Ashes To Ashes

  Ashes To Ashes

  Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

  Don Pendleton

  Creator of

  The Executioner: Mack Bolan

  and

  Joe Copp, Private Eye Thrillers

  Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

  Copyright © 1986 by Don Pendleton, All rights reserved.

  Published with permission of Linda Pendleton.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, groups, organizations, or events is not intended and is entirely coincidental.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

  This edition is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work and rights of the author.

  Cover design by Linda Pendleton and Judy Bullard.

  Books by Don Pendleton

  Fiction

  The Executioner, Mack Bolan Series

  The Joe Copp Mystery Series: Copp for Hire; Copp on Fire; Copp in Deep; Copp in the Dark; Copp on Ice; Copp in Shock.

  The Ashton Ford Mystery Series: Ashes to Ashes; Eye to Eye; Mind to Mind; Life to Life; Heart to Heart; Time to Time.

  Fiction written with Linda Pendleton

  Roulette

  Comics by Don and Linda Pendleton

  The Executioner, War Against the Mafia

  Nonfiction Books by Don Pendleton

  A Search for Meaning From the Surface of a Small Planet

  Nonfiction Books by Don and Linda Pendleton

  To Dance With Angels

  Whispers From the Soul

  The Metaphysics of the Novel

  The Cosmic Breath

  * * * *

  Dedicated to the memory of Gustaf Stromberg, late Mount Wilson astronomer and Carnegie astrophysicist, whose fine mind and incisive writings have revealed more than the world is ready to understand about our realities.

  Author’s Note

  To My Readers:

  Ashton Ford will come as something of a surprise to those of you who have been with me over the years. This is not the same type of fiction that established my success as a novelist; Ford is not a gutbuster and he is not trying to save the world from anything but its own confusion. There are no grenade launchers or rockets to solve his problems and he is more of a lover than a fighter.

  Some have wondered why I was silent for so many years; some will now also wonder why I have returned in such altered form. The truth is that I had said all I had to say about that other aspect of life. I have grown, I hope, both as a person and as a writer, and I needed another vehicle to carry the creative quest. Ashton Ford is that vehicle. Through this character I attempt to understand more fully and to give better meaning to my perceptions of what is going on here on Planet Earth, and the greatest mystery of all the mysteries: the why of existence itself.

  Through Ford I use everything I can reach in the total knowledge of mankind to elaborate this mystery and to arm my characters for the quest. I try to entertain myself with their adventures, hoping that what entertains me may also entertain others—so these books, like life itself, are not all grim purpose and trembling truths. They are fun to write; for some they will be fun to read. To each of those I dedicate the work.

  ~Don Pendleton

  * * * *

  "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the resurrection unto eternal life."

  —Burial of the Dead,

  The Book of Common Prayer

  "This analysis of our knowledge of the universe has given us reasons to believe that, behind the world of phenomena we perceive with our sense organs, there is another world to which we can not apply our ordinary concepts of space and time."

  —Gustaf Stromberg,

  The Soul of the Universe

  Case File: Surrogate One

  Prefacing Remarks ...

  This was my first "surrogate" case. I would regret taking it on almost from the first moment, and I would resolve many times during the progress (or descent) of this case never again to work this particular type of problem. But, hell, she seemed so damned scared—so vulnerable—so, uh—okay, say it, so damned lovable.

  My sacred, cardinal, Number One Rule: Never become emotionally involved with a client.

  My unfailing, unremitting, forever Number One Problem: It seems that I am always in violation of Number One Rule.

  The truth, of course, is that I am in the wrong line of work. I should have been an actor, or maybe a model. I could probably get away with those Marlboro man-type ads. A stuntman, maybe, except that I really do not take any particular delight in flinging my life recklessly toward the closing jaws of death.

  I am almost a lawyer, but not quite—almost a psychologist, but I got bored with a term paper. Could have been a cop, I guess, but discovered in time that the pay and benefits are about equal to that of a garbage collector—and, when you think about it, the work is about the same. Not that both jobs are not vital to a civilized society. I'd just rather someone else handle the trash work.

  I was actually trained to be a spy, courtesy of the United States Navy. Naturally they did not call it that. But, hell, a spy is a spy by whatever tag or acronym. Not cut out for that, either.

  Maybe I wasn't cut out for anything in particular. I think I would like to conduct the Boston Pops. I have never been invited to do so. I would give it a shot, though, if they would give me time for a crash course in music theory.

  This is all very dumb, isn't it? I know what I'm cut out for, why I'm doing what I do for a living—and, to tell the truth, I could not conceive of ever doing anything else. I love my work, with all its built-in problems and uncertainties. I am where I need to be, doing what I need to do. I even enjoyed this case. Well ... most of it.

