SHOOTING ANGELS

A Jack Percy Mystery John Selby

Copyright 2010 by Sabre eBooks

ISBN: 978-1452442358 All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

www.sabre-ebooks.com

We have all been granted the power to seek an opening to freedom and go through it. Everyone can see but we choose not to remember what we see. The unknowable will never be known to us and yet it is here dazzling in its vastness. ~ Don Juan Mateus ~

Prologue
Sunday, January 26, 1969 The Percy Ranch phone started ringing way past midnight and woke Jack up with a jolt. Usually a call that late meant he had to put on his badge and go deal with some bothersome crime somewhere in the Cuyama valley but this time it was his son calling from Seminary up north of San Francisco. Hey Dad. Tim, I mean, do you know what time it is? You wont believe what just happened. Still half asleep, Jack shifted into humor mode. Dont tell me youve gone and finally found Jesus? No, stop this isnt any funny situation going on up here. Theyre claiming Im the one who shot him. Shot who Jesus? Well, not exactly. Im hardly awake, Jack said. Talk straight to me. My friend Pauls dead. Shot right through the head. Timothy fell silent for a long moment. Out of the blue his father wondered if he was asleep dreaming all this he glanced out through the bedroom window. The moon was threequarters full, illuminating the wide back canyon that came down from the Santa Barbara mountains to the west. A dozen live oaks were just standing out there silent and ghostly, pagan gods overseeing Yahwehs creation. Hey kid, you still there? Jack asked. Yeah. Dad, I really need you up here like right away and bring your badge. The drivell take about six hours. Hold on, just exactly where are you? Fuckin San Anselmo jail. Hm. Not good. Youre telling me.

So wheres San Anselmo been years since I was up in those parts. Just head north from San Luis Obispo all the way up and then through the City, across Golden Gate bridge into Marin County and then on up ten miles. Police station is just off Sir Francis Drake, right in town on your left. Alright then, but come clean with me did you do it? If you shot somebody down, I cant come try to get you off, you know that. Fuck of course I didnt do it, Tim muttered, his voice choking up. He was my best friend. Then how come they think you did? You remember that .22 long-nose pistol you gave me a while back for Christmas? Bit pricey, nice piece. Thats what my friend was shot with. They caught me by the body with the gun in my hand. Total fluke but there you have it. Do you know who did the shooting? No nobody would shoot Paul. You just told me somebody did. You have any kind of legal help? No, like I said, I just now got hauled in. Okay then, Im outa here in an hour, should be up there first thing in the morning. Dont talk to nobody. Right. Hey. Thanks. Thats what Dads are for. Just as long as you didnt shoot him. Honest to God. Alright then. Good enough for me. But after Jack hung up things didnt feel at all good enough, as he sat there numbly in the empty house that had once been home to wife and children and all the rest but was now as silent as a cowboy tomb. What he wanted right then was his wife back out of the tomb and his favorite albeit renegade son

safe and sound and out of fuckin jail. Without thinking he stood up with a raw animal grunt, propelling himself into action.

Chapter1
Eight hours earlier, Tim was having dinner with the man he would soon be accused of killing. That same mans wife, Julia, was serving them a prime example of her Moms old-time Toulouse cuisine, roast mint lamb and all the accompanying taste extravaganzas. The three of them had shared a euphoric day with Paul speaking off the cuff three different times to evergrowing local audiences in and around the Seminary. But he was now crashed down, sunk into a morose and mostly mute mood. Julia had hoped that perhaps a luscious dinner would boost him up, but no such luck. Tim meanwhile was doing his very best to make contact with his usually-hefty appetite, but the mood of the table was too somber to allow for any culinary pleasure. Tim glanced furtively into Julias eyes when he was sure Paul wasnt looking. Paul and Tim had come to the Seminary together with their wives to avoid the Vietnam draft by trying to fit themselves into draft-exempt church jobs. Paul was the more mystic of the two for months hed been almost entirely in retreat from his marriage and friends, submerged deep into the night in studies of various Gnostic meditative dimensions of Jesus more esoteric teachings. Meanwhile Julia and Tim had found themselves often together, and when Tims new bride from back east had flown the coop six weeks ago, he and Julia had finally admitted to their burning subterranean hunger and deeper heart-felt compassion for each other. By that time Paul had gone so far off into his solitary mystic innards that he didnt even seem to notice nor care about his marriage. Then four days ago hed taken a psychedelic, blown his mind and blasted into either psychiatric delusion or spiritual union with some over-powering presence that kept rising up from his depths to express holy wisdom flowing outward into more and more eager ears.

Julia sipped tomato soup without glancing up. She felt both in awe of the new Paul, and utterly exasperated and sometimes even afraid the last three evenings, when he dropped out of inspiration mode into this scary black mood. She looked across the table and found Tim glancing at her then at Paul. Hey Paul, Tim said gruffly, daring to confront him. So what about tonight? Paul looked up at him, eyes half hidden by long dark unruly hair. The answer is still no, I told ya, he mumbled in his lingering Bronx accent. But come on, Alan just wants to help. I told ya theres no help needed. Damnit, dont drift off again we want to support you, get some clear sense of whats happening, where this is all heading. Pauls blunt answer was to stand up from the table with almost violent impatience. Exuding none of the radiant compassion that had possessed him all day, he stared down first at Timothy, then over at Julia. She exhaled with exasperation. Paul, please, she said in her quiet strong voice. Go with Tim, get off campus a bit, see what Alan and the others might have to say. Whether you like it or not, youre collecting a following and somebodys got to deal with the reporters, they were so obnoxious today, all sorts of rumors are flying around. There needs to be a plan, some order otherwise who knows where this will all end. Damnit, Paul, dont look so vague do you even hear me? He inhaled sharply through the nose, shook his wildlooking head of curly hair and glowered down for a moment at her. I dont want to think about tomorrow. I cant even hardly remember today. Get off my case. He grabbed his wine glass and the half-empty second bottle of the evening from the table, stomped across the open dining and living area to the back door.

