Mind to Mind: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (12 page)

Anyway...I was buried in
Jane's graphics. I don't know how long. Not long enough, anyway, to
have reached any startling new conclusions. I was seated
comfortably in an overstuffed chair, holding the long scroll-like
paper in both hands, mentally immersed in the subject, when the
paper began to vibrate, as from a gust of wind, then spontaneously
separated into two pieces along a precise line as though cut by
invisible shears.

My small hairs erected as
I gaped at the phenomenon, then I became aware of Jane's presence.
I did not see her at once, only felt her close presence. I spoke
her name softly, and instantly she began to materialize beside the
bed. It was a slow process—well, relatively speaking; she did not
just suddenly appear but began forming as a sort of fog without
distinguishable features, then gradually resolved, like an image in
a telescope or binoculars as you focus it in. I would say it was
about a twenty-second process—then there she was, recognizable in
every detail although still somewhat amorphous; that is, not solid
but gaseous.

She was looking at me, arms sort of
outstretched like in an imploring gesture—I don't know, just a few
seconds of that—then she turned about and lay down inside of
Alison.

So okay. We were
somewhere
now.

I just wished it was elsewhere.

Chapter Sixteen:
Two-gether

It was another of those purely reactive
processes. I was up and moving across the room before the intellect
really kicked into the situation. I dashed into the bathroom and
turned on the cold water in the shower full-force, then went in and
scooped Alison's petite body off the bed. I refer to her in that
objective manner because I did not know for sure who I had in my
arms there; Alison's body, sure, but who was really there?

The eyes were deviated
leftward. A soft moan escaped moistly parted lips as she snuggled
to my chest and clutched me tightly about the shoulders. But then
she stiffened as I lurched into the bathroom with her, and she
began struggling in protest when she became aware of what I was
trying to do. I was trying to get her under that cold spray of the
shower, and she was fighting like the devil, pardon the
expression, to keep us out of there, arms and legs flailing
stiffly to block the doorway.

She was articulating like
hell, too—grunts and groans and a string of expletives—Alison's
voice, sure, but peculiarly tinged with Jane's
vocabulary.

It was about a ten-second
standoff before I managed to tuck her in and carry her through. The
physical shock of the cold spray took my breath and hers too. She
gasped, "Oh, no! Please wait!"—and that was the end of
that
battle. But then I
immediately had another on my hands as Jane departed and Alison
surfaced, sputtering and gasping in shock and outrage.

“
What
are you
doing
!”' she cried. "Ashton, for God's sake!"

I quickly mixed in some warm water and set
her on her feet. I guess she could tell by the look on my face that
I was not playing games with her.

"You okay?" I asked soberly, shivering with
more than the recent cold shock.

She was frowning and
rubbing an arm. Jane had not been exactly respectful of that flesh,
flinging it about recklessly during the battle. "It's not the
nicest way to wake up," she chattered. "What'd you do to my arm?
God... my leg too. What... r

I turned off the water, began toweling her
dry, and told her, "Jane was here."

She said, "Oh, God!" with
a despairing little wail in the voice that also told me she'd
already guessed it.

That incident put an end
to the brief respite at Sportsman's Lodge. We got dressed—me
without shorts, since they'd gotten soaked in the shower—and got
out of there. Out of the room, that is. Alison was jittery, wanted
to talk, but not in there. So we strolled the water gardens and
soaked up some physical atmosphere while trying to collect the
minds. Night had fallen. Which, for this time of year and with
daylight savings time, meant that it was past nine o'clock. That
surprised me; I had to glance at my watch to confirm the senses on
that score.

Also I was experiencing
another of those vague disorientation effects. Senses were
heightened or something. No color bursts at the back of the brain,
but the outside world was colored a bit more vividly, even in the
muted artificial fighting of the gardens. Spatial sensing was
somewhat out of whack, too, depth perception affected. I nearly
stepped off into a duck pond; would have done so but Alison
intervened. Just wanted to look at a duck, not join him.

She asked me, "Are you...feeling all
right?"

I assured her that I was
fine. We sat on a bench. I lit a cigarette, crumpled the empty
pack, tossed it basketball fashion toward a trash receptacle,
missed by a yard. I was never much at basketball, but never that
bad. I told Alison jokingly, "Okay, so I'm a bit scrambled in the
cerebral reflexes. Jane seems to do that to me. It'll be okay in a
minute."

The clinician in her took
charge, decided to check my proprioceptors. Those are specialized
receptor nerves that inform the brain as to the body's mechanical
status—what's happening where and why. She took my cigarette and
ordered me to close my eyes and slowly bring together the tips of
my index fingers. I failed that one four times in four tries. Then
she stood me up, feet slightly spread, and gave me a gentle
sideways push at the shoulder. That set me to wobbling like a top
winding down, and I couldn't stop it until she steadied me
again.

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
whore
house, 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.