Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

Ashes To Ashes

Ashton Ford, Psychic
Detective

Don Pendleton

Creator of

The Executioner: Mack
Bolan

and

Joe Copp, Private Eye
Thrillers

Ashes To Ashes: Ashton
Ford, Psychic Detective

Copyright © 1986 by Don
Pendleton, All rights reserved.

Published with permission
of Linda Pendleton.

This is a work of fiction.
Any similarity to actual persons, groups, organizations, or events
is not intended and is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition,
License Notes:

This edition is licensed
for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or
given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each
person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it
was not purchased for your use only, then please return to
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the hard work and rights of the author.

Cover design by Linda
Pendleton and Judy Bullard.

Books by Don Pendleton

Fiction

The Executioner, Mack
Bolan Series

The Joe Copp Mystery
Series
:
Copp for
Hire; Copp on Fire; Copp in Deep; Copp in the Dark; Copp on Ice;
Copp in Shock.

The Ashton Ford Mystery
Series: Ashes to Ashes; Eye to Eye; Mind to Mind; Life to Life;
Heart to Heart; Time to Time.

Fiction written with Linda
Pendleton

Roulette

Comics by Don and Linda
Pendleton

The Executioner, War
Against the Mafia

Nonfiction Books by Don
Pendleton

A Search for Meaning From
the Surface of a Small Planet

Nonfiction Books by Don
and Linda Pendleton

To Dance With
Angels

Whispers From the
Soul

The Metaphysics of the
Novel

The Cosmic
Breath

* * * *

Dedicated to the memory of
Gustaf Stromberg, late Mount Wilson astronomer and Carnegie
astrophysicist, whose fine mind and incisive writings have revealed
more than the world is ready to understand about our
realities.

Author’s Note

To My Readers:

Ashton Ford will come as
something of a surprise to those of you who have been with me over
the years. This is not the same type of fiction that established my
success as a novelist; Ford is not a gutbuster and he is not trying
to save the world from anything but its own confusion. There are no
grenade launchers or rockets to solve his problems and he is more
of a lover than a fighter.

Some have wondered why I
was silent for so many years; some will now also wonder why I have
returned in such altered form. The truth is that I had said all I
had to say about that other aspect of life. I have grown, I hope,
both as a person and as a writer, and I needed another vehicle to
carry the creative quest. Ashton Ford is that vehicle. Through this
character I attempt to understand more fully and to give better
meaning to my perceptions of what is going on here on Planet Earth,
and the greatest mystery of all the mysteries: the
why
of existence
itself.

Through Ford I use
everything I can reach in the total knowledge of mankind to
elaborate this mystery and to arm my characters for the quest. I
try to entertain myself with their adventures, hoping that what
entertains me may also entertain others—so these books, like life
itself, are not all grim purpose and trembling truths. They are fun
to write; for some they will be fun to read. To each of those I
dedicate the work.

~Don Pendleton

* * * *

"Earth to earth, ashes to
ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection
unto eternal life."

—
Burial of the
Dead,

The Book of Common
Prayer

"This analysis of our
knowledge of the universe has given us reasons to believe that,
behind the world of phenomena we perceive with our sense organs,
there is another world to which we can not apply our ordinary
concepts of space and time."

—
Gustaf
Stromberg,

The Soul of the
Universe

Case File: Surrogate One

Prefacing Remarks ...

This was my first "surrogate" case. I would
regret taking it on almost from the first moment, and I would
resolve many times during the progress (or descent) of this case
never again to work this particular type of problem. But, hell,
she seemed so damned scared—so vulnerable—so, uh—okay, say it, so
damned lovable.

My sacred, cardinal, Number One Rule: Never
become emotionally involved with a client.

My unfailing, unremitting, forever Number
One Problem: It seems that I am always in violation of Number One
Rule.

The truth, of course, is
that I am in the wrong line of work. I should have been an actor,
or maybe a model. I could probably get away with those Marlboro
man-type ads. A stuntman, maybe, except that I really do not take
any particular delight in flinging my life recklessly toward the
closing jaws of death.

I am almost a lawyer, but not quite—almost a
psychologist, but I got bored with a term paper. Could have been a
cop, I guess, but discovered in time that the pay and benefits are
about equal to that of a garbage collector—and, when you think
about it, the work is about the same. Not that both jobs are not
vital to a civilized society. I'd just rather someone else handle
the trash work.

I was actually trained to be a spy, courtesy
of the United States Navy. Naturally they did not call it that.
But, hell, a spy is a spy by whatever tag or acronym. Not cut out
for that, either.

Maybe I wasn't cut out for anything in
particular. I think I would like to conduct the Boston Pops. I have
never been invited to do so. I would give it a shot, though, if
they would give me time for a crash course in music theory.

This is all very dumb,
isn't it? I know what I'm cut out for, why I'm doing what I do for
a living—and, to tell the truth, I could not conceive of ever doing
anything else. I love my work, with all its built-in problems and
uncertainties. I am where I need to be, doing what I need to do. I
even enjoyed this case. Well ... most of it.

