L.A. Mental (10 page)

Twenty-One

I
had a hibachi on my rooftop and used it fairly often, usually just for burgers. But tonight two thick filet mignons were sizzling on it, while Ms. DiFurio—looking sexy-tough in tight jeans and a black pullover—and I sipped Chianti with a wonderful jaw-puckering edge. She'd also brought the makings for angel-hair pasta in parmesan sauce, an avocado salad with vinaigrette dressing, and a melt-in-your-mouth fresh sourdough baguette.

Lisa wandered to the roof edge while I sliced into the filets to check them. They were close to done—two, three more minutes.

“This is nice up here,” she said. “Right in the middle of all the bullshit, but out of it.”

“It was your idea, remember?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Yeah, it's sort of a third-world penthouse,” I said. “The roof's perfect for hanging out and not doing what I should.”

“Who wouldn't?”

I picked up my wineglass and walked over to join her. The evening was crisp and, by L.A. standards, clear. The sun had set, with the fading daylight giving windows a glow and softening the city's grimy sprawl. Then again, maybe the glow was only in my eyes. I was still in a state of mild disbelief that she was here.

“I'm trying to pick out the studios,” she said. “I have a lousy sense of direction, so I use them kind of like landmarks to find my way around. Paramount's easy, you head toward the sign and then off to the right.” She pointed north toward the huge white
HOLLYWOOD
sign on what was arguably the world's most famous hill. “So MGM—whoops, it's Sony now—should be on the other side of us?” Her hand swung in an arc to point southward.

“Very good,” I said. “Have you worked there much?”

She sighed theatrically. “Honey, I've done 'em all.”

That seemed like a good lead-in, and maybe an invitation, to get back to where we'd left off talking at the Lodge—that she saw the Parallax film as a make-or-break career move, and the director might try to get her replaced.

“But now you're worried about Dustin Sperry,” I said.

“Some. If it happens, it's not the end of the world—I'll still get work. But this is a good part, and it's a lead. I mean, we're not talking Ingrid Bergman in
Casablanca
—I'm playing a bimbo—but it's my first real chance to prove I'm a looker who can
act
.”

Her gaze was steady, sincere, and while that brassy wit was still there, she was somehow softer—even pained. It was the first time I'd been this close to her, and I saw that her hazel eyes were flecked with gold.

“If it flies, I get more of those chances,” she went on. “But if I get fired, I go the other way.” She shrugged. “I honest to God don't care about being a superstar or making huge money. I just don't want to fade off into a has-been who's never really even
been
.”

“That's a tough spot to be in.”

“In a way, but let's face it—it's a problem most people would kill for.” Then she paused. “But that's all I've talked about, isn't it? And I've talked about it a lot. Come on, your turn.”

“Well,” I said, trying to think of how to put it. “I guess I've got something vaguely like that going on, too. Except you're trying to move forward and I'm not. I've been drifting along like I'm trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.”

“The
Times
piece about your brother said you're a psychologist.”

“I've got the papers, yeah. I'm teaching now, and I like it, but somehow I can't see myself settling in for the long term. Before that I was doing clinical work, but I'm pretty sure I'm out of that for good.”

“Some kind of a blow-up there?”

“More like I lost faith in myself, or lost my nerve, or both,” I said. “I was working with violent patients. Getting worn down by it anyway, and then there was this evil son of a bitch who conned his way to an insanity plea and then a release. My gut told me it was all wrong, but I didn't have any tangible evidence. He'd gone through his treatment with flying colors—
supposed
treatment, guys like that just play the game.

“I ‘expressed my concerns,' to use the official terminology, and maybe I could have stopped it if I'd really thrown my weight behind it. Probably not—I was junior, and I didn't have much weight to throw. Anyway, I left it at that and went along. Within a month, he raped and murdered an eight-year-old girl. When the blame started flying, I got my share of it, and rightly so. I still could have stayed on there, but . . . ” I shook my head.

In fact, it was the only time in my life I'd ever seriously considered suicide.

