Love Story: In The Web of Life (17 page)

The next morning I drove toward Steve Manteo's
place, passing Courthouse Square, going beyond the old church, and
admiring the few scattered homes that gave way to forest. I briefly
stopped by the Sodastroms' house to tell them of the trial
schedule.

About fifteen miles out of town on the winding
mountain road, I came to the Rawhide Cafe, the place where the
Sheriff's search and rescue operation had set up headquarters when
they searched for Lucy. It looked like an old fashioned roadside
diner with a counter and a row of booths along one side. Next to it
was a two-pump gas station and a small office that had signs in the
window that said 'Fishing Gear' and, in neon, 'Beer and
Wine.'

A few miles beyond the Rawhide Cafe my GPS
navigator directed me onto an unmarked, dirt road, which led up the
mountain for a mile or so, and then onto another unmarked dirt road
that led me to Steve's, where the navigator announced, 'You have
arrived.'

Steve's house was a log cabin, the kind made
from brown-stained factory logs, perched on a hillside, with
spacious deck on the front, a high peaked roof, with a satellite
dish mounted on the peak.

Steve appeared at the deck rail and said, "Come
on up."

I walked up the two flights of stairs and was
warmly greeted by Steve, a six-foot-two bear of a man who looked
like an NFL lineman, with a well–tanned face, sparkling blue eyes,
and black hair in need of cutting. He introduced me to Georgia, a
beautiful Latina –looking woman, with shiny long straight hair,
large eyes and mouth, and thick eyebrows. She came out onto the
deck with a tray of iced tea.

"Beautiful view," I said, taking a glass of
tea. "You can see forever!"

"Physically, it is about fifteen miles to that
ridge. Psychically, as you know, I can see a lot
farther."

The three of us sat down at a picnic table on
the deck and talked about Rocky Butte, the people there, and the
aesthetic virtues of living away from civilization. I told him
about my mobile home in the desert.

Georgia commented as she looked at me, or
rather looked through me, "I pick up something about a
dark-complexioned lady with reddish hair and piercing light–blue
eyes," She paused, "and an exuberant attitude toward life
associated with this desert place."

"Georgia, don't scare the man," exclaimed
Steve.

"No, I am getting to be quite at home with ESP
and people who have it!" I smiled at Georgia. "Her name is Tina,
and she spends time with me. She seems to be kind of psychic.
Sometimes, she can tell me what I am visualizing." I felt some
pleasant thoughts about Tina.

I paused and then added, "Before this case, I
never thought much about ESP. I do know I can read juries pretty
well and can tell when I am going in the wrong direction in an
argument, or when something is upsetting or confusing. I always
called it intuition. I can also sort of feel it when someone is
lying to me."

Steve added, "Georgia is much better than I at
reading other people's mental pictures. I can hardly do it at all.
But, she doesn't do the things I do. We all have our own special
abilities."

Georgia looked through me for a second, then
changed her focus to me, smiled a knowing smile, and then said, "I
kind of thought so. I'll fix lunch while you guys talk. We insist
on you staying for dinner and spending the night in our guest cabin
up the hill. It isn't much, but the solitude is great."

"Thank you," I replied. "I'd be delighted to
stay for dinner, but I have to get back to Sacramento tonight to
catch an early plane tomorrow. Since the judge only gave me a month
to prepare for the trial, I need to get back to the
office."

Steve smiled and began to focus, "Most people
have a surprising amount of ESP ability. They often don't recognize
or label it. When they first started the remote sensing experiments
at SRI, way back in 1972, they used people with recognized psychic
powers, people who had been tested in laboratories, and well known
professionally as quote, psychics. One day, they tried a remote
sensing experiment using one of the secretaries associated with the
project, somebody who had never participated in any sort of psychic
activity. She could do it quite well. So, they developed a training
program to use ordinary people who demonstrated psychic ability in
tests.

"I was recruited because I did well in some
psychic experiments we did in our Psych I class at
Stanford."

"Yes" I said, "I read your book."

"Good!" Said Steve, "I won't have to tell those
stories again. Where would you like to start?"

"Tell me about the basic process of remote
sensing."

Steve thought for while and then said, "I like
to call what I do as psychic sensing because sometimes I can sense
smells, noise, cold, and all the physical sensations, as well a
visual images. I can also sense the nature of a person, such as
very evil, and emotional state, such as sad, grieving, happy, or
angry.

"I'll talk about two categories. The first is
'remote sensing' of unsolicited information that simply comes to
me.

"Many people, at sometime in their lives,
experience unsolicited psychic events. Mothers will sense their
child is in trouble and rescue them from some perilous situation; a
person will, at the last moment, decide not to board an airplane
that subsequently crashes; drivers will decide to take a different
route to work on a day when, it turns out; there was a horrific
auto accident on the normal route. There are myriads of such
stories. Although they are real to the people who experience them,
science ignores the phenomena because they don't fit any scientific
theory."

"The second process, which I spent years doing
for US classified programs, is where they give you a target or
objective that has nothing to do with you, and you go into an
extended deep meditation, and sense basic things about a target.
For instance, they might want to know what is going on in a
building photographed by a spy satellite. They would show me the
photograph or give me the geographic coordinates of the building.
Then, I would start with sensing what someone in the building might
observe at a sensory level: noises, colors, shapes, nature of
objects, maybe something big like a ship hull; level of activity,
such as busy or quiet. Over time, often a period of an hour, I
would continue to sense the nature of activity, people building
something, machines manufacturing material, or objects, etc.
Sometimes, but not always, I would eventually get an image of the
place. While I was in the deep meditation, I would be dictating my
observations to an assistant who would guide me in gaining more
detail."

