Ashes To Ashes: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective by Don Pendleton

space-time continuum, but not moving
with it, outside somewhere, out of plane, out of body.
    It shook her, shook us both, brought tears
to both.
    I do not know how this may sound to
you—maybe somewhat like a pride-and-passion novel, or maybe you
will just think I am kooky or melodramatic—if you have never
experienced the same thing. It was not the first time for me, but
still it was rare enough that I found it remarkable and damned near
incredible that two people—strangers, really—could spontaneously
ignite into something like this, could be transported from the
workaday world into cosmic zonk in a fingersnap.
    Suddenly I knew this lady, knew all about
her in shades more intimate than anything shared by lifelong
companions, knew her in her essences, her longings and deepest
fears and feelings, knew her in all the sweet quiet whisperings
from another star somewhere, another system, another reality.
    Call it what you will; I can only report the
facts.
    That kind of knowing is the deepest sort of
love.
    And I knew, even before I pulled away and
looked into her eyes, that she knew me as I knew her.
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Seven: Poor Little Rich
Dreamer
     
    We could and should have had a full-blown
sexual encounter then and there, except that the circumstances of
the moment were so out of kilter; Karen was in trouble, I was in
trouble, maybe this entire enterprise was in trouble, and all of
that was part and parcel of the understanding we'd shared out there
between the infinities.
    Also, the experience had been just a bit too
overwhelming for her to handle all in a piece. Her knees buckled,
and she would have gone down except for my support. I helped her to
a couch and went for water.
    She had both feet tucked under her and was
dreamily contemplating an unlit cigarette when I returned. I traded
her the glass for the cigarette and lit it while she sipped the
water, gave her a drag, took one myself, then put it out, took a
sip of water for myself.
    All this time Karen was
staring at me with those great, glowing eyes, raising hell with my
nervous system. She had never seemed more beautiful, more
appealing, more vulnerable.
    I did not dare touch her. "You okay?" I
inquired, trying to make it casual.
    She replied with an almost imperceptible nod
of the head and without detaching that gaze. "Guess so. How did you
do that?"
    I wished I had, and wished I knew how. I
told her, "We didn't do it, it did us. Happens, sometimes, when all
the ingredients are there.
    "It was ...
cosmic."
    I said, "Yes. I think so. The important
thing is to trust it, accept it, go with it. Can you do that?"
    She pondered that for a
moment before replying, "I doubt that I could do otherwise. But I'm
not sure I understand ..."
    I lit another cigarette, offered it to her,
but she declined with a shake of the head; I said, my eyes
following the spiraling trail of smoke, "You suddenly knew me. I
mean, knew. Maybe as you've never, ever known another human
being."
    "Yes, I ... think that's
it," she said, maybe a bit confused.
    "Don't let me define the experience for
you."
    "No, that—that's it. But more. Much more
than that."
    "The important thing, right now," I
suggested, "is the knowing. I think maybe it is all important. You
are in trouble, Karen. Maybe deep trouble. You need a friend,
someone to trust. I'm asking you to give me that trust, that
confidence."
    She said, without a blink, "I trust you with
my life, Ashton."
    "It could get down to that," I muttered.
"Look, you have a right to know..." I suddenly felt miserable,
incompetent, scared. "I don't know anything about anything. All I
have is feeling, belly instinct. So don't trust me with your very
life, Karen. All I am asking for is your confidence that I am
feeling and acting in your ultimate best interest. Please give me
that and nothing more than that."
    She said, very quietly, almost awed, "Okay.
I understand."
    I told her, "I need to know, in a word, one
word, how you feel about your own