Lisa's eyes had changed while I was talking—like maybe she was thinking that between the drama with Nick and what I'd just told her, I was more trouble-prone than the harmless, somewhat nerdy guy she'd taken me for, and she'd just remembered that she had to go home and wash her hair. I wouldn't have blamed her a bit.

But she murmured, “That's a
real
tough spot.”

I raised my wineglass. “Enough gloom and doom. Would you please go back to being a smart-ass?”

She grinned and touched my glass with her own. “I never stop for long. Drink up. I'll get us a refill.”

I'd let the steaks get a little too done, but they tasted grand and so did everything else. Lisa insisted on helping with the dishes, and at some point we were both at the sink and she sort of leaned back against me and my hand moved of its own accord to rest lightly on her hip, just as naturally as if this was the thousandth time instead of the first. It lasted only a couple of seconds before we moved apart, but it was one of those electric moments you're blessed to ever get, when you know that this is happening both ways.

Twenty-Two

L
isa wore a lot of gold that went with her skin tone and added to her exotic look—big hoop earrings, several bangles, and a cuff bracelet inlaid with a jade oval. She'd taken it off to wash dishes, and as she clasped it back on I admired it aloud.

“Gunnar gave it to me,” she said.

I was impressed. I didn't know much about jewelry prices, but I could tell this wasn't cheap.

And I confess, I felt a touch of jealousy—wondering if she and Gunnar Kelso might have a past involvement, or even a present one.

She glanced at me, probably realizing that I might. “It doesn't mean anything romantic,” she said. “He just does things like that, with other people, too. It's more like he sees something in you he wants to bring out, and it's a symbol.”

“What is it he wants to bring out in you?”

“He never says. It's up to you to figure it out. I know how that sounds, but—things do change. In your head, in your life.”

“Cynthia Trask was talking about that earlier today,” I said. “What's your take on her, by the way?”

Lisa shrugged. “We get along okay—we're not around each other much. She comes on chilly, although I hear she leaves scorch marks on the guys.”

“Seems like ‘guys' includes my brother.”

“You upset about it?”

“Not exactly upset. But he
is
married, and there are other issues. I'd like to know what I'm dealing with.”

“Well, Cynthia can take care of herself, no doubt about that. But I really don't know anything about what they've got going—I barely know Paul at all.”

More and more, I was feeling the same way.

“How about if we go sit awhile?” I said. “I'd like to hear more about Kelso and Parallax.”

Lisa smiled. “You want to know what you're dealing with there, too?”

“It figures in, yes. And I admit I'm skeptical about that kind of thing—but not entirely.” In fact, I was less so than I let on.

“Sure, I'll tell you what I can,” she said. “It's not like there're any big secrets.”

I dug out a bottle of Rémy Martin that had been gathering dust for a while, and we settled down with it in what passed for my living room. The last daylight had faded from the windows, replaced by the electric blaze of nighttime L.A.

I was a rapt audience as Lisa started talking, with the sweetener of the little things I kept noticing about her, like the delicate veins of her forearms or the arch of a sandaled foot.

She'd been involved with Parallax for about two years, she said. Its organization was very loose, with no formal rules, codes, or even membership. Kelso was very hands-off, approachable but never pushy. He spent a lot of time in private pursuing theoretical work; only another mind like his could comprehend it, but it involved trying to quantify his ideas through mathematics. Lisa had glimpsed computer graphics that she described as so complex they'd give you an instant headache.

Then she gave me a sketch of the philosophy itself. Like Kelso's movie world in
The Velvet Glove
, it was a curious blend of elements, some traditional but modernized, and given a gloss of science that walked the edge of science fiction.

It was easy to see how this had put Kelso in the crosshairs of mainstream science.

For openers, he held that the universe was inhabited by unseen intelligences—he called them the Gatekeepers—that were engaged in perpetual struggle with each other and used human beings like pawns.

This much was an echo of an age-old theme—war in heaven, a battle for human souls. But then Kelso gave it an interesting twist. The reason for this war wasn't nearly so lofty.

