The Astral

by V. J. Banis

  How the hell does she do that, he wondered? He closed his eyes, seeing her in his mind....

  * * * *

  They were at Catherine’s apartment. Jack was kneeling, just laying a fire in the fireplace. Catherine had taken a platter from the cupboard, meaning to put the take-out lo mein on it. The chardonnay was poured. As much as possible, they were trying to make this an ordinary evening together, trying not to think, let alone talk, about what was about to happen out in Canyon Country. They both of them assiduously avoided looking at the clock on the wall.

  And, out of nowhere, Paterson was there, standing just in front of her, grinning wickedly.

  “Jesus,” Jack swore, rocking back on his heels. Catherine dropped the platter, scarcely aware of the crash, the broken crockery that scattered at her feet.

  “You bastard,” Jack said. He grabbed up a log and leaped to his feet, swinging it at Paterson—and it went right through him.

  He’s only a projection, Catherine thought. He’s no more physical than I am when I project. I have only to break his concentration....

  She lunged at him, hands up as if to ward off a blow, and as quickly, as easily as that, he was gone—but she had forgotten to avoid his eyes, they locked on hers even as she moved, and it was like a bullet exploding in her head all over again, she cried aloud in pain, and fell in a heap to the floor.

  * * * *

  Paterson and Collie were gone. “Crapola,” Chang swore aloud. Even without a search, she could see they had fled. Drawers were yanked out and upended, contents scattered on the floor, empty closets stood open, shelves were stripped bare: all the evidence of a hasty flight.

  Somehow, Paterson had known. Spooked by the likeness on TV? Picked it up from Desmond’s wavelengths? Maybe there was something to this psychic business. She looked around for anything that might salvage the day.

  “They didn’t waste much energy on decorating,” Conners said in a despondent voice.

  “Or cleaning.” The place smelled of sweat and urine and rotting food. A ratty sofa, a couple of chairs, linoleum floors with most of the pattern worn off. A cheap blonde with silicone boobs leered at them from a wall calendar, the sole concession to art. The bedroom was littered with dirty clothes, the twisted sheets on the bed filthy with stains she didn’t want to contemplate. Dishes in the kitchen sink, a trio of empty Rolling Rock bottles on the counter. Maybe something there? A faint wisp of smoke drifted from a cigarette in a saucer.

  “Check those bottles. Check everything for fingerprints,” Chang said. “And get samples of anything that looks like blood or semen. Dirty Kleenex, too, toilet paper. Hairs. Bag it all. They might have left us a souvenir. Get that cigarette, too. And the sheets.”

  While they others went through the motions of searching the house, she thought about Paterson. The obvious thing would be for him to get out of Los Angeles as quick and as far as he could go, but criminals sometimes had their own brand of logic. The really logical thing would have been for him to stay where he was, in Canyon Country, and he hadn’t done that, either.

  The windows behind her suddenly lit up with a flash of lightning—rare in the California winter, and there hadn’t been any hint a moment earlier of an impending storm. It made her think of Catherine. If Paterson was still in the city, it was because he was looking for her.

  Just at the moment, her cell phone rang. She answered, heard Jack’s voice, frantic with worry. She listened to what he had to say, and said, simply, “Pack. You’re moving.”

  * * * *

  Chang’s safe house was a little cottage on a side street in Hollywood, inconspicuous and obviously chosen with safety in mind. There were grates over the windows and the front door had been wired with motion sensors that would provide early notice of any approach.

  Chang went in first, pulling heavy draperies closed before she turned on the light, and gave the four rooms—living room, kitchen, bedroom, bath—a quick but sharp once over. Satisfied, she motioned them in.

  The interior was Spartan but adequate: in the living room, a television with rabbit ears, a faded green corduroy sofa and a matching chair; an antiquated gas stove in the kitchen, and a dripping faucet that had left a permanent rust stain in the sink; but everything was clean and the bed in the bedroom was surprisingly comfortable when Jack tested it.

  “I’ve slept in worse,” he said.