Julia stood up to follow him then exhaled sharply and sat back down again as the back door closed. If he wont come, Tim said, then come with me yourself, will you? Well I uhm no, she decided. Who knows what he might do without me here. Who knows what he might do to you if you stay here alone with him. That only happens when hes drinking whiskey. Hes half out of his mind tonight. Hes entirely out of his mind, she muttered. Is that what you think? I no, no. She fidgeted with her half-full wine glass, then raised deep dark eyes and fired him an intense look. Do you think hes gone really crazy, Tim? Today, in spite of the remarkable stuff he was saying, I suddenly felt scared. There are people who consider what hes saying to be heresy theyd fry him at the stake if they got a chance. Thats why I was pushing him to come talk with Alan tonight. Alan will know what to do. You can see for yourself, same as last night hes bouncing back and forth between some new enlightened Paul and the old Paul. Before this all blows, somethings gotta be done. But I just dont know what, she said, her voice choked up. You told him not to take the psychedelic, I told him too hes never been at all a normal guy and now hes slipped through some hole, hes over the edge. Its a beautiful amazing edge hes gone over we just gotta help him live through it. But through it into what theyre saying hes the new Jesus, the Second Coming and all that nonsense even though hes still just Paul. Timothy met her eyes a long moment. I personally dont know who he is now Ill go out and try again to talk some sense into him.

Thank you so much, Tim. Really. I dont know what Id do, without you. Lets hope you never have to. The back porch of the cottage sat high on pilings above the steeply-sloping hillside. The moon was almost full and big in the stark January sky, overpowering the stars. Paul was slouched down in one of two old chairs, staring blankly at nothingness. Tim sat down beside him. Way off a couple of miles to the east, the soft roar of cars on Sir Francis Drake Boulevard mixed with an even softer sigh of random breezes moving through the tops of redwoods overhead and down lower on the slopes of Holy Hill. I didnt mean to push with the Alan thing, Tim said quietly after a few uncertain breaths. Out of the question, I cant go anywhere tonight, Paul mumbled. Im just so totally fried. Understandable today was a buzz. So maybe go easy on the alcohol, keep your head sharp for tomorrow. I dont want any fucking tomorrow. Thats what you said last night and then you got up this morning and headed out of the house in total high spirit gear. That wasnt me out there. Uhm then who was it, Paul? Dont play fuckin therapist with me. Sorry. Its like everything gets so quiet inside me, Im just, you know, gone. Its like Im listening to what Im saying and going, wow wheres this coming from? Youre inspired, Tim said, Its radical. But its not fun, not afterwards like this. Maybe if you didnt drink at night for a few days? Hey, off my case, I told you. They sat. Paul drank.

A car way down below honked three times. An owl went suddenly swooping right in front of them and disappeared right into the boughs of a giant redwood tree. Tim stood up. Well then Ill go myself, he said. At least see what Alan might suggest. Whatever. Ill stop by when I get back in a couple of hours. Sure. Hey Paul, you know Im with you on all this its radical but what the hell, its happening. We go with the flow. Thats what faith is all about, right? Paul said nothing in response. Tim stood there a moment, waiting. He loved this guy, the situation was eating his heart out especially with the added convoluted emotions related to Julia. Paul, I gotta tell you. What you were saying this afternoon down on the lawn people were moved, theres something totally vast happening. Let us help keep in mind that Im here for ya, come whatever. Yeah, well. Whatever its right now just a blur, Paul said in response. I think Ill take a walk. Standing up somewhat uncertainly, he made his way down wobbly steps to the foot path that went through dark redwoods toward the lower road and main buildings farther down on Holy Hill. Julia had been listening to their muffled conversation from where she sat at the table amidst the ruins of her eviscerated lamb. Now she stood up abruptly with hands full of dirty plates and walked off into the cottages tiny kitchen in back. Tim came in from the porch and followed her with his own plate and glass, put them down on the old wood counter then turned as she came suddenly against him. For one hungry moment they hugged and grounded out in each others bodies, fingers holding tightly, her breasts pressing into his chest she felt a crazy rush of sexual craving

and a whole host of other emotions under pressure, from the last few days, ready to burst. But Tim pushed her gently away. Stop, dont do that I go crazy, he said. But impulsively he kissed her lips. Ill be back in a couple of hours. Promise me youll go up to Louises if he comes back and gets weird. And you have the pistol. Uhm, she mumbled. The pistol. He met her eyes a long intense moment then spun around on boot-heels and went quickly out through the front door, up the dimly-lit path to his car in the small student lot above the cottages. She stood alone without moving, hardly breathing. Her face felt flushed, her nipples grown hard with a womans private passion. Paul hadnt touched her in months and yet she felt guilty and confused. Unacceptable memories threatened to blast to the surface with panic rising up inside her, she spun around, turned on the dish water and immersed herself in the splashy noise of after-dinner feigned-normalcy clean-up.

