"Is there a name for it in that other realm?"
"Yes, there is. But there is no exact correspondence in our language. There is a word, however, that is very close."
"Which one is that?"
"Angel."
"Angel?"
"Close enough, yes. Close enough."
I must interrupt the transcript at this point because it is here that we begin to veer away into the other stuff and I wish, for the record (same as I did for Clara), to place Bruce into proper perspective. Here are just a few of the more familiar names of those who might sympathize most strongly with Brace's struggle for understanding: Alexander the Great, Horatio Alger, Hans Christian Andersen, W. H. Auden, Edward II (English king), Gaius Julius Caesar, André Gide, Nikolai Gogol, Hadrian, Henry III (French king), Rock Hudson, Alexander von Humboldt, James I (English king), John Maynard Keynes, Leonardo da Vinci, W. Somerset Maugham, Michelangelo (Buonarroti), Montezuma II, Plato, Cole Porter, Marcel Proust, Richard I (the Lion-Hearted—English king), Arthur Rimbaud, Camille Saint-Saëins, Sappho, Pope Sixtus IV (Francesco della Rovere), Socrates, Sophocles, Gertrude Stein, Petr Ilich Tchaikovsky, Walt Whitman, Tennessee Williams...
Angels all, perhaps, if Bruce is right.
"How widely is it known, Bruce, that Annie is—how would you call it?—sort of like your stepmother."
"Who told you that?"
"I picked it up. Is it truer'
"It's a ridiculous thought. First off, she is only a few years older than I. Secondly, no man ever formally acknowledged fathering me; not to me, anyway. But if you are alluding to the fact that Annie married a man of advanced years who virtually on his death bed claimed to be my father, no, we do not talk about that."
"Have you ever discussed it with her?"
"Well of course I have. It was she who sought me out and brought me to his deathbed."
"I understood that he died from a fall in the bathtub."
"He died from injuries sustained in that fall. He was in his death coma when first I learned of him."
"So you never really had a chance to talk to him."
"It's just as well. I probably would have cursed him. I was not as enlightened then as I am now."
"How old are you, Bruce?"
"Well now, that is a rude question."
"Fuck it. How old are you?"
"I'm twenty-eight. How old are you?"
"Older than that, but not much. I never knew my dad either. Not even on his deathbed. My name is Ford by pure chance and my mother's wit. I was conceived on the backseat of one, you see. If she even knew his name she took the secret to the grave with her. But I don't believe I would curse him if I met him now."
"Obviously you had a more pleasant childhood than I did. I was regarded as a humiliating bastard all my life by grandparents who gave me their name but never their affection. My mother died while I was an infant. I did not know until just about a year ago that George Farrel paid support to my grandparents all the way through college. They never told me about him. Annie did, God love her. She wanted to unite us before he died. He was in quite bad health, you know, for more than a year before his accident."
"I didn't know that, no."
"Uh huh. Probably why he fell. She was at his side constantly but, you know, these things happen. Look away for just a second and that's all it takes. She was inconsolable for the longest time. Blamed herself. Why do we do that? That woman is a saint, but still she had to take the guilt."
"She also took the estate, though, didn't she."
"How dare you!"
"Sorry. I didn't mean—well yes, I guess I did. Let's be honest if nothing else. She got your dad's estate. You got nothing. How do you feel about that?"
"Look around you, Mr. Ford. This is my father's estate. It is no more Annie's than mine. We are both merely stewards."
"Nonprofit corporation?"
"Of course."
"Could I see your charter?"
"Any time. Ask one of the ladies."
"Are you an officer?"
"Of course. I am the executive vice-president. And I have a lifetime chair on the board of directors."
"Then what is all this jazz about Annie's personal secretary?"
"I am that, too."
"Uh huh. How 'bout the deal Francois Mirabel is cooking up? Do you have a piece of that?"
"Do I have? Not the personal I, of course not. But all net proceeds will go to the corporation. What are you suggesting?"
"Just curious. You said earlier that you have been expecting misfortune, that things work that way. What did you mean by that?"
"Well, I simply meant that the law has been set in motion."
"Which law is that?"
"The law of opposition. It is always there."
"Sort of like action and reaction?"
"Well yes, sort of, but more than that. Much more pervasive. For every force there is an opposing force. This dynamic tension is everywhere. It keeps things balanced. Say, for instance, you hurl a rock into the air. Why shouldn't it just keep on going, because actually it is falling away from the earth. But it returns very quickly to earth under the counterforce of gravity."
"I don't uh...see the connection, Bruce, between the law of gravity and what is happening to Reverend Annie."
"I said for instance, didn't I. Something very much like that happens any time any force is exerted upon the universe. Spiritual force as well as physical force. Any time you start pushing, something starts pushing back. It's the law."
“Are we talking good and evil?”
"Heavens no, it's all the same thing. We are talking force and counterforce, the dynamic balance in the universe. Good heavens, Ford, don't you understand that life itself is a force and that every other thing in the universe is opposing that force? That's the way it works. Not good or evil. Just simply the way it works. And things get dreadfully tense when a strongly spiritual force is present."
"A spiritual force such as Annie."