  For the record, I am Ashton Ford. American born and educated. No connection to the automobile family. The "Ford" was, I guess, a result of Mother's weird sense of humor. Seems that I was conceived on the backseat of a car. She was a South Carolina Ashton, from a family with roots in the American Revolution. I was born when she was thirty, living independently and comfortably on a nice trust from her grandmother, amoral. I use that last word in the kindest sense possible. Mother was a hell of a lady. Free thinker, that's all. Never married, never wanted to. Never told me who my father is, and I never asked. Just thankful that the name on my birth certificate is not Volkswagen or Oldsmobile.

  Great-grandfather Ashton was a naval hero of sorts. I was raised in naval academies, went on to Annapolis and several war colleges, ended up in Strategic Studies—the "Star Wars" stuff—got out as quick as my obligation would allow.

  That's enough background for now. It's enough to know, at this point, that I am where I need to be, doing what I need to do—emotionally involved with troubled ladies. I call this a "surrogate" case because that is exactly how it began. I was hired as a sexual surrogate by a beautiful nonorgasmic woman who was just damned sick and tired of dry runs. As usual, the stated problem was but a symptom of a far deeper problem. And this beautiful, lovable, vulnerable young woman had a hell of a problem that no amount of loving would help.

  I neglected to reveal that I am a sometimes-psychic. Some have called me a "mystic," but I would not go that far. What I am, I guess, actually, is a lover. So how did a nice guy like me get mixed up in a case like this? That is exactly what I am about to tell you. Turn the page.

  Chapter One: And Death Smiled

  He looked about two-eighty of solid be
ef and had a lot of mean energy in the eyes. Kind of guy you'd rather give a sweet smile and wish a nice day or else disregard entirely. From where I stood at the moment, I had neither option. He was coming at me with apparent felonious intent, moving swiftly along my side of the net like a linebacker sniffing blood. Mine. I had one of those inane thoughts—Wrong game, guy—but I didn't voice it, nor did I consider it prudent to inquire as to the name of it. I learned a few games ago that he who gets there first with the most is usually the one who walks away smiling. So I let the ball sail on past me to meet the gorilla instead, with my best backhand, the tennis racket angled edgewise and moving toward maximum effect.

  He grunted and went slowly to his knees, mean energy dissolving instantly into sick passivity and maybe a bit of bewilderment. I wanted to say, "Oops, sorry, wrong ball," but I decided it was no time for humor. Besides, a gorgeous redhead had run onto the court, and I had the impression that she was mad as hell with me—maybe because she called me a dumb shit.

  So I went to the net and thanked the flustered tennis pro, then went to the sideline for a towel while the irate lady fussed over the stricken giant. I put the towel around my neck, casually lit a cigarette, and headed for the locker room. The redhead intercepted me about halfway there, fire in the eye and ready to storm all over me. I tried to disarm her with my patented boyish grin but it didn't work.

  "You did that on purpose!" she cried. And, yeah, furious.

  I didn't try to deny it. I just said "Yep," and kept moving.

  "You're an animal!" she yelled after me.

  That was my first meeting with Karen Highland. And Bruno. That was a Wednesday. I didn't see them again until Friday, early afternoon, Malibu. This time they came to my office—or to what passes for an office. Bruno held the door for the lady, then came on in behind her and very quietly took a chair at the back wall without once looking me in the eye. I figured, okay, now we understand each other. She was in an easier frame of mind, too, though obviously quite nervous.

  I stood up and offered her my hand. She took it, murmured her name, gave me an appraising look as I gave the appropriate reply, then dropped my hand and took herself to the window. Nice view from that window. Pacific Ocean surf, Santa Monica skyline curving into the distance, lots of blue sky. I had the feeling she was seeing none of it.

  I was really struck by her beauty. The hair about shoulder length and lying in a soft up-flip, sort of piled a bit at the top and falling into waves at the forehead; velvet cream skin that invited contact; wide-spaced oval eyes of a shade I can only compare with wild violets—but fear there, yeah, fear or desperation or maybe both. She had the long, clean lines you see on showgirls, draped very fashionably in a simple cotton dress that somehow nevertheless managed to look very expensive.

  I was struck, yeah—which is probably why I blew this meeting too. I tend to be a bit defensive when I respond this way to a prospective client.

  "Let's try this again," she said softly from the window. I had her in profile, feet planted wide apart, hands clasped behind her, shoulders sort of tight, lovely head tilted downward.

  I had one of my flashes at that moment. I'll tell you more about those later. For now just believe me when I say that I did not see Karen Highland in that flash; what I saw was another person, older—sick, maybe, or otherwise burdened to the breaking point with some terrible problem, very frightened and very much in need of help.

  It flashed on me, then dissolved before I could really inspect the apparition. I shot a look toward Bruno. He was staring at the ceiling. I had been thinking about it since she called me that Wednesday night for the appointment, and I'd decided to tell Miss Highland that I had too many things going right now, and would she call me again next month or next year if she couldn't find another counselor.

