Mind to Mind Read online

  He'd used his full five minutes for that one. The tone sounded and the recording stopped. He was right back again, though, in message number seven. Also eight, nine, and ten. I won't take you through that entire emotional outpouring. Much of it was confused and almost incoherent, anyway. The poor guy had been in a hell of a state, and it seemed to worsen as he went along with the story. The gist of it, as I distilled the emotional recordings, was that Cochran somehow had been personally involved with Gordon Campbell and his place in Ojai. He hinted at a sex cult with satanic overtones. Maya Czeti—whom we now know as May-un-chee-tee—was but one of a constantly revolving "stable" of highly sexed women who were, from time to time, available for frolic in elaborately staged rituals. The details of this particular part of the story sounded very close to my own experience at Ojai, except that in Jim's version he acted as a "procurer" for well-heeled playboys from L.A. who were delighted to shell out heavily for such offbeat delights.

  After several months of that Cochran discovered that Campbell was also into mind-altering drugs, and apparently there actually had been an incident in which a college student was killed while under the influence of Campbell's stuff. Jim's affair with Maya Czeti—despite a language barrier—had meanwhile ripened to the point that he was seriously considering leaving Georgia to set up housekeeping with Maya. Apparently the only thing that saved the marriage was Maya's refusal to leave Ojai. Jim thought that she was afraid of Campbell, that she was thoroughly under his influence. But he left her there when he discovered the LSD connection, and tried to put her out of his mind. Apparently he did that rather well, because he says he did not see her again until Vicky was nearly a year old, and then Maya was no more than a wraith who invaded the Cochran home occasionally to visit her child, and he did not actually get a good look at her until during the repeated visits of the past year.

  He was strongly concerned by this time and went to Ojai for a showdown. Gordon Campbell was still doing business at the same stand, but Maya was not. This was nine years after Vicky was born. Campbell insisted he had not seen Maya during all those years and denied any knowledge of a child. It appears that Cochran had a talk with Oom-ray-key- too, whom he first confused with Maya, but he did not tell me what they discussed.

  He ended the emotional recital with the confession: "I killed her, Ash. I know damned well I killed her. It wasn't premeditated. She just made the mistake of barging in one night while I was retiling Vicky's bathroom. I was standing there with a crowbar in my hands. Suddenly there she was. God, I feel...ashamed...but it was like swatting a fly you've been trying to nail all day. There she was and there I was. I swung at her, guess I figured the bar would just pass right through her. I'd already decided she had to be a ghost. But she was flesh and bone. Flesh and bone, pal, and I was a killer. I know damned well she was dead. I've seen enough of that to know it when I see it. She was totally wasted. I panicked. You know the rest, and you know that she came back. I don't know how the hell she did that. I'm wondering now if Campbell is not the jerk I always thought he was. I thought all the mumbo jumbo was just part of the shtick, but now I don't know. She is still not dead, Ash. Even though somebody wasted her again yesterday—Campbell, I think—but God knows why. Anyway, I told you I need a magician. Maybe what I need is a priest. Because she is not dead.

  I saw her, not thirty minutes ago, with Vicky. Now I'm scared as hell for Vicky. You said something—you said— you tumbled to something, I forget what you said, I just want you to know it's for real. I'm going to try to put a cap on this thing. If I can't, Ash...if I can't do that, I'm relying on you to finish it properly. And I'll haunt your ass all the way through hell if you don't. But no fee, asshole. You owe me this one."

  I owed him this one, yes. He was reminding me of a time several years earlier when he casually mentioned to me something about kids and their "made-up friends." He had not been specific, nor had he seemed particularly worried at the time, and I had forgotten the incident entirely until this reminder. I had assured him that it was entirely natural for children to invent nonexistent companions, to converse with them and play games with them, have tea parties with them. I even told him it was a natural part of their creative development: "Don't worry about it."

  He should have worried about it.

  And, yes, I owed him this one.

  Chapter Thirty-One: In the Eyes of a Child

  I spent the next hour and twenty minutes playing with my computer, this time with a telephone modem and an illicit hacker's directory listing access codes to various official and unofficial data pools. I don't really believe in invading private records, and I try to avoid that, but I figure that government data banks belong to the people, and I am one of those people, so I use them when it is really important that I do so.

  I figured this time was important. I hit the California Department of Motor Vehicles, the Bureau of Vital Statistics, and the Franchise Tax Board for information on the various principals of this case. Then I figured what the hell and went into some credit-reporting services and a large escrow house, plus some local government files.

  I developed some interesting information in that search, then I took another hour trying to synthesize the more promising elements toward a coherent sensing of certain interrelationships.

  And the thing got curiouser and curiouser.

  For one thing, Alison Saunders appeared to have sprung from nowhere about the moment she became May-un's therapist.

  For another, both Jim Cochran and Frank Valdiva were living far beyond their means, had been for years.

  Gordon Campbell, on the other hand, showed an entirely pedestrian profile. Middle-class, conservative, scrupulously paid his taxes and his bills, lived simply.

