Mind to Mind: Ashton Ford, Psychic Detective Read Free Page A

angry woman in hospital-white slacks and tunic
came charging across the lawn with fire in the eye. "Just what the
hell do you think you're doing!" she cried.
    Jane Doe rolled onto her back with a soft
little laugh as I struggled clear.
    "Let's get her into the chair," I said to
the angry woman, trying to be very cool while feeling entirely
foolish. I noticed the candy striper, then, in my peripheral
vision, all but wringing her hands in the background.
    Then I saw the hospital security cop
hurrying our way.
    So okay, I decided, I had invited this one.
Common sense should have warned me. A guy simply does not take over
a female patient of questionable mental status and lay her on a
blanket in the grass.
    The woman grabbed my arm with both hands, as
though to restrain me from running away.
    I smiled and asked her, "Is this your
dance?"
    But then the cop arrived, gun drawn,
wary.
    I told him, "There has been a
misunderstanding. I'm here on police business, examining this
patient at the request of Lieutenant James Cochran, Hollywood
Division. Call him and confirm it."
    But this guy was not too swift. He looked at
the woman for instructions.
    She snapped, "Arrest him!"
    The guy was fumbling with his cuffs.
    I told him, "Forget the cuffs, pal, or
you've got more trouble than you really need. I'll go to the
security office with you while you call Cochran." And I told the
woman, "Your sense of duty is commendable, but don't you think
you're being just a tad ridiculous? Will you please let go my
arm?"
    Not that I was mad at her.
Actually I admired her for the ballsy defense of her patient. Quite
attractive, even under the circumstances—blond, petite, curvaceous.
But enough was enough, and I'd had enough.
    She released me, seemingly a bit embarrassed
to realize that she was still clinging to me.
    Jane Doe had been lying on her back and
giggling through all of that. I put her in her chair and arranged
the blanket across her lap. The security cop still had his gun in
his hand, looking very confused.
    The woman in white asked me, "Do you have
some identification?"
    I showed her my driver's license and handed
her a business card. Her eyes were on that card as she told the
cop, "It's okay, Harry. There's been a misunderstanding."
    Harry looked very grateful about that. He
grinned at me as he holstered the pistol and walked away.
    The woman gave me her
hand, said very calmly, "Sorry I missed you inside, Mr. Ford. I'm
Dr. Saunders. Lieutenant Cochran did mention your name, but I'd ...
I'm sorry if I interfered with your ... investigation."
    "No interference at all," I muttered.
    Jane Doe had me in her
sights. And she was looking at me straight on. We'd connected, yeah
... some where .
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Three: A Gross
Perception
     
    Alison Saunders, it turns out, is a doctor of
philosophy, not medicine. She is a clinical psychologist who
specializes in the rehabilitation of persons suffering brain
damage—not very long a doctor of anything, I guessed, unless I'd
missed her age by several years. As I said, she is very pretty—even
more so now, with the strain of hostile confrontation gone. I am
finding myself fascinated by her hands and their artful movements
as she talks; they are very delicate little hands with beautifully
tapering fingers and just enough nail extension to indicate an
awareness of, and attention to, their appearance.
    She has very nice soft
brown eyes, too, and it is good that they are soft because she has
a tendency toward direct eye contact when she is talking to you, so
direct that it could be discomforting to be thusly impaled by such
an intense gaze. With her, though, the feeling is more that you are
being bathed rather than impaled, and it is a nice
experience.
    The mouth is nice, too; small, without
seeming tight; sensuous, generous; altogether a proper mouth for a
professional young woman who wishes to be pretty but not
provocative. I am thinking, though, that this mouth could get
provocative as