Life to Life: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (25 page)

Got all that?

Okay, here's some more. Donald Huntzermann,
Annie's second husband, had been married briefly to Wayne Sturgis's
sister, Herman Milhaul's mother. And Milhaul's natural father had
been killed in a traffic accident involving George Farrel, Ann's
fourth and latest husband, when Milhaul was only two years old.

And, of course, Farrel was Bruce Janulski's
natural father.

That brings us to Larry Preston, Annie's
third husband, the dry cleaner whose truck exploded on a freeway.
Ready? Larry's first wife was Charlie McSweeney's sister.

Is it any wonder that David Carver was half
crazy trying to unravel this thing, especially since we already
know that Annie's second husband was his grandfather, which makes
Annie his step-grandmother, and I hope you caught the connection
with Milhaul: Carver's grandfather had briefly been Milhaul's
stepfather.

One small item here: Carver's mother also is
a member of the past-lives group involving Clara, Milhaul, and
McSweeney.

And a final tidbit that may mean nothing
whatever but I toss it in merely to round out the picture.
Janulski's mother was a sixteen-year-old named Mary Magdalene who
died shortly after his birth.

So there's our cast of
players. Have you noticed the string of names that begin with the
letter
M
? It's
probably no more than a curiosity...the same as another interesting
string I've noted—John, James, Judas, Jesus, Jerusalem,
Jehovah...

And so what do you make of our game, at this
point?

Keep in mind, before you leap, what I said
earlier about the two patterns of death: the one preceding Annie's
apparent state of independence and the one since.

And please remember
something that my dear old dad said to me: the antecedent follows
the precedent. Has something to do with fruition, I
believe.

Here is the translation of the tutorial,
with a dash of synthesis to tie it all together:

"There is extreme danger if you persist in
the present activity."

"You have been warned of
the high price to pay if you lose the disciplines."

"Now you have lost all discipline. The group
is no longer the group."

"Your project grows
desperate and the leaders without the will to lead."

"You are now under
relentless attack, and they will not deal kindly with
you."

"You must stop the outward flow and
reconcentrate the energies if you intend to persist."

"Otherwise all is death and the game is
lost."

"You must follow the
leader, and the leader must follow the disciplines."

"The leader is the
disciplines, find the disciplines must lead."

"Otherwise, we see failure."

"The entire world will
rise up to refute you."

"You have lost the object
of the game yet you think that you have found it."

"That which you now desire will destroy
you."

"Return to the disciplines."

"Beware of foolish behavior."

"Remain firm in your game!"

"Get out of Hollywood!"

"Sever all ties that seek to use you for
personal gain!"

There you go. In a
nutshell, this was a warning that everything was going to hell.
The work of years (or maybe centuries!) was in jeopardy because of
a sudden loss of direction. Only a quick and decisive turnaround
could save the game. And apparently Francois Mirabel and his plans
for Annie were at the root of all the trouble. But I detected a
note of something else, too, and I needed time to think about
that.

Problem was, all the time had run out, it
seems, and this route had already been scrubbed.

But I still wanted to know why.

I hesitate to mention it because already I
have dwelt too long with the Jesus story, but this whole thing gave
a new poignancy to that story. It provides a very personal look at
the inside drama involving the fruition at Jerusalem as Jesus
considered his fate in the garden at Gethsemane. I think he wanted
out.

Let's pick it up at Matthew 36:

Then Jesus went with them
to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to the disciples, "Sit
here, while I go yonder and pray." And taking with him Peter and
the two sons of Zebedee, he began to be sorrowful and troubled.
Then he said to them, "My soul is very sorrowful, even to death;
remain here, and watch with me." And going a little farther he fell
on his face and prayed, "My Father, if it be possible, let this cup
pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt." And
he came to the disciples and found them sleeping; and he said to
Peter, "So, could you not watch with me one hour? Watch and pray
that you may not enter into temptation; the spirit indeed is
willing, but the flesh is weak."

Jesus then returned and prayed again, "My
Father, if this cannot pass unless I drink it, thy will be
done."

He went back and found the disciples again
asleep, so he returned and prayed a third time, "saying the same
words."

Apparently he finally got his answer,
because it is written, Matthew 45:

Then he came to the
disciples and said to them, "Are you still sleeping and taking your
rest? Behold, the hour is at hand, and the Son of man is betrayed
into the hands of sinners. Rise, let us be going; see, my betrayer
is at hand."

The cup would not pass, so
Jesus accepted it, steeled himself, and went out to fulfill his
destiny. I think he was a hell of a man.

By and large, I think, the
masters come at us with no games at all. They come quietly to
enlighten, to lead, to inspire. They might come via music or
literature, science or industry, even politics and the military,
sometimes through religion.

But when they come with a game, it is
because things have become a bit desperate on earth. And the games,
when successful, always move the earth—though perhaps not always in
a direction which we with the earthbound view would call
delightful.

The setup, as I understand
it, can take generations to put into place. A theater must first be
chosen and the stage prepared. A script must be developed, actors
selected and all the roles cast. There must be the "wayshowers"
like John the Baptist and the villains like Herod and Caiphus, the
loyalists like Peter and the traitors like Judas. And finally, of
course, there must be a star: the master himself or herself, and
this master must have the depth to carry the role. At special
times, more than one master.

As I see it, the games are most often
designed to irritate and arouse. They are goads, and we—you and
me—are the goadees.

I still did not know the name of Annie's
game.

But my father in heaven had told me: "You're
the boss. It's what you make it."

I would have to see about that.

