As it worked out, I found myself "on my own" very shortly after the refueling stop. I didn't understand what was happening, at first; it just seemed that my "lock" with Jennifer was weakening. Yet I knew from past experience that this could not be the result of distancing. Distance apparently has no effect on psychic energy; I can leap to London or Paris at the speed of light, in my mind, and so can you. A mere four or five terrestrial miles of separation between attuned minds would not affect that linkage.
Yet I was losing her and I knew it. Let me see if I can explain that, to at least some approximation of ordinary experience. If you have ever had your car radio tuned to an FM broadcast while driving cross-country, you have probably noticed a "fringe area" at the outermost range of a particular station, an area in which the broadcast volume begins to subside or to waver, sometimes gaining strength again as you climb to a higher elevation, sometimes disappearing altogether-and sometimes you may experience a Ping-Pong effect between two stations at the same wavelength, where first you hear one station and then the other, back and forth like that until you finally leave one station's influence altogether and your radio "locks on" to the other.
That is sort of like the problem I was having with Jennifer. I was losing the "lock"—but unlike radio waves, which are affected by distancing, my "mental wavelength" should have an infinite range, so I could not understand why I was having the problem. At first. I could only presume that she had turned east onto the little two-lane state highway 76 toward the Pala Indian reservation and Palomar, since she had blinked-out on me and I was strictly on my own at that point.
I was forced to consciously break the energy link as I approached the tiny village of Pala, which is within the reservation. "Forced" the same way you may be forced to turn off your radio during an electrical storm: the background noise simply becomes so loud and disturbing that you cannot tolerate it.
This was not my first encounter with an Indian reservation. I had experienced disturbing "hits" before in the vicinity of Indian holy grounds but never anything like this. For lack of a better explanation, at the time, I decided that the interference could be the result of special properties of this particular Indian area, and I made a mental note to look into that closer one day.
At any rate, I lost my lock on Jennifer and I did not get it back. Don't ever bet your life on a psychic's infallibility—and do not ever trust any psychic who claims to be one hundred percent all of the time. The thing simply does not work that way. We do not command it. It commands us, and we can only humbly respond; start feeling arrogant about "the power" and you lose it damned quick. Keep that in mind during your own tentative explorations into psychism, and particularly keep it in mind when consulting any self- proclaimed "psychic."
So—I was running on my own, at night, in unfamiliar country, when I began the ascent up Palomar Mountain, over six-thousand feet to the peak, from near sea level—a winding and twisting two-lane blacktop with numerous switchbacks. Moreover, I began to note patches of snow as the climb continued, then banked snow along the edges of the road, and icy spots on the roadway itself. So there was really no thought toward any attempt to overtake Jennifer; I was simply trusting the earlier reading that Palomar was the destination, while taking great care that the Maserati make it all the way without incident.
I did not encounter a single vehicle along the way from the moment I left the state highway and began the climb along the country road up the mountain, nor were there any signs of life whatever until I hit the national park area at the five-thousand-foot level. At that point, a small rustic complex housed a cafe and market, both closed for the night, and a roadway signboard informed me that I was still six miles from the observatory. I pulled into the parking area and lit a cigarette, got out of the car and stretched my legs, wondering what the hell I was going to do when I reached the end of the road; I had given no thought to that, had never been to Palomar before, really knew nothing about the place.
I did know that Cal Tech (the California Institute of Technology) owned the facility, and I recalled reading something to the effect that the Carnegie Institution shared administrative responsibilities and had something to do with research priorities. The 200-inch Hale telescope which had been installed there during the 1940s had been the world's largest optical instrument until just recently, when the Russians completed a 236-inch reflector; Palomar, though, continued to be the free world's chief "eye on the heavens," capable of "seeing" to the edge of the known universe, more than one billion light-years distant.
So much for that, what I knew about Palomar. I had no idea whatever of the layout of the physical facility. Accessibility, security... none of that.
While I was stretching my legs and wondering about things like that, a woman came out of the market and locked the door from the outside, looked at me, at my car, back at me again in some quick sizing-up, then called over to me, "Sorry, we're closed."
I replied, "Yes, thanks, I noticed your sign. Just stretching the legs."
She observed, amiably, "Cold tonight."
I said, "Sure is."
She continued to stand at the door, watching me with probably more curiosity than anything else. "Observatory is straight ahead," she informed me.
I said, "Thanks. I was following Dr. Harrel. Guess I got a little behind. Lots of ice, back there. Be careful, if you're heading that way."
"Oh no, I live on up the road," she replied. "A car went by just a couple of minutes ahead of you, so you're not far behind." She was moving toward the far side of the building; I presumed she had a car parked back there somewhere.
I called after her, "People actually live up here?"
She laughed as she returned that one and disappeared around the corner. "More than you'd think."
More than anyone would think, yes. I could not remember when I had felt more isolated from the rest of humanity. The silence seemed absolute, pure and pristine, and the darkness unmarred by human presence. Which, I guess, is why this mountaintop was chosen as the site for the eye on the universe.
