Life to Life: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (4 page)

But see, the problem—the
real problem—is that none of us are gods or angels yet.
W
e
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?"