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  LIFE TO LIFE

  Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

  Don Pendleton

  Creator of

  The Executioner: Mack Bolan Series

  and

  Joe Copp Private Eye Thriller Series

  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: Metaphysical Essays of Don Pendleton

  LIFE TO LIFE: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

  Copyright © 1987 by Don Pendleton, All rights reserved. Published with permission of Linda Pendleton.

  Cover design by Linda Pendleton and Judy Bullard

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

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of Linda Pendleton.

  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.

  Dedicated to my Muses,

  whose names shall not be mentioned here;

  and to all the blithe spirits

  who read and respond.

  dp

  I hold that when a person dies

  His soul returns again to earth;

  Arrayed in some new flesh-disguise,

  Another mother gives him birth.

  With sturdier limbs and brighter brain

  The old soul takes the road again.

  Such is my own belief and trust;

  This hand, this hand that holds the pen

  Has many a hundred times been dust

  And turned, as dust to dust again;

  These eyes of mine have blinked and shone

  In Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon....

  —John Masefield (from A Creed)

  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

  Life to Life

  Chapter One: Headlong

  "Blood!" she cried. "I see blood all over your face!"

  I reacted as any normal person would. I raised both hands to my face to check that out. Felt okay to me. Before I could respond verbally, though, Reverend Annie moved on to another seeker of the light and told him, "You will buy the house but you shall never live in it. I see much sorrow there. Sell it quickly. Quickly!"

  The guy blinked at her and self-consciously muttered, "Okay. Thank you."

  But this gal did not hang around waiting for responses. She'd already gone on to a tense youth of about twenty who was seated several rows back and was approaching him with both hands extended. She wrestled his face into her ample bosom and held him like a mother soothing a beloved child while quietly admonishing him for the "darkness" in his "aura" and calling down "blessings of the light" to assist him "in this dark hour of decision."

  It was convincing enough. Not what I would call a "wow show" but the dynamism alone was worth an eight on a scale of ten. She was pretty, she was direct, and she seemed entirely sincere. Of course, they all seem sincere. But Reverend Annie had some subtle essence beyond sincerity that made her something special—which was why I was there.

  She'd appeared from obscurity less than a year earlier, rented a storefront in a small shopping center and proclaimed the existence of The Church of the Light. Now she had the entire shopping center and was looking for larger quarters, was conducting fifteen "services" weekly, did a daily radio show, and was gaining prominence in the Hollywood community as the latest trendy advisor to the stars. Thirty-ish and glamorously beautiful when she wanted to be, she was a natural for that scene and seemed to have a good long run ahead of her.

  So I'd come out to Van Nuys just to check her out. No fee. Just curiosity. I'd seen them coming and going, these New-Age reverends—only the best came and stayed. Not necessarily the best by virtue of sincerity and validity but the best by virtue of showmanship and charisma. About ninety percent were flatly on the con. The other ten percent were more or less equally divided into those with a genuine interest in helping the human situation but no wherewithal to do so and those with plenty of wherewithal but no interest in anything beyond themselves.

  Not that I am a cynic or that I feel particularly qualified to judge these or any other people, to each his own has always been my motto, and that goes double for anything involving religion. It's just that I do have a certain sensitivity for such things and I tend to trust that sensitivity when it tells me I am being conned.

  I had not felt conned by Reverend Annie. Even though the "love offering" at the door was twenty bucks and even though her sermon amounted to a mere five minutes of mix-and-match aphorisms from a dozen other religions. There was nothing harmful or hurtful there. There was nothing sinister about the two-minute meditation that followed the sermon, even though it seemed more a plea for money and generosity than anything else. And I was certainly entertained when she swept into the audience and began laying on the hands in her one-on-one ministry even if she did see blood all over my face. You had to be affected also by her looks, be you male or female. Even in vestments she was a wow.

