I shook hands with him and said, "I'm Ford...this is Souza. We're meeting Jennifer Harrel."
He raised both eyebrows in an exaggerated show of understanding, replied, "Does she know that?"
I tried to make a rueful smile as I said, "She'd better, after dragging us all the way out here."
He chuckled. "Happens to all of them, once they've been on the mountain. They talk about absentminded professors but star people beat them all." The grin broadened as he dropped the punch line on me. "I just ran her over to Summerfield's for the night."
I said, "She didn't mention...?"
"Nawww, she forgot you. Don't take it personal. You fellas aren't astronomers, are you."
A statement, not a question.
I admitted it. "Just friends. We were going to meet here and get a tour, then on to Summerfield's. Hell, now...I don't even know how to get to Summerfield's."
"That's easy," Fred assured me. He whipped out a little spiral notebook, made a sketch, tore out the page and handed it to me. "Can't miss it. Big white place, hangs out over the side of the mountain, glass dome on top. Just follow my map. Seven, eight minutes from here."
I persuaded Souza to let me go it alone, much against his better judgment, on the condition that I keep him posted on developments.
"Your mobile phone still on the fritz?" he inquired, eyeing it as we made our way back to the Hale.
I replied, "Yeah, damn thing... who wants to be tied to a telephone, anyway? Been in the shop twice since—"
"You should get it fixed," he insisted. "Could save your life, one of these days. What's this energy thing you mentioned?"
I told him, truthfully, "Don't know, for sure. Some sort of disturbance, right on my wavelength. This is Indian country, so..."
He said, "Yeah," as though that explained everything to his satisfaction. As he was transferring to his vehicle, he leaned back to remind me, "Call." He had checked into a motel at Rancho California, on his way up. I had a matchbook in my pocket, with the telephone number printed on it. I promised again to keep him posted. "And watch your ass. Those jerks could still be skulking around here, somewhere."
I doubted that, in view of the wounds. But I promised, also, to watch my ass, then I pulled away and left him standing there in inky darkness beside the eye.
Fred's map was easy to follow; not many roadways across that mountaintop. I found the place just where he promised I would, and it looked just about the way he'd described it—except that the "glass dome on top" roofed only that portion of the big house that was cantilevered out from the side of the mountain—and the walls of that section were glass, as well. I took a bearing with the compass mounted on the Maserati's dash and decided that these folks could probably see fifty miles into the Pacific from that room on a clear day. A winding drive took me over to it, past several small outbuildings and a twenty-five-foot dish antenna poised to track the heavens; the thing looked to me just a bit too large and considerably more elaborate to be a TV-satellite dish—what the hell, I decided, maybe it's a radio telescope, and why not?
I counted six vehicles parked off to the side—a couple of pickups plus a variety of vans and Jeep types. And the house was even larger than it had appeared from the roadway. Not a lot of light showing from inside, but the tinted-glass of the bubble projection was casting a muted, bluish glow and I could hear faint musical strains from the porch.
A very elderly Indian woman wearing a white uniform-dress responded to my ring and beckoned me to enter without question. It was, by now, an hour past midnight—and there seemed to be a party in progress. I could not see the glass-enclosed room from the entry foyer but I knew where it ought to be and I could hear the murmur of voices from that quarter blending with the soft strains of a Strauss waltz.
If this, I was thinking, was another example of Spartan living supposedly exemplified in the scientific community, then things were definitely looking up for scientists. It was quite a place, easily on a par with the House of Isaac. But, of course, only the twenty-five-foot dish standing outside made any sort of statement relating this residence to the halls of science—so I was just rambling in the mind, and I knew it.
I told the old woman, "I am Ashton Ford. To see Dr. Harrel, please."
