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  "What's his name?"

  She blinked at me. "Valentinius, I think. Or maybe it's

  Medici; I've heard both but I don't know which is the family name."

  I asked, "What do the servants call him?"

  "Only Hai Tsu speaks English," she replied, now showing a bit of impatience with me. "She refers to him only as Shen, but I believe that is some kind of Oriental title of respect."

  She was leaving me again. I walked along with her. "You've been living here as a guest for a year and you don't even know the guy's name?"

  She said, "Look, either stay or go, makes no difference to me. But if you can't stand a little mystery then I advise you to go. You'll have to excuse me now. I really must get back to work."

  I told her, "The question is not stay or go. The question is why I was asked to come here. He said something about a crisis. Know anything about that?"

  We had entered the "point" room. It was obviously cantilevered out beyond the face of the cliff. The vaulted ceiling was about twenty feet high and the three outside walls were glass all the way. It was an artist's studio to end all studios. Apparently the lady both painted and sculpted. Canvases were stacked everywhere and there must have been twenty clay busts scattered about.

  I think she was unhappy with me for going in there with her. She planted herself just inside the door and said, very quietly with studied control, "The only crisis I know anything about is my show next week. I have been trying a year for this show. I have two more canvases to complete and twenty to frame. So if you will excuse me, please."

  But I had gone on inside, my attention compelled to-

  ward the busts. Twenty, yeah, I counted twenty—all just alike, every damned one an almost perfect likeness of my "angel."

  I turned to the creator and asked, very quietly, "Valentinius?"

  She said, "Lousy, huh. Just can't seem to capture it. This is all very new to me. I'd never worked with clay before I came here. Now it seems that's all I want to do. That's why I'm behind for my show."

  I thought the sculptures were great.

  And I'd already decided to stay a while.

  Chapter Three: Reception

  Hai Tsu is a real China doll, tall and willowy, the very essence of Oriental grace and dignity—very pretty, with that rose-petal skin so very lightly tinted into the gold spectrum as seen just now and then among some Asians and fulfilling the yellow race description of all. She has a voice to match—soft and gentle, almost whispery—and her English is entirely understandable, though a bit broken. Her name is pronounced Hi-zoo—or that is as close as I can get—and her usual look is that which suggests a bursting inner excitement or exuberance being held in place by servile propriety. You get the idea that as soon as she disappears into her own quarters, she is going to burst out with song or laughter and do a couple of pirouettes about the room. Don't ask her age; I couldn't peg that within five years, or maybe even ten. I can only sum her up as a beautiful young woman with a terrific attitude.

  She showed me to my suite and steered me around inside to point out the various amenities as though sharing some delicious secret with me. A small but extravagantly appointed sitting room held a couch and two easy chairs, wine cupboard and wet bar, modular entertainment center with television and stereo.

  Another room of about the same size featured a wall of books, library table, comfortable chair, computer desk, and a Tandy that looked exactly like mine. Hai Tsu's eyes danced a jig as she pointed that out. "Is very good?" she inquired, those expressive eyes scanning my face for approval.

  "Very good, yes," I agreed, not wishing to disappoint her, but wondering also why it mattered.

  The bedroom had an ocean view via French doors that opened onto a little balcony, a king-size bed, and king-size chairs, king-size desk—the whole room was fit for a king. The bath featured a circular sunken tub with shower and whirlpool, also one of those jazzy new sauna cabinets and a massage table. I could have fitted my whole Malibu bedroom in there and still had room enough for a normal bathroom.

  "Is very good?" Hai Tsu inquired.

  "Is heaven," I assured her. "When did I die?"

  She almost giggled but hid it behind delicate fingers as she gracefully withdrew and left me alone in the splendor.

  I found the whole thing vaguely troubling.

  It was as though...you see I am a closet hedonist. I

  mean I live a somewhat Spartan life-style. My beach house at Malibu is an ordinary bachelor's pad furnished in modern basic and decorated to match. The Maserati is my only luxury; everything else that forms my personal environment is simple and fractional. I don't know why that is, because deep down I would love to wallow in pampered luxury—and this suite at Pointe House was like a secret dream come true, a fantasy fulfilled. This suite was the real me. I recognized that fact, and it bothered me—or I thought that was what was bothering me.

  But I found a lot more bother during the next few minutes. For example, the full wardrobe that hung in the closet—shirts, slacks, blazers, suits—all my size and my style; a shoe caddy with a nice assortment of colors and styles for every occasion, in my size; drawers of underwear and socks, swim trunks, tennis shorts; anything and everything I could conceivably need or want to clothe myself, and as I would so do.

  And that was only the beginning. All my favorite albums were racked beside the stereo. The magazines I habitually read were all there, in their latest editions. A paperback novel I had been reading lay on a bedside table. The wall of books in the study included all of my most cherished titles as well as several rare classical tomes I would have loved to own, if love or money could have bought them.

