Love Story: In The Web of Life (6 page)

Nobody was flying yet on this quiet day. I left
my trailer and began walking down the edge of the empty unpaved
section of the runway; the part used only in emergencies when
pilots decided to abort takeoffs. Desert sand was mixed with
limestone rocks, and along the edge of the runway, opportunistic
yellow flowers, the size of a thumbnail, were taking advantage of
the recent rain to flower, bloom, and seed while they had a chance.
Mesquite bushes lined the edge of the runway, separated by a few
paces from each other, taking advantage of all the space available
in the desert.

An open–air sun shelter, next to the airport
office, had several wood tables and benches. It offered a shady
place to sit while waiting for the thermals to begin.

At one of the tables the tow pilot, Dan, who
had rescued me from Rosamond Dry lake a few days ago, sat,
apparently deep in thought staring into the open desert. He was
wearing hiking boots, khaki shorts, a wrinkled long sleeve shirt,
and his cowboy hat.

I said, "Hi Dan."

He looked toward me and nodded,
"Hi."

"Doesn't look like much of a day," I
observed.

Dan said, "Every day in the desert is good.
Some are better for soaring than others. We are supposed to have a
student pilot coming out this morning. He will need about four tows
to practice landings."

I had often talked to Dan before. I knew he had
a degree in something like English literature or philosophy and had
decided the best way to put it to use was flying a tow plane and
flying a water bomber when offered the chance. When there was a
forest fire, the government contracted with independent companies
to fly tanker aircraft, mostly obsolete military surplus carrier
aircraft, many poorly maintained, to drop red flame retardant in
the fire area. It was dangerous, high paying work, flying a few
feet above the trees, through smoke, in unpredictable winds, and
requiring exact flying skills. When I was on tow behind Dan in his
Pawnee, I knew I was in good hands.

"Going to fly today?" he asked.

"No, it looks too weak to bother getting my
bird out," I replied.

Dan smiled, emphasizing the wrinkles around his
mouth, in his sun-dried face. "I think it was before your time, but
we used to have a pilot come out here who would go up on days like
this and fly cross-country for hundreds of miles. His name was
Charlie Krill, and he worked at the Lockheed skunk works, designing
high–flying spy planes like the U-2. We used to say he made his own
thermals. One time, I asked him how he could read the weather so
well and he said, 'Trust the force!' referencing the old Star Wars
movies."

"I have never tried that," I joked. "Mostly, I
trust my friend at the Weather Service at LAX who gives me my
personal soaring forecast. Then, I plan my flights."

Dan gave me a look that seemed to say, 'And how
is that working out for you.'

I suddenly had the feeling that my logical
flight planning was like the California City urban planning,
complete in detail but failing in concept.

Dan confirmed my feelings: "Somehow, Charlie
had special intuition. The intuitive approach positively worked for
him."

My cellphone rang. Tina, I hoped, until I
looked. It was Zaza.

Zaza announced, "Vacation is over. Bracken
wants to know whether you can meet with a new client tomorrow at
9:00."

"Sure," I replied.

"I hope this does not upset any of your social
plans," said Zaza sarcastically.

"I am alone. No problem, See you
tomorrow."

****

Chapter Three

A NEW
BEGINNING

I was feeling better as I walked into the
office lobby.

"Good morning Mr. Willard!" Said Carolyn
cheerfully as she gave me her usual 'How wonderful you are
here...and I'm very available' smile.

Zaza looked grumpy, as usual as she asked, "How
was your long vacation?"

"A pleasant respite," I replied as I walked
into my office. I sat down and began to look through my mail and
email.

In a few minutes, Zaza's buzzer rang. "They are
here," she said.

I walked into the conference room and saw Phil
Bracken and very attractive blond lady.

"Dave Willard, meet Dore Hamilton," Phil
said.

Dore was about five–feet two, with a very
compact athletic look, about thirty years old, with brown eyes. Her
streaked blond hair, parted in the middle, was cut in a manner that
suggested she spent time in an expensive hair salon. She had a wide
nose like someone of northern European descent. Her tan face with
white areas around the eyes suggested she had recently been skiing.
She was wearing a dark blue suit with a red scarf.

She smiled with a flash of recognition in her
eyes as she shook hands, and said, "Pleased to meet you Mr.
Willard," and immediately reset to an icy stare. I knew I had been
'made,' fully assessed, and judged.

"Pleased to meet you, Ms. Hamilton," I replied
without losing eye contact. I could tell this was one tough
lady.

Phil began, "Ms. Hamilton is an assistant to an
old friend of mine, Vince Colson who has a venture capital firm in
Palo Alto. Vince has funded a foundation, the Colson Foundation, to
support investigation into paranormal phenomena and other pet
projects. He wants us to take on a test case to try a county
government for negligence in failing to utilize an available
psychic resource to prevent the death of a lost child."

I though to myself, 'Oh, no! More of this
metaphysical nonsense, Why me?'

Ms. Hamilton sensed my reaction and said, "Mr.
Willard, I expect that this is somewhat afield from your normal
case and possibly makes you a little uncomfortable. Phil said that
you are a master at presenting complicated scientific cases in
terms that can be understood by lay juries. The Colson Foundation
has sponsored scientific research that will provide the foundation
for a scientific case that the psychic offered legitimate help. We
believe the science is there to support the case. The science is
esoteric enough that most people would never have heard of it. Phil
says you may not be up on this realm of science. It is preferable
that you can bring a fresh viewpoint, unbiased by many
misconceptions shared by many who have a long involvement in
metaphysical subjects, which might bring some biases or beliefs
that would interfere with the scientific case. We want someone with
a clean slate on the subject who can appreciate the skeptical
viewpoint."