Chapter Thirty: The
Man

Before I even got out of the building, I knew
that I had to talk to Annie. I returned to Stewart's office and
told him that.

The cop fixed me with a troubled gaze and
said, "Just when I thought we were getting to be friends."

I told him, "Has nothing to do with
friendship. I'm not on anybody's fee right now. I want the same
thing you want; the truth. I believe I am only one step away from
it. Let me talk to her."

He seemed to be considering the request as
he replied, "The D.A. probably would not like that."

I suggested, "Okay, so friendship is
involved. Or trust. You can fix it. Do it."

"Just one step away, huh?"

"I think so, yeah."

"Maybe if I wired you for sound..."

I said, "Or maybe if you pretended to do
that."

"What do you mean?"

"I am not going to take a
wire in there, Paul. But if the D.A
.
thinks
I am..."

The cop showed me a thin smile as he
replied, "You don't mind asking for anything, do you. Tell me
something: why should I do this? If you can give me one
word..."

I replied, "I can give you two. David
Carver."

Our gazes locked for a very pregnant
moment—then he sighed and reached for the telephone. "I will have
to wire you. You do what you think you have to do with it after you
get in there."

I knew how to handle that, sure. Wires were
my business, once.

Annie had not been informed of the tragedy
at her Center of Light. They had moved her to a jail ward at County
General following the hemorrhage but she looked okay—a bit pale but
otherwise okay. The nurse pulled the curtains to give us the only
privacy possible in a room with nine other patients. There was a
moment of awkwardness, once we were alone, but that passed rather
quickly.

I asked her, "How you doing, kid?"

She replied, "Fine,
thanks."

I took her hand and said, "I bring bad
news."

But she already had it, deep in the eyes.
She said, "I know."

I took a deep breath; said, "They're all
dead, Annie."

She closed her eyes for a moment then turned
them to the curtain as she opened them. "Then it's over," she
whispered.

"Scrubbed," I told her.

"I see."

"What went wrong?"

She continued to eye the curtain. "I'm
afraid it has been wrong for a long time."

"Since Francois?"

"Before that, even."

"Did you set him up?"

She turned the lovely head to look at me,
blinked the eyes rapidly several times; asked, "What?"

I said, "Never mind"; showed her a picture
from Clara's old album; asked, "Who is this?"

She took the faded snapshot from my hand and
glanced at it; handed it back and told me, "She was my mother."

"Recognize the guy?"

"My mother's lover."

"Remember his name?"

"Read my mind," she
replied quietly.

I said, "Then you've known all along that
Francois was..."

She said, "Of course I've known.''

"Now you read my mind," I said.

She looked at me for a
long moment then smiled and said, "Of course I know what happened.
Why do you think I am in this hospital bed? Didn't I tell you we'd
fall in love?"

I chuckled and said, "I
didn't know you meant that literally."

The smile faded. She asked me. "When did
they die?"

I said, "Very soon after that."

A tear oozed along her cheek. She whispered,
"Why?"

I sighed and told her,
"Hell I don't know why, Annie. I was hoping you could tell me
why."

She replied in a whisper: "It was not
written."

I said, "Maybe somebody penciled it in."

She turned back to the curtain; whispered,
"Perhaps."

I stood there silently for a moment then
asked her, "Why me, Annie?"

She whispered, "Read my mind."

"I don't want to read your mind. I want you
to tell me. After all these years and all those husbands...why
me?"

She looked at me, then, as she replied, "It
did not really happen, you know. This flesh is still virgin
flesh."

I asked, "Why is that so important?"

She said, "Please leave me alone, now. My
spirit weeps."

I said, "I know...I know," and pulled the
curtain back.

She took my hand and said, "Thank you."

I said, "For what?"

She smiled weakly and said, "Read my
mind."

I was reading it, yeah, and it was tearing
me up.

I asked, "Where would I find Bruce?"

She whispered, "Golgotha."

I said, "Like that, eh."

"Yes."

"Are you Mary, then?"

She just gave me a sad, sweet smile and
turned away from me. So I went out of there and met Paul Stewart in
the waiting room.

He asked, "How'd it go?"

I reported, "About the way I expected it to.
Now I need to find Golgotha."

He said, "Who the hell is
that?"

"It's not a who," I told him. "It's a where.
A hill, maybe."

Stewart said, "There's a thousand hills in
this town but I never heard of that one."

I thought maybe I had. Yeah, maybe I
had.

I figured Arnold
Tostermann, the screenwriter, for just the guy to give me a quick
answer to a simple question, and I'd figured right. A thirty-second
telephone conversation with Tostermann gave me what I needed to
know.

I had left the Maserati at the police
station and gone with Stewart in his official vehicle to County
General. I would need him again in his official capacity to gain
entrance to "Golgotha" and I figured it was just as well to have
him in on this thing, anyway, so we set off together from the
hospital in his car.

There are not a lot of
back lots left in Hollywood since the studios began dismantling
themselves and selling off their valuable land, but I had
remembered one in particular that was still around and there was
something vague in the memory about a particular old movie set
that had never been demolished. Tostermann confirmed and refined
that vague memory and sent us hurtling across town in search of a
master gamesman.

Stewart's badge got us through the studio
main gate. We left the car at the entrance to the darkened back lot
and went the rest of the way on foot.

We found our Golgotha,
yeah. Wasn't exactly a hid, after all; just a small mound of earth
in a corner of the lot. It was dark back there but not so dark that
we could not find our way without artificial lighting; I did not
want to use flashlights. There was a muted glow, anyway, from the
city lights; the city itself lay just beyond a ten-foot-high wooden
fence.