  The bother approached critical mass when I sat down to examine the computer. It was a Tandy hard disk, same model as mine—which is not exactly mind-blowing since it is a very popular personal computer. But when I fired it up and consulted the system directory, it offered me the

  same selections that I'd programmed into my own computer, and a couple of those were of my own private invention. I ordered in my personal client directory, fed it the access codes, and the damn thing loaded it in. Now you see, a computer is not a magician; it performs only as it has been programmed to perform, and this computer had no right to that stuff—not unless someone had moved my computer from Malibu to Laguna and got it here ahead of me.

  But this was not my computer. Identical, yes, except for the special peculiarities of wear that creep into every personal device. This computer was shiny new, never used, never abused. It was not mine, but it had the brains of mine.

  So sure, I was bothered. Someone evidently knew me as I know myself, even my deeply hidden self. And that someone had also evidently gone to some pains to please that hidden self. But why?

  I guess it was the why that bothered me most.

  And I was definitely bothered. Yes, definitely for sure, as the valley girls would say. But it was only the beginning of bother.

  If this is your first encounter with the wild and wacky world of Ashton Ford, I think it is time you were told a little something about my background and how it is that I find myself in these interesting situations.

  First, I think you need to understand that the name Ford did not come to me from my father. I don't know who my father was; I doubt that anyone does—not even Mother, whose quiet humor found it fitting to name me after the automobile in which I was conceived, on the backseat, I trust. She was of the South Carolina Ashton line, with roots in prerevolutionary America and sparse but fruitful branches in each succeeding generation until my grandfather's time. He generated two daughters, then thoughtlessly died without providing a male heir to the name. Mother never married, nor did her sister. I don't know why she didn't just give me the family name at the rear instead of the front; at least it would have been an honest name and properly legal. Not that it matters; my name is really the least of my identity problems. I have received hints in recent years that there may have been some special circumstances attending my concept
ion, but I will not go into that here.

  I spent my early years in a sort of splendid isolation at the family estate on the Carolina coast. Never saw another child until I started school. But that was about the only form of deprivation. And I manufactured my own "playmates"—or so Mother used to say I had a lot of imaginary friends but they were consistently adult the same as every other being in my experience, and our playtime was usually more educational than entertaining. They would come any time I wanted them—and sometimes even when I did not want them.

  That is the kind of early childhood I had. Not at all lonely. Just different. And Mother was always warm and affectionate when she was around, which was most of the time during that period. I started day classes at a nearby military institute when I was six. There was an adjustment problem lasting through most of that first year. Just didn't know how to relate to other kids. But it worked itself out, and I always had my other friends at home to fall back on. Those other friends stayed with me in fact through those first four years at the institute, always at my beck and call. But then when I was ten I took up full-time residency at the institute, and Mother joined the jet set. That was a time when I needed my friends the most, but they abandoned me too at that point and came only infrequently in dreams.

  I saw Mother infrequently too—a couple of times a year in the flesh for brief but always warm visits, once or twice a month in dreams. Funny thing, I always knew where she was and what was happening with her. I would get letters postmarked Zurich or Paris or Florence and every one was dèjà vu; I knew the content before opening the envelope and each letter was mere confirmation of something already shared in a dream.

  I went all the way through the institute like that, but all of it stopped, except the infrequent letters, at Annapolis. The naval academy was preordained for me, as an Ashton. There had never been so much as a mention of any alternative. All of the male Ashtons by whatever family name were born with an appointment to Annapolis tucked into their little belly buttons. I never questioned it. But I also had no particular passion for a naval career, never intended to pursue one beyond the obligatory active duty requirement following graduation.

  I had a rough time at Annapolis, but not because of the institutionalization and discipline that bothers most cadets. I had grown up in that, learned to cope with it, even to enjoy it in most of its aspects. But I grew very lonely there. All of my childhood connections had been severed. I tried to look at it as a natural consequence of adulthood—and maybe I just was not prepared for adulthood. I felt abandoned.

  There were other minor problems too. I think I freaked out the medical people there. They came at me four times during my plebe year with batteries of intelligence and psychological tests and never seemed content that they had me properly nailed. But the testing opened some doors for me, both during the following three years and afterward. Seemed as though they gave me any class I wanted and a variety of special War College postgraduate courses. I actually spent most of my navy time in a classroom. Finally wound up at the Pentagon, Office of Naval Intelligence, where I rode out the balance of my obligated service.

  Since then I have just puttered about. I have this trust fund, you see, which takes care of the basics, and I have never seen much point to accumulating wealth of my own, so I am really free to pursue those things that interest me.

  That is what I was doing at Laguna Beach. Or so I thought when I went there.

  It had begun to occur to me though, during that first hour at Pointe House, that something or someone was pursuing me instead. I never really set out to become or to be a psychic investigator. I am not even all that certain that I have any particular psychic abilities of my own. I do not do things; things do me, and I do not control them. I usually try my best to keep them from controlling me. That is never difficult—or it had not been to this point in my life. I had never seen or experienced any psychical phenomena which, in retrospect, should be feared or even mistrusted.

