Heart to Heart: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (24 page)

I said,
"
She
existed,
Bob.
All
of the
people existed. Still do somewhere, but, shit, don't ask me where.
That bit about Valentinius commissioning her to do a portrait
though—that sounds like dream stuff. He came for her while she was
in coma after the accident."

Alvarez said, "Stop that."

I said, "Bullshit; look at
it, man. It's what this whole thing has been about. Francesca must
have been something pretty terrific to rate that kind of attention
from Valentinius. That guy is not just an angel; he's an
arch
angel.
He—"

"Yeah, but I thought the
angels come after you're already dead. Shit, it looks to me like
he was helping her die or something; what the hell kind of wings is
that? That's interference, that's... it should be against the
rules; I could get an indictment on that guy from a grand jury.
That's incitement to suicide, it's... it's..."

I said, "Argue with an archangel if you want
to, pal, but leave me out of it."

"Well, goddammnit, you didn't do much better
for yourself. I swear you told her to go ahead and die."

God damn but that hit me hard, true though
it was. I guess Alvarez saw it on my face because he quickly tried
to take it back. "I mean how could you have known?—it's my fault
for holding out on you."

I said very wearily, "It's
nobody's fault, Bob. How could you have seen what you saw and still
want to indict someone for it?"

He was silent for a
moment, then replied, "Guess you're right. It
was
something terrific, wasn't it. I
think I want to go that way. With the ancient man showing me the
way."

I growled, "Better clean up your act then.
And don't really bank on Valentinius, even then. This was quite a
bit more than a mere death escort you know. This was a total
reintegration within the flesh. Before death of the body occurred,
I mean. Maybe that is what many comas really are. Takes a while to
work it all out sometimes. Especially with a very old soul. You saw
all those paintings. Forty or more. Each one was a piece of
Francesca."

Alvarez shivered. He said, "You mean, like
reincarnations?"

I shrugged and replied,
"However you prefer to look at it. The point is the total
personality was reintegrated within the flesh. They have a name for
that in most of the mystery religions, even in Christianity, though
each call it something different."

"What do
you
call it?" Alvarez
said wonderingly.

"I call it going home whole," I replied.
"Are you Catholic?"

He said, "Born one. But I haven't...you know
how it is. I think I would've made a good medicine man."

He chuckled and I chuckled.

It was good, being able to talk it out.

I recommend talk as an antidote for a broken
heart. Bob Alvarez and I talked the night away. But I still went
back to Malibu with my heart in pieces.

I had, after all, sent my love home without
me.

Alvarez wrote the draft of
his official report closing the Sloane case at Pointe House that
night. There was no sense asking for trouble, and certainly he
would have been in a lot of trouble trying to document his
experiences in that house, so he merely omitted all references to
anyone but me. Actually there was no need for anything else. The
sergeant had been withholding quite a bit of info from me. The
Newport Beach police were holding a file of audio tapes from Hank
Gibson's office—telephone records—it seems the guy recorded every
call going across his desk. Those tapes revealed a conspiracy
between Gibson and the younger Sloane going back for more than two
years, even while the elder Sloane was still functional and
controlling the Medici account—minor pilfering and manipulation of
funds—apparently initially designed to allow young Sloane to have
his cake and eat it too; that is, a way around the restrictive
covenant: Jim Sloane. and Hank Gibson were secretly in partnership
and using the Medici money to fund their holding
company.

Thieves often fall out
though, and these two were no exception. While Jim Sloane was
content to idle back and steal small, Gibson saw a way to walk away
with the whole pie. He'd developed connections both in Sacramento
and Santa Ana, and evidently he had managed to manipulate official
records in both places, deleting crucial filings that established
the Pointe property as an estate-in-trust and setting it up for
takeover.

There remains much to be learned about all
that, supposing someone were interested, but the whole question
became moot for me when Valentinius walked away from it. It was my
clear understanding that he desired no official fight over the
property, and that is perfectly understandable under the
circumstances; one official question always leads to ten or twelve
more; I am sure he preferred to simply cut his losses and walk
away.

There was no one left to quarrel with
anyway.

Alvarez and I put it
together that Jim Sloane must have looted the Medici file to back
up Gibson's manipulations of the official records. Old Tom Sloane
discovered the attempted fraud and couldn't handle it, if we are
to take Valentinius at his murky truth. The knowledge drove old Tom
up the wall, and his way of handling it was a total
breakdown.

The death grimace I'll have to leave for
your own understanding. I have told you what was told to me in
that regard. Both Jim Sloane and Hank Gibson died officially of a
heart attack. You can guess as well as I about the circumstances
that produced those attacks in two healthy

young men. The police do know that Jim Sloane
visited Hank Gibson in Newport Beach early during the evening of
both deaths. They think that Gibson was the first to die, but time
of death is not usually as precise a matter for coroners as the
public is led to believe.

Alvarez theorized that
Gibson died while Sloane was with him. Sloane then drove to Laguna,
left his car on Pacific Coast Highway and walked into the estate to
avoid notice, and went to search my suite for information. He died
in that search. Alvarez conveniently placed the heart attack on the
little balcony just outside my bedroom; the body toppled over the
low railing and plunged to the beach.

So much for neat police reports.

I tend to believe the murky truth from
Valentinius. Angels do not kill I'm sure, but they can reveal
truth—and sometimes, as Val suggested, the truth can kill. That is
good enough for me.

I don't know what to tell
you about Hai Tsu or her particular kingdom of heaven other than
what you already know. Her collaboration with Valentinius could
have been—and I suggest you consider this seriously—could have been
a sort of joint effort. Like, you know, the U.S. and Soviets
linking up in space as evidence of goodwill and international
cooperation, etc. Clearly Hai Tsu was not under Val's direct
authority; she served by some other charter, and please don't ask
me to speculate on that—except to note that Jesus himself declared
that in his father's house there are many mansions. I do not know
which mansion Hai Tsu came from, but I daresay it is a very nice
one.

