Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

by Don Pendleton

  Maybe it would be worth the trade in personal freedom. After all, freedom to roam the wilderness all hungry and dying of thirst would not be too much of a trade for a cage with plenty of food and water. I could believe Kalinsky's assurances that my every need would be met if I would just pledge my soul to the cause. If all these people here were indeed working under "the same requirements," and I had no reason to doubt it, I had to admit that they seemed a rather contented bunch.

  Of course, cows in deep pasture usually seem a rather contented bunch too; I would not trade my life for theirs.

  So I ate the chicken while the tailor fussed with the fit. When he departed I headed straight for the bath, taking the coffee with me and opting for a stinging shower in preference to the lulling comfort of the whirlpool. It was past six; dinner was at eight; I wanted a moment with Karen in private before the festivities.

  I tracked her down via the "Intercom Directory" and got her on the house phone. She still sounded a bit upset but in control as she invited me to her "apartment" and told me how to get there. It was on the same floor, but seemingly a half-mile distant around several bends of hallway—not too bad, except that I was wearing only a bulky shower robe (compliments of management) for the safari.

  Karen was not alone. A nice-eyed man of about forty and prematurely bald, whom she introduced only as Carl, was standing in the open doorway and chatting with her when I arrived. Neither of them blinked at my get-up, maybe because the three of us were identically attired, but Karen had a bit of trouble meeting my eyes at first.

  Turns out that Carl was Carl U. Powell, M.D.—house doctor and resident shrink—which explained the CUP monogrammed on the breast pocket of his robe, which in turn suggested that he was a company man "under the same requirements."

  He looked me over with a not unfriendly stare, shook my hand, and took his leave before I could really get his make and model.

  Karen retreated into the depths somewhere, leaving me alone in the hallway. I went on in and closed the door, found her standing at a window in the sitting room, hands jammed tightly into the pockets of the robe, gazing fixedly onto the front lawn. It was a nice view but, again, I had the feeling that she was seeing nothing beyond her own eyeballs.

  She spoke to me very quietly and without altering her position at the window. "Can you forgive me? I feel really ... crummy."

  I matched her tone and mood as I replied to that. "I suspect that you have nothing to apologize for."

  She looked at me, then—just a turn of the head and a sweep with the eyes—and I could see the misery there, and I started getting mad as hell, a slow burn beginning way down low in the belly. I knew what she was feeling because I had sampled a small taste of it during the meeting with Kalinsky, a sort of formless rage lightly brushed with panic, the recognition that someone with raw power was making designs on your life-force.

  I turned her about and took her in my arms, and we just stood there embracing through a long, warmly electric silence, flowing into each other, meeting somewhere in psyche and joining thoroughly in a surging transfer.

  I felt her stiffen momentarily and feebly struggle against it before releasing in total surrender, mind and body, molding to me, attaching, merging. We were one body and one mind between the infinities, a single point of reference in the space-time continuum, but not moving with it, outside somewhere, out of plane, out of body.

  It shook her, shook us both, brought tears to both.

  I do not know how this may sound to you—maybe somewhat like a pride-and-passion novel, or maybe you will just think I am kooky or melodramatic—if you have never experienced the same thing. It was not the first time for me, but still it was rare enough that I found it remarkable and damned near incredible that two people—strangers, really—could spontaneously ignite into something like this, could be transported from the workaday world into cosmic zonk in a fingersnap.

  Suddenly I knew this lady, knew all about her in shades more intimate than anything shared by lifelong companions, knew her in her essences, her longings and deepest fears and feelings, knew her in all the sweet quiet whisperings from another star somewhere, another system, another reality.

  Call it what you will; I can only report the facts.

  That kind of knowing is the deepest sort of love.

  And I knew, even before I pulled away and looked into her eyes, that she knew me as I knew her.

  Chapter Seven: Poor Little Rich Dreamer

  We could and should have had a full-blown sexual encounter then and there, except that the circumstances of the moment were so out of kilter; Karen was in trouble, I was in trouble, maybe this entire enterprise was in trouble, and all of that was part and parcel of the understanding we'd shared out there between the infinities.

