Heart to Heart: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

by Don Pendleton

  I looked at my hands and told her, "No, Hai Tsu, I don't want you to do that."

  She kissed my hand, said, "Dinner in one hour, Ash Shen," and walked toward the door.

  I went part of the way with her, asked her, "Have you been in the caves?"

  She turned back to look at me from the closed doorway. "Caves, Shen?"

  "Under the house. Within the mountain. Have you been there?"

  "Ash Shen has been there?" she countered, surprising me with her forwardness.

  I said, "Yes. Francesca and I were trapped in the tidal chamber by the rising tide. We found our way out through the caves. I was just wondering if you knew about them."

  I saw her then, for the first time, without joy. The lovely face went totally blank as she replied, "Tides very dangerous, Shen. Be very careful. Do not go there again."

  I told her, "I have to go again, Hai Tsu. I must pierce the mystery if I am to be of help here."

  She was still a total blank as she replied to that. "Caves come China, Ash Shen, long ago. You must not go there again."

  And then—I swear—just like Valentinius, Hai Tsu simply winked out on me. She did not step through that doorway; did not even open the door. She simply flat disappeared.

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Things Celestial

  I have been exposed to weirdness for most of my life you know. Still, I do not find it easy or acceptable to simply shrug away weird things when I encounter them. The more, in fact, that I am exposed to this sort of thing, the more insistent becomes the need to understand.

  I mean like if you've never had a three-dimensional object wink out right before your eyes, then you've probably never felt any strong need to understand how something like that could happen. But it does happen, and much more frequently than you might imagine. If it happens with you, you are probably either going to convince yourself that it did not happen or else you are likely to go batty trying to understand how it did happen. If it keeps happening, time and again, then you might start to wonder about your sanity.

  For myself I had long ago worked out a handy little syllogism to keep myself centered in the confrontations with weirdness. Goes like this: major premise, reality is infinite and eternal; minor, man is finite and temporal; therefore, all of mankind combined within space and time can never experience all that is real.

  So what do I know? We can believe anything, but we can know only that which we have experienced. Tell an aborigine who has never been exposed to Newton and celestial mechanics that up is really down and that he moves about and has his being suspended by the feet from the outer surface of a sphere spinning through space, and that aborigine will smile tolerantly and go right on living on his flat earth where obviously his feet are down and his head is up.

  The major difference between the aborigine and most of thee and me lies in the fact thai most of thee and me have been properly indoctrinated into believing most of anything that we may read, especially the pronouncements of any vague authority, whereas the aborigine has not cultivated the luxury of relying on secondhand information; this guy lives in a very direct relationship with his environment and depends for his survival upon the terms of that relationship. The world to him is real and immediate, never abstract or even potential: it is what he experiences.

  But thee and me live in a world that has been defined for us by other minds. In order for us to accept that world, we often must refute the evidence of our senses and we must do so trustingly else all is chaos; therefore the pronouncements that define our world must come from authority and with authority. Never mind that there is no true authority beneath the heavens. Doesn't really matter anyway whether the definition is right or wrong; it matters only that we all accept it as right and that we behave in accordance with that acceptance.

  Which is why we get into trouble with weirdness—that which falls outside the orderly definition of reality that binds us together in common mind. Or common sense.

  So...physical objects that can be measured, weighed, and perceived by the senses are said to exist within space and time and therefore must submit to the laws laid down by our authorities for the behavior of objects in space and time.

  That is why so many of our thinkers have so much trouble with flying saucers and close encounters of any kind. Those saucers and those encounters do not obey the paradigm. In the first place, nothing is allowed to move that way in space-time; second, nothing is allowed to live long enough in space-time to bridge the enormous distances within the galaxies. These thinkers should try my little syllogism; perhaps it would help them as it has helped me to leap the mind beyond dogmatism and into the realization that all the scientists and philosophers and preachers combined who have ever lived on this planet have not yet experienced all of reality. They have, in fact, only just begun man's exploration into the mysteries of existence.

  So I reserve a small void within my own common sense within which I may examine various items of direct experience that seem to be colored weird. And I try to not freak out when the impossible suddenly seems possible.

  That covers just about all things celestial—even flying saucers and all close encounters of the shivery kind.

  But we really do not have to go celestial in order to examine the phenomena that were afoot at Pointe House. Actually one needs go no further than the time dilation phenomena of Einstein's general theory of relativity and the specious time of William James—also the view of reality afforded by quantum physics shows that the human world is largely a construct arising from the peculiarity of sense perceptions and synthesized within the brain: that is, from the total recipe of all that is, our brain reacts to only those few ingredients to which it is particularly attuned and cannot even sample the others except in theory.

  Thus reality for us is that part of the whole which our brains can discriminate.