  “Home sweet home,” Catherine said wryly.

  “I’ll sleep outside for the night,” Chang said, “In the Bronco. Just to be sure.”

  “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable on the sofa?” Catherine asked.

  Chang gave the sofa a dubious look. “On that thing? Never fear, I’ve slept in the Bronco plenty. Anyway, I don’t want to wait till someone’s standing by the sofa with a gun at my head before I know they’re coming. Always get them before they get inside if you can.”

  They had stopped on the way to pick up a pizza and some cokes. They ate in a dispirited silence, watching the evening news with Paterson’s picture now on every channel, and the story of the unsuccessful raid on the house in Canyon Country.

  The pizza tasted like cardboard. Jack managed only a few bites before it stuck in his throat. Catherine had no more appetite than he did, but Chang ate half, looked at what was left and mimed a question at the other two.

  “Be my guest,” Catherine said and Jack shrugged. Chang finished the pizza, drained the last of the Coke from her glass, and left them getting ready for bed. She was careful to be sure the door locked securely behind her. Like that was going to do any good, she thought, people passing through walls the way they did. She had never had to deal with anything like this before.

  She settled into the Bronco, put her coat over her for a blanket. The rain had stopped and a pale moon cast a watery light. She slid the seat back as far as it would go, tried to find a comfortable position, gave up finally and sat upright, wishing she had a beer.

  She had goofed. She had let Paterson and Colley get away. She should have known his picture on TV would send him running.

  But had it? King was right: the smart thing would have been for him to stay put where he was. He couldn’t know they had found his hideout. Running around in public with your face plastered all over TV wasn’t the sensible thing to do. And she had a notion that this guy was smart enough all right, animal cunning at least. Protective cunning.

  It hadn’t looked like they had been gone from Morning View more than a little while. One of the beer bottles had still been on the cool side. That cigarette in the ashtray wasn’t altogether out either, had been smoldering for a bit. If she had gotten there just a little faster. Why hadn’t she pushed King for the warrant, moved the bust up even an hour or two?

  She didn’t like the answer that came to her.

  * * * *

  Mommy, Mommy, help me.... Catherine woke in terror, sweat drenched, heart pounding. For a moment she couldn’t think where she was. It came back to her then: Chang’s safe house. Beside her, Jack snored softly.

  Even awake, the nightmare haunted her. She saw the truck, Becky struggling, Paterson grabbing the gun.

  Where was he now? She had to know. She slipped quietly from the bed and went to the living room. Despite the risk she knew she was taking, she sat on the sofa, closed her eyes, and willed herself into space.

  At first she thought she had failed to find him. Then she saw him a short distance away—or, barely saw him, the image was far fainter than anything she had seen before, fading in and out like a bad phone connection. A dark shadowy location, no city lights, no neon, only the faintest moonlight.

  She looked around, tried to find some physical clues, but the scene faded altogether and she was back in the living room of the little cottage, Chang watching her from the doorway.

  “I saw the light go on,” Chang said. “Just checking. You okay?”

  “I tried to find him, but wherever he is, it’s a long way from here. I saw a dirt street and a house; a shack, really. Not much more than that.�
�

  “Mexico, maybe Tijuana,” Chang said. “Which makes sense. If you’re on the lam, that’s a good bet. You can always pay off the locals there, if you’ve got the bucks. What it tells me is that you’re not in any immediate danger. It’s a good two to three hours from here to the border. You can sleep without worrying.”

  She couldn’t, though. Back in bed, she tossed and turned. Jack slept fitfully beside her but she could not stop thinking about Paterson. The gray light of dawn was tinting the blinds at the window before she finally did slip into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  It was weird, but Chang felt almost like she had been cheating on Conners. He was her partner. They had to be able to trust one another to work together. That was one of the basic laws of their business. In their line of work, your relationship with your partner was closer than your relationship with family, friends, husbands, lovers. Your life depended on it.