"So this wasn't a flash process, like the
unsolicited events?" I asked.

"Sometimes yes and sometimes no. Most of the
time, it wasn't a flash process. My personal opinion, not verified
by any studies, is that when I am remote sensing, I am getting the
information from a person who is physically at the target. If that
person is a "good sender," very involved in the activity, I get a
lot of information. If the only person there is a half-asleep
guard, I don't get a lot."

"Can you give me some examples?" I
asked.

"Not very many. The program gave the customer
tons of data, much of which was verified by other sources such as
satellites or on–the–ground spies. There were many formal
evaluations of the program, which led to the program being funded
again year-after-year. All I can say is that it was very
successful, and the President himself, actually two Presidents, saw
data from the program. I don't think examples in those dark files
will ever see the light of day. I think the longevity of the
program is the greatest testament to the success of the
program."

I interjected, "I saw the picture of the
President awarding you a medal in the book, and read the citation
that went with the medal. That award speaks of success."

"I wish I could tell you the story that led to
being considered for that medal," said Steve with a wide grin. "It
was a triumphant event.

"If you want examples of my abilities, I can
provide you TV footage. I used to do kind of a circus act for TV
shows to demonstrate remote sensing. I might have a dozen or so
clips.

"Most of them are of me describing photographs
in sealed envelopes. Somebody associated with the show, who did not
know me, collected five eight-by-ten pictures of places and sealed
them in unlabeled envelopes. On the show, they pick one of the
envelopes and I perceive what is inside. I have been one hundred
percent in accurately describing contents of the scene in the
photos.

"In two of the demonstrations, they sent
someone to some location in town and I described what they could
see in the environs. In one of those, they had a remote TV crew at
the location. After I made my description, they showed what was
there. All these are on a DVD, so I can easily make you a
copy.

"In the past decade, I have been remote sensing
as consultant for a variety of individuals, companies, and
occasionally some law enforcement agencies. I require a
confidentiality agreement with my customers that have very strict
nondisclosure provisions. I am never to disclose either the
customers or their interests; they are never to disclose the source
of information I give them, or that I have been in their employ.
The agreement avoids potentially embarrassing situations and
protects my privacy. I have produced some spectacular results for
some people, but I can't disclose those either."

I asked, "Do you need a disclosure agreement
from me?"

"Definitely, no! I consider this a public
service, giving the Sheriff his comeuppance. I have to warn you
that I will have to hide behind my disclosure agreements if any
questions are asked about my confidential or classified
activities."

"Thanks, I'll respect that, and object if
opposing council makes any questions of that sort." I replied. "I
have to decide what to give to a jury of lay people. I can't give
them stuff that is too spooky or stuff that is too technical. I'll
have to sort that out in the next few days. Tell me about the night
Lucy was lost."

Steve's mood grew very somber. I could tell
this was a painful subject for him. He began:

"I was driving back from Sacramento, it was
dark, probably 8:30 or so, when I came to the Rawhide Cafe, down
the road from here. There was a light snow falling."

"I saw the cafe on the way up here," I
interjected.

Steve continued, "It was all lit up by
headlights of patrol cars. Red lights flashing everywhere. I parked
and went to the Cafe to see what was going on. There was the
sheriff's command center van in the parking lot with a generator
running. I could hear several sheriffs’ radio channels. Paramedics
stood outside an ambulance. Many other people were standing around:
one person with tracking dogs, bloodhounds, I believe, was there;
people in orange vests and hard hats, people with backpacks, rope,
and rescue equipment, deputy sheriffs in uniform, and a local a
Native American who lives near here. The sheriff and several other
people were inside the brightly lit cafe, standing in front of a
map hung on the wall, arguing. It was a very busy place.

"I walked up to the deputy guarding the door
and said I needed to speak with the sheriff about helping. I told
him I was a psychic and might be of use. He blew me off, saying
that the sheriff was too busy to talk to the public."

"I went back to my car and got a copy of my
book–the one that you read–and what I call my credentials folder
that has the picture of the President and me, letters of
commendation from high level military and government people, on
letterheads with government seals, several news clippings about me
helping find lost people, and letters of commendation for working
with the police in solving missing persons cases. I showed the book
and folder to the deputy who examined it for a while and then led
me in to see Sheriff Bogend, a fat bastard with a scowl on his
puffy face. His khaki uniform seemed to be straining at the buttons
to hold his bulk, and his tie was pulled down in disorder. He was
sweating despite the cold and seemed really stressed out. I showed
him my book and credentials folder. He thumbed through them without
really looking and handed them back to me. He did not speak with
me, he looked only at the deputy and scolded, 'Damn it, why are you
wasting my time with some fortuneteller. We have a lost child to
find. Get him out of here!'

"The deputy, visibly smarting from being
chastised, showed me to the door and said mechanically, 'Thank you,
we do not need your services.'

"As I started to walk away, I saw a group of
men wearing orange search and rescue jackets passing a photo
around. I asked whether I could see it, and they passed it to me.
It was the school 'picture day' photo of Lucy, a large copy that
her parents had bought along with the small shots Lucy traded with
other students. As I looked at the photo, I immediately felt a
psychic connection with Lucy. I walked to my car and got in. As I
sat, it came to me exactly where Lucy was. I could tell she had
found shelter under some logs, or in a cave or something and was
crying and very cold. It was vivid.