  Also, the experience had been just a bit too overwhelming for her to handle all in a piece. Her knees buckled, and she would have gone down except for my support. I helped her to a couch and went for water.

  She had both feet tucked under her and was dreamily contemplating an unlit cigarette when I returned. I traded her the glass for the cigarette and lit it while she sipped the water, gave her a drag, took one myself, then put it out, took a sip of water for myself.

  All this time Karen was staring at me with those great, glowing eyes, raising hell with my nervous system. She had never seemed more beautiful, more appealing, more vulnerable.

  I did not dare touch her. "You okay?" I inquired, trying to make it casual.

  She replied with an almost imperceptible nod of the head and without detaching that gaze. "Guess so. How did you do that?"

  I wished I had, and wished I knew how. I told her, "We didn't do it, it did us. Happens, sometimes, when all the ingredients are there.

  "It was ... cosmic."

  I said, "Yes. I think so. The important thing is to trust it, accept it, go with it. Can you do that?"

  She pondered that for a moment before replying, "I doubt that I could do otherwise. But I'm not sure I understand ..."

  I lit another cigarette, offered it to her, but she declined with a shake of the head; I said, my eyes following the spiraling trail of smoke, "You suddenly knew me. I mean, knew. Maybe as you've never, ever known another human being."

  "Yes, I ... think that's it," she said, maybe a bit confused.

  "Don't let me define the experience for you."

  "No, that—that's it. But more. Much more than that."

  "The important thing, right now," I suggested, "is the knowing. I think maybe it is all important. You are in trouble, Karen. Maybe deep trouble. You need a friend, someone to trust. I'm asking you to give me that trust, that confidence."

  She said, without a blink, "I trust you with my life, Ashton."

  "It could get down to that," I muttered. "Look, you have a right to know..." I suddenly felt miserable, incompetent, scared. "I don't know anything about anything. All I have is feeling, belly instinct. So don't trust me with your very life, Karen. All I am asking for is your confidence that I am feeling and acting in your ultimate best interest. Please give me that and nothing more than that."

  She said, very quietly, almost awed, "Okay. I understand."

  I told her, "I need to know, in a word, one word, how you feel about your own life at this moment, your life situation."

  "In a word," she replied, without taking time to think about it, "depressing."

  "That seems very strange," I commented. "You would be the envy of almost any woman. You have youth, beauty, fabulous wealth."

  "Poor little rich girl," she said grimly. "It is not what it is cracked up to be. I don't have much to relate to. I mean, with other women. With the world at large, really. This is my world, always has been. But from what I can gather, I have a terribly unnatural life-style."

  "How long have you been aware of that?"

  "Always, I guess," she replied quietly. "At least since I've been old enough to even know who I am. Now, sometimes, I don't even seem to know that."

  "Are you
frightened?"

  "Do you mean right now?"

  "Right now, an hour ago, yesterday, tomorrow. Are you frightened?"

  "I guess I am," she replied dully.

  "What frightens you?"

  She seemed to be thinking about it. Quite awhile. Then: "Myself, mainly."

  "Does Kalinsky frighten you?"

  "Terry?" She wrinkled her nose, smiled. "His bark is worse than his bite. I think—I see him—I believe Terry is just ... overburdened. With his own sense of responsibility, I mean. Tries too hard. Takes it all much too seriously."

  "Yeah, that's how he takes it," I quietly agreed.

  "I get very angry with him sometimes. He can be very stubborn and demanding. But I am not afraid of him."

  "Could you fire him if you wanted to? Send him packing?"

  She smiled again. "I've never really thought about it."

  "Think about it now," I suggested.

  "Well, he—I don't know. He's administrator of the estate. And trustee of several funds, until they come to me. I don't suppose I could change that. But ... if you mean ... do I have to live under the same roof with him ... I really can't answer that."