  So far, though, she had told him nothing at all about the astral part of their case. However nutty it might sound, she owed him the truth, the whole story. Hiding information from your partner was bad karma...and dangerous to boot.

  “I need to talk to you,” she told him on the phone. “Someplace good and private.”

  There was a pause on the line. “I live on Hancock. I was just making a fresh pot of coffee.”

  She hesitated. In her mind, she had a vision of those cute little buns of his. The smart thing would be to keep things totally businesslike between them. The last thing she needed in her life was any complication, and the way he had made the suggestion sounded suspiciously to her like he was considering complications.

  “What’s the address?”

  * * * *

  Jess Conners stood for a long moment looking at the phone, thinking about Chang. What did this mean, her coming by? He knew what he would like it to mean. That thought started a tingling in his groin.

  “Down, boy,” he said aloud. He did not think it would be a good idea to open the door for her with a boner on display.

  He made coffee and while it was brewing he smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles on the coverlet of his bed. He took a shower, even though he had showered less than an hour earlier, brushed his teeth, flossed, ran a razor over his baby smooth face, smoothed the coverlet on the bed.

  He slipped on a plain tee shirt and a pair of walking shorts. Quick to take off, he thought, and scolded himself. Best not think along those lines. Not till he saw where things were headed.

  He poured himself some coffee, considered a shelf of compact discs, loaded Frank Sinatra into the player, turning the volume down to a mellow level. He smoothed the coverlet on the bed and paused to look at the picture of his father on the wall.

  “Hey, Pop, wish me luck,” he said aloud.

  He idolized his father. His father had been a cop. That was what had ultimately decided him on a career in law enforcement, but the decision hadn’t been an easy one. What he had wanted, really, was to be a singer, like Sinatra or Tony Bennet. About as opposite to law enforcement as you could get.

  He’d talked about it with his parents. They were the kind of parents it was easy to talk to. His dad said little; just nodded and said, “Whatever you want to do is fine with me,” but his disappointment showed through his accepting demeanor.

  “That kind of singing is out of fashion,” his mother pointed out to him. “The kind you like to do. I doubt if Frankie could make it today. It’s all rock and roll.” She did not mention his father’s disappointment, either, but her concern showed through as well.

  She was right, of course. Besides, he didn’t actually think he had the kind of talent that was needed to make it as a singer. In the end, he’d done what they both hoped he would do. Mostly, he wasn’t sorry. He kept it a secret that he sometimes dropped in at a Karaoke bar out in the valley, where he was unlikely to run into anyone from the station, and savored the applause he invariably got. Otherwise, he sang for himself, in the shower, around the apartment. He had an idea he’d like to sing for Roby Chang but, unlike in the movies, you couldn’t just burst into song without looking like a dork.

  He took a sip of his coffee, changed his mind and poured it into the sink, rinsed the cup carefully and placed in on the dish rack, and took a Corona from the refrigerator instead.

  The doorbell rang. He took a long swallow of cold beer, ran a quick hand over the coverlet, and reached down inside his shorts to tug everything over to the right side, which someone had told him made a better showing. On an impulse, he stripped off the tee, hid it under a cushion on the sofa, and went to answer the door.

  * * * *

  His apartment turned out to be a pleasant little studio, neat as a pin. Either he was a good housekeeper, or he had done one hell of a job putting it together in the thirty minutes since her call. Or, it came to her mind unbidden, he had someone who cleaned for him. Or someones. Like, girlfriends.

  Well, gee, Chang, she chided herself, like this guy wouldn’t have women crawling all over him, especially if they saw him like this, with his shirt off, and why did he answer the door without a shirt, if it wasn’t to show off some great pecs and washboard abs? Fortunately, she was not a crawler. Fortunate for her. Unfortunate for him.

  “Nice,” she said, glancing around. The bed was even made. She never made her bed. What was the point? As soon as you crawled under the covers it was messed up again, wasn’t it?

  More surprising than the neatness of the apartment, which if she had thought about it, she would probably have expected, were the furnishings. The work-out equipment in the far corner was no surprise. You could see he was a work-out kind of guy.

