Heart to Heart: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (3 page)

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
conception, 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
wavelength. 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."

"You said a family firm. Is it
still...?"

"Yes. We—wait a minute—what the hell is
this? I get the feeling I'm under examination. Let's get this—"

I had been reading the
power of attorney. I waved it at the young lawyer and told him,
"
I
am now the
client you know. I can fire your ass, with all the force and power
of de Medici himself. So let's keep this discussion on the proper
level."

Sloane glared at me for a moment, eyes
dancing and mind whirling—then I began getting nicely harmonized
thought patterns as he relaxed into his chair with a soft laugh.
"You know, you're right."

"Who witnessed this document?"

"Our senior legal secretary. That's her
notary stamp."

"So she knows de Medici?"

"Well...not exactly. But he presented proper
identification. And his signature checked out."

"Who prepared the document?"

"She did. De Medici dictated it by
telephone, came in later to execute it. Meanwhile I had gone over
it, found it okay and—"