  I said, "These, uh, trust funds..."

  "From Poppa—my grandfather. I gather that it is all very complicated—also the estate—very complicated, I mean, since my parents died very soon after Poppa. And I was a minor."

  "How did your parents die?"

  "A boating accident. I was fourteen."

  "That's uh, tough on a kid. I'm sorry."

  "I got over it," she said, almost defensively. "Never knew them all that well, anyway."

  "Still ..."

  She showed me a small smile. "Well, sure, I cried for a long time. Thank God for Terry and Marcia. They were like family. I was flower girl in their wedding. So ... well, actually, the whole staff has been like a big family. I think Poppa sort of designed it that way. I have never really felt alone in the world."

  I reminded her, "You created that impression yesterday, at my place. I thought you were alone in the world, except for Bruno."

  Her eyes fell. "Bruno was my good buddy," she said. "I will miss him terribly." The eyes came back up, full blaze. "I'm sorry I wasn't entirely honest with you. But after all ... consider the circumstances."

  I said, "I was not complaining, merely commenting. Sometimes, with strangers, we subconsciously reveal true feelings."

  She replied, "Okay, so maybe sometimes I do really feel the role of poor-little rich girl."

  I asked, "Have you ever felt prisoner to all this?"

  "Prisoner? I don't—no, I—my life is my own."

  "Is it really?"

  The eyes fell again. "I don't know," she said miserably.

  I had to persist. "You've never felt mad as hell, maybe scared as hell, too, about your life situation?"

  "I guess maybe I have," she admitted.

  Yes, I rather guessed, too, that she had. I inquired, as casually as I could make it sound, "When do you come into the trusts?"

  "On my twenty-fifth birthday," she replied, just as casually.

  "And that is ... ?"

  "Next week," she said.

  "Next week," I echoed, the thinking mind already occupied elsewhere. "This is Saturday, so ... "

  "One week from today. Next Saturday. Marcia has planned a huge party. I wish they'd just ..."

  "You'd rather not have a party?"

  She replied, "We party every Saturday. It all seems so pointless. I'd rather spend the time meditating."

  I hardly heard that. My thinking part was pounding along another trail. I asked her, "Are you frightened about next Saturday?"

  "Frightened? No. Why should I be?"

  "No anxiety at all?"

  "No. I just don't see any point to it."

  "Awhile ago, Karen, when you came downstairs, you dropped your robe at the door and walked onto the patio totally naked. Do you remember doing that?"

  Her eyes clouded, dropped, inspected the hem of her robe. She said, very quietly, "Yes, of course I remember, but... not naked, no, I didn't think ... "

  "You believed that you were wearing something beneath the robe?"

  "My bathing suit. I ... can't explain. I thought I had put on the yellow bikini, but ..."

  "But obviously you had not."

  "Obviously. It was here when I returned to the apartment, in the drawer where I usually keep it. I can't ..."

  "Do you remember the announcement you made, downstairs, when you took my hand to introduce me to your guests—do you remember what you said?"

  "Yes. I remember what I said."

  "Do you know why you said that?"

  "Well, I—I remember—-I meant—I was very happy that you had come, and ..."

  "Are you confused about this, Karen?"

  "I think, yes, I am confused, I don't know why I said that. Marcia called it a Freudian slip but I—I don't think so. I mean, okay, maybe I was thinking it, but my God, I would never say something like that, not even to a best friend in confidence. No way would I slip it at the top of my voice to that crowd down there."

  "What did Carl say about it?"

  "No big deal, he said. Not to worry, he said. Carl is like that."

  "How long has Carl been saying things like that to you?"

  "He has been here about ... five years, I guess. Yes, since shortly after my twentieth birthday. Five years."

  "Isn't it a bit unusual to have a live-in doctor?"

  "Is it?" She shrugged delicately. "I guess if you can afford it, why not?"

  "Has there always been a doctor on staff? Or is Carl the first?"

