Eye to Eye: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective (26 page)

And maybe they were not
the first to experience something like this. Certainly our myths,
legends, and religious beliefs—and these are legion—must be based
on something more substantial than mere imagination. All the
mystery religions have their equivalent of "the ascension" as well
as various concepts of conscious union and personal relationships
with the divine. Where such ideas have come from, barring divine
revelation, is anybody's guess, so feel free to call it how you see
it.

This group was not a religious group, unless
you want to call science a religion—as well it may be. I believe
that they regarded the jinn as a natural phenomenon and that they
saw nothing at all supernatural about the circumstances—no more so
than, say, had they been boarding a flying saucer for transport to
another universe.

To this world, of course,
they were indeed dead. The official "cause of death" was recorded
as "radiation poisoning," but don't hold your breath waiting for
evidence of that to be presented to a coroner's jury—or even for a
jury, period. Also do not sit up waiting for any sort of public
statement from Washington on this case, not if the eyes and
jawlines of that Pentagon task force mean anything. They
"debriefed" me for twelve hours straight then threw up their hands
and ordered me to remain available for further "testimony," but
I've heard nothing from them since the day I drove down off that
mountain. The mountain is still there, of course, and that giant
eye on the sky continues to probe the mysteries of the space-time
universe.

Greg Souza is back into
his routine with industrial security, on the surface, anyway, and
he has yet to evince any curiosity whatever about the events of
those final hours at Palomar. One scenario too many, maybe. For one
of the lighter and almost comical sidelights to this case, Souza
was actually "retained" by a group that sometimes fronts for the
iron curtain diplomatic missions in this country. He'd also been
"retained," of course, by our own government, so he was riding both
steeds for awhile, there, trying to pull the ends together. I have
heard nothing to this day about the operators I tangled with, their
identities, none of it. It's as though none of it ever happened,
except that final event, there, atop the mountain, and I guess that
is just as well.

I did learn that none of these scientists
left any immediate family. Isaac's estate, most of which was tied
up in that mansion in Glendale, went to establish a fund for
particularly gifted students who would be lost to science without
financial assistance. The childless Summerfields, Holden and Laura,
left just about everything to a trust that had been in place for
years to be used "for the advancement and integration of the
sciences, the arts, and the philosophies"—with a significant
percentage of that directed toward Pala scholars.

I guess that about covers
all the bases. But I do need to say a thing or two about that which
occurred between the bases. This case, for me, began and ended with
death. Those who cannot discern the qualitative distinction between
the two modes of death exemplified here by Mary Ann Cunningham, on
the one hand, and Holden Summerfield, say, on the other, will have
found little meaning to this record and have probably wasted their
time with it.

The difference, to me, and
especially in the later reflections upon it, is both stunning and
illuminating when viewed through the collective passions and
paradoxes of mankind. Most every space-based religion, such as
Judaism, Christianity, Moslem, Hindu,
et
al
, have their analogs of "spirit"
infusing matter to produce life on earth, the departure of that
spirit into another reality as their explanation of death, and they
all have their transfiguration stories in which this spirit is
liberated from its entrapping matter through some direct, seemingly
magical, agency. So I see no fundamental trespass, here, with most
religious concepts—though I am sure there will be those who
do.

In the same sense, the
state of the physical sciences in this latter quarter of the
twentieth century is such that the modern physicist is for all the
world an alchemist and wizard, in constant touch with the abstracts
of reality and daily lifting up the veils of existence to reveal a
marvelously intricate and stunningly "smart" creation, yet none
have physically touched the human mind, the instrument through
which all understanding comes, nor has there been a productive
grapple with the mysterious force that turns dumb matter to
purposeful activity—so I see no fundamental trespass, here, with
the speculative tenets of science, either, though—again—I am sure
there will be those who do.