Ancient jaws ground an invisible cud as the only direct response to that announcement; she shuffled off without really looking at me, leaving me to wonder if she had heard, or understood, or cared. But another person came down a moment later—neither ancient nor chewing a cud, a dazzlingly beautiful woman of maybe twenty-five with swinging hips encased in denim (what else, on that mountain?), a tank-top thingamajig of some sort of elastic material sculpting magnificent breastworks and a glistening peekaboo belly, bare feet, eyes sparkling with excitement—raven hair, straight and shiny and falling to the hips. She was obviously Indian, or some-such, but she placed a glass of wine in my hand and told me, "I am Laura Summerfield. I sent word to Jen. Won't you come in?"
A voice behind her decided, "No he will not!" in no uncertain tone. It was Jen, herself, of course—very upset and moving quickly to throw the rascal out. She took the wine away from me and returned it to the beautiful Indian maiden, speaking volumes to her in a single look.
Laura made a faux-pas face and gracefully withdrew, leaving me to handle Jen's towering wrath on my own.
"What the hell are you doing here!" she hissed, trying to keep the voice down and failing to do so. "Did Souza?—no!—impossible!—that's only been...!" She peered at her watch, then scorched me again with those eyes. "Did you follow me? How...disgusting! How could you do... ? Just who the hell do you think you are, Ford?"
"I think," I replied quietly, "I'm the guy who shot a couple of geeks off your back awhile ago. But, of course, if you'd like to rewind and start that frame again..."
She said, "Oh," in a small voice, turned away from me, dropped the chin. "I thought Souza did that." She turned back to me, gnawing the lip, said, "It's still a detestable trick. You set me up. Then sat back and watched to see what I would do. I feel like I've been raped."
"I know the feeling," I told her. "Because I did not set you up. I went to my place on the beach, found a dead man waiting for me, beat it back to you as quick as I could, discovered the hard way you'd taken a powder on me, without even a by-your-leave, not a whisper of thanks—just kiss off, buddy boy, and it really was not nice, not very nice at all. So, yeah, maybe I understand the rape feeling."
I did not really feel that way about it, but I wanted her to think I did.
She could not look me in the eye. And the voice, when it came, was contrite without surrender, baffled without surprise. "How did you know I was coming here, then?"
"You don't believe in that stuff," I reminded her, "so just call it a hunch. I'm just glad I wasn't too far behind. Someone has your number, Doc. Any idea who?"
"No, I have no idea who," she replied miserably, suddenly becoming aware of a lot of tension in the neck and trying to placate it with both hands.
I spun her around and went to work on that lovely neck with my own experienced hands. "Look," I told her, "I think I understand what you're going through—to some degree, anyway. I was just kidding about the rape. I don't feel that way. And you're entitled to all the anger you want to put into this thing. But that won't solve anything. You need a friend with a bit of experience in this sort of thing. I like you and I've got the experience. I can be nice, very nice in bed and I'm really great with nervous-tension necks, so..."
"You sure are," she said, luxuriating under the massage.
"So what do you say? Want to throw in with me, kid? Say no and I'll walk out the door and never look back. Say yes and I'm in it to the bitter or better end, whichever comes first."
A hint of smile was on the lips as she inquired, "Did you say better or bed her?"
"That's right," I replied, "whichever comes first." She laughed, then, that softly melodious sound I was beginning to love and said, "That sounds nice, very nice."
I t
hought so, too.
Which shows, really, what a lousy psychic I really am.
Chapter Eleven: The Gathering
I counted fifteen people in the big bubble room, including Jennifer, Laura Summerfield—our hostess—and myself, all male, except for two other attractive women, and all young—midtwenties, say—except for Holden Summerfield, Laura's husband, a distinguished looking gentleman whose age I would peg at about seventy-five. He could easily have been Laura's grandfather—but he was a gracious host and seemed to be interacting comfortably with the others. A California white wine was the prevailing libation and trays of snack foods were scattered about.
It was very definitely a party.
Yet it seemed, somehow, to be something more than that. I could not exactly place a finger on the difference, but it was palpably there nevertheless—something in the very atmosphere of the place, an excitement or a sense of delicious anticipation they all seemed to share. These people were all downright scintillating yet working hard to restrain it—a subdued excitement shining through all attempts to clamp it down.