  She made a thoughtful face, said, "Poppa had one here for a while ... I guess ... the last year or two. He had a lot of pain, cancer. But that was the only real doctor until Carl. Several of the security men are trained as paramedics. But I don't know, does that seem unusual to you?"

  I said, "A full-time doctor plus paramedics is more than many small towns have. You say Carl came just after you turned twenty?"

  "About a week after my birthday, yes. I remember it because Marcia made a joke about him being a late birthday gift."

  "Then he was hired primarily to doctor you?"

  "Oh, I don't think so. I've never been ill."

  "You said earlier that you were the Kalinsky's flower girl. When was that?"

  "I must have been about five," she replied, frowning with the effort to recall. "They've been married ... I guess close to twenty years. I believe their next anniversary is their twentieth. Unless I just dreamed the whole thing."

  "What do you mean? Dreamed what whole thing?"

  "About the wedding. Many things I think I remember turn out to be something I dreamed once. Is that unusual?"

  I smiled. "Probably not, if you're talking about childhood events. But do you often find it difficult to distinguish between something you've dreamed and some actual event? Other than the childhood stuff, I mean."

  She thought about that briefly before replying. "There have been some adult things that ... well, maybe I just dreamed them."

  "Since, uh ...”

  "Adult. The past few years."

  "Since your twentieth birthday, say?"

  "Since then, probably, yes."

  "Does Carl use dream analysis?"

  "Not a lot."

  "Not in the strictly Freudian sense?"

  "I think not, no."

  "Does he use hypnosis, regression techniques, any of that?"

  "Gosh, I—not with me."

  "But he has been your analyst these past five years."

  "I have never thought of myself as being 'in analysis.' We've been friends. He advises me, counsels me."

  "But you don't lie on a couch and ..."

  "Well, a few times. But nothing heavy."

  "Nothing heavy."

  "That's right."

  "Like..."

  "I've never discussed sex with him."

  "Sex is heavy?"

  "It is for me."

&
nbsp; "Since when?"

  "Since forever."

  "Since your awareness of sex. Going back to when?"

  She was becoming impatient with me, fidgety. "I guess I have always been aware of it. I cannot remember a time when I was not aware of it."

  I commented, "That's, uh, pretty heavy, yeah. Where'd you go to school?"

  "Right here. Poppa insisted on private tutors. I have never attended a real school."

  "Poppa is TJ? Or JQ?"

  "JQ. TJ never seemed to know if I was dead or alive."

  "You never mention your mother," I pointed out.

  "I have very little reason to," she replied. "I saw very little of my mother. I believe that she was gone, not here, for most of my life. I believe—it seems that—I think she came back right after Poppa died."

  God, it was getting heavier and heavier.

  I said, "Poppa died when you were thirteen. Then your mother and father less than a year later. Terry and Marcia took over your guardianship?"

  "Yes."

  "But you continued to have private tutors instead of going to regular school?"

  "That's right."

  "Did you like that?"

  "I guess I never thought about it."

  "You never questioned it, never rebelled, never thought how nice it would be to have people your own."She shut me down right there, coldly, finally. "I said I never thought about it. I have to start getting ready for dinner." She rose from the couch, gave me a frosty look. "See you later."

  And that was it.

  There was no doubt that the interview had ended.

  The only question in my mind was who had ended it. I don't know who that lady was, the stiffly formal one with the frosty look.

  I just knew that it was not Karen Highland.

  Chapter Eight: From the Stream

  I did not have time to fully assimilate the perplexing developments with Karen because another problem was awaiting me in my room—in the person of Marcia Kalinsky.

  She was wearing a mini version of the terry cloth robe that was assuming proportions as uniform of the day in this household—and when I say "mini" I mean hip-length and obviously designed to enhance rather than conceal the feminine charms of the wearer. I have already noted on these pages the fact that Marcia was remarkably preserved and no slouch whatever in the feminine charms department—but I must add here that the casually belted minirobe, worn over nothing more than the bottom half of a skimpy bikini bathing suit, added nothing but strain to an already overstrained day.