  To say that anything whatever is impossible is to say that our brains have sampled all of the possibilities of existence and this ain't one of those. It simply ain't true. We are mere infants in this matter of possibility sampling—still 99 percent blind, 99 percent deaf, and 99.8 percent stupid. Ask the newborn babe about the physical act that brought him into this existence; ask him about investments for his college education; ask him what he wants to be when be grows up. You may as well ask him for a description of God. The possible reality to that newborn babe is a warm nipple upon a comforting breast; don't ask him to define existence beyond that experience.

  In any realistic analysis the impossible boils down to merely the inexperienced; the impossibility is merely that which is not commonly experienced. So let's not attempt to lay down the law to those who are doing something we cannot do. Let's not call Hai Tsu back into the room and demand that she leave it in a proper way, the way we do to a child who leaves the door ajar. Instead let's try to figure out how Hai Tsu did that—and maybe even wonder if we can do it too.

  Apparently St. Germain did it as a common experience. This is one of the ways he "astonished" the courts of Europe. Let's go back a moment and consider the eighteenth-century world of astonishments. It was ruled by a relatively small number of individuals connected by birth and anointed by God himself to rule. Even the church—especially the church—observed and encouraged this hierarchical order of reality; it was the worst tyrant of all and defended its preeminent position through every manner of forceful coercion and atrocity.

  But this was not just the eighteenth-century world: it was the real world of mankind from that point backward into the total history of man as man.

  That order—that old order of things—began toppling during the recorded time of Le Comte de St. Germain. The new world order that arose in its place is the present real world of mankind in the general sense. We still have popes, yes, and petty tyrants and even institutionalized tyrannical governments—but all of us inhabit the new reality in which at least lip service is given to the idea of the essential nobility of every man—human dignity, equality, and rights to self-determination.

 
It was not that way before St. Germain.

  I do not say with any sense of certainty that his influence added one ounce to the weight of the present reality. Indeed the record indicates that St. Germain was a friend of royalty and sympathetic to their eighteenth-century plight with the world rising up against them—but that

  record is fragmentary at best and totally obliterated in the overall tapestry woven by recognized historians of the era. We do not know precisely whom the mysterious figure operated upon, nor do we know his various strategems, psychologies, modes of operation; we know only that the man was there at virtually every trouble spot and at crucial moments in the unfolding history of the time.

  Most of what we get of St. Germain is the record of astonishment that accompanied him wherever he went.

  I believe that St. Germain was of the order of things celestial. And let us now define things celestial as the full range of all impossibilities of human experience as we commonly identify those today.

  In the order of things celestial time is a mere convenience of human perception—which is to say that both past and future are present now; space is that theater into which all of physical existence swirls in patterns only now and then perceptible by our sensory probes; existence itself is a matter of infinite possibility unbounded and unconditioned by anything imaginable to the human mind.

  Things celestial constitute all of man's impossibilities.

  Got that? If so then you are now ready to travel with me into the longest night of my life. Time, you know, is always relative. And it can stand still.

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Transported

  Caves come China, eh? Okay. We'd see about that.

  Right now I wanted to know where the money was coming from, so I called a friend in Switzerland who loves to play with computers. He's on the faculty of the Center for Strategic Studies in Berne, an internationally respected scholar, it would damage him to mention his name here, so let's just call him Sam. Sam is the most ingenious computer hacker I have ever come upon. Once, on a dare, he hacked in on a super security Kremlin mainframe, accessing it by telephone through a Russian embassy in the West, and got out of it undetected. Man's a genius. I suspect also that he is a bit of a silicon psychic, but he won't admit to that. I've done a bit of small-time hacking myself, but nowhere in Sam's league.

  I gave him the numbers of the Swiss accounts that had been feeding Sloane, Sloane and James—also several transaction codes for steerage—and he seemed as happy as a kid on Christmas morning to work the problem for me, even though the nine-hour time difference put my voice into his ear in the middle of his night.

  It could take a while even for Sam to crack that money mystery but he promised to get right on it. Meanwhile I had all the mystery a mind could handle boiling up all around me. I decided I wanted some real-world objectivity to keep me anchored, so I called Sergeant Alvarez and invited him to dinner. He sounded a bit surprised by the invitation but quickly accepted. Then I called Hai Tsu and told her to set another place for dinner.

  She seemed a bit disturbed by that but gave me no argument, responding simply, "Yes, Ash Shen. Name of guest, please?"

  I replied, "Alvarez. One of the policemen who were here today. Any problem with that?"

  "No, Shen. What does Alvarez Sergeant eat?"

  I told her, "Anything that's free, probably. Don't worry about it. He probably won't touch a bite, anyway."

  Then I finished dressing and sat down with the Sloane file to study the architectural records of this castle beside the sea. Apparently there had been several major additions and renovations over the years, numerous small ones, but the original foundations had not been altered in any way. The latest major renovation had occurred twenty years earlier and involved also the addition of several sleeping suites on the upper levels, including the one I now occupied, and the conversion of a ballroom into the studio now used by Francesca.

  All in all the record was one of almost continuous updating and upgrading, though the original structural dimensions had remained more or less constant.

  For what?

  Tons of money had been poured into the place, with tons more going for purely custodial care.

