My guest," I told her. "I have a place at Malibu."
"Really! At the colony?"
The small laugh was mine this time. She was talking megabucks there. I replied, "No, but on a really clear day I can see their roofs. What do you say? There's a spare bedroom and I promise to behave myself."
Those old eyes had begun to sparkle. "I spent a weekend at the colony once."
My turn. "Really!"
"Yes. But that was a very long time ago. I haven't been to the ocean since..."
I said, "Then you're overdue." The guy with the cameras was out of his vehicle now, gazing our way. "Why don't you run in and put a few things together?"
"You know, I think I will!"
"Good girl. Scoot. I'll wait for you here."
She was moving like a twenty-year-old as she crossed to the house, and the look she tossed me over the shoulder as she went inside was, I swear, almost vampish. The reporter hurried over and was making his way along the walk when I stepped out of the car. He ignored me, went on to the door, and was about to push the bell when I warned him, "Ring that bell, pal, and I'll ring yours."
He swiveled about to give me a respectful look, finger still poised at the doorbell, and said the magic word. "Press."
I said mine. "Uh-uh."
He was flustered and appropriately outraged but also a man of reason. "I'd like to at least get some pictures of the scene," he muttered.
I said, 'Take all you'd like after we're gone. That will be just a minute or so. Meanwhile, vacate the property. Please."
The reporter took the "please" in the spirit it was given, immediately retreating to his vehicle.
I leaned against the Maserati and lit a cigarette, scowling his way occasionally until Clara reappear
ed in the doorway with a small overnight bag in her hand. I went over and took it from her, put them both in the car, and we took off for Malibu.
"This is terrible," she told me with a giggle. "I don't even remember your name."
I arched my eyebrows at her and told her back, sounding almost like Francois, "Never fear, ma cherie, it shall be on your lips the whole night through."
She loved it.
Hell, so did I.
A minute or so later Clara gave me a very direct but almost embarrassed look then smiled soberly and asked me, "Don't you have the feeling that we've done this before?"
Yes. I did. I had that feeling very strongly.
Chapter Six: In an Envelope of Time
Ever consider how important memory is to the living organism? Any living organism. Birds have it. Bees have it. Bugs in the tree have it. The tree itself has it. Otherwise there would be no two living things that were really similar. Life is a dynamic force. It gathers up diffusing matter and molds it into an image of itself. Without the mold there would be only the gathering and it could be as diffuse as hydrogen gas or as dense as a black hole in space. Which is to say, without life.
The black hole and the hydrogen are formed by other processes, but even these require a more elemental kind of memory and they definitely are the result of molds in space.
In elemental life forms, this memory for expression is carried within microscopic bits of fluff which man in his genius has labeled genes. To call a bowl of peanuts a bowl of beans does not change the taste of the peanuts. Man's penchant for naming things (since Adam) gets us all into a lot of trouble because we do not all of us call the same things by the same names.
We do love to package things too, and of course the practice has proven highly convenient—so when I ask for a hot dog most people know that what I want is a wiener on a bun with maybe a slap of mustard. Ask an aborigine for a hot dog, though, and he's liable to set fire to your French poodle.
So the word gene is just a handy way of packaging a very esoteric idea long before we got around to understanding the idea itself. Early biologists recognized the fact that all living things carry a set of instructions locked up inside them and that these instructions are sort of like blueprints by which that living thing was constructed—and it was noted that these instructions are the means by which hereditary characteristics are transmitted from parent to offspring. So what the hell, let's call these instructions genes, from the Greek genea which means breed or kind. We could just as easily have called them mems and been much closer to the truth.
Life to Life Page 3