"I think I meet your requirements for a lack of
knowledge on the subject," I observed.

Phil interrupted and added, "Dave has done this
kind of thing before. Some of his patent cases involved subjects
and technologies that were unknown a couple of years
before."

"Good!" said Dore. "Would you be available to
come to Palo Alto today to meet with Mr. Colson? He is to leave
town tomorrow and is anxious for you to get started. We can have
you back later in the day."

"Of course" I said, thinking of how I dread
going through airport security twice in one day.

"Thank you Phil," Said Dore as she shook Phil's
hand, "I have confidence that we have made the right choice in
asking your firm to represent us. Mr. Willard, the travel
arrangements are all set."

"Thank you for selecting Bracken and Stevens to
represent you in this matter," added Phil.

"I'll get my briefcase," I said.

I waved at Zaza on the way out. "I am going to
Palo Alto–be back tomorrow."

Zaza couldn’t resist: "She is a hot one-I saw
her when she came in. What is Flopsy going to think?"

"I'll see you tomorrow," I replied, playing it
straight as always.

Dore was in the lobby texting. We took the
elevator to the ground floor and got into a black chauffeured Towne
Car, which was waiting at the building entrance.

"Excuse me I have to check in," Dore said, and
began texting on her Blackberry.

I followed suit.

I was surprised when the driver turned north on
the 405 instead of south to LAX. I didn't say anything.

In a while, we were at the Van Nuys airport,
and the driver drove to a hanger in front of which was parked a
Lear jet. A lean uniformed pilot, surfer-length blond hair sticking
out below his navy–blue pilot's cap, was standing by the steps into
the airplane. He took the small suitcase of Dore's that the driver
brought as we boarded the plane. I looked into the cockpit as we
entered and saw a young blond lady, also in uniform with pilot's
cap, apparently going through the preflight checklist.

The jet had six brown leather seats, two in the
back and two pairs facing each other separated by the aisle. The
airplane smelled like leather with a slight hint of jet fumes from
outside.

Dore motioned to one of the two brown leather
seats that faced each other with a small table between
them.

"Thanks, Ms. Hamilton," I said.

I sat down, and we both fastened our seat belts
as the jet began to taxi.

She smiled and said, "Make it Dore. I think we
are going to spending a lot of time together."

"Dave," I replied with a nod.

We both looked out the window as the jet paused
before entering the runway and began the takeoff roll.

"My parents gave me the name Doré, with the
accent on the 'é' but I dropped it for everyone's convenience," she
continued. "Dave, you have quite a spring tan for a person with
your light completion. Are you a golfer?"

"No," I replied, "I spend a lot of time on the
desert. I have a sailplane."

"One of those things where they tow you up in
the air and then you glide down?" she asked.

"Yes, but sometimes we stay up for hours and
fly cross-country. It is quite a sport." I added.

Dore stared at me for a second and then added,
"I get that there is something competitive about that."

"Not really, it is something you do alone," I
replied.

Dore stared at me again and then continued,
"When you were in college there was something competitive. You are
five–feet, seven–inches, and weighed something like one hundred
sixty when you were in college. It was not football of any other
team sport. Something competitive there...tennis. That is why you
handle your briefcase the way you do."

I was shocked and answered, "Right! I was a
Varsity tennis player.

"You will have to tell me about it sometime,"
she said without any indication of interest. "Please excuse my
delving into your past. The energy was strong, hard to
resist."

"Your tan looks like someone who has just been
skiing." I observed.

"Right, very observant," she replied. "My
partner and I were in Aspen for a week not long ago."

'My
partner,
' I thought, 'She might be
gay.'

"Her company has a condo there so it is very
convenient," she replied.

I felt a sense of relief that she was setting
some ground rules for our relationship, taking gender out of the
equation.

"Have you had any personal experience with
psychic phenomena?" she asked.

"My experiences are only from movies, TV, and
Edgar Allen Poe reading assignments in school." I
admitted.

"Good!" She replied, "A good clean slate to
work with. Here is a book, a good starting point, written by Steve
Manteo who is the psychic who was ignored by the Sheriff in our
case. We will get to the scientific case later after you understand
the phenomenon involved." She produced a hardbound book with a
bright red cover, and the title "The Psychic Spy Who Never Had To
Leave His Office."

'What have I gotten into?' I thought as I took
the book. 'Good way to kill the flight time to Palo
Alto.'

The uniformed pilot with the blond hair poking
under his cap appeared from the cockpit, served us coffee, and a
sandwich, and returned to the cockpit.

"The pilots are a couple," confided Dore, "They
are also writers who do screenplays in their spare time waiting for
us and on layovers. I like the arrangement because I know they are
not late hour partying when we overnight somewhere and are always
fresh for our flights. I suspect that I am a character in some of
their stories, but they have never have admitted it." Dore opened
her laptop.

I was incredulous as I scanned the book. Steve
Manteo had been an undergraduate at Stanford taking a lower
division psychology course. One of their lab sections had an ESP
test to see who could perceive large printed numbers taped to the
entrances of different buildings on campus while their lab
instructor viewed them. For example, at the start of the lab
session the instructor, without announcing his destination, would
walk to the location of one of the numbers such as at the campus
post office. Students are asked to meditate and perceive the number
that the instructor viewed. Although few in the lab section had any
success in perceiving the numbers, Steve perceived nearly all of
them.