Jennifer steered me around the room and casually introduced me, first names only, no tags, while Laura moved along in our wake from clump to clump in an apparent follow-up, because I glanced along the backtrack a couple of times to find myself the center of discussion.
The host pumped my hand for about twenty seconds—even he was infected with an almost uncontainable exuberance—while welcoming me to "the gathering" and waggling eyebrows at Jennifer in obvious approval of my presence there. He made me feel like a guest of honor, or something; maybe because I was the only one there, besides himself, not clad in denim.
I don't mind telling you that I was beginning to run out of steam. Starting off with a seven o'clock reveille and progressing through a couple of corpses, a romantic interlude with a creation physicist, two hostile engagements, a brush with the Eye of the Universe, surely several hundred miles behind the wheel of a car, a weird encounter with some form of "psychic static" and an overexposure to Greg Souza's Wacky World of Wonders—it had, all in all, been a hell of a day already and I was starting to fade. I give this, anyway, as an alibi for not tumbling to these people right up front.
About the only parallel that presented itself to me, through that weariness, was a group I once encountered on a hilltop in Brazil. It was the site of some recent UFO encounters, and these folk were gathered there in the joint expectation of another encounter. Those were mostly “peasants,” back-country nonsophisticates sprawled upon the hill like so many midnight picnickers, but they had the same look as these obvious sophisticates at this cocktail "gathering" atop Palomar Mountain—a sort of reverent tingling, evidenced mostly in the eyes but also by some strange physical tension that masqueraded as relaxation yet was anything but that. Or maybe I was just hung up on the flying saucer idea. I had always wanted to see one of the damned things, had interviewed hundreds of people who claimed to have seen them, even a couple who claimed to have been aboard one. Maybe I was secretly hoping that I was finally going to see one—or maybe I was simply too damned weary to see what was right there in front of me. At any rate, aside from a fleeting comparison with a UFO-watch, my chief impression of this very attractive group was that they shared some beautiful secret and were just bubbling over with the need to talk about it but didn't quite know how to do so.
Like, maybe, at a college sorority house in which each of the residents had lost her virginity the night before, in a most pleasing way, and was dying to talk about it but afraid to do so. I have never been through that, of course, but I can imagine it and so could you, if you tried. So think of my "gathering" atop Palomar Mountain as a sorority where each of the coeds just had a fling with her own version of Burt Reynolds or Sly Stallone and you will get some idea of the mental atmosphere.
But I was too tired to dope it. I stood at the glass wall with Jennifer and asked, quietly, "Can we see Hawaii on a clear day?"
She laughed softly. "I guess you can see whatever you'd like to see."
"Don't I wish," I muttered.
"You're intimidated again," she scolded playfully.
"Who are these people?"
"Friends."
"Scientific-type friends?"
"Mostly, yes."
I was thinking that the median age for scientists must be shrinking like crazy. And no wonder. They'd been cradle-robbing "exceptional" students for years, now, slapping them into university programs almost before they were old enough to stay out alone after dark. The only person in that whole crowd with any seasoned maturity was Laura's husband—and I didn't have his pedigree, yet.
And, yes, that turned out negative. "Summerfield?" I inquired, continuing the dialogue.
"One, yes; the other, no. Laura is a microbiologist. Holden is just Holden, quite wealthy—but he does have an avocational interest in astronomy."
"Is that a radio telescope I saw out there?"
"Yes. Quite sensitive."
I tried a shot. "But, of course, nowhere in the same league as the VLA at Socorro."
She stared at me for a moment, then: "You are a constant amazement to me, Ashton. No, not in the same league. But it does have an excellent cryogenics unit and he has been doing some very interesting private research."
I asked, "Into what?"
"Microwave radiation background," she replied tersely.
"Meaning," I pursued, "the big-bang residual."