Chapter2
Down Holy Hill a few hundred yards in the administration building, four leaders of the Seminary sat tensely in the Presidents office with the door securely locked. Richard Hurtz who ran the Seminary, fifty-two and frankly frightened of what was happening because it threatened his entire world on both professional and religious fronts, was reading in a monotone from tape transcripts of Pauls afternoon talk, typed up just an hour ago by his secretary. nothing holy but Spirit. And with Spirit in our hearts and our minds right here, right now, were in direct communion with God. The Bible was certainly written by inspired men note that no women were involved in the writing of the book and surely their words came from God, filtered through their personal beliefs and egos and so forth. But we must not make a god of the Bible. This is what has happened since Jesus. The priestly cult always seeks power through idolatry but we can move beyond all that and become free from tradition. Jesus is with us now, I feel him in my heart, I feel my words coming from him. And my inner feeling, this deeper voice, says that right now each of you along with me can make direct heart contact with that same source of spiritual insight, of ultimate truth thats all Ive done, and so can you. Come with me in this. Its all a matter of choosing to just let go of everything youve learned, all the ideas and beliefs and theologies and morals and all the rest, knowing that Spirit is always ready and willing to fill you right now, and guide you thats really all there is to do, all that real Christianity is. We dont need external guides and crutches, ministers and theologians and bibles and Christian this and that Jesus emerged beyond the programming and so can we. Religion is stuck in the past. Jesus is right here right now. What happened two thousand years ago doesnt matter. Whats happening between you and God right

now is what matters. God is in our midst. He is speaking through me. Through all of us. Jesus told us that what he did, we can do also and in fact isnt that our challenge as Christians, to break free from all the false idols, all the graven concepts, and commune directly with our spiritual source. Be still, and know that I am God. You have nothing to fear. Allow your minds to stop judging. Love one another. Just go ahead and enter right now into the peace that surpasses all understanding. Im here to tell you that youre free. Im not here to save you youre perfect, even as your Father in heaven is perfect. You are created in Gods image. Dig it, be it be here now. Shall we? Richard fell silent, staring down at the typed words of one of his students not daring to look up into the eyes of the three people with him in the hushed room. The central- heating fan was the only sound except for Richards pounding heartbeat, which he could feel pulsing loudly in his throat. Without question, thats pure heresy that we must rise up against it, the reverend Wilma Blair, one of the two women in the room, finally grumbled in anger. But wait, please, the second woman, Francis Cheek, begged in a much more timid and vulnerable tone. Isnt what hes saying true, deep-down isnt our Christian choice each moment to open up and let Holy Spirit guide us? And throw away the Holy Bible? the eldest person in the room, Professor Rosenblum, growled at her in his stillstrong German-Jewish accent. He was in his late eighties, tall and gaunt and adamant with his vast knowledge of all things biblical. Wilma is entirely correct, the boy is speaking heresy. He must be stopped at whatever cost. Of course, we cant just silence him, freedom of speech is the rule of the land, Richard reminded them. But we can certainly remove him from the Seminary grounds and rosters. My understanding is that this is purely a psychiatric problem. Pauls radical rantings and ravings are the direct result of his

having ingested an illegal mind-altering drug that threw him into temporary delusional psychosis. He did admit to me, Francis put in, that hed recently taken LSD. And now hes cracked and acting like all the crazy folk who think theyre Hitler or Napoleon or whatever, Richard concluded, and our clear responsibility here is to help a student of our institution receive proper treatment. Thats why youre here, Francis you met with him this morning. Youre our Seminary psychologist, you teach pastoral counseling and all the rest and have all the right degrees. You need to act. Wilma and I fully agree Paul must be taken care of immediately through the proper psychiatric channels. Sorry, Francis objected, but theres thus far no evidence that hes mentally ill. Hes running around claiming to be the second coming of Christ, Richard stated, trying to stay calm. Thats clear evidence enough of a psychotic condition. I must disagree with you, hes not exactly said that directly and good God, I mean dont you realize what if he is? Is what? Are you totally blind? How can you sit there so smug and judgmental, so closed to the possibility of the very event weve all been awaiting for two thousand years now? What if Paul is genuine, he sounds so real, he makes me feel real, he leads us into such divine states I myself felt overwhelmed by Spirit this afternoon, didnt you? Francis, Professor Rosenblum said in his European tonalities, perhaps you yourself are now being somewhat delusional. I assure you, this young man is not in any way our Christ. I myself when teaching, as you know, slip into character and become for a few minutes one of the prophets, based on what Ive read of their sayings and this is what Paul is doing.

The serious problem is that he seems stuck in acting the role of Jesus. I agree, from Richard. I should have shouted him down, the Professor went on, when this first happened, in my class three days ago, I told you he suddenly became a different person than my student Paul, and I admit he was speaking so deeply that I allowed him to continue. This was my error, I should have assumed my Christian responsibility and silenced him, shouted down the demon that was trying to possess him. Now the harm is done and all that we can do is help the government, the community declare him mentally unstable commit him to a psychiatric center where he can be treated and hopefully cured. Perhaps not even that will work, Wilma said. Everybody who hears him seems to believe hes speaking with Gods tongue. I warn you, Paul Jacobs just might be the AntiChrist. There is always danger, there is always evil in the world, the Professor said to her sternly, during the War the AntiChrist was everywhere, and yet in faith we survived. Some of us. We must again trust Spirit to guide this historic event to a positive conclusion. Already too many people are beginning to believe that hes Jesus incarnate, Wilma complained, her thin somewhatarthritic body sitting tense like a metal spring. If not stopped right now hell accumulate a giant following and also ignite a media craze. Imagine the headlines: Drug-addicted Seminary student takes LSD becomes Jesus Christ. This could destroy our Seminary, Richard muttered. When he came sauntering into my church this morning with his hippie entourage, she went on, I felt evil entering the sanctuary. At first he seemed limp, depressed, sitting silently beside his wife but then something seemed to happen inside him. He stood up and of course I had to stop my sermon and he just started talking, taking over the entire church. And then in

came the television news-cameras whore now following him around capturing his every word. I say we do what must be done. You, Francis, must initiate legal action to have him committed. But I talked to his wife and she refuses to cooperate. Im exhausted, lets sleep on this and meet again tomorrow. Tomorrow morning first thing then, Richard said. Why can we not act this very moment? the Professor asked. Who knows what even twelve hours might bring in the War we learned to act immediately, never delay or you are lost. Its impossible to do anything this time of night, unless Paul forces a police or medical emergency, Francis explained. I most humbly disagree, the Professor countered. You Americans, you are too timid. I say we treat him as if he is possessed. I know that this is a sedate Presbyterian organization but still we continue to believe in the active presence of an evil force in the universe, the Devil by whatever name. And it is our Christian responsibility to face our danger bravely to help heal stricken souls. We should all go up to Pauls cottage right now and talk to him, help him to heal, drive out his demon. That might be a violation of a Seminary regulation, Richard said, hastily dodging the idea. And I do believe we can deal with the situation at a psychiatric level, Wilma intoned, rather than acting like Holy Rollers. Tomorrow will do, here at ten, Richard said. Wilma, please, led us in our closing prayer. You do it so well.

