Mind to Mind Read online

  Alison said, softly, "Hmmmm."

  I sat down, took my cigarette back, told her, "I'll be okay in a minute."

  She asked, "How long has this been going on?"

  "It has not been 'going on,' Alison," I said with some irritation. "I experienced it briefly this morning and a couple times since. It's connected with Jane somehow. It passes."

  She said, "Hmmmm."

  I took a long pull at the cigarette, said, still a bit defensively, "It's the cerebellum, isn't it?"

  "Could be, yes," she replied—a bit worried, a bit clinical.

  I felt suddenly better, had the world in better focus. I handed her the cigarette, closed my eyes, and passed the fingertip test three times in quick succession. "See?" I said smugly.

  Alison would not give the cigarette back, kept it for herself, said, "You are driving me crazy, Ashton."

  We resumed our stroll. I steered her toward the lounge, intent on finding some more cigarettes. I told her, "Welcome to the club. It's a crazy world sometimes, kiddo. How could she be scrambling my cerebral reflexes?"

  "Doesn't sound like reflexes," the clinician replied thoughtfully. "I'd be more inclined to put it in the control group."

  I said, "Part of it is visual. The world looks just a bit different."

  "How much of a bit? Distorted?"

  "Not distorted, exactly. Brighter. More colorful. Maybe..."

  "Maybe what?"

  "I think"—I was trying to think—"something in the delineations, boundaries of things. Yeah. A sort of fuzziness at the boundaries."

  She asked me, "How about spatial relationships?"

  "There, too, yeah," I replied. "More so in the perception of depth, though, than in lateral separation. Sort of a telescoping effect.

  She said, "Hmmmm."

  I said, "One more of those, kid, and you've had it."

  Apparently she had a leap of mind—I doubt that I really scared her off that easy—because she came right back with: "You know, it's very much like dissociation. I've never experienced that myself, but I've talked to plenty of people who did."

  I said, "I believe we've changed the subject."

  "No, I was thinking—I mean, the different effects, you and me—Jane, you know, invading us. She's invading you, too, but you're holding her off somewhere—I mean, somewhere outside the—she's edging in on you when you're experiencing these perceptual and motor problems."

  I told her about the background "color bursts."

  She said, "That's like phantom excitation—neural firings when there are no stimuli present—or maybe... Something like direct stimulation with electrodes. This is scary, isn't it? A dissociated personality has different tastes, different responses, often a direct alter-ego effect, as though it isn't even using the same brain or the same parts of the brain. Damn! This is... But see, I get a whole different—my response to Jane is almost a classic example of split personality. I don't know about her. I'm not aware of it when she's in charge, and I have no awareness of her afterward. I fell asleep with you massaging me on the bed and woke up in a cold shower. See, that's all I have of that. My God! If I'd been alone, she could have gotten me up and moving around—God—she could've taken me anywhere, recruited me in a whorehouse, even! Ashton, these cases are—it's the same damn thing! I could've woke up in any situation!"

  I said quietly, "Simmer down. Nothing has happened yet. Just have to see that nothing does happen."

  We had arrived at the entrance to the lounge. I opened the door and steered her inside, told her, "I need cigarettes."

  But she'd worked herself into a bit of a tizzy. She sank into a chair, said, "Go ahead, I'll wait here."

  I could see the cigarette machine in a little hallway at the far side of the lobby. I gave her a quick visual examination, decided she was okay, went on alone to get the cigarettes. Had to get change from the cashier for the restaurant that used the same lobby, got my cigarettes, returned to find Alison standing at an easel-sign advertising the current entertainers appearing in the lounge.

  I lit a cigarette and asked her, "Okay now?"

  She showed me a brave smile, replied, "Fine, thanks. Can we go inside for a drink? I have friends here."

  I said, "Really?"

  She said, "Yes. Real dynamite duo. Haven't seen them since—they were at the Gardenia in Hollywood a few months ago."

