Life to Life: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective

LIFE TO LIFE

Ashton Ford, Psychic
Detective

Don Pendleton

Creator of

The Executioner: Mack Bolan
Series

and

Joe Copp Private Eye
Thriller Series

Books by Don
Pendleton

Fiction

The Executioner, Mack Bolan
Series

The Joe Copp Mystery
Series
:
Copp for
Hire; Copp on Fire; Copp in Deep; Copp in the Dark; Copp on Ice;
Copp in Shock.

The Ashton Ford Mystery
Series: Ashes to Ashes; Eye to Eye; Mind to Mind; Life to Life;
Heart to Heart; Time to Time.

Fiction written with Linda
Pendleton

Roulette

Comics by Don and Linda
Pendleton

The Executioner, War Against
the Mafia

Nonfiction Books by Don
Pendleton

A Search for Meaning From
the Surface of a Small Planet

Nonfiction Books by Don and
Linda Pendleton

To Dance With
Angels

Whispers From the
Soul

The Metaphysics of the
Novel

The Cosmic Breath:
Metaphysical Essays of Don Pendleton

LIFE TO LIFE: Ashton Ford,
Psychic Detective

Copyright © 1987 by Don
Pendleton, All rights reserved. Published with permission of Linda
Pendleton.

Cover design by Linda
Pendleton and Judy Bullard

This is a work of fiction.
Any similarity to actual persons, groups, organizations, or events
is not intended and is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic,
electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the
written permission of Linda Pendleton.

Smashwords Edition, License
Notes:

This edition is licensed for
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the hard work and rights of the author.

Dedicated to my Muses,

whose names shall not be mentioned here;

and to all the blithe spirits

who read and respond.

dp

I hold that when a person dies

His soul returns again to earth;

Arrayed in some new
flesh-disguise,

Another mother gives him birth.

With sturdier limbs and brighter brain

The old soul takes the road again.

Such is my own belief and
trust;

This hand, this hand that
holds the pen

Has many a hundred times been dust

And turned, as dust to dust again;

These eyes of mine have blinked and shone

In Thebes, in Troy, in
Babylon....

—John Masefield
(from
A Creed
)

Author’s Note

To My Readers:

Ashton Ford will come as
something of a surprise to those of you who have been with me over
the years. This is not the same type of fiction that established my
success as a novelist; Ford is not a gutbuster and he is not trying
to save the world from anything but its own confusion. There are no
grenade launchers or rockets to solve his problems and he is more
of a lover than a fighter.

Some have wondered why I
was silent for so many years; some will now also wonder why I have
returned in such altered form. The truth is that I had said all I
had to say about that other aspect of life. I have grown, I hope,
both as a person and as a writer, and I needed another vehicle to
carry the creative quest. Ashton Ford is that vehicle. Through this
character I attempt to understand more fully and to give better
meaning to my perceptions of what is going on here on Planet Earth,
and the greatest mystery of all the mysteries: the
why
of existence
itself.

Through Ford I use
everything I can reach in the total knowledge of mankind to
elaborate this mystery and to arm my characters for the quest. I
try to entertain myself with their adventures, hoping that what
entertains me may also entertain others—so these books, like life
itself, are not all grim purpose and trembling truths. They are fun
to write; for some they will be fun to read. To each of those I
dedicate the work.

~Don Pendleton

Life to Life

Chapter One: Headlong

"Blood!" she cried. "I see blood all over
your face!"

I reacted as any normal person would. I
raised both hands to my face to check that out. Felt okay to me.
Before I could respond verbally, though, Reverend Annie moved on to
another seeker of the light and told him, "You will buy the house
but you shall never live in it. I see much sorrow there. Sell it
quickly. Quickly!"

The guy blinked at her and self-consciously
muttered, "Okay. Thank you."

But this gal did not hang
around waiting for responses. She'd already gone on to a tense
youth of about twenty who was seated several rows back and was
approaching him with both hands extended. She wrestled his face
into her ample bosom and held him like a mother soothing a beloved
child while quietly admonishing him for the "darkness" in his
"aura" and calling down "blessings of the light" to assist him "in
this dark hour of decision."

It was convincing enough. Not what I would
call a "wow show" but the dynamism alone was worth an eight on a
scale of ten. She was pretty, she was direct, and she seemed
entirely sincere. Of course, they all seem sincere. But Reverend
Annie had some subtle essence beyond sincerity that made her
something special—which was why I was there.