  Georgia Cochran still belonged to the Screen Actors Guild and apparently spent a lot of time in fitness salons and acting classes, served on several charities. She also paid a lot of medical bills, above and beyond the family's medical insurance coverage.

  Vicky-Victoria and Manuel-Manuel Cochran both attended special-education classes in public school. Both were "good" students. Vicky had a behavior problem. Manuel was considered brilliant in "reading comprehension and reasoning with words."

  To no surprise whatever, Maya Czeti did not officially exist.

  I dug out a backup pistol, an old World War II Luger, and loaded two extra clips for it, then made a few phone calls. One to Alison, a dinner date for eight o'clock. Another to Georgia Cochran, an appointment at her home for seven. Then I called Gordon Campbell's place in Ojai, spoke to Oom, arranged a midnight meeting. Finally I called Captain Valdiva at his office. He was not in. I left a message. Then I hit the shower, stood in it until the water ran cold, lay down naked on my bed, and encouraged alpha rhythms for thirty minutes, got up refreshed, shaved and dressed for the evening, and was on my way by six.

  It was not the best time to be making one's way crosstown in Los Angeles. The coast highway was a mess, Santa Monica was a mess, Brentwood and Beverly Hills were purely crazy, Hollywood was beginning to idle back a bit by the time I reached that point. I arrived at the Cochran home ten minutes late. I hate that. In Los Angeles, though, you learn that punctuality is not a virtue; it is a mere stroke of luck. No matter how you may plan a crosstown drive, at whatever time of day or night, the chances are equal that you will arrive a half hour early or a half hour late. And yet the highway system here is unequaled anywhere in the world. But so is the automobile density.

  So I figured ten minutes late was pretty good, but I still hated it. Someone else did too. Manuel-Manuel was impatiently awaiting my arrival. Game little kid. He was at my door and opening it for me even before I could kill the engine.

  "I was getting worried," he told me.

  I said, "Sorry, pal, the traffic was intense."

  He said, "Yes, I know. I figured that was the problem."

  A uniformed cop got out of a patrol car that was parked at the curb in front of the house, came over to check my ID. Manuel vouched for me. The cop g
rinned and returned to his post.

  I picked up Manuel and held him in one arm while securing the Maserati. He was surprisingly light. I've held heavier babies. I told him gruffly, "Don't bitch. You're not too old to be carried."

  He replied, "Well, I really am, but we'll probably get inside a lot faster this way. It's okay, I don't mind. I've learned to accept my limitations."

  I said, "They're all purely physical, kid," and meant it. This guy was eight years old going on thirty. "How's your mom doing?" I asked as we approached the house.

  "I guess she's doing very well," he replied soberly. "They say it sometimes takes a while for tragedy to soak in. I think she's in the numb stage."

  Indeed. Eight years old. I told him, remembering what he'd told me about the meaning of his name, "God is here, Manuel."

  He said, "Yes, I know. I'm glad I'm here too. Death is harder on women, they say, because they are biologically closer to life. I can handle this better than they can."

  This could have been a dialogue with a fifty-year-old enlightened one. And maybe it was. I rang the door bell as I told him, "Just don't try to handle too much, pal. We all need to vent the emotions now and then."

  "I'll remember that," he replied soberly. "Meanwhile I'll just do what I can."

  "Great," I said, for lack of any better response. This kid was actually making me feel inferior. "Your dad would like that," I added lamely.

  "He probably wouldn't notice," Manuel said.

  "Sure he would. Well, if he was in a position to..."

  "I didn't mean that way. I just meant he never noticed anything much."

  I said, "Hey! That's pretty harsh, isn't it?"

  He said, "No."

  I said, "Your dad had a mean job. Cops live with a lot of tension. Lot on the mind, most of the time."

  "You don't have to make excuses for him," Manuel told me. "I still love him. Mom does too. Even if he never..."

  "Never what?"

  The door was opening. Manuel was glaring at it. I told him, sotto voce, "Be careful you're not substituting, pal."

  He whispered back, "Substituting what?"

  I replied, "Anger for grief."

  He said, "Oh. I see what you mean."

  Eight years old.

  A ten-year-old who looked six was standing in the open doorway. She tilted the head and angled a doleful gaze at me, moved aside, slammed the door after we entered.

  Manuel said irritably, "For Pete's sake, Vicky!" He whispered to me, "She's been this way ever since we heard about Dad."

  I set him down and picked her up, stroked her hair, told her, "It's okay to be sad, honey. There's a time for laughter and a time for tears. This happens to be a time for tears. So go with it, feel it, then get rid of it, make a time for laughter. Your dad would tell you that. I'm saying it for him."

  She squeezed me very tightly about the neck, and I thought she said something to me—I thought she whispered in my ear with that same husky breathiness of Oom and May-un—but, hell, her face was turned away from my ear. Whatever, however, the words that hit my auditory centers were: 'To hell with him!"

  I gingerly set her down, searched her face for a clue but found none, unconsciously reached for a cigarette and lit it, followed the kids to the breakfast room. Georgia sat slumped in a chair with a cup of coffee in front of her. She showed me a wan smile, said, "Hello, Ashton. Thanks for coming. Please sit down."