  The sign depicted a handsome young couple billed as Michael and jennifer. . . twogether.

  I said, "Friends, eh," as we walked toward the lounge.

  "Well...they're the kind you feel like you know even when you don't. I don't know them socially. But..." She smiled winsomely. "What d'you think a single girl does with her evenings when there's no man in the picture?"

  I said, "I'd rather wonder why no man is in the picture."

  She laughed softly and did not respond to that. I was just glad to see her bouncing back, leveling off emotionally.

  The "dynamic duo" were duo-ing a fantastically harmonic version of "Memory" from the musical Cats as we entered. I was impressed. I'd heard various arrangements of that song by some of the big guns of the recording business, some good and some not so good, but none quite so pleasing as this. L.A. is like that; there's a lot of talent in town, and sometimes you can get musical concert quality for the price of a beer. These kids were good, damned good. The guy was about six feet, wore a tux, had dark hair and sparkling eyes, handsome, great voice, and good body language. The girl was a Doris Day type, blond and beautiful in a very wholesome way yet sexy as hell, too, in a sheath gown split to mid-thigh, great eye movements, soft soprano voice with a lot of dramatic involvement.

  Have I told you that my secret ambition is to direct a symphony orchestra?—any symphony orchestra—but I'd rather start with the Boston Pops. I guess music is the second love of my life. I am a very talented listener. That's about the limit of my musical talent. But if I could get my hands on a baton...

  These kids had it all. Took us a minute to find an empty table, far in the rear of the room, and by this time "Memory" had run its course. But they spotted Alison, even at that distance in the subdued lighting. Jennifer waved and sent a greeting via the PA system for all to hear: "There's Alison! How nice!"

  Michael made a big thing of shielding his eyes against the glare of the spotlight and called over, also via PA: "Venison's nice but Alison's spicier."

  The room laughed. We laughed. Alison waved back. We sat down. The band struck a downbeat. Twogether launched into a Steve and Edie up-tempo styling of "This Could Be the Start of Something Big." The waitress arrived and took our order. Alison's full attention returned to the bandstand. Her eyes were sparkling and she was moving subtly to the music. That was good. I was feeling better about her.

  The drinks came and I paid for them. Alison tasted hers, smiled at me, again became absorbed in the entertainment.

  I was being entertained, too, but my eyes sort of wandered. They do that. Force of habit, I guess. I'm an inveterate people-watcher. This time I wandered into a bit more than credulity can stand. This guy came in, stood at the bar. He was about fifty feet away from my table, but he was in good light and I saw him clearly. This guy was my old pal Jim Cochran. The bartender seemed to know him, served up a draft beer without being asked, and there was a brief vocal exchange.

  A woman appeared in the darkened area at the entrance. I could not see her well enough to definitely ID, but there was something recognizable there. She wore skintight designer jeans and one of those blouses with the big piled collars, the kind that form a ruff at the throat then sag open to the breastbone. Extremely spiked heels. She seemed a bit agitated, anxious.

  Cochran left his untouched beer at the bar and went to join her. They conversed briefly in the doorway, then departed together.

  I followed, without a word to Alison, and I doubt that she was even aware of my movement. Cochran and the woman were rounding the corner into the lobby as I came out of the lounge. I caught just a glimpse, and he was shielding against my po
int of view, so again I could not ID the woman.

  They were hurrying across the parking lot when I reached the main entryway. I had to stand back and let a large group file in through the tandem doors. By the time I got outside, the pair were entering a car that was parked about fifty yards away. There was a light standard there, and I could see pretty well, well enough to stand up the hairs at the back of my neck.

  They drove away, moving uprange and out at the top of the lot.

  There was no reason that I could think of why Jim Cochran should not drop into Sportsman's from time to time for a beer. It was not that far from the home turf; Hollywood lay just over the hill. That did not stand my hairs up.