Chapter3
Meanwhile Tim had headed south on Sir Francis Drake Drive through Mill Valley to the freeway that came down from San Rafael, then over the big freeway bridge at the tip of Sausalito Bay and on down to the harbor parking lot. For years now, his friend Alan had owned a big old houseboat called the Vallejo, a forty-foot two-decker ferry that had once plied the local waters of San Francisco Bay. This houseboat was now moored permanently in Sausalitos small-boat harbor, along with about thirty such floating residences nestled together and connected by floating piers, some of them tiny six-by-twelve ramshackle affairs while others like the Vallejo quite roomy. A few years later on into the seventies, when hard drugs replaced psychedelics and violence replaced free love as the dominant sport of the houseboat community, the local law would crash down and put an end to the ribald festive spirit of the place; but currently times were good, very good indeed and especially excellent for the current owner of the old ferry-turned-houseboat, a fifty-four year old British fellow named Watts. Alan was a short skinny philosopher who made his living writing mystic psychology books and teaching his version of the perennial philosophy. Along with his cohorts Timothy Leary, Ralph Metzner, Richard Alpert and others, he lectured at universities around the country and in Europe discussing the new spiritual movement suddenly springing forth in America. A tough little man with a brilliant wit, trimmed beard, non-stop yen for pretty girls and daily intake of expensive whiskey, Alan had been an Episcopalian minister in England, then spent several years in Japan immersed in Zen meditation before coming to America in the late fifties and joining the tail-end of the Beat generation, writing a new

translation of the Tao Te Ching, and exploring the meditative parameters of psilocybin, mescaline, peyote and so forth. Most notably in the late sixties he was on the board of directors of the New Jersey Neuro-Psychiatric Institutes Bureau of Research in Neurology and Psychiatry headed by Humphrey Osmond, the psychiatrist who had guided Aldous Huxley on his infamous peyote adventures portrayed in The Doors Of Perception. The Institute was one of seven federal LSD research centers started by the Kennedys. Tim Percy had also been working at the Institute as a subject during his last two years at Princeton, and met Alan there. Later on Alan proved quietly instrumental in helping Timothy slip away from a dangerous situation at the Institute and get accepted out west at the Seminary. Now it was early 1969 and Tim was hurrying to the houseboat gathering to discuss the consequences of his best friend having turned into Jesus. He half-ran from the parking lot down a series of floating docks to the slightly-rocking Vallejo. The wind was cold and salty on the lips, the moon hidden behind Sausalitos jutting hill, stars sharp in the sky. He paused a moment to catch his breath before walking the wobbly gangplank onto the house boat. Vague fragments of a blues song Jerry Garcia was singing on a stereo somewhere nearby caught his ear. Julia loved the song and he found himself worrying about her alone at the cottage he almost turned to walk fast back toward his car, but in one of those curious twists of fate, just then he heard a short outburst of laughter coming from the houseboat, and lured by the companionship, walked the plank onboard. As he crossed the outside deck of the old ferry and pushed open the door into the big room, he could hear Alans always-impassioned voice: I mean the last thing we need right now is another leader, another ruler. Our Western religious and political systems have always been based on this model where nature is run by a boss. Thats just my point. Paul must

not be seen as yet another spiritual boss. Where is he, by the way, Tim, isnt he coming tonight? Tim stepped forward, looked around at the thirty or so people sitting in a haphazard circle atop meditation pillows on the floor. He recognized his seminary friends Reggie and Stuart, and a dozen members of Alans usual houseboat circle. Alan had allowed no press at this meeting, not even the usual Oracle reporters, wanting to give Paul a full night free from public scrutiny. Uhm, Paul decided not to come, Tim spoke up. But from what he was talking about today I think hed agree with what you were just saying. But this is not good. I told you to bring him how are we going to help the man if he doesnt even show up? Well maybe, if Spirit really is speaking through him, he can choose for himself if he needs our help. Besides, hes totally out of it tonight, doesnt want to talk to anyone. Oh. I see, Alan said more slowly, eyeing Tims terse expression with concern. And of course, yes, hes certainly free to do what he wants. There was no question today, he is inspired from beyond. Sit yourself down, Tim. Whatever. We remain in a perfect universe. I say blessings on the guy whatever he does. Meanwhile, lets tune in. Five, ten minutes went by. Silence except for the gently lapping of the tiny waves against the old wooden hull, and the flapping of a flag somewhere nearby in the breeze. Tim tried to watch his breathing, quiet his thoughts and slip into that special place he was learning to enter at will, where insights would come flashing of their own free will. He surely needed some insight right at that moment, his mind was in total confusion about what was happening in his world, and perhaps in the larger spiritual world as a whole. He craved an answer about Paul was he simply enlightened, or was he suddenly functionally insane?