  She was a genuine psychic. I had to give her that. She was simply going with the flow, letting it happen, moving from person to person and speaking in total spontaneity. There was no ot
her way to do what she was doing. But I can do that too. Many people can do that, if they'd just let it flow. You have to trust the flow, try not to audit, just run with it—sometimes some amazing shit plops out. Maybe half of what you get is pure static; you give it utterance anyway and just go on. If you hit only one out of four that's enough to build a pile of credibility when people begin comparing notes. Add to that one in four the other ones in four who want so hard to believe that they unconsciously manufacture a hit—and, well, yeah, a one-in-four psychic can quickly become the talk of the town.

  I figured that was the case for Annie. The blood on my face sounded like static. How much of the other stuff were direct hits...well, I purposely mentioned the two that could be validated on the spot, and they were both right on.

  The guy with the house of sorrow was seated at my elbow. He seemed a bit dazed by the experience, told me that indeed he had made an offer on a house in Tarzana that very day. He had mixed feelings about the deal himself, but his wife was crazy about the house so he crossed his fingers and made the offer. Now he didn't know what the hell to do.

  The kid with the darkened aura checked out the hardest way. At the conclusion of the service, Reverend Annie had gone to the door to personally greet everyone as they departed. These were small interpersonal gatherings of about fifty people per service—the only way Annie would work but she did it, remember, fifteen times each week. It was a slow dispersal because it seemed that everyone wanted a personal consultation with the beloved Annie. I wanted one too but it had nothing to do with the phantasmal blood on my face. And I wanted more than a minute of her time. So I'd taken a position beside her, and I guess I'd shaken as many hands as she had when the darkened aura began his charge through the patient lineup.

  I did not see the gun, not right away, but I did see the dark intent and my reaction was pure instinct. I shoved Annie through the open doorway and threw a crack-back block on the kid in the same movement. we went to the floor together and then I saw the gun. It was a big ugly .357 Magnum and the kid had the barrel in his teeth when we hit the floor. I was close enough to kiss him when he pulled the trigger, close enough to ring my bell when the thing exploded.

  Of course I thought I was shot. I was lying stunned in the gore with hysteria breaking out all around me. Then Reverend Annie had me by each hand, tugging me away from that, coolly coaxing me to my feet, guiding me toward a chair. I caught my reflection in a window. And, yeah, there was blood all over my face. So. What the hell. Three out of three ain't bad.

  The dead man turns out to be one Herman Milhaul. Has a long history of mental instability, though he is only now twenty. Seems that he is homosexual, has been trying to have a sex-change operation. Terribly unhappy young man. Reverend Annie has seen him before. He has attended several of her services over the past couple of weeks but has never sought her personal counsel. She believes that he came to this particular service to kill both her and himself, though she has no explanation for that.

  The cops are taking their time on this one. There were still about twenty persons present at the time of the incident. We have all been removed to a classroom next door and each of us has been interviewed more than once. Reverend Annie patiently tells the same story over and over, each time crediting me with saving her life.

  The L.A. cops are very good, very efficient. Van Nuys is one of those satellite communities that comprise the bulk of L.A.'s population, geographically delineated within the San Fernando Valley but politically just another L.A. neighborhood. Much of what is generally referred to as the Hollywood community actually live in the valley; many of them work here, as well. Be advised that "the community" refers to more than actors. They are just the tip of the largely unseen iceberg that keeps those actors in public view.

  So it is no great surprise to also learn that Herman Milhaul is one of these, that he has worked for the past year as a film lab technician. Actually, more than half the witnesses to his dramatic suicide are members of the industry. Two are even recognizable as character actors on television. Reverend Annie, as I have noted, is big with the business, as they say. I am a bit surprised to discover (by eavesdropping), however, that one of the witnesses—a handsome man of about seventy—is one of the most respected and honored screenwriters. Writers are, I always thought, intellectual people, and intellectual people, by and large, do not buy the Reverend Annies of the world. Or so I think. I am to be proven wrong on that. I am, in fact, to be proven wrong on many misconceptions before this case is ended.

  At the moment though, I do not know there is a case. I have come to watch a much-heralded psychic at work, I have been entertained by what I saw, and then I have found myself involved in the self-inflicted death of a tormented young man who saw only darkness in his life so had opted for a better berth elsewhere. The ultimate sex change, maybe. Or maybe...