Twice in recent moments, the "eye" thing had streaked my reflective processes. And I thought, then, of the last thing said to me by Greg Souza, just as the real nuttiness was beginning: just in case, eye on the sky. Remember, eye on the sky."
Which, I had thought at the moment, meant not a hell of a lot in this present arena. Every observatory was an "eye on the sky" and every astronomer had one. Unless, I was now thinking, "eye on the sky" was a code phrase for some sort of operation involving the disappearance of Isaac Donaldson, some sort of intelligence operation. There was no mistaking the implication that Souza was providing a clue to his own death or disappearance, should either occur—a pointer of some kind toward those responsible.
Whatever, I could not help thinking that this mountaintop, so perfect for an eye on the sky, was also a perfect setting for skulduggery.
It is, as the crow flies, no more than thirty miles from the sea, fifty miles from the heart of San Diego, a hundred miles from the L.A. Civic Center—yet isolated in primitive splendor, a remote island of almost pure nature arising at the edge of the greatest population density west of New York City.
I was enveloped in the feeling that only the Maserati and I were afloat in this world, immersed in the dark silence which was broken only by the hum of a well-timed engine and the well-defined cone of light from the headlamps, an almost vertigo-like feeling as I went on toward the unseen peak of the mountain. But all of that changed in an instant; the roadway curved and dipped, the horizon instantly elevated beyond screening trees as I emerged from the shadowed terrain, and far ahead—maybe five miles ahead—shining in the moonlight, the hand of man reappeared in the form of a tremendous dome dominating the skyline. It could only be, and it was, the 200-inch Hale telescope, gleaming white in the light of the moon and strangely reminiscent of a Trojan helmet.
I am going to give you here some facts I later looked up regarding this astonishing structure. A telescope is sized by th
e diameter of its reflector; 200 inches or seventeen feet is the diameter of the tube itself, which is also sixty feet long. The main mirror weighs fourteen tons, the entire moveable assembly more than 500 tons, yet all balanced and supported so smoothly that a 1/12-hp motor can turn it. This entire apparatus is enclosed within the dome; the entire "budding," then, moves along an east-west axis while the telescopic barrel, inside the dome, moves on a north-south axis.
It is an impressive sight, especially in that first glimpse and in context with the setting; I was certainly impressed. I stopped the car again and sat there for several seconds just sort of getting the lay of the land and the feel of the moment. The shutters of the dome were closed. They are emplaced vertically, of course, to accommodate the north-south alignment, and are responsible for the Trojan helmet appearance. Closed shutters meant, I presumed, no activity inside; and, indeed, at that distance, I could discern no evidence of any activity whatever on that peak.
I decided on a quiet arrival, making the final approach without lights and at creep speed. The periphery was fenced—chainlink topped with barbed wire—and appropriately identified as Cal-Tech property. The place is open to the public during the day but now the visitors' gate was closed and locked. Another gate, obviously for staff use, was unlocked and partially open—just wide enough for a car to pass—so I ventured on inside.
Actually the big dome is one of five domes at Palomar, ranging from an eighteen-inch up to the big one, scattered about the mountaintop over a fairly wide area. I had no idea how much area was actually involved nor how many buildings, residences, etc., were there. So I was really on uncertain ground and simply feeling my way along in the darkness, now and then in open moonlight but mostly in deep shadows.
All that changed, though, as suddenly and dramatically as that first glimpse of the big dome. Suddenly there it was again, bathed by the moon—immense, in the closeup, and even more impressive. And there was Jennifer's borrowed silver sedan, parked beside it, and there was Jennifer, herself, struggling in the grip of two determined men who were dragging her toward another car—and, off to one side, there was my old pal Greg Souza, just a casual observer.
I hit the ground with the Walther leading the way, even before the thinking part of me could assimilate all that, and I fired a shot "across the bow" to announce a new element in the drama. Actually I sent the round into that other vehicle. Both guys reacted to that by releasing Jennifer and clawing for their own weapons.
So...shit. Right there in the shadow of the eye on the universe, I had myself a gun battle.
Chapter Eight: Incident at Palomar
No more than a dozen shots were fired, in all—four of them mine. I was going not for a kill but for a statement, that being: you can't have her all that easy, guys. Keep in mind that I did not yet know the name of the game nor even the identities of the players. Hell, these guys could be FBI, local police, anything. So it's nice, at such a time, to be a marksman. My general theory of firearms, in fact, is that anyone who owns one should take the time to thoroughly understand ballistics science and to master the art of sending a bullet to a precise mark. So I am a marksman and I sent four to carefully selected targets; the first, to capture attention; the others, to encourage sane thought. I grazed both of those guys in nonvital areas—an arm of one, a leg of another—deep enough to etch a pretty good groove and produce some bleeding. Meanwhile, their return fire was totally ineffective, mainly because they could not see me. I was in dark shadow while they were brightly illuminated by the headlights of their own car. So they got very sane, very quickly, and got the hell out of there—a bullet-hole in their door and a lot of pain behind the wheel, if the erratic course of that fleeing vehicle was any measure. That reaction answered at least one identity question as well. I have never known cops to run away from a fight; they just hunker down and wait for help, if that is needed.