Before any clarity would come, Alan spoke again. Okay, What I feel is this, he intoned in that special British accent that came over him in public places. Paul already seems to be living in that Chinese view of the world where all is organic, where the human body is a cellular organization with no boss a natural spiritual situation of order resulting from a mutual interrelationship of all the parts. And we can join Paul in this organic whole, and help bring together not a religious or political movement but a new spontaneous stirring among people, a new social organism thats organically designed rather than politically driven. Thats what Jesus originally taught. Perhaps right now, in this moment, were finally ready for a true heart society with no boss at all. But wait, isnt it true, someone spoke up, that Paul Jacobs attained his higher state by taking acid and so that must mean that everybody needs to do the same and experience what he did, if this is all going to work. No, hold on, Alan retorted. Thats exactly where the political activists over at Berkeley have this backwards. They still want to tell people what they must do keep us locked up in regimentalism, conformity, receive orders from the boss dictated by his example. But listen to me when insights derived from mystical vision become political, when we try to force our particular vision upon the world, then inevitably the boss is back, telling people what to do. I say lets help Paul not to fall into that trap by not falling into it ourselves. Alan, another person spoke up with a certain agitation to his comment, are you saying that youre not in harmony with Jerry Rubin and the whole SDS movement? Alan was silent a moment. Unfortunately yes, there does seem to be an incompatible difference between the leftist political movement and the psychedelic spiritual movement. The activists talk about student power, and this focus on power rather than love shocks me, it alienates my spiritual sensitivities.

So what about Paul? another person asked. If hes enlightened, LSD or not, what do we do? Alan suddenly burst out with his characteristic guffaw that lasted quite a long time until he caught his breath. But dont you see, he insisted, youre looking to me as the boss, to tell you what to do. And Im sitting here telling you not to look for a boss to tell you what to do. Paul is listening to his inner voice and saying over and over the last few days, listen to your inner voice. So I say, just do it. Lets finish with a meditation. Sandy, play some flute music, sooth our souls. Around ten everyone departed quietly except for Tim, whom Alan took aside, out the door and up rickety stairs to the small enclosed captains room where Alan maintained his private meditation space. He closed the door, went over and brought out a whiskey bottle and took a good long swig from it, even though Tim as usual seemed bothered by the liquid crutch of this otherwise spiritually-lofty man. So, Alan said, nailing Tim with a sudden intense look of concern. Your whole aura is a mess tell me whats happening with Paul. He totally crashed again tonight, a couple of glasses of wine and Spirit left him, high and dry. He kept shifting here and there in his mind, then went mostly mute, caught up in some old negative mood. Im worried, Alan. We need help with him. Julia is going crazy and no wonder. Tomorrow morning first thing Ill come up and talk with him, maybe take him up to my cabin for a few days. He probably just needs time off it must be seriously bizarre, suddenly tapping into that level of realization. We must all do our best to stay centered in the present moment, not allow fear of the future to enter into this delicate equation. Theres something massive happening here, Tim, some new spiritual beast is being born and right now were caught blindly inside its great rumbling belly.

Okay. Whatever. I need to get back. Wait one other thing. Whats that? You know Learys in a bit of trouble. I heard something. This afternoon a couple of CIA guys were here on the houseboat. Thats not good. Ive kept my distance but between you and me, Tim has been playing them along for years now. But somethings gone sour in that relationship theyre looking for him in a not too friendly mood. He might need a place to retreat to very soon and I was wondering you come from that big ranch place down south thats completely way out in nowhere, right? Uhm, yeah. So whats the chance he could go there for a week or two, drop completely from sight, go invisible. Sorry, no go. Why not? My dad would flip. But you said he was fairly hip for a cowboy. I said that he was always doing his best to try and understand me and not judge. Same thing. Come on, Alan, hes the deputy sheriff down there, hes the law for the whole Cuyama valley and he abides by the law. Timothy Leary and my Dad no way. Sorry. Hmm. Alright. And theres one other thing. I really need to get back home, Tim said. They were asking about you too. Oh shit. Perhaps you need to finally tell me that whole Institute swipe story, thats what theyre after.

Id rather not talk about that. Its safe. Only Paul and I know where I put it. And besides, they have zero evidence that I took it any one of a dozen people at the Institute could have. I did the math, Tim. Two quarts of pure LSD is enough to get four to five million people totally blasted into space. Thats crazy power to have at your fingertips, maybe too much for you to sit on alone. At least tell me your strategy. Ive been like a father to you, and Im concerned now. You dont want to mess with the CIA. I took those two bottles just spontaneously, it wasnt something I thought about. And it feels good, having them, thats all. Im not thinking of doing anything with the stuff if thats what youre wondering. The CIA agents were on your case. Its stashed where nobody can get to it and thats where I think it should be right now entirely out of circulation. Look, I gotta run, well talk tomorrow, okay? Ill be at your cottage around nine. Take care of our boy meanwhile, yes? Hes pure gold on this planet. He was dross tonight. But Ill do my best.

Chapter4
At around 11:20 that same Sunday night, Tim approached the one entrance leading into the Seminary. The whole campus from its inception had been surrounded by an eight-foot stone wall with only this one opening for Seminary people to pass in and out through. Because of the situation with Paul and the bothersome riff-raff who had started following him around wherever he went, the Administration had posted a security man at the gate to check IDs of everybody entering Seminary property but from 11 at night till 6 in the morning there was no guard in place, so Tim drove on through the gate, up through black shadows of redwood trees covering the steep slopes of Holy Hill. He went past two rather drab dorm buildings, then past the three grand mock-castle stone edifices housing administration, library and lecture halls then on up the final steep climb to the top of Holy Hill. Fifty years ago the hilltop had been contoured and two dozen small cottages built, four rows of six two rows on each side of the sloping hill. Tim parked and walked down to the left past the first row of cottages, toward his own domicile. He sternly pushed away the hope that Julia would surprise him in his bed as she had several times recently; luckily Paul was a deep sleeper. But Tim also hoped shed been able to ease Paul out of the mood that had come over him a few hours before, and that they might both be asleep for the night. This whole thing had become so crazy, so out of hand, so beyond anything Tim could have imagined Caught up in a cacophony of confused thoughts, the young man saw lights still on in Pauls living room. His stomach tensed as he considered knocking to see how they were doing.