  A cop, on duty or off, sometimes has occasion to meet a lady at a bar. Even a married cop, when the lady is not his wife—and, after all, this is the real world. So that would not stand my hairs up.

  But the lady he met was a dead ringer for his adopted daughter. That... yeah, that stood my hairs up.

  Chapter Seventeen: Special Effects

  The band was on break, and Twogether was encamped at my table when I returned to the lounge. Jennifer was even lovelier close up, younger than the stage lighting made her, very real and warm, greatly expressive eyes that fairly crackled as we shook hands. Michael was warm and friendly, too, laid-back with an easy laugh, a powerful- looking guy but with gentle eyes. He moved on to continue the break-time ritual of mingling, gripped my shoulder in a friendly gesture as he departed.

  I was watching the interaction between the women, liked what I saw, decided I would not mention the latest craziness to Alison. They excused themselves to the ladies' room. I wandered down to the bandstand to check out the instruments, just a couple of keyboards and drums, but I have a fascination for the new electronic keyboards and the sounds that can be produced with those things.

  Michael came up to check me out, I guess, while I was thus engrossed. He showed me a nice smile, though, and asked, "Are you a player?"

  I admitted that I was just a fancier. We talked briefly about the instruments, then he told me, "You're with a nice lady. Just, uh, hope you know that."

  I assured him that I did and asked him, "Known her long?"

  He smiled and replied, "Just in the clubs. You develop a following, you know." He jerked his head toward the crowd. "Most the people in here go with us wherever we go. It's nice. Every night is like a party at home with friends."

  I tried a shot. "Jim Cochran too?"

  "Who?"

  I said, "A cop I know. Saw him at the bar a few minutes ago.

  He said, "Don't recognize the name," He turned on a keyboard, said, "Let me show you some of the effects on this little honey."

  Ever notice how talent seems to flow in clumps? I could tell just by the way this guy's hands found the keyboard that they knew what to do once they got there. He was more than a singer. Effects, yeah, that's what he was demonstrating, but I'd give a few ounces of left-brain tissue to be able to elicit those sounds from that instrument.

  I told him so. He laughed, turned it off, said, "It's the dirtiest business in town."

  I knew that. And I was thinking how tough it must be for people like this to stand up there night after night beating their brains out for a thousand or so a week in smoke-filled rooms while lesser talents frolicked in an avalanche of riches. Every time I turned on my radio I was reminded of the success of mediocrity, and that is giving a kind name to much of what you hear under the guise of music these days.

  Jennifer returned to the stage, dazzled me with a smile, said to Michael, "Get the guys, honey. Let's spread some sunshine here."

  Michael ambled away to collect the musicians. Jennifer busied herself at a stack of music, I guess setting up the numbers for the next set. I was impressed by the professional poise of this young lady. As an impulse I asked her, "How long have you been at this?"

  "We start at nine," she replied absently, absorbed in her task.

  I said, "I meant, in show business."

  She raised luminous eyes to give me a measuring look, smiled, replied, "I started studying at fourteen."

  I asked her, "How long have you known Alison?"

  “Isn't she a dear,” she said. "With some people it seems you've always known them. How 'bout you?"

  "About a day, I guess. Do you know Jim Cochran?"

  “The policeman? We see him now and then.”

  "With Alison?"

  She gave me a rather stiff look, replied, "Shouldn't you be asking Alison about that?"

  I shrugged and said, "I could ask Jim, for that matter. We're old friends. I just..."

  "He was just here," she said, primary attention once again on the stack of music.

  I said, "Yes, I...did you happen to notice the woman who came in just behind him?"

  She put down the music, turned to me with a smile of forbearance, told me, "We see a lot from up here. But we don't usually talk about it. What is this all about?"

  I grinned. "Just trying to get your attention. You have gorgeous eyes."

  She said, "Yeah, yeah—tell it to Michael, please. Pardon me. I need to set up the music for the band."

