Life to Life: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (2 page)

The dead man turns out to be one Herman
Milhaul. Has a long history of mental instability, though he is
only now twenty. Seems that he is homosexual, has been trying to
have a sex-change operation. Terribly unhappy young man. Reverend
Annie has seen him before. He has attended several of her services
over the past couple of weeks but has never sought her personal
counsel. She believes that he came to this particular service to
kill both her and himself, though she has no explanation for
that.

The cops are taking their time on this one.
There were still about twenty persons present at the time of the
incident. We have all been removed to a classroom next door and
each of us has been interviewed more than once. Reverend Annie
patiently tells the same story over and over, each time crediting
me with saving her life.

The L.A. cops are very good, very efficient.
Van Nuys is one of those satellite communities that comprise the
bulk of L.A.'s population, geographically delineated within the San
Fernando Valley but politically just another L.A. neighborhood.
Much of what is generally referred to as the Hollywood community
actually live in the valley; many of them work here, as well. Be
advised that "the community" refers to more than actors. They are
just the tip of the largely unseen iceberg that keeps those actors
in public view.

So it is no great surprise
to also learn that Herman Milhaul is one of these, that he has
worked for the past year as a film lab technician. Actually, more
than half the witnesses to his dramatic suicide are members of the
industry. Two are even recognizable as character actors on
television. Reverend Annie, as I have noted, is big with the
business, as they say. I am a bit surprised to discover (by
eavesdropping), however, that one of the witnesses—a handsome man
of about seventy—is one of the most respected and honored
screenwriters. Writers are, I always thought, intellectual people,
and intellectual people, by and large, do not buy the Reverend
Annies of the world. Or so I think. I am to be proven wrong on
that. I am, in fact, to be proven wrong on many misconceptions
before this case is ended.

At the moment though, I do
not know there is a case. I have come to watch a much-heralded
psychic at work, I have been entertained by what I saw, and then I
have found myself involved in the self-inflicted death of a
tormented young man who saw only darkness in his life so had opted
for a better berth elsewhere. The ultimate sex change, maybe. Or
maybe...

But this is about where I am in my head when
the cops turn us loose. I have been cleaned up a bit, but my
clothes are a mess and dried flecks of blood are in my hair.
Reverend Annie pulls me aside and embraces me. "You saved my
life,'' she murmurs. "I saw it coming. I saw it. He intended to
take me with him."

"When did you first see it coming?" I
ask.

"During one-on-one. I knew he'd come to kill
me."

"So why didn't you just get out of here?
Why—?"

"Because I saw something else, too," she
coolly informs me. "I saw you. Each time, we learn to accept; to
trust. I knew that you would save me. As for poor Herman... Nothing
could save him. We learn to accept that, too."

She releases me, steps
back—teary-eyed—starts to walk away, stops, looks back, says: "We
shall meet again. We shall fall in love."

I send her a smile. I am a bit of a psychic
too, you know. "Scary, isn't it," is my response to Reverend
Annie.

She shivers, gives me a solemn little smile,
then walks away.

And I am now heading into the most
interesting case I have ever encountered. It will send me backward
into the golden age of Hollywood and maybe into the outskirts of
another golden age that Hollywood never dreamt of—and it will send
me very close to hell itself.

But, of course, hell itself is precisely
where it started.

Chapter Two: And a Cymbal Clashed...

David Carver, a homicide
detective, was waiting for me beside my Maserati. I knew him
slightly. Know a lot of cops, but mostly just enough to smile and
say "Hi" if we pass on the street. Carver was in that class. Cops
don't make the best of friends, except with other cops. They lead
mean lives. Sort of takes one to appreciate one. There are
exceptions, of course. Not many. Doesn't mean I don't respect cops.
Mostly I do. Carver I did.

He grinned and said, "Hi, Ash. Saw your name
on the sheets."

I told him, "I gave my statement to
Lieutenant Stewart."

He said, "Yeah, I know. Read it. Just want
to talk to you. Off the record. Okay?"

I said, "David...look at me...I need a hot
shower and a change of clothes. Make it quick?"

"Sure. What's with you and the
reverend?"

I shrugged. "I was just a face in the
crowd."

"You weren't bodyguarding
her?"

I gave him what I hoped was a disgusted
look. "Things are not that bad, David. I do not guard bodies other
than those that are in my bed."

"Wasn't your gun, eh?"

I showed him another attempt at disgust.
"When I pull a trigger, pal, I want the machine to gently purr, not
bust my hand apart." I showed him the hand in question. "Designed
especially to hold a tennis racquet, not a snorting .357 Magnum.
All my arms are registered. Check it out."

"Already did," he said, still grinning
genially. "Where's your Walther?"

I inclined my head toward the car and
replied, "Inside."

"Show me."

I sighed, unlocked the car, removed the
pistol from its concealed floorboard compartment, handed it over to
him. He smiled and handed it back, told me: "You'd better start
carrying it."

I knew better than to ask but did so anyway.
"Why?"

"I mean if you plan on keeping company with
the reverend."

"I didn't say I planned on
that. We haven't even been formally introduced."

"That's good," he said. "Keep it that
way."

So I asked it again. "Why?"

"This kid Milhaul is the third violent death
in her congregation over the past two months. One more makes an
epidemic. Sounds like you damn near qualified for that one
tonight. A word to the wise, Ash."

I told him, "Hell, I just came down to look
her over. And I—"

“
What'd you
see?”

I gave the homicide detective a steady gaze
as I replied, "I saw a screwed-up kid try to kill her. I intervened
in that. Call it bodyguarding if you like but it was pure
coincidence that it was me instead of someone else."

"Sure of that?" he asked, the grin still in
place.

I said, “What is this,
Carver? You didn't just happen to...”

He replied, "Naw. The lieutenant thought it
would be best if I talked to you out here. Privately, you know." He
handed over a slip of paper. I unfolded it, stared at it for a
couple of seconds, handed it back.

Two names were written on that paper in a
curiously stilted scrawl. Mine and the dead boy's. They were
enclosed in brackets.

I asked, "So where'd you find it?"

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
gentle
man. 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?"