And it was just at that moment that a single jolting gunshot pierced the peace of the Seminary evening. Tim stopped dead in his tracks, not believing his ears. The memory of handing Julia his .22 pistol two afternoons ago filled his mind hed almost certainly just heard that same pistol being discharged in Pauls cottage. Apprehension grabbed at his breathing, he almost turned to run like hell back up the path to his car, expecting Paul to swing open the front door of his cottage and come out shooting at Tim after having killed Julia Timothy didnt run nor did Paul open the front door. After maybe ten seconds of blank hesitation, Tim started walking on down the path, forcing himself to approach Pauls door. The sound of his own breathing was loud in his ears as he made it to the front porch of the cabin, then stood silently a moment at the door, listening. Did he hear sounds of somebody going out the back door down into the woods? Yes hed heard the back door closing, he was sure of that. He pounded on the front door with his knuckles three times then without waiting tried the knob. It turned and the door opened. He half-stumbled into the small living room of the cottage and even before he could shout for Julia he saw Paul, sitting there in his recliner chair, quiet and at peace but with his eyes strangely open. There was just the one lamp giving light to the room and at first Tim didnt see the small dark hole in the center of Pauls forehead. Paul whats up? Tim managed to muster, still confused about what he was seeing. Then he saw the pistol on the floor between him and Paul. Without thinking he reached down and grabbed the gun just in time to straighten up and turn at the sound of hurried footsteps coming down and then into the cottage through the front door. Julia stood there for one short eternal moment staring at her dead husband, then staring at the very much still-alive

Timothy Percy standing there with the pistol in his hand that must have just killed her husband. Then she did what anybody would do gaping at the corpse of her husband, she screamed bloody murder and went running back out of the house in a total freaked-out panic.

Chapter5
Bad news spreads fast horror attracts. Soon after the shooting it seemed like the whole campus was congregated atop Holy Hill in the misty chill of near-midnight. Police came and pushed them back and left them standing behind quickly-tied-off police ribbon, no one really talking very much to each other what was there to say after you heard the basic news: Hey, whats up what happened? They say somebody just shot Paul Jacobs. Dead. Jesus. Exactly. But nobody would do that. They have Tim Percy inside, theyre saying he did it you know Tim? We have German Theology together, Tuesday and Thursday mornings. But hes best friends with Paul. They found him with a pistol in his hand, standing over the body. No it doesnt make sense. I know. Crazy. Youre sure? Its what I heard. I dont believe it. Ask anybody. But why? A slender strong-looking woman of about thirty-five came walking fast down the dimly-lit redwood path from the parking lot. All eyes looked to her she had a pistol on her hip; her shoulder-length red hair was tied back behind her head with a rubber band. She wasnt dressed as a cop but she walked like a cop. Pushing impatiently through the small hushed crowd, she went across the lawn to the cottage and rapped on the closed door which opened and admitted her, then closed again.

The small living room was dimly lit. Forensics hadnt arrived yet but Dr. Franklin was just then standing up from where the body was sitting rather casually in an easy chair. The ambulance people must have come and gone it had taken Kate over half an hour to get here. She saw immediately the wound to the forehead, so perfectly symmetrical in its positioning that it looked staged but it wasnt. Shed seen plenty of entry holes; this one would probably be a .22 from about five to eight feet, not a hollownose because it was a very clean entry, smaller than a dime with the blood darkening already. She had no interest in seeing the back of the head, if indeed such a low caliber would have made it all the way through. Over on the couch was a young man, hand-cuffed. On the coffee table was a pistol yep, .22 Colt in a plastic bag. Sergeant Walkins had his own pistol out. Put that way, hes not going anywhere, Kate said. What do you have? Deceased is Paul Jacobs. I recognize him. Jesus. The deceaseds wife was a couple of cottages up and to the left. She heard a shot, jumped up and went running down here to her house, two minutes at most came in and found yours truly there, Timothy Percy, standing about where youre standing, holding that pistol in his hand. She screamed when she saw her husband there then ran off to the neighbor where she is now. The neighbor called 911, and right around that time, another seminary student, Keith Oberman, came down here to see what the shooting and screaming was all about, and found our boy there, sitting cross-legged on the rug, still holding the gun. We got here six minutes later. Kate took all this in without interrupting. Walkins was a good cop, wasted in this small town department just like her. She nodded to him, then looked to the still-alive younger man in the room. He was staring into space, not hardly there. She walked over to him.

Timothy, she said. He looked up. Thats your friend there, she said. I was on campus this weekend you were usually at his side wherever he went. Buddies. What happened? Still he said nothing. Tell me, whyd you do it, son? He blinked. Understandably his emotions were in ragged condition. Tim. What were you doing, coming here tonight? He looked over at his dead friend. He looked back to the lady cop with the pony tail. Take these off I didnt shoot Paul, are you crazy? People found you holding the gun. I was coming back from a meeting, I was just fifty feet up from here and then there was the shot. I started running and banged the door open and there he was, just like he is now. And the gun? I saw it on the floor. It was mine. What? Id loaned it to Julia, a couple of days ago. Why would you do that? You must know there had been threats. Yes, I heard, she admitted. At first I didnt believe my eyes that hole in his head is so small, he looked just asleep. But his eyes and I guess thats when I picked up the pistol. Julia came running in and screamed where is she now? You could have run, right at that point. Run from what? You shot him. You shot your friend. Why? Again he went silent, staring at her. Shed lost her job in the city over just this same sort of situation she felt the sweat break out down her spine. Evidence showed this kid had killed

