She would not let me do that, though, hastening to correct and assure me that the So-hay-bi-hee-jee had been "soul-walkers" on the earth for at least the past "two million earth years."
So I said okay and followed her to a solarium room at the rear where she seated us among towering potted plants and instructed us to "commune with the great earth mother" while she whomped up some herbal tea.
I hate herbal tea, but I have to admit that I was fascinated by those soul-walkers so I just sat there and tried to collect my ricocheting mind. Alison leaned toward me and whispered, "They give readings here. I told her I wanted one, but I had to meet my boy friend first."
"What kind of readings?" I whispered back, though I really did not need to ask.
She shook her head, replied: "The lady who sent me here just said they give spiritual readings. Maybe it's past lives! I hope so!"
I just hoped that Alison would keep her objectivity. After all, we were here to...
I'm going to call her Oom for short; obviously she kept a ready kettle because she was back already with steaming cups of something that smelled like incense. I hate incense, too, but I politely tasted the stuff and quickly resolved not to do so again.
Alison, though, made a big deal of it, umming and aahing and wanting to know what it was. In what I soon learned was her usual mysterious manner, Oom confided: "It is the sacred blend."
I didn't know about that, but I sure wanted to know if Oom had been in Los Angeles recently. I told her, "You look very familiar. Have we met?"
She smiled mysteriously and said, "Perhaps in our dreams."
I said, "No, I think it was more substantial than that. Weren't you in Studio City last night?"
She laughed throatily, cast a sidewise glance at Alison while telling her, "Watch him; your man works fast." She then got right down to brass tacks. "The standard donation is fifty dollars. But if you both desire consultation, you may donate thirty-five each."
I was trying to be funny when I inquired, "Do you accept Visa?"
She replied, "Of course, or any major card."
I handed her a fifty instead, said, “I’ll pass. Just do Alison.”
"Very well," Oom murmured, eyes cast down in a quick inspection of the bill. She could probably spot a phony just by the feel of it in her hand.
I was losing objectivity myself. I was forgetting that this woman was a double for Jane Doe, that the L.A. cops were probably even then filing an APB on me; I was reacting to the old Gypsy fortune-teller routine and dealing with the situation on that level instead of trying to apprehend the real mystery.
But, after all, I admit it, my mind was reeling. I sat there and watched Oom escort Alison beyond a beaded curtain and into an inner sanctum somewhere, inwardly fuming over the bald fakery of this "earth mother," older-than-mankind bullshit.
Oom was no Indian of any breed. Her genes hailed from Europe, not from any sacred mountain in a land first settled by Paleolithic hunters coming across the ancient land bridge of the Bering Strait from Siberia. And it always pissed me to find the fakers and charlatans who always, it seems, infiltrate the serious metaphysical centers, because these are the ones who seem to attract the greatest visibility and who therefore become the standard by which all are publicly judged. I have nothing against fortune-tellers. I won't bother them if they won't bother me. And I'd never contest anyone's right to play with these people, if that's what they want. To each his own, that's my motto. But I do hate to see them moving in on the real stuff. Of course...who am I to say what is real and what is not?
See...that was my state of mind while I was sitting there amidst the potted plants, smelling the nauseating herbal tea, absently watching the "Indian brave" in a loincloth mowing the lawn with an electric mower, eyeing the "Thank You for Not Smoking" obscenity glaring at me from the wall. Mind you, I am not that addicted to nicotine, but the desire always seems the strongest when it is being prohibited. I know it was dumb. Maybe my left brain was rebelling, refusing to process any more of this stuff. I just know that I was sitting there thinking dumb and feeling dumb when another Jane Doe walked into the room.
This was Jane Doe, Senior. About fifty. Still very pretty. Dressed almost the same as Oom except that the buckskins were not quite so revealing. Graceful, even dignified, saintly smile.
She sat down across from me and invaded my head.
It's okay to smoke if you want to, if you feel that you really need to.
That is a rather loose translation. Didn't come in words. But it came before she produced an ashtray and handed it to me.
I said, "Okay," and lit up.
She smiled serenely.
I thought, okay, let's play, and I wished like hell I had something to drink other than the damned herbs.
She went to the kitchen. I heard ice clinking against glass. She came back with a cola. I smiled at her, and she smiled at me as she whisked away the offending tea.
She did not come back. I got up and wandered around. The house was not that large, but I could not find her.
Come back tonight, came from somewhere beyond space-time.
I desperately need to speak with you, I sent back.
Tonight!
So much for my tirade on "fortune-tellers." I want to say this for the record. I had never before experienced such pure communication, as from mind to mind with nothing between.
Alison and Oom reappeared a few minutes later. Alison seemed almost dazed, bemused.
I commented, "That was quick."
“Truth is always quick,” intoned Oom. She was looking at my cola, the ashtray with the stubbed-out cigarette resting in it.
I told her, "Your mother said it was okay."
She said, "My mother says nothing."
I insisted, "She said to me something."
Oom said, "Then you are very special. Come tonight."
I asked her, "What is special about tonight?"
"New moon."
"Yes?"