For the record, I am
Ashton Ford. American born and educated. No connection to the
automobile family. The "Ford" was, I guess, a result of Mother's
weird sense of humor. Seems that I was conceived on the backseat of
a car. She was a South Carolina Ashton, from a family with roots in
the American Revolution. I was born when she was thirty, living
independently and comfortably on a nice trust from her grandmother,
amoral. I use that last word in the kindest sense possible. Mother
was a hell of a lady. Free thinker, that's all. Never married,
never wanted to. Never told me who my father is, and I never asked.
Just thankful that the name on my birth certificate is not
Volkswagen or Oldsmobile.

Great-grandfather Ashton was a naval hero of
sorts. I was raised in naval academies, went on to Annapolis and
several war colleges, ended up in Strategic Studies—the "Star Wars"
stuff—got out as quick as my obligation would allow.

That's enough background for now. It's
enough to know, at this point, that I am where I need to be, doing
what I need to do—emotionally involved with troubled ladies. I call
this a "surrogate" case because that is exactly how it began. I was
hired as a sexual surrogate by a beautiful nonorgasmic woman who
was just damned sick and tired of dry runs. As usual, the stated
problem was but a symptom of a far deeper problem. And this
beautiful, lovable, vulnerable young woman had a hell of a problem
that no amount of loving would help.

I neglected to reveal that I am a
sometimes-psychic. Some have called me a "mystic," but I would not
go that far. What I am, I guess, actually, is a lover. So how did a
nice guy like me get mixed up in a case like this? That is exactly
what I am about to tell you. Turn the page.

Chapter One: And Death
Smiled

He looked about two-eighty of solid beef and
had a lot of mean energy in the eyes. Kind of guy you'd rather give
a sweet smile and wish a nice day or else disregard entirely. From
where I stood at the moment, I had neither option. He was coming at
me with apparent felonious intent, moving swiftly along my side of
the net like a linebacker sniffing blood. Mine. I had one of those
inane thoughts—Wrong game, guy—but I didn't voice it, nor did I
consider it prudent to inquire as to the name of it. I learned a
few games ago that he who gets there first with the most is usually
the one who walks away smiling. So I let the ball sail on past me
to meet the gorilla instead, with my best backhand, the tennis
racket angled edgewise and moving toward maximum effect.

He grunted and went slowly
to his knees, mean energy dissolving instantly into sick passivity
and maybe a bit of bewilderment. I wanted to say, "Oops, sorry,
wrong ball," but I decided it was no time for humor. Besides, a
gorgeous redhead had run onto the court, and I had the impression
that she was mad as hell with me—maybe because she called me a dumb
shit.

So I went to the net and thanked the
flustered tennis pro, then went to the sideline for a towel while
the irate lady fussed over the stricken giant. I put the towel
around my neck, casually lit a cigarette, and headed for the locker
room. The redhead intercepted me about halfway there, fire in the
eye and ready to storm all over me. I tried to disarm her with my
patented boyish grin but it didn't work.

"You did that on purpose!" she cried. And,
yeah, furious.

I didn't try to deny it. I just said "Yep,"
and kept moving.

"You're an animal!" she yelled after me.

That was my first meeting with Karen
Highland. And Bruno. That was a Wednesday. I didn't see them again
until Friday, early afternoon, Malibu. This time they came to my
office—or to what passes for an office. Bruno held the door for the
lady, then came on in behind her and very quietly took a chair at
the back wall without once looking me in the eye. I figured, okay,
now we understand each other. She was in an easier frame of mind,
too, though obviously quite nervous.

I stood up and offered her
my hand. She took it, murmured her name, gave me an appraising look
as I gave the appropriate reply, then dropped my hand and took
herself to the window. Nice view from that window. Pacific Ocean
surf, Santa Monica skyline curving into the distance, lots of blue
sky. I had the feeling she was seeing none of it.

I was really struck by her beauty. The hair
about shoulder length and lying in a soft up-flip, sort of piled a
bit at the top and falling into waves at the forehead; velvet cream
skin that invited contact; wide-spaced oval eyes of a shade I can
only compare with wild violets—but fear there, yeah, fear or
desperation or maybe both. She had the long, clean lines you see on
showgirls, draped very fashionably in a simple cotton dress that
somehow nevertheless managed to look very expensive.

I was struck, yeah—which is probably why I
blew this meeting too. I tend to be a bit defensive when I respond
this way to a prospective client.

"Let's try this again," she said softly from
the window. I had her in profile, feet planted wide apart, hands
clasped behind her, shoulders sort of tight, lovely head tilted
downward.

I had one of my flashes at that moment. I'll
tell you more about those later. For now just believe me when I say
that I did not see Karen Highland in that flash; what I saw was
another person, older—sick, maybe, or otherwise burdened to the
breaking point with some terrible problem, very frightened and very
much in need of help.