It was for possession of energy—specifically, a mysterious form of it, a sort of cosmic life force, which Kelso called Pneuma; the word had connotations of both breath and soul. This energy was unrecognized by science and so far he'd been unable to quantify it himself, although his theoretical work focused heavily on that. But he believed that it was like electricity or water in that it could be measured, harnessed, directed—even stolen.

Human beings innately possessed the Pneuma. It flowed through channels, a sort of vast cosmic wiring harness to which we were all attached. The Gatekeepers did
not
innately possess it, but it was their source of power, so they competed for it. The mechanics of this process were byzantine; essentially, the Gatekeepers tapped into the energy channels and then tried to exert subliminal mind control over humans. The more people they controlled and the more completely, the more energy they got.

Some of the Gatekeepers were benign and used the energy in positive ways. But others clouded human minds by barraging them with distracting thoughts, then drained off the Pneuma life force, insidiously weakening their victims, who had no idea it was even going on.

From here, Kelso's thinking took a more practical turn. The energy theft could be stopped by awakening a dormant mental faculty—another idea that had a familiar ring, although also with a twist. His term for this was the Sentry; it was something like a computer security system. Arousing it didn't require any rigorous discipline or formal stages, just continually nudging it and reminding it what it was. The increased flow of Pneuma would renew strength and lead to the “quantum leaps” that Cynthia and Paul had talked about, and the entire process would continue to mushroom, bringing the individual to enhanced states of mental clarity and personal power.

At this point, Lisa paused. “So, does that all sound completely wacko?”

I shook my head slowly. “No—not in context, compared to other belief systems. It actually seems well thought out and logically consistent, and the beliefs themselves don't strike me as any farther out than a lot of what's in established religions. But they
are
beliefs, and they are pretty far-out, and I'd personally have a real hard time accepting them.”

There was also the fact that it somehow seemed a little too good to be true.

“It takes some getting used to, and I admit I've still got my problems with it all,” she said, “but Gunnar's fine with that. He just lays it down like, this is how it is, take it or leave it, and if you give it a chance, you might be surprised. Kind of like driving a car—you don't have to know how the engine works to get where you want to go.”

Little as I knew Lisa, she sure didn't seem unbalanced in any way, let alone naive or gullible. Ditto for Kelso, and it was hard to believe he was just a charlatan. Maybe there was some other explanation that was eluding me completely.

Or was there really something to this—that he'd managed to identify a hidden universe, just as earlier scientists had discovered the invisible worlds of atoms, microorganisms, forces like gravity and magnetism—and someday, this would be just as much an accepted scientific reality?

I genuinely did try to keep an open mind, but that notion was a very tough sell.

Well, the acid test of any theory was, Did it work?

“So what happens as this change comes over you?” I said. “Are there tangible results?”

“There can be. But this isn't about wishing for
things
, like one of those pop-psychology visualization deals. Gunnar doesn't want people thinking like that—he's real clear about it.” She sipped her brandy, watching me over the rim of the glass.

“I'm playing devil's advocate now, but it does sound like that,” I said. “How's it different?”

“The idea is that as you bring in more energy, you get better at what you do. If you're better at your work, you make more money. And so on.”

I grinned. “Sorry, but
that
sounds kind of mundane—like a diet or exercise program. I thought there was something more mysterious involved.”

Lisa smiled back, but her gaze shifted away; she looked like she was trying to make up her mind about something.

“Maybe there is,” she finally said, “but I'm afraid this
will
sound too far-out.”

“Try me.” I stood up to add another splash of Rémy to our glasses.

“Well—when the energy channels open up, it's like that can light up parts of your mind that were always dark before. And that don't ever light up for most people. Gunnar says it'll start with something that's buried in you and spread from there. So for me, I loved to play gypsy when I was little. Let's face it, in a way, I still do.” She shook her forearm, clinking her bangles musically. “I'd pretend I could see things in a crystal ball, all that. But there was never anything
real
about it. Then, awhile ago—some things happened.” She shrugged, looking at me like she expected me to laugh out loud.

I was far from doing that, but my hands did pause as I opened the bottle.

“You mean you
could
start telling the future?” I said.

“It's not clear-cut—no crystal ball stuff. More like something would flash through my mind just out of the blue, and it would turn out to be true.”