somebody. She could tell instantly by the look in his eyes that he hadnt. And so it went for another twenty minutes cops inside with the body and the accused killer, small crowd outside unable to do anything but wait. Three gruff guys in suits came huffing along the path with suitcases of equipment fingerprint team, somebody said. Then the hand-cuffed prisoner was led away. The body was taken off in a bag, and Miss Ponytail went up to a nearby cottage to talk with the deceaseds wife. The cottage where the shooting had happened was locked up and taped off, and the police dispersed the chilled knot of students and onlookers. Hey, its over, go on home now, Sergeant Walkins ordered them in a tired voice. As the crowd dispersed, a solitary young man of considerable girth with his usual baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, remained standing in shadows, observing the proceedings from a distance. Stuart Wilson was well-known on campus as one of the new Seminary students this year, part of the fringe group that showed keen interest in things spiritual and mystic but very little interest in the pragmatic side of preparing for the ministry. He was a long-time friend of the deceased, theyd been students at NYU and come out west together. Stuart also knew the accused, but he preferred not to be visually associated by the police with either. Ten minutes earlier he had sent his wife Dana up to the cottage where Pauls wife had retreated to and where the police woman with the pony tail was now. His instructions to Dana had been to invite Pauls wife to spend the night with them in their nearby cottage and now as he watched, the two young women came walking down the softly-lit path almost right past him without seeing him, and on into their cottage as planned. A few moments later his friend Reggie found him. Theyd driven back from the houseboat meeting in separate

cars. Reggie Davis was a black man dressed in black, hard to see and light-footed as well, so he came right up on Stuart before being noticed. Damn, Reggie, dont sneak around here like that, Stuart growled, his nasal Long Island accent still dominant, good way to get yourself shot. All of this fuckin insane, Reggie muttered right back, his own accent originating no farther from the scene than Oakland. Yeah, Paul gone and now Tim down its a major train wreck but we can still make do, no cause for alarm. Get real, Stu, this aint some drama in our heads, man I mean, Pauls been fuckin murdered! Reggie was twenty-three, skinny and street-wise, way smarter than his diction would imply, recently graduated from Berkeley and recent friends with Stuart. But Stuart scowled at him impatiently. Hey, get a grip, he ordered. Reggie looked ready to break down and cry. Gimme a break, I mean, dont you have a heart at all? Now is not the time to go soft. But you tell me, who shot him? Tim didnt do it, I know he didnt. How do you know because perhaps you hurried back up here and shot him yourself? Youre weird, you know that? Seriously weird. I went right back to my room. And Tim, he obviously just came home and stopped by Pauls but hey, he didnt do it. I mean, they were friends. Keep your voice down, Stu ordered quietly. If Tim didnt shoot Paul, then that means somebody else, perhaps within hearing distance right now, did the shooting and that means its not cool, you understand, to blow your cool. You might just get yourself a bullet in your head too. Breathe. Focus.

He paused and went through his little ritual of lighting a cigarette, inhaling deeply, then slowly exhaling. So Timothys in jail and thats not good for our plans, he said, mostly to himself. Right now what I need to do is check out Julia. What you think she shot Paul? Who knows. Paul was overly-rough sometimes with her, even back in New York. Hed get drinking and bang her around. Youre not that blind. And Tims been on top of her for weeks. Yeah, I suspected. But still that doesnt add up to murder. Ask any cop if its not about money its about sex. Anyway, I had Dana offer to take her over to our cottage. Theres a good chance she knows where the stuffs hidden if shes been banging Tim. Listen, I want you to come with me and take Dana for a walk somewhere, half hour or so, give me time to dig into Julia. By the way, wheres Doug, have you seen Doug around?

Chapter6
A while after midnight and twenty minutes after receiving a phone call informing him of the Seminary shooting and arrest, Alan Watts came storming into the police station. Detective Kate Douglas, having finally settled her prisoner into a cell and phoned to make sure the murder victims body was on ice at the county morgue, was sitting at her typewriter making preliminary notes when she heard the commotion down the hall and went out to see what the problem was. My name is Alan Watts and I demand access to Timothy Percy, a man was shouting at the night clerk. This is preposterous, hes no more a murderer than I am. Kate walked up behind the short fellow. That remains to be seen, she said. He spun around at her. Why hasnt Tim even been given his usual phone call? he demanded. Calm yourself please. He has made his call. He would have phoned me and he didnt I had to get the information through the grapevine. He phoned his father. Thats ridiculous Im the one who can help him. I attended a lecture of yours a few weeks ago, Mr. Watts, and Im sure youre competent in arguing theological issues. What Tim needs is a damn good lawyer but that can wait till tomorrow. He phoned his father and seemed satisfied. Alan finally paused to take in the person confronting him. She was taller than himself, her wild head of red curly hair barely contained with a rubber band, her blouse and slacks unable to hide a quite enticing physical presence. Well, and just who are you? he asked her. I am Detective Douglas. Cops dont come in your size. Youre beautiful. That is irrelevant, Mr. Watts.