I went back beneath that
mountain a week later but had to go in via the tidal cave; there
was no longer a door in the cellar or elevator pit, but I could
detect a faint outline in the stone where maybe a door had been.
The passageway between the tidal cave and the smaller chamber was
still intact, but the chamber itself was in ruins, as though
someone or some thing had pulled a pin or something and undermined
the whole structure. I found, yeah, some concave sections of rock
that were very smooth on the inner surface, almost glasslike, but
I found no stainless steel or whatever that stuff was.

I used that paper from
Valentinius to tidy up behind him. Took all the money left in the
Newport bank, nearly half a million, and divided it between the two
ladies left behind without a job by the deaths of the Sloanes. I
figured the long years of loyal service was deserving of that small
reward; they could have a fling or two to brighten up their old
age. I'm sure Valentinius approved. Old Ed James, the third partner
in the firm, was apparently never involved in the Medici affair; he
was Tom's brother-in-law and actually the only surviving relative.
Technically anyway, the firm itself survived but James is living on
borrowed time and will be going home one day soon.

My contact in Switzerland
ran into a stone wall regarding the dealings there. He could
ascertain only that money was finding its way in by various
routes—and on the very day that he accessed the principal account,
a freeze order had been imposed to lock up all funds until further
notice, but he could not ascertain the source of that order. You
wouldn't think that heaven needed currency, would you, but I guess
you have to play any game under the rules where the game is being
played. I kept my ten grand as part of the deal and figured I'd
earned it; though it was small consolation for what I'd
lost.

We can't count wins and losses in this kind
of game though. As Val suggested, our infinity is large enough to
contain them all, and all are headed inexorably toward the same
point. "Error is perfection in process," yeah, I could buy that.
Had to, 'cause I'd witnessed the process.

Funny thing about
processes though. I went back to Malibu that morning—after the
grand slam at Pointe House—a total wreck, almost completely out of
it, feeling used and abused and very sorry for myself—smarting too
over the idea that maybe I'd been playing a bit at the game of God
and who the hell was I to be tinkering with people's lives that
way?

As is my usual custom, I undressed en route
from my back door to my bathroom, tossed the clothing in a pile,
and stepped into the shower. I was in there I guess five minutes,
just soaking up the hot water and ventilating suppressed rage and
pain. First thing I noticed when I came out of that shower was the
fact that the clothing I'd ejected en route to the bathroom was
missing. It simply was not there. Remember, I had been wearing an
outfit from the Pointe House wardrobe. I guess it was inviolate
while it was on my person—but once I shucked it, it was off and
running to wherever the other stuff went.

Next thing I noticed was a
new decorative effect in my living room. A new painting occupied
the wall space above the fireplace. It was titled
Soul Mates
. That
painting still hangs there. You can come and take a look at it any
time you'd like. It may startle and bedazzle you though, the same
as everyone else who has seen it. Obviously a master work and
straight from someone's heart.

That takes me back to
where I started, doesn't it. It has been a difficult story to tell.
I still do not fully understand all of it. And I still hurt a bit
from it. But things got a lot better in that department during the
week following the experience. I kept pretty busy, did a lot of
shuttling between Malibu and Laguna tying up loose ends with
Alvarez and seeing to several legal details concerning the
property. The state has it now, by the way, and it looks like the
developers won't get their hands on it after all. A move is
underway to add the property to the parklands.

Anyway, I was telling you about the funny
way things sometimes can process. I'd been staying busy. On the
third night after Francesca went home, I dreamed very vividly of
her. It was not a long dream; I just saw her in this strange place,
performing strange tasks having somehow to do with the origins of
art; it was not all that clear what she was doing—I just knew that
she was supremely happy. And that dream gave me a new insight into
the truth behind Francesca. Remember the Francesca I and II
problem? I had thought that II was trying to take over I. Wrong.
Francesca I was trying to assimilate Francesca II—and II was the
one lying in that hospital bed at Irvine. I checked it out with her
former roommates. It's true. The Francesca they knew was
overbearing and demanding, often haughty and rude, very much a
problem personality. They did not even go to her funeral. I did and
saw her parents there. Nice people. I did not approach them,
feeling that I could add nothing but confusion to their loss.

You're probably having trouble too with all
that personality-assimilation bit. Who were the six other
Francescas and why were they there? Why not all forty? I don't know
either; I've been working on that. I think maybe the six were the
strongest of the forty—not necessarily the most recent but the most
highly developed—and that they had a strong stake in that process.
I have heard mystics speak of these things, the working out of
important problems in a state somewhat resembling the purgatory of
the Catholics, and I have heard of resolution within the
flesh—similar to the psychiatric resolutions within our own
sphere.

You might work on this idea a bit yourself
and let me know what you come up with.

For myself, I've come a long way since that
night at Pointe House. I awoke from that vivid dream several nights
later and went straight to my study to write down something that
awakened with me. I will give that to you as an afterword here. It
has meaning for me in dealing with the aftermath of Francesca; I
leave it to you to decide what that meaning is.

I will close this account
by again admitting that I do not know what reality is. I wish I
did; but I can live okay without that knowledge for now. I know
that I am real. Beyond that I know that something that is
peculiarly me responds to something that is all around me. I feel
that from that response flows experience, and that experience is
tied in somehow to the reality that is existence itself. I know too
that Francesca is real; not
was
real,
is
real. Hai Tsu and Valentinius and all the others
are real; I know that they are because they help me define myself
to myself, and because we are bound together in experience and by
experience.