  All that changed in that flash. I went to the window and put my hands on her shoulders from behind in a light massage—she was carrying a lot of tension there—and suggested that she make herself comfortable.

  She had told me, that night on the phone, "Bruno is mute. He was just trying to attract your attention."

  And I had told her that he looked like a head-hunter to me, that he invaded my tennis game, that I'd felt it only prudent to sit him down before inquiring as to his intentions.

  "He was flustered," she explained. "We'd been trying to catch your attention for several minutes. He's just very direct. And you wouldn't look toward us."

  I could have explained to her, but did not, that my concentration on a game of tennis approaches that achieved by a Zen master, so I could buy her apology.

  "Does he read lips?" I asked her, present time, with a glance at Bruno as I escorted her to a chair.

  "He's not deaf," she replied, "—just mute."

  "Then he is not going to sit here during this consultation," I said flatly.

  "Wait in the car, Bruno, please," she said without hesitation and without raising her voice.

  The big guy was up and out of there almost before she finished speaking, as though he had received those orders before they came in there and he was just awaiting his cue.

  I let the door close behind him before I retreated to my desk—well, it's sort of a desk—more of a table with a couple of small drawers, really—acrylic, transparent. Serves the purpose without getting stuffy.

  There was a long, almost tense silence while the lady and I exchanged smiles. Finally I asked her, "So how can I help you, Karen?"

  She dropped those amazing eyes, brushed nervously at her lap with scarlet-tipped fingers, waited a moment as though trying to construct a sentence, then replied, "I was referred to you by someone at Zodiac."

  Zodiac is a metaphysical retreat up the coast near Santa Barbara. I kept on smiling and said, "Someone?"

  "I don't know her name. Well, I—actually—I wasn't actually referred. I just overheard this conversation." She swept me with those great eyes. "And I figured—maybe—you're the one."

  "The one for what?"

  "To—to help me."

  "To help you do what?"

  She was staring at her lap again. It was like pulling teeth, opening this one up. I told her, "I'm not a medical doctor, you know."

  "Don't need one," she murmured.

  "Nor a shrink."

  She showed me a small smile. "Well, maybe I do need one of those. But that's not what—that is not why I am here. They said you're into all this stuff."

  "All what stuff?"

  "The stuff they do up there. And that you'd written this paper about—well, on uh, against asceticism."

  "I did do one of those," I agreed, remembering, and remembering also the furor at Zodiac over that paper. It was actually a treatise on cosmic sex and the way it really ought to be, the way it could be if people's heads were on straight. The people at Zodiac—or a good number of them, it seemed—were trying to leave the carnal plane behind without dying first—some, without living first. I thought it was bullshit and I said so in the paper.

  "I read it," she said quietly.

  It was my turn for the lap-inspection bit. After several seconds of high-voltage silence I lifted a direct gaze her way and said, "And ... ?"

  "I'd like to try that."

  "You'd like to try that what?"

  "What you said in the paper."

  I'm sure my smile was a bit forced as I replied to that. "Okay. Why not? Can't hurt you, I guess, with the right guy. But I would not recommend Bruno."

  That amused her. "I inherited Bruno when my parents died. He's like an uncle. No, uh—I was thinking of you."

  I already knew that—but was hoping like hell, still, that she would not say it.

  I told the beautiful lady, with all the professional aplomb I could muster, "Doesn't work that way. I don't work that way. Fall in love. Try it on your honeymoon."

  That seemed to sting her. A nostril flared. I could

  feel the self-consciousness oozing away. When she spoke it was gone entirely. "Three cheers for old- fashioned morality." Stung
, yeah. "You disappoint me, Ashton."

  I was rather disappointed in myself, to tell the truth. But I did not tell her that truth. What I did tell her was, "I am not a professional anything, you know. I have...certain insights. People have found me out. Sometimes I agree to help them with specific problems. But I do not rent myself out for sex. There's a name for that. I'm not it. But what is your real problem?"

  "What?"

  "Why are you really here?"

  "I told you."

  "Bullshit."

  "What?"

  "Bullshit. I saw her, when you were at the window." I described the apparition. "Anyone you know?"

  She had become very pale and her hands were shaking as she struggled with a cigarette. "Then you're really for real," she said quietly, giving up on the cigarette.

  I did not respond to that.

  After another long moment of silence the lady said, "I've seen her too. It's spooky. I think, maybe ..."

  I lit the cigarette for her—one for myself too—gave her another moment to get it back together, then prodded. "You were thinking, maybe ..."

  "I don't know, it sounds crazy, I never talk to anyone about this. I have been seeing her since I was a little girl. Not—I don't mean—not all the time, nothing like that. But ... now and then ... special times."

  "Such as?"

  "Oh, if I'm sick, or upset about something or ... well, and since I've grown up she seems to appear more frequently and now she's ..."