  The guys were straggling back to the bandstand. Alison had returned to the table. I headed back by way of the bar, paused beside Cochran's untouched beer. The bartender came over, a question in the eyes. I asked him, "Didn't I see Jim Cochran here?"

  The bartender replied, "Yeah. I guess duty called." He retrieved the beer, dumped it. "Can I get you something?"

  "I already fixed," I told him. "Did you see the woman?"

  The guy showed me about one half a smile, replied, "I see lots of women. You will, too, if you just stake it out."

  I asked, "You get hookers in here?"

  He said, "We get everything in here. What's you preference?"

  I said, "About five-five, short blond hair, supertight designer jeans, spike heels."

  He said, "Yeah, we get those. But not usually this early. Just keep the eyes open."

  The bartender went on along the bar. I went on back to the table. Alison asked me, "What's going on?"

  I told her, "Thought I saw Jim Cochran."

  She said, "Really!"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, wouldn't that be a coincidence."

  "No coincidence at all," I replied. "Seems everybody in here knows him."

  She wondered, "Would this be on his beat?"

  "He's Hollywood Division. Know him socially?"

  "Me? No, I—well, we had a drink once."

  "Here?"

  "Gosh, no. I was here for a wedding reception once, years ago. That was the only time before now. What are you...? Hey, buddy, you brought me here—remember? What are you suggesting?"

  I said, "Suggesting nothing. Just wondering. I hate coincidence."

  She said, "Well, you're in for a rough life, then. There's a coincidence around every corner."

  I said, "Let's get out of here."

  "You've hardly touched your drink. Jennifer promised to do some Barbra Streisand for me."

  I said, "Only Streisand can do Streisand."

  "You won't say that after you've heard Jennifer."

  I said, "Hate to be a party pooper, but I really think we should get out of here."

  She gave me a moment of speculative attention, then pushed back her chair, waved toward the bandstand, said, "Something else happened, didn't it."

  But I did not tell her about that "something else" until we got back to our room. Had to tell her then. Because that "something else" was occupying the overstuffed chair at the patio door. It had a bullet hole between the eyes.

  Jim Cochran was dead in my room.

  Chapter Eighteen: A Reconsideration

  Along about this time you are probably starting to wonder, as I was, if someone had been playing games with me. I get as upset over that sort of thing as any normal person does. Hate to be a patsy or a pawn. And I needed to reconsider the entire march of events from that point of view, if only to dispose of it and
get on with the problem.

  The most obvious starting point in that reconsideration was the question: Is there more than one "Jane Doe?" That is, had I been dealing with two natural versions, two separate and distinct persons?

  Had the one Jane Doe died in her hospital bed and had the corpse been stolen?—for whatever convoluted reason.

  And had the other Jane Doe—not a "copy" but another whole person in her own right—been rung in on me, and for God's sake why? And how would this play to the mental phenomena?

  See, the trouble with trying to rationalize the irrational is that the rational explanation is usually the most irrational. It was easier for me to buy ghosts and hobgoblins than to try to swallow a deeply contrived conspiracy for which there is no obvious cause or goal. The cause would have to deal with a problem, the goal with the solution to that problem. What sort of problem could warrant such a contrived solution?

  I had to haul the whole thing out and look at it again. But I really could not do that in any systematic way, not at the moment, because at the moment I was primarily trying to deal with the moment itself.

  So I called in the report, then immediately tracked down Jim's superior, a Captain Valdiva, to be sure that Georgia would not get the news from a TV reporter. And I was trying to prop up Alison, who appeared to be in danger of coming totally unglued. She had seen the unpretty sight before I could shoo her out. I just pulled the door closed and we went directly to the lobby to call the cops. We had a response inside of about two minutes, I think, and then it was stunned confusion for the next two hours. I was trying to keep Alison viable during all that—and working a bit at myself, in the bargain, so I was really in no position for a quick systematic analysis of the events of the previous thirty-six hours or so.