Jennifer had run inside the building the instant she was released. Souza was standing exactly where I had first seen him, hands raised over his head and peering into the darkness from which my first round had erupted. "I am not armed," he announced to the world at large in a calm voice.
I called back, "You should be, you asshole."
The arms came down immediately and he replied with obvious relief, "That you, Ash?"
I said, "Yeh," and joined him in the moonlight.
"You should have iced those bastards," he told me.
"Who are they?"
"Beats me. You're the one was throwing lead at them. I figured you knew."
I told him, "This thing is getting crazy. Or I guess you know that already. Nice work you did on Gavinsky."
He said, "Thanks"—then did a double take with: "What's that nice work I did?"
"You didn't do it?"
"Damned if I know, Ash. What're we talking about?"
"I went home," I explained. "Gavinsky was still there. Well...his body was. Someone did his throat. Ear to ear."
Souza winced, said, "No, don't credit me with that. You're right, it's getting crazier. Look. We need to talk."
"Right now," I replied, "I need some words with Dr. Harrel."
"She ran inside."
I said, "Yeah, I noticed. What the hell are you doing here, Greg?"
"Just came down to look it over," he told me. "Been here a couple of hours. Surprised as hell to see the girl come streaking in here. God, she looked wild. Saw me and started running. Right into the arms of these other jerks. I don't know what the hell..."
I was looking at her car, the way it was parked beside the observatory. "She didn't come in the way I did," I observed.
"First time she did," Souza said thoughtfully. "If you mean straight in from the front gate. But she turned off and went over toward the offices. Didn't know it was her, then, but she came back like shot out of hell, jumped out of the car almost before it quit rolling. I thought—"
I interrupted with, "Later, Greg—stay right here," and I went quickly inside to find the lady. She was probably scared half to death, I was thinking, and needed to know that the situation was in hand—for the moment, anyway.
But I did not find the lady inside there. I found a guy in blue jeans and checkered shirt, tiny round eyeglasses and bird's-nest beard—about my age, very nervous, wary of me—emerging from an elevator which, I presumed, served as the chief route to the interior of the massive structure.
He asked me, "Were those gunshots?"
I told him, "You bet they were. Where did Jennifer go?"
He said, "Jennifer who?"
I said, "Jennifer Harrel. She was accosted just outside by a couple of weirdos. She ran in here."
He said, "I don't know Jennifer Harrel, except by reputation. I was up in the cage. If she came in here...I don't know. Who are you?"
"Security," I lied. "She must be inside somewhere."
The guy seemed to have bought the "security" gag. His attitude became much more relaxed and a lot more helpful. "If we start getting creeps up here..." He was holding the elevator door open, ushering me inside.
"Why were you in the cage?" I asked him conversationally. "I noticed the shutters are closed."
"Moonset pretty soon, now," he replied. "We'll have a nice dark sky; I was just getting ready." He showed me a
delighted, boyish grin. "I get ten minutes of direct observation, from the cage." This, with all the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old's announcement of a trip to the circus.
"Not much of that, anymore," I ventured, not knowing what the hell I was talking about.
"Well, it's pretty inefficient, and there's just so much observing time to go around. But I really love to touch the universe as directly as possible. The control room is more comfortable, sure, but..."
A true astronomer, this one, filled with the romance of it all; a poet in scientific garb. The "cage," I recalled from something Jennifer had told me, is a six-foot capsule near the upper end of the telescope in which the astronomer "rides" and carries on his/her observations. It could get very
cold and intensely uncomfortable. At one time, here, it was the only way. Now the whole thing was accomplished from the comfort of armchairs in a heated, well-lit control room, with a computer and video screens. But that "cage" had figured rather prominently in the stirring little seduction story Jennifer shared with me—love among the stars, okay.
But there was no "love" in there tonight...just instrument panels and gadgets, video screens, a couple of weary looking guys in blue jeans going through some calculations on the computer. Jennifer was not in there.
"You might try the catwalk," the poet suggested, indicating a door behind me.
I went out there—or in there, whatever—and was immediately swallowed by an immensity of steel girders and whatnot, the support structure for this mammoth eye. There was not a sound or a movement out there beneath the dome—but I thought I detected a door slightly ajar on the other side. I went down there to check it out, discovered a door was indeed ajar and that it led to the visitors' gallery. I went on through, down a long, winding flight of stairs, and found myself outside on the building's far side.
So, what the hell, I followed a sidewalk around the building and rejoined Souza. He was seated in his car with a door open, shivering slightly in the chill air, chatting with a couple of guys who were seated in a car idling with lights off beside his.
As I moved between the two vehicles, Souza was quick to get the first word in—loudly. 'Tom says Jennifer isn't on the schedule anytime this month. But she could be visiting over at the monastery."
I indicated her abandoned vehicle with a jerk of the head and replied, just as loudly, "Then why'd she leave her car here? I'm sure I saw her go inside the Hale."
Eye to Eye: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective Page 5