"I do believe," she said, rather tartly, "you are trying to impress me, Ashton. Really, it is not necessary. Please do not be intimidated by—"
"I believe," I interrupted, "that you are patronizing me. Really, I feel no need to impress you or anyone. I am trying to get a feel of my environment. Who are these people? What are they secretly gloating about? What is a twenty-five-foot dish with a cryogenics unit doing here in this man's backyard and why is he privately researching an area that has been thoroughly covered by the best minds in science? Where the hell is Isaac and what does this midnight gathering here at the edge of the earth have to do with his disappearance?"
Her eyes were wide and glistening as I concluded my little speech. "Oh, my," she commented humorously, "we do take our job seriously. Really, Ashton..."
I was getting steamed, and I still don't know why. "Don't do that, Jen," I growled. "There's no 'job' involved here and you know it. Get it through your head, damn it, that we are in a highly dangerous situation. You have been attacked directly twice this day and there is evidence that spooks of every stripe are swarming all over us. So—"
"What exactly do you mean by spooks?”
"Spies, agents, operatives—by whatever name, spooks. Souza has found reason to wonder if his own mysterious retainer is Russian and—"
"But that's ridiculous! Isn't it?"
"Maybe not. I told you I'd found a corpse at my place in Malibu. Before that became a corpse it was lately believed to be a professional murderer and maybe taking orders from the CIA. The thing is, he was waiting there for me with a silenced pistol when someone else took him out of the game. If this guy was CIA, and if Souza's entry into the case was via the KGB or whoever, then that particular incident makes some kind of crazy sense—and I can't make any other sense out of it. So this game, whatever it is, is being played in blood and you can bet that great ass of yours that none of these guys gives a particular damn about whose blood it is. So don't talk job to me. All the money in the world couldn't interest me in a game like this one. What is holding me here, Jen, is not a job."
"What is, then? My great ass?"
I smiled faintly and said, "Sorry."
"You're just upset again."
"Something like that, yeah. Point is, kiddo, you're playing tea-party with me while the sky is falling. If I'm in, then I have to be clear in. So let's get me cleared, damn it, with whoever's in charge of this game."
She was wavering and I could see it.
But then the beauteous Laura came over to join us, towing another junior scientist—a
rather commanding looking guy to whom I had not yet been introduced.
"Ashton, you haven't met Esau yet, have you. Esau, Ashton."
He gave me a warm, tight grip and a nice smile. I said,
"That's an interesting name. Don't believe I've ever encountered it, outside the bible."
"Oh, you read the bible," he murmured.
"Now and then," I admitted.
He said, "Laura tells me you're a noted psychic detective."
Something about the way this guy formed his words or chose his words, or something in the speech, put me off just a bit. It wasn't exactly stilted. Just...odd. I told him, "That is either a kindly exaggeration or a nasty libel, depending upon the point of view. What's yours?"
He was all smiles. "I love it. Always wanted to meet a psychic."
"Me, too," Laura bubbled. "I was positively fascinated a few years ago by an article on this man—what's his name, the famous European psychic who works with the police to solve murders and all that. Is that what you do?"
I said, "Not exactly. And I'm not exactly a detective. More like a consultant, really. I don't know how much of what I do is psychism and how much is lucky blundering. I don't read other people's minds, if that's what you're wondering."
"I'll bet you do," she replied with a mischievous twinkle.
I don't know why I suddenly felt so candid, but I told her, "Well at least you're safe, here on this mountain. The whole area seems bathed in some strange energy that cannot be psychically penetrated."
You would have thought I'd cussed Einstein, or something, from the reaction I got to that. The twinkle and the smile and everything animated faded from that pert face, something that almost groaned moved deep within the dark eyes, and she asked me, very soberly, "How does that affect you?"
I replied, just as soberly, "Not at all, unless I open to it. Then it nearly knocks me off my feet. Know what could be doing that?"
Eye to Eye: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective Page 7