She'd appeared from obscurity less than a
year earlier, rented a storefront in a small shopping center and
proclaimed the existence of The Church of the Light. Now she had
the entire shopping center and was looking for larger quarters, was
conducting fifteen "services" weekly, did a daily radio show, and
was gaining prominence in the Hollywood community as the latest
trendy advisor to the stars. Thirty-ish and glamorously beautiful
when she wanted to be, she was a natural for that scene and seemed
to have a good long run ahead of her.

So I'd come out to Van Nuys just to check
her out. No fee. Just curiosity. I'd seen them coming and going,
these New-Age reverends—only the best came and stayed. Not
necessarily the best by virtue of sincerity and validity but the
best by virtue of showmanship and charisma. About ninety percent
were flatly on the con. The other ten percent were more or less
equally divided into those with a genuine interest in helping the
human situation but no wherewithal to do so and those with plenty
of wherewithal but no interest in anything beyond themselves.

Not that I am a cynic or
that I feel particularly qualified to judge these or any other
people, to each his own has always been my motto, and that goes
double for anything involving religion. It's just that I do have a
certain sensitivity for such things and I tend to trust that
sensitivity when it tells me I am being conned.

I had not felt conned by Reverend Annie.
Even though the "love offering" at the door was twenty bucks and
even though her sermon amounted to a mere five minutes of
mix-and-match aphorisms from a dozen other religions. There was
nothing harmful or hurtful there. There was nothing sinister about
the two-minute meditation that followed the sermon, even though it
seemed more a plea for money and generosity than anything else. And
I was certainly entertained when she swept into the audience and
began laying on the hands in her one-on-one ministry even if she
did see blood all over my face. You had to be affected also by her
looks, be you male or female. Even in vestments she was a wow.

She was a genuine psychic. I had to give her
that. She was simply going with the flow, letting it happen, moving
from person to person and speaking in total spontaneity. There was
no other way to do what she was doing. But I can do that too. Many
people can do that, if they'd just let it flow. You have to trust
the flow, try not to audit, just run with it—sometimes some amazing
shit plops out. Maybe half of what you get is pure static; you give
it utterance anyway and just go on. If you hit only one out of four
that's enough to build a pile of credibility when people begin
comparing notes. Add to that one in four the other ones in four
who want so hard to believe that they unconsciously manufacture a
hit—and, well, yeah, a one-in-four psychic can quickly become the
talk of the town.

I figured that was the
case for Annie. The blood on my face sounded like static. How much
of the other stuff were direct hits...well, I purposely mentioned
the two that could be validated on the spot, and they were both
right on.

The guy with the house of sorrow was seated
at my elbow. He seemed a bit dazed by the experience, told me that
indeed he had made an offer on a house in Tarzana that very day.
He had mixed feelings about the deal himself, but his wife was
crazy about the house so he crossed his fingers and made the offer.
Now he didn't know what the hell to do.

The kid with the darkened aura checked out
the hardest way. At the conclusion of the service, Reverend Annie
had gone to the door to personally greet everyone as they
departed. These were small interpersonal gatherings of about fifty
people per service—the only way Annie would work but she did it,
remember, fifteen times each week. It was a slow dispersal because
it seemed that everyone wanted a personal consultation with the
beloved Annie. I wanted one too but it had nothing to do with the
phantasmal blood on my face. And I wanted more than a minute of her
time. So I'd taken a position beside her, and I guess I'd shaken as
many hands as she had when the darkened aura began his charge
through the patient lineup.

I did not see the gun, not
right away, but I did see the dark intent and my reaction was pure
instinct. I shoved Annie through the open doorway and threw a
crack-back block on the kid in the same movement.
w
e
went to the floor together and then I saw the gun. It was a
big ugly .357 Magnum and the kid had the barrel in his teeth when
we hit the floor. I was close enough to kiss him when he pulled the
trigger, close enough to ring my bell when the thing
exploded.

Of course I thought I was
shot. I was lying stunned in the gore with hysteria breaking out
all around me. Then Reverend Annie had me by each hand, tugging me
away from that, coolly coaxing me to my feet, guiding me toward a
chair. I caught my reflection in a window. And, yeah, there was
blood all over my face. So. What the hell. Three out of three ain't
bad.