  But I very often did not understand that which was

  being experienced—and even though I had been conditioned from childhood to accept a reality which most people clearly do not inhabit, I had always kept both feet planted firmly on planet Earth, and I was as subject to awe and fear as any human when magic is afoot.

  Let me assure you that magic was clearly afoot at Pointe House. And all my small hairs knew it.

  Chapter Four: Glimmer

  The telephone began ringing in insistent little bursts while I was still puzzling over the amenities of my guest suite. I stared at the phone briefly—I guess wondering if the call was really for me—then scooped it up and gave it a shot. "Yeah, who'd you want?"

  I did not recognize the responding male voice. "Mr. Ford?"

  "Yes."

  It was mildly apologetic. "I understand you've only just arrived. Hope I haven't caught you at an awkward time. But it's really important that I speak with you at the earliest possible moment. Would it be convenient for you to come down to the library right away?"

  I presumed that the guy was not referring to the Laguna Beach public library, but I wanted to be sure. I replied, "You mean the library here at Pointe House."

  He sort of laughed as he told me, "Yes. Sorry. I assumed you realized that I am using the house phone."

  I said, "Why should I think that? Everything else seems to have come straight from heaven."

  The response was vaguely troubled. "What?"

  I said. "Private joke. Who are you?"

  "This is Jim Sloane."

  "Uh huh."

  “Oh I...I assumed you knew. My law firm represents Valentinius de Medici. I have the papers all ready for you. So could you..?”

  I said, "Give me five minutes," and hung up.

  But five hours or five days would not have been sufficient to prepare me for that meeting with Jim Sloane.

  He's a guy of roughly my own age. Handsome, well set up, athletic—has a quick smile that starts fading before it's firmly in place, bright eyes, sharp mind. He started out with me though in that lawyerly manner—sizing me, psyching me, categorizing me. Which is okay. Lawyers are always engaged in some kind of mind game; it's the nature of their business. I was exposed to some international law studies, courtesy of Uncle Sam, and learned enough to respect the game if not always the players, and enough to know when I am being lawyered.

  Sloane had his briefcase open on the library table. Several documents were spread out before him. We shook hands and sat down with the table between us.

  "Could I see some identification?" he requested.

  I said, "Trade you," and slid my wallet toward him.

  He showed me one of those flash smiles as he produced a slim wallet and handed it across to me. I glanced at his driver's license and a state bar ID, then slid it back. He took a bit longer with mine, jotting some sort of legal record in a small notebook, taking verbal note of my Naval Reserve status as he studied the card.

  "Subject to recall to active duty?" he wondered aloud.

  I shrugged. "Only if the sky is falling, I hope."

  The lawyer chuckled, returned my wallet and immediately passed over one of the documents; told me, "This is your power of attorney. I suggest you keep it in a secure place. Safe deposit box, preferably. I have a copy, so—"

  I could have checked it out for myself but I was too busy checking the guy out, besides which I wanted to keep his thoughts channeled along a specific path, so I ignored the document and asked him, "What power of attorney is that?"

  He shot me a surprised look as he replied, "I assumed you knew about it. He has given you full power of attorney."

  "Who has?"

  "Valentinius, of course."

  "Why?"

  "Why?" He was getting flustered. "So that you may act in his place during his absence."

  "Where'd he go?"

  "You are Ashton Ford." It was a question, expressed as a declaration. His eyes strayed briefly to the jottings in his legal notebook. I was picking up his mental waveleng
th. Confusion was there, also an occasional flare of impatience and maybe hostility. Even some fear perhaps. "Surely you know why you are here."

  I smiled, told him, "I know nothing about why I am here, even less about your client."

  "So why are you here?"

  "I was invited."

  "But you don't know why?"

  "That's right. I don't know why. And I do not know any Valentinius de Medici."

  Sloane's synapses were flaring like crazy now. And he was losing the lawyerly demeanor. "Well this is insane, purely insane. Why would the man empower you to act in his behalf if...if..."

  I replied, "My thought exactly. Why doesn't he empower you? How long have you represented him?"

  He said, "Our firm does have limited powers of attorney. For many years. But...have you never met Mr. de Medici?"

  "Not sure," I said. "Have you?"

  "This is purely insane," Sloane declared.

  "Possibly," I agreed. "How many years?"

  "What?"

  "You said you'd been his attorney for many years. How many is that?"

  "He's our senior client."

  "Meaning?"

  "It's a family firm. My grandfather established it. We have always had the Medici account. May have been our very first client, very possibly our only client in the beginning."

  "But you've never met the client."

  "That's right," the lawyer replied with obvious discomfort. "But that's not so unusual. I mean my father always directly handled the business, and his father before him. I've only just recently become involved in..."

  I quietly inquired, "Did your father die?"

  Sloane replied, "He has become incapacitated."

  "Ill?"

  "Ill, yes—institutionalized. I am now the senior partner."