  I took a chair across from her. Vicky was already pouring coffee for me.

  Manuel announced, "I'll be in the den if anyone needs me." He touched my hand as though to say "Thanks," and shuffled laboriously out of the room.

  I told Georgia, "That is some hell of a kid you've got there."

  She smiled, musingly replied, "Yes, he is definitely one of a kind. I believe that he has now assumed the duties of the man of the house." She looked at Vicky, told her, "Go with Manuel, sweetie."

  Vicky's gaze swept from her mother to me, twice, with a look that could have been defiance, but then she shrugged and obeyed.

  I commented, 'Tough time for kids, eh?"

  She replied, "Yes, I'm sure it is."

  "And for moms."

  She said, "Ashton, I—it's so—I feel...abandoned. And helpless. It's—I don't—Jim took care of all the business. The finances. Everything. I hate to admit it, but I don't even know about insurance. I don't know where to make the house payments. This is... it's stupid, I know, and maybe it sounds like I'm focusing on the wrong thing, but this is where I'm at right now. I feel...six years old, and...lost...at Disneyland."

  I took her hand and squeezed it, told her, "What you're feeling is perfectly natural. Don't be reluctant to lean on people until you get your bearings. Lean on the Department, on Frank, on everyone you trust."

  She wiped an eye and said, "Yes, I—thank God for Frank, all the men. And their families. I just turned everything over...he's having a Department burial. Thank God. I wouldn't know...my God, Ashton, I don't even know how to bury my own husband."

  Maybe Manuel had an insight, but his mother was not numb now. That had passed; maybe it had already started to pass before my arrival, but it had definitely passed now. She was now weeping as though her heart were breaking, and I was sure that it was. I went to her side of the table and knelt beside her, took her in my arms, and just held on. It was not a time for words.

  But I thought I heard some. Something tickled my auditory centers. It was softly husky but not an altogether pleasant sound. And I am not even sure that words were involved.

  I just know that I turned my head toward the doorway and there encountered the cold stare of little Vicky Victoria.

  And that shivered me clear to the bottom of my soul. A kid of ten who looked six—okay, maybe so, but those eyes, at that moment, those eyes were infinitely old.

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Synthesizing

  Georgia had her emotions pretty well under control by the time I departed. She even walked me to my car and waved smilingly to the cop on duty at the curb. Both kids stood in the open doorway of the house, two little waifs too old for their years, yet far too young, I presumed, to fully appreciate what was happening to them. Manuel raised his good arm for a forlorn little wave, then disappeared inside. Vicky just stared. I stared back for perhaps five seconds, then broke that disturbing eye contact and got in the car. Georgia leaned in to kiss me lightly on the cheek.

  "Thanks again," she said, the eyes brimming just a bit.

  I said, "Let me know if there's anything I can do."

  "I will."

  "Does Vicky ever talk to you?"

  "No. Vicky has never talked."

  "Not to anyone?"

  "Not to anyone, no."

  "You've never heard her talk to herself or to imaginary friends?"

  "No."

  "That's odd. Jim told me just the opposite."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He said she's been talking to Jane Doe for years."

  Georgia stiffened, withdrew, carefully closed the car door, muttered, "You misunderstood."

  I leaned across the windowsill, studying her body language, told her, "No, I understood him perfectly. Her real name is May-un-chee-tee. Jim said she visited often. He seemed to think that she was Vicky's natural mother."

  Silence reigned for about fifteen seconds, during which Georgia was studying the open doorway of her home. Finally she said, without looking at me, "Why are you doing this, Ashton?"

  I replied, "I am obliged to do this, Georgia. Jim told me the full story before he died. Or, at least, as he understood it. He was trying to end that story. He knew that he was jeopardizing his own life in that attempt. He asked me to follow through if he could not. I'm following through. And I need your help."

  She said, "Whatever are you talking about?" and walked stiffly into the house without a backward look.

  Vicky slammed the door.

  So call me an insensitive bastard. I felt like one. But I also felt something very ominous in the atmosphere surrounding
that little family. And I was resolved to by God get to the bottom of it.

  I arrived at Alison's place ten minutes early, called in from the security door, she buzzed me inside. It was a nice building, U-shaped with a tastefully decorated lobby opening onto a large interior court with swimming pool and gardens. Each ground-floor apartment opened onto that courtyard. Alison had one of those. Took me a couple of minutes to locate and get to it.

  I have to say that this young lady lived well. The apartment was spacious, stylish, beautifully put together with lots of blooming plants and miniature potted trees—also very sensuous, with soft colors and softer fabrics that seemed to invite tactile involvement. I really hated to step onto the carpet with shoes on; it was white, ankle-deep pile, built for bare feet and maybe bare bodies. Alison was close to that. She answered the door chimes wearing nothing but bra and panties, greeted me with a soft kiss on the lips, apologized that she was "running late," bade me make myself comfortable, then quickly retreated to the interior.