I finished refreshing both brandy glasses and took a healthy swig out of mine. Psychic ability was at the top of every skeptic's list, and another explanation came readily to mind—she might not expect any tangible payoffs from Kelso's mental gymnastics, but subconsciously she still wanted validation, and this was the form it took, a wish fulfillment that went back to childhood. Even very sincere people are susceptible to that sort of thing.

But goddammit, I just didn't get that sense from her. And I wasn't entirely skeptical about psychic phenomena, either. There was a lot of well-attested evidence for those, and the “scientific” explanations offered to debunk them often seemed more preposterous than the claims of their advocates.

“Can you control this at all?” I said.

“Not
control
it—I played around with it some and realized I could kind of
invite
it. But I haven't done it for a while—it's a little spooky when I'm alone.”

Then she leaned forward with her elbows on her knees and both hands cupped around her glass, and her gaze turned shy.

“I could try right now if you want,” she said.

It was another moment like our brief brush-up in the kitchen—both an offer and a test of trust.

“I'd be fascinated,” I said.

“I can't promise anything.”

“You don't need to. So what do we do?”

“I just think of whatever it is I want to find out about, and, you know, open up. It helps if there's something related to it that I can hold in my hands.” She hesitated, then said, “Look, I know you're torn up about your brother Nick. But I've got a feeling it's not just about what happened—there's something else really eating at you. I could try there and see if anything comes.”

That raised my eyebrows. Maybe it was just an intuitive guess, but I was quite sure I hadn't said anything about it.

I went to the small safe box where I kept important records, and where I'd stashed the things I'd taken from Nick's house. I got out the envelope with the DNA paternity tests and took it back to Lisa.

“Do you need to know what this is? Any other information?” I said.

“No. Just give me a few seconds to concentrate.” She closed her eyes and took several deep slow breaths, with the envelope resting on her upturned palms.

“Is there a motorcycle involved?” she said.

I stared at her. There were a lot of motorcycles in L.A.—but this was really pushing the bounds of coincidence.

“Yes,” I said. “Can you tell who's riding it?”

She shook her head hesitantly. “I can't really
see
these things—it's more like I'm feeling them. But I do get the feeling—this is weird, but I'm almost sure it's a woman. She's running from something, and she's furious about it.”

I kept on staring, trying to process this.

Lisa stayed quiet and still for another half minute, then opened her eyes and sagged slightly.

“Sorry, that's all,” she said. She looked shaken, like this had drained her, and I quickly sat beside her.

“Lisa,
I'm
sorry—I didn't realize it would rough you up like that.”

“I'm fine, but that's why I don't like doing it alone,” she said. “Did I call it right?”

“So right it's scary, from what I can tell,” I said. “I went to Nick's house this morning. Somebody on a motorcycle had broken in, and took off when I showed up. I never even thought about it being a woman, but I guess it could have been.”

“Good. You can still think I'm an airhead, but at least I didn't prove it.”

I raised my hands to gently grip her shoulders. “That's bullshit and I hope you know it,” I said. “It makes
me
feel like a fool. Which has been going on all day.”

She settled in against me, and our bodies rearranged themselves, with my arm finding its way around her.

“Somebody who was a fool in the right ways might be kind of nice,” she murmured. “Most of the guys I know are smart in the wrong ones.”

I wasn't so dumb that I didn't know when a woman wanted to be kissed.

Neither of us saw any reason to stop there. If there was any way to describe something like that, I didn't know it.

Lisa left around one in the morning, telling me firmly that we both needed sleep, and if she stayed, we'd just keep each other awake. I walked her downstairs to her car, parked beside mine in the garage, and watched her drive away, already fearing that her half of the brief trance we'd shared would quickly dissolve—that she had come over here on impulse and taken me to bed because she felt sorry for me, and that would be the end of it.

Then I fell back into bed, finally giving in to exhaustion. At first I crashed like a dead man. But within an hour I was restless, drifting in and out of sleep and waking up in sudden starts—not from anything tangible like bad dreams, but something that didn't seem to have any cause and yet gnawed at me in a way that amounted almost to dread.