"Yes. The earth mother smiles when her consort reappears."
I guessed, "We want to catch her smile."
"If we find favor," Oom replied, as though stating the obvious.
I scratched my nose and asked, "How much of a donation does the earth mother require?"
"Five hundred per couple is standard," she replied quietly.
"How much for just one?"
"One is imbalance. It is not allowed. Two must come, male and female must come."
I said, “Okay. What time?”
"Moonrise."
I asked, "What time is that?"
Oom said, "Over the sacred mountain."
"Yeah, but what time is that?"
She replied, with a trace of irritation, "You demand an earth time?"
I admitted, "That would be handy, yeah."
Hiawatha came in from the yard via the kitchen at that moment. He'd apparently snared a bottle of ice water from the refrigerator on his way through; he entered guzzling, head tilted back, paused at that long enough to tell me, "Try ten o'clock, citizen. That'd give you time for the orientation."
I said, "Which orientation is that?"
This guy was about forty but had the body of an eighteen-year-old, hard and bulging all over but from physical culture, not practical exertion. The eyes were blue and steely, that magnificent body bronzed and sleek—glistening now with perspiration—and the voice was pure James Garner. He said, "You gotta have the orientation," and returned to the kitchen.
I told Oom, "Okay, we'll see you at ten. Is a personal check okay?"
She replied, "That will be fine."
I took Alison by the hand and led her away. She had uttered not a word since her "reading." I put her in the car and stood there at the open doorway for a moment, gazing back at the house. "How'd it go?" I asked her.
Her mouth opened and stayed that way for a couple of seconds before the awed words came: "Simply amazing."
I asked her, "How amazing is that?"
"She knew all about me. Wher
e I was born. What my parents were like. All about my schooling, my decision to switch from med school."
"What about your future?"
"She wouldn't tell me."
"Why not? If she told you everything else..."
"She said it's cloaked."
"What's cloaked?"
"My future is cloaked."
I said, "Okay," and went around to my side and got in the car, cranked it, pulled out of there.
As we hit the street I asked Alison, "What'd you think of Hiawatha?"
"Who?"
"The guy in the loincloth."
"He seemed very nice. I—I guess I really didn't notice."
I told her, "You should have noticed. Remember how the nurse described the assailant at the hospital? She said he was very strong."
"Yes, I..."
"Did you notice Hiawatha's moccasins?" I asked her.
"No, I..."
I noticed them. Didn't really go well with the loincloth. Were not moccasins at all. Running shoes, Keds or something. White. With blue trim.
I could hardly wait for "new moon."
While I was waiting for that, though, I decided it might be wise to have a telephonic tête-à-tête with Captain Valdiva.
And that, as it turned out, was the wisest thing I'd done all week.
Chapter Twenty-One: Probable Cause
"Valdiva, hi, this is Ford."
"Where are you, Ford?"
"Trying to run this case down. Have you found the murder weapon yet?"
"Where'd you say you are?"
"Try the water gardens or the swimming pool. I feel it would be somewhere obvious. I believe you'll find that it is a Walther PPK." I rattled off the serial number from memory. "Nine-millimeter short. Mother-of-pearl grips."
"Did you get that in a vision?"
"No, I pulled it straight from memory. It's my gun. And it's missing."
"When did you discover that?"
"Shortly after I left you last night. I went out to my car to get it and turn it over. Wasn't there. It was no casual theft, Valdiva. I kept the piece in a hidden compartment in the floorboard."
"Who knew about that?"
The trick compartment? Damned few...uh, dammit, Captain, Jim knew about it."
"Where was the car parked, Ford?"
"Right outside my room. How's Georgia?"
"Bearing up. I'd like you to come in and talk to me. Say that you will."
"I will. Soon as I run down some leads on the other matter. I'm on a hot trail and I—there's a connection, I think. Something to do with the Jane Doe case is responsible for Jim's death. I'm sure of that. But listen...mainly why I called...I'm concerned about Vicky Victoria. She—"
"Who?"
"Jim's kid, the little girl. This is going to sound screwy, I know, but somehow the kid is involved in all this. I don't mean directly, of course, but... something very strange is going on, and the kid is somehow centered in it. She should have, uh, special protection."
"You think she's in danger?"
"Possibly, yes. I'm working an angle that...well, I don't know how to say it without coming off as a loony tune, but...I believe I may be in contact with—You know that she's adopted?"
"I know that, yeah. I'm her godfather."
"Okay, great, put her under wraps."
“Who's that you said you're in contact...?”
"Her natural family. Possibly."
"This ties to the Jane Doe thing Jim was working?"
"I'm almost sure it does, yes."
"You in Ojai, Ford?"
I sighed, said, "Yeah."
"Okay. Maybe I'm loony, too, but I think I'm going to give you—uh, don't go back to your hotel. Ventura County has police responsibility there. They have a pickup on you. Can't cancel it, uh, I'll try to modify it. But don't give those guys any reason to draw down on you. If you're apprehended, just be cool until my people get there. And, uh, say nothing. You know."
I said, "Yeah, I know. Thanks."
He told me, "It's a murder warrant."
I said, "Okay."
"Daily double."
"What?"
"Jane Doe too. What the hell, Ford, some things just can't proceed by the book, can they? Ten minutes ago I'd have shot you myself, on sight. You look dirty as hell, man."
I swallowed hard and said, "I do?"
"You figure it. A security officer at County General identified you as the man who was trying to molest the patient shortly before she was murdered. Nobody, not even your Miss Saunders, could alibi you for the few minutes before and after the attack, and you were on the premises. You were at Sportsman's Lodge when Cochran was shot, and he was shot with your gun. Also—"
"You did find it, then...the gun."
"Oh, yeah. Crack of dawn. Not where you suggested, though. Ford..."
"Yeah?"
"I can't, uh, withdraw this warrant. Not sure I want to, but if you are on to something...well, I'm not looking for a patsy. I want the killer. If it turns out to be you, you can't run far enough to evade me, guy. Want you to know that."
"I'm not your man, Captain."
"Hope not. For both our sakes. But I want you in my office this time tomorrow—win, lose, or draw. Got me?"
"Got you, yeah."
"Don't go back to the inn. They've made you there. And don't go zipping around in that God-obvious Maserati. The pickup went to Ventura an hour ago. So...be advised."
I told him, "I am so advised. Thanks."
I returned to the car, told Alison, "Good thing I didn't use the mobile. We'd probably be looking down gun barrels right now."
That alarmed her. She gave me a wild look and said dully, "What?"
"Cops are looking for me. Murder charge. Both Jim and Jane. So maybe it's time you bailed out, Doc."
"What do you mean?"
I said grimly, "Get out of this. The game is over. From this point it's sheer survival. It's okay, you're clean. So walk away. Go home and watch it on the six o'clock news."
She said, "Don't be silly. You're not running, are you?"
I told her, "Maybe, if I had somewhere to run to."
"Please stop talking dumb," she moaned.
I lit a cigarette, drummed my fingers on the steering wheel.
Alison giggled, reaching for lightness, said, "Guess that shut you up! You really have not a thing to say now, have you."
I grinned back at her, shared the cigarette with her, told her, "One is forbidden. Two must come, male and female must come. Guess I need you, kid. But I'd understand if you'd rather just check out."
She told me, "I wouldn't miss the new moon for all the tea in China."
"You did notice," I said kiddingly.
"Notice what?"
"Hiawatha's gorgeous body."
"Oh, well, sure, I noticed that. What's that got to do with anything?"
"I suspect," I told her, not exactly kidding, “that the new moon and the earth mother have something to do with a sex orgy.”
"In that case," she replied, "I'm sure not missing it."
In any case, I decided, neither was I. I was anxious to meet one of those soul-walkers.
But then, of course, I probably already had.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Timing It
The problem of the moment was to avoid detection by the local cops. Ojai was policed by the Ventura County Sheriff's Department, under contract from the city and via a local substation. Probably not a very large contingent, but Ventura herself was only fourteen miles down the pike, so possibly the sheriff had dispatched a car or two devoted to my apprehension.
I figured we both looked tourista enough to pass casual scrutiny. The problem was the Maserati, as Valdiva noted. So we hied it away to a residential back street and parked it beneath a majestic oak, installed the canvas cover, and left it there.
The next problem was that the time was just a little past twelve noon and we had to fill in ten hours in Ojai, on foot, before the moonrise event. I was at a sort of dead end. I mean, sure, t
he thing looked much more promising now, but there seemed to be no place to take it until it was ready to take me again.
Sure, it looked promising. Look at what had been developed. Not only had we stumbled on to a Jane Doe look-alike but an apparent Jane Doe family. A coincidence might be waiting around every comer, okay, but not a whole family of coincidences. A case logic was beginning to fall into focus. And oh boy, I do love logic in my cases. I still did not see it all, of course, but I did have a glimmer—and that was a hell of a lot more than I had coming into this town.
The guy Hiawatha and his blue-and-white running shoes—apparently living under the same roof with a Jane Doe look-alike, with two of them, for God's sake—just had to be the killer in surgical gown and mask at County General. The logic, at the moment, could not extend into any explanation of motive, but I was sure that would come when the final pieces of this puzzle fell into place.
I had given Oom-ray-key-too, or whoever, an opportunity to resolve one of the issues when I insisted that we had met before. She could have admitted that she'd been in Studio City on Wednesday night. She could have told me that she had a dead-ringer twin sister, who I could have met in Los Angeles at some time in the past. 'Course, she was not obligated to tell me a damned thing. But most people, confronted with a mistaken identity mix-up, are quick to resolve it if they can. As for a visit to Studio City, or anywhere else in Los Angeles, it's no big deal. Southern Californians hop from town to town without even thinking about it; Ojai is practically a suburb of L.A. It is not as though I had suggested that I saw her in Paris or London. Of course, she could have been covering for any number of innocent reasons except for the fact that I saw her, or a dead ringer, with Jim Cochran minutes before someone put a bullet between his eyes. The hair was the only thing that did not match.
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