Call me Alan. What can I do for you, sir? Its late. I insist on talking with Timothy. Come back tomorrow. I have the finest lawyers in California dont throw police tricks at me. I must talk with Timothy tonight, thats why I drove all the way up here. I can tell that you usually get everything you want, Mr. Watts, but not with me. Tim is down. The events of the evening have overwhelmed the boy. Let him be. Detective Douglas, I must insist that you provide me access right now. Are you a relative or a legal representative of the prisoner? Uhm no. Then return in the morning. That will be all. Alright then. But what about Paul, what really happened its the ultimate tragedy, you must understand that. Any violent death is the ultimate tragedy, she reposted. But yes, especially after what has been happening the last few days with Paul, this is hard to accept. So you went to one of his talks? Alan asked. Most of them. It was my assignment, to manage the gatherings peacefully and so forth. I admit, I was moved by the mans words. And now he is dead and gone. Alan stood there a moment. Genuine tears were suddenly in his eyes. Yes, well, he muttered. Ive barely processed and you think Timothy actually shot him? You have evidence? What evidence? She sighed. You can trust me, she said honestly, to do my very best to find out who murdered Paul Jacobs. But for now, Im exhausted, and can say no more. Good night, Mr. Watts. She turned and walked back down the hallway to her office. Alan watched her all the way until she disappeared, then

turned on booted heel and walked slowly out of the building, worried about Tim and running through his mind the tragedy of Paul Jacobs being dead so suddenly this was a monstrosity of epic proportions, especially with Timothy, whom he loved almost like a son, being charged with the murder. He stood outside in the silent moonlight a long moment, suddenly weak and shaky. Whats going on here, he beseeched the universe whats happening to us? Back inside, Kate was feeling similar emotions as she set up an army cot over in the corner of her office, took off her shoes, pulled a couple of blankets over her and fell immediately asleep. Five hours later she was upright again, sitting alone in her office holding a cup of black coffee, pulling her scattered thoughts together before going out to give a press report, and then head back to the scene of the crime to continue with the interviewing. The San Anselmo Police Department was underfunded and understaffed, often unfairly misunderstood and certainly unprepared to handle the events leading up to and following the shooting on Holy Hill. But Kate felt adequately pleased with where things stood. Shed done everything according to the book, knowing all too well that she couldnt afford another procedural disaster on her record. Someone had been knocking on her door for quite some time before she became cognizant of the pounding. She opened her eyes and stared at the space inside the room without really seeing it. Why werent they using the intercom, for Christs sake! Ill be out in two, she shouted vaguely back at the recurrent pounding. Somebody opened her door it was Lorrie. Sorry, but I think you want to meet this man right now, she said, and stepped aside as a tall hungry-looking man in faded Levis with a realistic sweat-stained cowboy hat came walking in wearing a

pair of hand-stitched and well-worn boots. Kate looked up at his gaunt handsome presence and met unexpectedly-blue eyes set deep in a suntanned face. So, she muttered, thinking of the news crews outside who impatiently awaited her statement, howd you get through the pandemonium out there? I pushed, they gave. He flashed his shield at her with a fairly graceful nonchalant hand-move; San Luis Obispo Deputy Sheriff. Timothy Percy is my son, he told her outright. Ah, uhm. Oh, she said, slowly managing to process the information. You okay? he asked her. What? Yes. Have a seat. Its been an all-nighter. Same here. You drove all the way up just now? Yep. They eyed each other. He saw a good looking but hardnosed woman younger than himself, naturally well-preserved, not too skinny, not too fat and eyes that missed not a darn thing, including his glances at her breasts that she had always wished were smaller and attracted less attention. Listen, she said. Lets keep your visit unofficial for now, that badge wont do you any good up here anyway, you know that. And your boys asleep down the hall, no point in waking him hes been banged around all night. Swears he didnt do it by the way. What do you think? I think hes in very hot water whether he did it or not. You just walk out of here right now, head north two blocks to Jackal Street, and hang a left into the Hard Egg Caf. Order me an Ortega omelet, Ill be there in fifteen. You look like you need to crash a bit before you do anything more, he told her. Well so do you.

At that same moment atop Holy Hill, inside Timothys cottage where shed retreated alone at three in the morning, Julia Jacobs opened her eyes to the sound of someone breaking into the cottage through the back door she was certain shed locked. The cottage was not her own but she knew the house well and sensing trouble, she slipped out of the bed silently and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her and locking the lock. Relative quiet reigned for a few moments. Then another few moments. She had slept as usual without clothes and the morning air was cold on her naked skin. She began to wonder if shed imagined the intruder sounds earlier. Who would be breaking into Timothys house, for what reason? Suddenly there was the sound of someone barging into the bedroom and banging things around, opening drawers overfast, doing other things she couldnt recognize by the sound. After just moments, there was silence but then the footsteps again, coming toward the bathroom door. She considered standing her ground and attempting one of the karate kicks shed been learning. She eyed the window just as the intruder started trying to get the bathroom door open. She was naked but she climbed into the tub and struggled to get the old latch open. The intruder was now crashing against the door and she screamed with all her might to power her arms to make the stuck window slide open. The sound of the door breaking behind her came at the same time that the window broke free and slid upward in its frame just enough for her to lunge outward through the opening and crash downward five feet into the painful branches of the winter-brittle shrub. Her long black hair caught as she struggled to break free and get on her feet. She growled and yanked her head back, ripping hair from her scalp but gaining her freedom. The one thing she didnt do that she later wished she had as she ran like hell across the lawn was to turn her head and

catch a view of the intruder in that window. She neither knew who he was, nor if hed recognized who she was. Instead she went speeding away on bare feet, gasping for breath and ran right into the innocent arms of one of the neighbors, a conservative young seminary man from Nebraska who in turn screamed bloody murder as a beautiful female apparition totally devoid of adornment grabbed at him and held tight to his body, pressing her naked abundance against him so fiercely that he came close to passing out before she pushed away from him, recovered a bit and collapsed down cross-legged right there before him, exposed breasts rising and falling as she struggled to regain her breath They seem to know you here. Kate shrugged across the caf table from him. Im not exactly the kind to snuggle alone with my coffee cup in some breakfast nook at home. This is where I usually eat, when I take time to eat. Franks a good cook. Gotcha. What kind of deputy sheriff are you by the way? Part time. Not my main gig. What is? Cattle. Alfalfa. I figured as much. And youre hardly the typical small-town cop. