Life to Life: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

by Don Pendleton

  He replied, "In the reverend's study, small room just behind the stage. Says she always meditates back there before each service."

  "Is that her handwriting?"

  "Not her normal handwriting, no. But she claims it. Calls it her guide's hand."

  "Her guide's hand," I muttered.

  "Yeah. Like automatic writing. Trance stuff."

  I said, "Yeah."

  "She says she wrote that before the service."

  I said, "Yeah."

  "Is that nutty, or what?"

  I shrugged. "Yeah."

  "Which one?"

  "Both," I said.

  He asked, "Do you know the lady or don't you?"

  I told him, "I saw her for the first time at eight o'clock tonight. I was in the audience. She was on the stage. She talked. I listened. Far as I know, she'd never heard my name until I gave it to the officer an hour or so later. Since then we have spoken. For about thirty seconds. Just before I stepped out here. Do I know the lady? Hell no. But you can bet your ass, pal, that I am going to know the lady."

  "Want to work with us?"

  I looked him up and down. "Fee?"

  He looked me up and down. "Expenses, maybe."

  I said, "I'll let you know."

  He said, "You're involved, Ash, whether you know it or not. Either someone set you up, or—"

  I said, "That's nutty. I came over here on an impulse. Happened to be in the general area, decided to check her out. Nobody knew I was coming. Didn't know it myself even until the very last minute. I am not involved, David."

  He waggled the note paper under my nose and said, "Bullshit."

  I said, "Expenses?"

  He said, "Yeah, I'm sure I can do that much for you."

  I told him, "Call you tomorrow. Right now..."

  He stepped back, said, "Yeah. You look terrible. Smell even worse. The reverend should have taken you to the showers."

  I got in the car, cranked it, said to him through the open window, "She's not married, eh?"

  "Not lately. Pretty good track record, though."

  "How good is pretty good?"

  "Four times a widow. I call it a perfect record."

  I grunted, set the Maserati in motion, made tracks for the Ventura Freeway. I live at Malibu. That is not exactly next door to Van Nuys. I figured I had close to an hour's drive ahead of me. And Carver was right. I smelled bad. Herman Milhaul was clinging to me. I really wanted to wash him away. So I drove like a maniac. I made it home in thirty minutes flat.

  More than the splattered remains of Herman Milhaul was driving me that way. I had the feeling, and the feeling wasn't good. Something was coming down my pike. And I...

  Oh. Maybe you don't know yet. I'm Ashton Ford. I'm sort of psychic. I'm also sort of a detective but... no, that doesn't really wash, I am not a detective by any stretch of the imagination. But I have developed a sort of a reputation as...some people call me the mystic eye—but I really do not think I am a mystic and I do not carry a badge of any kind so...I play tennis. Not professionally, not that good. Even if I was, I wouldn't do it for a living. That would take all the fun out of it. Guess I don't do anything for a living...probably for the same reason. But I'm fortunate. My mother was one of the South Carolina Ashtons. That means I was born with a trust fund. Nothing spectacular, but it buys the groceries and pays the rent, gives me a certain freedom. So I do pretty much what I want to do with my time. I am aware of the privilege. Not apologetic, but aware. So I try to give something back, now and then.

  I have done some work for the police. Missing persons mostly, but I have been in on some homicides too. I usually do it for free unless one of the bureaus has a little extra in the budget.

  I also do private consulting. Don't ask what that means. I don't know what that means. But it sounds nice, for what I do.

  At that moment, arriving home with Herman's decaying hemoglobin clinging to my clothing, I wanted to do nothing but shower and go to bed.

  But I had a visitor. He had been waiting for me, he said, for quite some time. He introduced himself as Bruce Janulski, and told me that he was Ann Farrel's personal secretary. Ann Farrel is Reverend Annie. Bruce is a beautiful, golden giant—about six-four, broad of shoulder and narrow in the flanks—a genuine goddam Adonis, but Bruce, I gather after about ten seconds, would be little more than a frustration to any of the opposite sex. This guy is a gentleman. He does not walk, he sways; he does not talk, he sings; and his palms are forever turned heavenward.

  I was not asking this guy in for a drink—though I wanted a drink probably even more strongly than I wanted a shower. We talked in the carport. I asked him, "How'd you get here so quick?"

  He gave me a perplexed look as he replied, "But I have been here for an hour, Mr. Ford."

  I told him, a bit brusquely, "That's not possible. I left Annie's just a half an hour ago myself."

  He said, "Oh damn it"—quietly but sort of pouting. "I came all the way out here for nothing then. I mean, if you've been together..."

  I said, "Now wait a minute..."

  He pulled his Member's Only jacket closer about the muscled chest and shivered. "Why didn't someone tell me it gets this cold at the ocean? I am freezing to death."

  I relented then and asked the poor guy in. After all...

  He said, "No, no, thank you, I'll just scoot on back."

  I asked, "What time did she send you, Bruce?"

  His eyes crackled with confidentiality as he replied, "Well, she did not send me, Mr. Ford. I came on my own."

  I was getting tired of this word: "Why?"

  "Well, because I feel that she is in great danger."

  "You should go to the police."

  "Not that kind of danger."

  "What kind, then?"

  "Your kind, Mr. Ford."

  "How do you know what kind I am?"

  "Heavens, I'd never heard of you until just a few hours ago. I consulted my guides. They sent me to you."

  "Your guides."

  "Yes. But it appears that they reached you directly. Thank goodness. Did you have a nice visit?"

  I said, "Look at me, Bruce. Do I look like a guy coming home from a nice visit anywhere?"

  He seemed to notice my appearance for the first time. He recoiled; gasped, "Good heavens! What has happened?"

  "Trouble—the police kind—has happened," I told him. "Herman Milhaul tried to kill your Annie. Don't worry, he failed, but I think you'd better get back there right away."

  "Who in the world is Herman Milhaul?" he squeaked.

  "Nobody, now, in this world," I told him. "Go home." But he did not hear that, did not need to hear it. Bruce was already on his way home. He leaped into his car and tore out of there under about three G's.

  I went on into the house, stripped totally naked just inside the door, paused at the bar for bourbon and water, and took it with me to the shower. The phone started ringing before I got the water adjusted to the right temperature. I have an answer for Murphy's telephone law; I keep a phone in the bathroom.

  But I wished I'd let it ring.

  It was Francois Mirabel. Yeah, that Francois Mirabel, producer to the stars. And he wanted me to hop right back to town and defend Reverend Annie's life with my very own.

  Well, what the hell. Between the cops, spirit guides, and the one and only Francois—not to mention the pretty reverend herself—how does a tennis bum like me say no?

  No matter—I had already said yes; the rest was mere timing. Or had the timing already begun even before I'd heard the question? Probably, yeah. I live in that kind of world, see. The end is reached before the beginning begins and both exist in the here and now. Time and space are mere constructs of the human mind, relativity is an abstract, one is all and all are one, existence itself is a single clash of the cymbal. In that world, nothing is for sure and everything is possible.

  Even a Reverend Annie is possible.

  Never mind all the others. I intended to find out for myself.

  Chapte
r Three: In the Aura

  Francois maintains a swank palace in Beverly Hills but he is not there a lot, dividing his time mostly between a couple of other places he owns in Europe. He has also not bothered to cultivate spoken English beyond the marginally intelligible level. I speak French not at all. We have a language problem. We have known each other for several years but very casually, which is the way I prefer it. Francis thinks the world is his very own playpen.

  It was well past midnight when I reached his place, but it was bristling with light from every window and the drive was filled with cars. I had to park on the street. I do not like to leave the Maserati on any street anywhere at any time so I went in with a small chip already in place upon the shoulder.

  A party, as usual, was in progress. I detest name-dropping so I won't do that. Just be aware that this gathering would be enough to induce terminal orgasmic tremors in your average autograph hound. Some fifty to sixty people, I'd guess; the hot ones of screen and television mixed here and there with writers and directors. This is the way Francois conducted business, negotiated deals, packaged productions. He threw a party, invited possible candidates, mixed and matched them until something fell out. Although his name is emblazoned across screens anywhere, Francois does not actually produce pictures, or write them, or direct them. He does not read scripts—does not even view his own movies, I am told. Likes to think of himself as a catalyst. Actually he is a financier and, of course, he owns what falls out.

  Listening to him describe the process—in his limited use of the language—is like hearing one of those high school cheerleaders: "Give me an M—give me an O—give me an N..."

  Francois would say, "Give me persons and I rearrange them to spell 'money.' Give me director. Give me writer. Give me leading man, leading lady. Do not give me picture. They will give me picture and it will give me money."

  He was in it for the money. An honest man. Or was he? I sometimes wondered if Francois simply loved the party and was not afraid to invest in it. He also, I had observed, trusted his instincts—which is another way of saying that he played hunches.

  I found him holding court on a sofa in the very eye of the party. Reverend Annie was seated beside him. She wore a stunning toga-style white gown, one shoulder bared, the dark hair swept over that shoulder in a most appealing way. Francois sprang to his feet at my approach and gave me a warm embrace, slapping my back and beaming and saying, "Good boy," over and over. Annie was watching my discomfort with a veiled gaze while Francois announced my heroism to the party at large, even led them in a round of applause. Then he excused us and dragged me off to the library for a private conference.

  This guy is about sixty I think—who would know? Still dynamic and handsome—very youthful, actually—dancing eyes and bubbling enthusiasm, but not overdone. I mean, you know, not tiresome. He could get mean as hell, too. He could also switch from a twinkle in the eye to a shrewd business gleam in a single blink so you never knew precisely where you stood from moment to moment.

  He threw one of those at me the moment we were alone, nailing me with a no-nonsense glare as he inquired, "What is happen?"

  I shrugged and reminded him, "You just told the folks what is happen, Francois."

  "I told what?"

  "Never mind," I said. "You already have it. It happened like you said. That's all I know about it."

  "Speak straight to me, Ashton."

  I lit a cigarette, went to the desk and sat on it, told him while gazing at the floor, "Straight as I can find it, pal. I'd heard of Annie. Who hasn't in this town by now? Never met her, though. Went to check her out tonight. Purely an impulse. I was in the neighborhood. The time was right. I had nothing better to do. So I checked her out. As I was leaving, this guy made a lunge at her. I intervened. He died. She didn't. Some hero. A twenty-year-old disturbed human being died tonight, Francois."

  I wasn't sure how much of that he was getting but he commented at that point, "Better he than she."

  I shrugged and said, "Maybe. Point is, I don't feel like a hero. So let's leave off with the applause, eh?"

  "They love her!" he cried, coming at me with one hand held high overhead and the other leading the way toward me, almost in a fencing posture. "All love her! Soon the whole world will love her! And I, Ashton, have a piece of that!"

  I said, quietly, "Congratulations."

  "Sure, congratulations!" He sat down beside me atop the desk and swung his feet in idle circles.

  I asked, "Going to make her a movie star?"

  "Nah. Small stuff. Have you regarded the religion business lately, Ashton?"

  I said, "That what it is?"

  "What else? It is commerce. Commerce is money. Ipso-ipso, religion is money."

  I said, "That's pretty cynical, isn't it?"

  "Ask the Pope. Ask the Vatican Bank."

  "Come on."

  He grinned. "Ask your television evangelists."

  "That what you have in mind for her?'

  "It is her mind, Ashton," he said with a hurt tone. "You know I do not create. I underwrite."

  I suggested, "You'd better look into U.S. law and the internal revenue code before you underwrite this one, pal. Could get your tit in a real wringer on something like this."

  "What does this mean? Tits do not ring."

  I said, "Yours will if you start playing producer to the reverends. Anyway..."

  ''Anyway," he said after a moment, "you must continue in this."

  "This what?"

  "These attempts on her life. You must prevent."

  I said, "Francois, I—"

  He headed me off with: "Name your price."

  I said, "That is not the issue. I had already decided, even before you called, that I—"

  "It is by her request, Ashton."

  "What do you mean?"

  "She has request your protection."

  “Annie asked...?”

  "Yes."

  I said, "Well, I'd already decided...okay. You're going to underwrite the thing?"

  "But of course. She is hot property. Do not allow her to grow cold."

  "Level with me, Francois," I requested. "Annie is more than another hot property to you. Right?"

  He twinkled at me. "Right. So take very good care in my behalf."

  I said okay and we returned to the party.

  Annie was entertaining a small group gathered at the sofa. As we walked up she was telling an aging female star who shall remain nameless: "Yes, this is very positive, you will be working again before the end of this year. I don't get his name but a really big writer is at this moment doing the final polish on a beautiful screenplay designed specifically with you in mind as the female lead. I should think that you will be seeing this script within just a few days. Go with it. It's right for you."

  The actress was beaming at this news. She asked, "Can I hold you to that?"

  "Positively," Annie replied. "Write it down if you'd like and date it. I'll sign it."

  There was an impressed murmur from the group. The actress wanted more detail. "What sort of role? Do you see...?"

  Which is the point at which good old Ashton blundered in. It was pure faux pas and I don't know to this day why I did it. I am really not a show-off and I am usually respectful of other people's turf. But I was standing in Annie's limelight without even realizing it, and my jaw was moving without the thinking mind telling it to do so. It was almost like absentminded, like replying to a question while your head is buried in a book.

  "It's a story about a nun who becomes a prostitute in Paris during the Nazi occupation to save the fleeing Jews."

  Yep. Ashton said that. Annie's eyes were giving me a measuring look.

  I recovered, I think, to the satisfaction of everyone except Annie. "Kidding," I said with a chuckle. "Sorry, folks. I have to take the reverend away from you." I took her hand and pulled her out of there. Francois followed us. As soon as we were clear I told Annie, "Sorry 'bout that. Just sort of slipped out. Like gas. Please accept my apolog
y. More importantly, I want you to know that I want to work this problem with you and I think we need to start a game plan."

  The lady was showing me a very haughty look. The gaze swept to Francois then back to me as she said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Ford. I do not see anything positive here."

  "Not blood on my face again, surely," I said, still trying to keep it light.

  "I see death in your aura."

  I said, "Then maybe we better work up a game plan for me.

  “What is—?” Francois ventured only to be shut down by the frigid reverend.

  "That would be quite impossible, I'm afraid," she said icily. "Good night, Mr. Ford."

  I looked at Francois and Francois looked at me.

  I said to Annie, "Good night to you too," and went the hell away from there.

  Death in my aura, huh?

  Shit. There is death in every aura.

  And the good Reverend Annie was a lady with a lot to hide.

  Chapter Four: Waiting in the Stream

  Let's get it into the record, right up front here, that I am not antireligion. Many of mankind's noblest moments have come in the religious quest—our most exalted art, music, literature, even architecture—the whole search for identity as a living species has been largely propelled not by the practical requirements for survival but by an aesthetic appreciation of the divine possibilities within us.

  It would almost seem that the innate human penchant for religiosity represents the spiritual equivalent of physical evolution. How else could we dare reach for the stars—and why otherwise develop the technologies that could put us there?

  So I do not knock religion per se. My respect for the edifice does not, however, prevent me from noticing the chipped bricks, broken windows, or sagging foundations that appear from time to time. Churches contain toilets as well as pews, so not everything going down within the edifice is necessarily sacred—unless there is some basis for the expression holy shit.

  Devoutly religious people sometimes do irreligious things. The same is true of entire religious bodies, unless you'd rather just forget about the horrors of the Inquisition, the burning of "witches" in New England, the acceptance of human slavery in young America, etc. ad nauseam. None of that, however, invalidates for me the religious instinct.