  Most everything else, though, was Scandinavian modern, spare, light colored wood, stylish. One wall was taken up with shelves of books, many of them looking old, and more than a few leather bound. A reader, then, but that wasn’t much of a surprise either.

  What to make, though, of the odd curios that occupied almost every available space? She wouldn’t have pegged him for the sort to need the illusion of permanence that such relics provided. A child’s toy horn, with a red bulb on one end, the kind you made honking noises with; a pair of enormous shoes dominated another table, too big, surely, even for his ample feet; a parasol, opened and attached to one wall. Playbills, too far away for her to read. It was one thing to find a spinster with a collection of china birds, but she couldn’t see Conners in this odd assortment of miscellany.

  And, Jesus, who was that singing, Perry Como? She felt like she had stepped through the television screen, right into the middle of Leave It to Beaver. Any minute now, June would spin out of the kitchen—or was that Loretta Young?

  She slipped off her jacket, shed the shoulder holster too and laid them all across the single chair. “You clean for yourself?” she asked. “My place is always a dump. Sanitation people threaten to close me down all the time.”

  “I train my wenches,” he said with a self-deprecating grin. “They take turns coming in to clean for me.”

  “Hah. Sure it isn’t the guy by the pool with the pink toenails? He gave me a dirty look when he saw where I was headed.”

  “Dickie? He gives all females dirty looks. He bakes cookies for me though. Chocolate chip. Really good. Want coffee?”

  He held a half-finished Corona in his hand. For courage? “I’ll have one of those,” she said.

  He got her a beer, mimed a wedge of lime. She nodded and he brought the beer with the lime stuck in the neck. It was cold and wet, and she took a quick swig. For courage.

  The wall opposite the bookshelves was lined with framed photographs. She paused in front of the largest, a picture of a man in clown costume: baggy pants, bright red suspenders, fright wig, but without the makeup. That would explain the honking horn, and the oversized shoes, and probably the parasol as well. She leaned closer. The face grinning at the camera looked familiar.

  “That’s my dad,” Conners said, standing behind her, close enough that she fancied she could fee
l the heat from his body. “He’s a clown. Well, retired cop, really, but he does kid’s parties, store openings, stuff like that. Weird, huh, a clown for a dad?”

  “You call that weird? I’ve got an Aunt Tessa who thinks she’s a Manchu princess. Whiteface, foot-long fingernails, the works. Only time I could bring any kids home from school was Halloween.”

  He grinned. “Is she? A Manchu princess, I mean.”

  “She was born in Sacramento, same as my dad.” She took another swig of the Corona, wondered if he would think she was an alky if she asked for a shot of Jack with it and decided against it. She took the plunge: “Have you ever heard of astral projection?” she asked.

  “Out of body, you mean. Sure.”

  “You up on this stuff?” She was surprised. She had expected to have to sell him on the story.

  “Not really. A little, I guess. My dad’s a clown, you already know that. Mom reads the tarot cards. My sister does feng shui and horoscopes. You’re a Scorpio, right?” She gave him a withering look. He shrugged. “Just your average new-agers, is what I’m saying. Hey, this is Los Angeles.”

  Chang sighed. “Maybe I should have become a dog groomer.”

  “Oh, yeah, my sister does horoscopes for dogs, too.”

  “Cut the shit,” she snapped. “I’ve got serious stuff to talk about here.”

  “Okay, so talk. Have a seat.” He went to the sofa and dropped into it. In the middle. If she sat on the sofa she would have to sit practically on top of him. The only other seating was the chair over which she had tossed her jacket. She’d look like an ass, she thought, moving it so she could sit there. That left the neatly made bed. No way was she going anywhere near that.

  She sat beside him on the sofa, as far away as she could get, at the end, and set her beer on the table next to it. Thought better, picked it up and wiped a ring of moisture off the wood with her sleeve, set the bottle instead atop a TV Guide. Stalling, she acknowledged with an interior grimace.

  “What’s up?” he asked.