"Precisely. The entire universe must this moment be gathering its forces to annihilate her."
"That's uh...that's quite a presumption, isn't it? I mean, that the entire universe—we're talking time-space, right?—the whole time-space universe is getting nervous about the activities of a relatively infinitesimal speck on the planet Earth?"
"Snicker if you must. I'm telling you that is the way it works."
"Well thanks, Bruce, but I haven't had time to examine your credentials yet."
"A pox on credentials. They don't mean a thing. I wasted four precious years going to college to learn precisely nothing about anything worthwhile. A single night with my guides means more than all the universities combined could give me."
"Yeah, I wanted to ask you about them. What do these guys do other than hang around waiting for you to consult them?"
"You really do not respect my guides, do you."
"I didn't say that, Bruce."
"You don't have to say it, Ashton. By the way, I understand that you and Selma had a delightful time."
"What?"
"Selma? By the seashore? Come now. You haven't forgotten already."
"Bruce?"
"Yes, Ashton."
"Could I have a go at those guides of yours?"
"I will see what can be done."
"Soon, Bruce."
"There is a certain element of danger involved."
"I'll chance that."
"You will be opening yourself to influences that could, ah, alter your view of reality." "I'll chance that too."
"Very well. I will try. You already have a friend in court, so...
"Yeah. You mentioned him."
"He's an angel."
"An angel? You mean...?"
"A perfect angel, Ashton."
Chapter Twelve: A Family Affair
We moved to a conference room and sat at opposite sides of a round mahogany table that was set for six. The chairs were heavy, comfortable, nicely spaced. A gooseneck microphone, a small pad, and a ballp
oint pen were placed at each position.
The floor was carpeted wall to wall and the walls themselves were bare and shiny, unmarred except for a small air-conditioning vent at the rear. A rectangular skylight, about two by three feet, was emplaced in the ceiling directly above the table, providing good natural illumination. There were no windows. The microphones had no cords; each sprouted a tiny antenna. There was no PA system that I could detect, so I guessed radio mikes to an outside taping system.
I had hardly sat down before a man and two women came in and quietly positioned themselves at the table, the women together on my left side, the man between Janulski and me. They exchanged cordial greetings with Janulski, smilingly acknowledged introductions to me. All three were forty-ish.
Hilda was very pretty in a roundish Scandinavian way, blond hair thickly braided about her head, very little makeup.
Rachel was slender everywhere but in the chest, had evidently burned all her bras, wore her dark hair short and neatly styled; also very attractive.
Ted looked like a guy who'd spent his life at a desk—or maybe in a classroom—very smooth hands, an intelligent snap to the eyes, a quick laugh, entirely masculine.
There was nothing creepy or weird about any of these; altogether they were a comely and likable trio.
Janulski gave them no setup whatever. He merely pushed his pad and pen aside and said, "Let's get started."
Mind you, I have been to a séance or two and I guess I'm somewhat familiar with every mediumistic trick in the bag. This approach was decidedly different from anything I'd ever seen.
The room was well lighted. There were no props, no music, nothing at all to distract or to aid deception. It was a bare room except for table and chairs, not even a vase of flowers or a picture.
There was no mumbo jumbo, no wailings, no sighing or murmuring. The three mediums merely rested their hands atop the table with palms up, closed their eyes, bowed their heads, and announced almost in unison that they were ready.
Janulski then did likewise, maintained a silence of about ten seconds, then very softly announced, "We bring to your attention Ashton Ford, whom we discussed earlier. We ask that you recognize him and counsel him."
My attention was of course focused on Janulski. But within seconds, perhaps no more than five, Rachel stirred slightly and her throat began to flutter ever so gently in a very fast rhythmic pulsing.
At the same instant I became aware of a different quality to the atmosphere within that room—the physical atmosphere, that is, the air itself, almost a different charge—electrical charge, like on a hot summer day just before the thundershower—I could even smell it, like ozone—and I could see a fine thickening or whatever in the atmosphere immediately surrounding Rachel.
Ted got into the act then with identical behavior except that the thing with the throat was more pronounced, his Adam's apple sliding up and down rapidly like a guy guzzling a Coke.
Hilda was only a beat behind, and the atmosphere in that room had become strongly enough charged to lift the hairs on my arms.
Janulski opened his eyes and whispered, "Thank you for coming."
Rachel's mouth opened like a mechanical doll's and issued a single harshly whispered word: "Peril."
Janulski caught my eye and pointed to his notepad. So I casually picked up my ballpoint, not really overly impressed at that moment, but then hastened to catch up as the words began flying back and forth across that table.
Let me set it up for you properly so that I can dispense with all this description and just give you what was said. Hilda spoke second and then Ted, both exactly in the way I gave it to you for Rachel—just a single whispered word at a time—but in very quick succession and not necessarily in proper rotation.
Rachel: "Peril..."
Hilda: "... precedes..."
Ted: "... peace."
Hilda: "Sorrow..."
Ted:"... accompanies..."
Rachel:"...joy."
I thought at first they were giving me epigrams. Whatever, they were giving them damned fast. I had to use stroke codes to identify each speaker and still I was having a hell of a time keeping up. By about the third round, I even had to abandon the speaker code and just go for the words themselves.