I need to say a word or
two about Mary Ann Cunningham, since it was that unfortunate but
coincidental death that propelled me into this case. I learned
through a meeting with Souza and the L.A. police, a few days after
I left Palomar, that Mary Ann had somehow discovered that Isaac was
involved with fetus and embryo research, and she could not get out
of her mind the possible connection with that and Isaac's role in
her decision to abort her child. There was no connection, of
course—hell, anyone interested in acquiring such specimens did not
need to go out and recruit donors— but Mary Ann had voiced vague
suspicions to co-workers at Griffith and seemed upset over the
possibility that her "baby" was being kept alive in a test tube
somewhere. The group had learned of all this and had dispatched
Jennifer to Griffith to reassure Mary Ann and to explain the facts
of fetal/embryo research. Jennifer, then, certainly had been among
the last to see Mary Ann alive, because it was on that very day
that Mary Ann's own life was senselessly and brutally
aborted.

Her killer was
apprehended, by the way, and the very thorough L.A. cops have it
nailed. Several prominent criminal lawyers are right now vying for
the limelight defense of this utterly indefensible serial
killer—but what the hell, it's that kind of world, the one we've
built for ourselves, so I guess we have to live with it. Perhaps
that is not so important as what this killer has to die with—and
what he will take with him to Holden's next crucible.

Why didn't I take that
"trip" with the team? For the same reason that Mary Ann should not
have been snatched away. I gave you, above, in the record of the
case, a quotation from Vachel Lindsay given me by Holden. I looked
up that poet, later, and I'd like to give you a few more lines from
Lindsay, from
The Congo
and
Other
Poems
:

Let not young souls be

smothered out before

They do quaint deeds and

fully flaunt their pride.

That is why I did not take
the trip, I have not fully flaunted my pride, and that is why Mary
Ann should not have died when she did and especially as she did. I
did not think to ask Isaac whether his views on death had changed;
you may recall the earlier record in which he is quoted as saying
there is no such thing as a decent death. I am sure that he would
amend that, now, and that he would regard his own "death" as the
most "decent" act of his life. But, you see, Isaac had fully
flaunted his pride, and he'd done many quaint deeds; in that
context, death by any device could be regarded as a noble monument
to an exhilarating adventure. In this particular context, "death"
became a triumph.

Freud said that "the goal of all life is
death" and spoke of a "death instinct"—but that does not define
death, itself, and who among us can say what death truly is?

Henry Ward Beecher, on his deathbed,
declared, "Now comes the mystery"—and Socrates, in his final
summation, told his contemporaries, "And now the time has come when
we must depart; I to my death, you to go on living. But which of us
is going to the better fate is unknown to all except God."

I do not believe that the goal of life is
death, not unless we find a new definition for death. The goal of
life, as it has been evidenced in the play upon this planet, has
been toward an ever-expanding expression of existence, the search
for unfoldment, the sheer joy of experience. What we commonly
perceive as death need not draw a curtain upon that play—except
perhaps to set the stage for a new act and the progressive
unfoldment of a brilliantly beautiful story.

Holden has not dropped in to visit, yet, not
in any way that I could recognize, but I do have those moments when
I feel that I am sharing a new perception with a very old friend
who is delighted by the interchange; and, now and then, when I am
looking at a sunrise or into a baby's eyes or at a magnificent work
of art or watching lovers young and old with magic in their gazes,
I find myself shouting to myself, "Ho! Bully!" It is a beautiful
play, yes.

And that is where we are,
you know, all of us.

###

About the Author

Don Pendleton (1927-1995)
is creator of The Executioner: Mack Bolan Action/Adventure series
and the Joe Copp, Private Eye Mystery Thrillers.

He also co-wrote, with his
wife, Linda Pendleton, the nonfiction books To Dance With Angels
and Whispers From the Soul: The Divine Dance of Consciousness, and
the crime novel, Roulette.

Don Pendleton, (1927-1995)

Official Don Pendleton
website:
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The Ashton Ford Psychic Detective Series of
six novels is available in print at Amazon.