  But this is about where I am in my head when the cops turn us loose. I have been cleaned up a bit, but my clothes are a mess and dried flecks of blood are in my hair. Reverend Annie pulls me aside and embraces me. "You saved my life,'' she murmurs. "I saw it coming. I saw it. He intended to take me with him."

  "When did you first see it coming?" I ask.

  "During one-on-one. I knew he'd come to kill me."

  "So why didn't you just get out of here? Why—?"

  "Because I saw something else, too," she coolly informs me. "I saw you. Each time, we learn to accept; to trust. I knew that you would save me. As for poor Herman... Nothing could save him. We learn to accept that, too."

  She releases me, steps back—teary-eyed—starts to walk away, stops, looks back, says: "We shall meet again. We shall fall in love."

  I send her a smile. I am a bit of a psychic too, you know. "Scary, isn't it," is my response to Reverend Annie.

  She shivers, gives me a solemn little smile, then walks away.

  And I am now heading into the most interesting case I have ever encountered. It will send me backward into the golden age of Hollywood and maybe into the outskirts of another golden age that Hollywood never dreamt of—and it will send me very close to hell itself.

  But, of course, hell itself is precisely where it started.

  Chapter Two: And a Cymbal Clashed...

  David Carver, a homicide detective, was waiting for me beside my Maserati. I knew him slightly. Know a lot of cops, but mostly just enough to smile and say "Hi" if we pass on the street. Carver was in that class. Cops don't make the best of friends, except with other cops. They lead mean lives. Sort of takes one to appreciate one. There are exceptions, of course. Not many. Doesn't mean I don't respect cops. Mostly I do. Carver I did.

  He grinned and said, "Hi, Ash. Saw your name on the sheets."

  I told him, "I gave my statement to Lieutenant Stewart."

  He said, "Yeah, I know. Read it. Just want to talk to you. Off the record. Okay?"

  I said, "David...look at me...I need a hot shower and a change of clothes. Make it quick?"

  "Sure. What's with you and the reverend?"

  I shrugged. "I was just a face in the crowd."

  "You weren't bodyguarding her?"

  I gave him what I hoped was a disgusted look. "Things are not that bad, David. I do not guard bodies other than those that are in my bed."

  "Wasn't your gun, eh?"

  I showed him another attempt at disgust. "When I pull a trigger, pal, I want the machine to gently purr, not bust my hand apart." I showed him the hand in question. "Designed especially to hold a tennis racquet, not a snorting .357 Magnum. All my arms are registered. Check it out."

  "Already did," he said, still grinning genially. "Where's your Walther?"

  I inclined my head toward the car and replied, "Inside."

  "Show me."

  I sighed, unlocked the car, removed the pistol from its concealed floorboard compartment, handed it over to him. He smiled and handed it back, told me: "You'd better start carrying it."

  I knew better than to ask but did so anyway. "Why?"

 
"I mean if you plan on keeping company with the reverend."

  "I didn't say I planned on that. We haven't even been formally introduced."

  "That's good," he said. "Keep it that way."

  So I asked it again. "Why?"

  "This kid Milhaul is the third violent death in her congregation over the past two months. One more makes an epidemic. Sounds like you damn near qualified for that one tonight. A word to the wise, Ash."

  I told him, "Hell, I just came down to look her over. And I—"

  “What'd you see?”

  I gave the homicide detective a steady gaze as I replied, "I saw a screwed-up kid try to kill her. I intervened in that. Call it bodyguarding if you like but it was pure coincidence that it was me instead of someone else."

  "Sure of that?" he asked, the grin still in place.

  I said, “What is this, Carver? You didn't just happen to...”

  He replied, "Naw. The lieutenant thought it would be best if I talked to you out here. Privately, you know." He handed over a slip of paper. I unfolded it, stared at it for a couple of seconds, handed it back.

  Two names were written on that paper in a curiously stilted scrawl. Mine and the dead boy's. They were enclosed in brackets.

  I asked, "So where'd you find it?"

  He replied, "In the reverend's study, small room just behind the stage. Says she always meditates back there before each service."