I got these in the space of about a minute, maybe less than that:
"Strangers become lovers."
"Lovers become strangers."
"The virgin lusts while the satyr rests."
"Authority corrupts compassion."
"Dispersion feeds reversion."
"Community bests disunity."
"Flesh decays when the spirit weeps."
"Life delays what the devil reaps."
"One on one."
"All in all."
"One on one is all in all."
"Error comes home."
"Truth propagates truth."
"Profit seems lost when loss is profit."
"All is lost when all seems gained."
"Beauty contemplates beauty."
"Fear the fearless."
"Tremble before temptation."
"Avoid the idolatrous."
"Abandon the ambitious."
It stopped at that point. I was still scribbling the final two admonitions when Janulski inhaled sibilantly and declared in a loud whisper, "What luck! It's a tutorial. I didn't expect that."
He was obviously thrilled and delighted, barely able to contain himself, which was a sharp contrast to his earlier demeanor. He positively glowed with excitement.
I was aware also of subtle movement about me, although everyone was in place—a change in the vibrational constant, or maybe moving pockets of air with differing density—I don't know. I just sensed movement or motion—a rustling without actually hearing anything, an atmospheric perturbation without actually seeing anything.
The mediums were perfectly still and relaxed; they could have been sleeping.
I reached for a cigarette then decided against it, put the pen in my mouth, looked at Janulski. He was gazing at Ted, and his exultation had faded to something approaching fear.
I looked at Ted too, and maybe someone watching me at that moment would have said that I shared Janulski's emotional mood. Because something very weird was happening with the medium. The tiny muscles of his face were alternately contracting and relaxing in an entirely uncoordinated way, as though the flesh had become soft clay or baker's dough and some unseen hand was molding it haphazardly—a push here, a pull there, momentary dimpling giving way to grotesque masks and leering caricatures, eyes alternately rolling and shifting.
This went on for some twenty or thirty seconds while the earlier noted atmospheric imbalance seemed to collect itself about him, as though fusing with his own physical aura. Then it all just sort of gradually resolved—settled in, so to speak—and Ted was no longer Ted. The nose was longer, more pointed, the chin more prominent and bearing a deep cleft; the eyes even seemed socketed differently and the brows heavier; cheeks were wider, smoother. Altogether a different personality was controlling that flesh. Matter of fact, Ted had come to look a bit like me. Sparkling eyes crackled at me and looked me up and down. Then that mask smiled, the eyes softened, the lips parted in a merry chuckle and It spoke to me: "Well, well."
I flipped a glance at Janulski and then back to the living mask. "Who do we have here?" I asked, hoping that I was smiling back. I admit to being a bit flustered, here.
It said, "She did a good job with you, I see." Another chuckle. "Knew she would, of course. That's why..." The mask became disarranged momentarily, then settled in again.
I asked, "Should I know you? What is your name?"
"...bad I couldn't have hung around longer. We don't always call our own shots, though, do we? Well, you're a fine-looking young man. Heard some wonderful things about you."
I shivered and asked It, "Can you hear me?"
Rachel replied, in the raspy whispering voice. "I hear. I will relay."
I looked from her to It, then asked It,
"Can you give me your name?"
There was a brief pause while It just sat there and gazed at me with a sort of bemused smile. I was reminded of the look on one's face who is waiting for an interpreter to tell him what someone has just said. This one apparently had the wrong slant because It chuckled again, the eyes flashed at me, and It said, "No no, she got it all wrong. I never owned a Ford in my life. Believe it was a Studebaker. Or maybe a Buick. I'm not sure."
Another laugh, another flash of those intense eyes, then: 'Time's up, they say. Have to go. She's very proud of you. Stay the way you are. Oh, wait—here's another—someone just gave me...Selma came home today. That's it. Selma came home today."
It departed, caving in and withdrawing into a small dimple just above the eyes.
The flesh of Ted's face rebounded and wobbled a bit, like disturbed Jell-O, then resolved immediately into his normal features. He closed his eyes and again bowed his head while I gaped stupidly with frozen mind and tumbling emotions.
I heard Janulski say, in that soft, sweet voice, "Thank you. Thank you all for coming."
Then the mediums began stirring.
Janulski cried, "How thrilling, Ashton! You were just awhile ago telling me about your parentage. But I must have misunderstood the earlier message! I thought he was your father in a previous life!"
I got to my feet and reached him in one quick step, grabbed him by the collar, and put his face to the desk. "You son of a bitch!" I panted.
"What is the matter with you?" he howled.
I let him go but had to hold my own hands to keep them where they belonged. "Some things you just don't play with, pal," I told him. "If I find out you did then we'll discover which one can break the other in two."
The mediums were aghast.
But so was I.
And I had to get back to Annie's private office. I wanted to see if that sucker was wired for sound, too.
Chapter Thirteen: To Know, Yet Know Not
Okay, sure, my reaction was both extreme and premature. But I guess the experience really touched one of my sensitive spots and it also rubbed the wrong way against another of my prejudicial concepts.
Life to Life: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective Page 7