  For whose benefit?

  The building abstracts could not give me that answer, so I went out seeking it for myself. I explored the entire joint from top to bottom and back to top again. What I found was pretty much what I'd seen already, just more of it. Ten suites nearly identical to mine but each one reflecting a different personality, different clothing styles, different cultural tastes—yet no sign of human habitation—that is, no personal stamp, except in Francesca's suite; and she was so clearly evident there, though absent at the moment, as to accentuate the lack of the other suites. Know what I mean? Those other suites were filled with clothing and various personal items but they were like movie sets—stage dressing. I got no feeling of people there.

  I even invaded the domestics' quarters. They were all busy in the kitchen so I let myself into the small apartment and just nosed around. I saw small in a relative sense, as compared to its surrounding space. But it was really quite roomy, comfortably furnished, and there was every evidence of people there. The three bedrooms now were small by any yardstick—each contained only a single bed, a chair, a dressing table, small chest of drawers, small closet —hardly more than a cell in a convent—but the sitting room obviously shared by all was outfitted for the usual modern animal comforts, including television and VCR, hi-fi, racks of magazines, a small desk with electric typewriter and electronic calculator; it did not look like a movie set. Something was lacking there still, but I could not put a finger to it.

  I could not find a cellar though I did note a door on the kitchen wall that could lead to one.

  I did not find a laboratory despite the fact that one was specifically mentioned in the abstracts, and I did not find a conservatory, also mentioned, unless that referred to the atrium or entry court.

  I did not find a hell of a lot of solace anywhere, to sum it up.

  So I was ready for Bob Alvarez.

  I just hoped that he was ready for a formal dinner party at Pointe House. Naw, naw... I knew that he was not.

  I went down early on purpose—dressed elegantly casual in white slacks and silk shirt, simple red cummerbund beneath a navy blazer—ready for anything but hoping for a spectacular entry by the other guests.

  I had also set Alvarez up for an early arrival and I met him outside beneath the carport.

  He glanced me up and down and said, "Shit, man, you didn't tell me it was black tie."

  "No black ties on me, pal," I told him. "But I'll remove the cummerbund if that would make you more comfortable."

  "If I was getting five bills a day, maybe I'd come to dinner in a cummerbund too," he replied stiffly. "Never mind, I'm okay." But obviously he was not okay: he seemed a bit out of it, nervous.

  I said, "Relax, these are come-as-you-are dinners, I guess. You'd pass my muster anywhere."

  He was gazing around the property as he asked, "Is this ancient man going to be here?"

  I said, "Let's hope so. But don't be offended if he does not take sustenance with us. It's been said that nobody ever saw him eat."

  Alvarez shivered slightly then gave me a crooked grin. "That's okay. We got people like that in my family too."

  I had to ask him, "Would that be among the local Indians?"

  He replied almost defiantly: "That's right. My people were on the land when Father Serra came. He took them away from the most beautiful life-style any human could ever have and replaced it with sin and sacrifice."

  I said, "Well, that's progress."

  Alvarez grinned, said, "Yeah. I'm not bitching. I couldn't go back to the old ways." He chuckled. "I'd miss television and beer too much."

  I said, "There you go," and escorted my Indian friend in to formal dinner at Pointe House.

  I wanted us to be first on the scene because I had not seen my new friends depart from that first meeting and I w
as curious to see how they managed it. Remember that I had just shaken down the whole joint, and it had been empty except for Francesca and myself, Hai Tsu and her two helpers.

  I took Alvarez into the lounge off the dining room and did honors myself at the bar. He was easy enough to please: half a glass of bourbon lightly diluted with a squirt of seltzer, and he was ready for anything—he thought. We had the place to ourselves for all of five minutes. I had steered Alvarez to a small couch at the wall that afforded us a perfect view of the entire room, also both entrances to it.

  "Is Miss Amalie going to be here?" Alvarez wanted to know.

  I replied, "Let's hope so."

  "Who else besides the ancient man?"

  I shrugged, told him, "I was told to expect the same crowd we had last night."

  "Who told you that?"

  "The housekeeper," I said.

  "Miss Ming."

  "Yes. But it would distress her to be addressed that way. Call her Hai Tsu."

  "Gotcha. So. When are you going to show me how to do that total recall thing? That would be a terrific skill for a police officer."

  I said, "Come on. You guys come by that naturally. I never met a cop who ever forgot anything."

  He said, "Yes, but total—you said even background sounds and odors. That would—"

  Alvarez was arrested at midsentence by a background sound that probably he would never forget. We were seated across the room from the piano, situated for the best possible view of the keyboard area. Even that was not too great because of the floor-pedestal music stands grouped beside it. But we could see okay. The big concert grand occupied a corner of the room. There were but two doorways: one leading to the dining room, the other to a hallway at the opposite side; to reach the piano from either one would have to walk directly past our couch.

  No one had walked past that couch, and we were the first to arrive. But Valentinius was now at the piano and had just struck up the introductory movement into Autumn Nocturne.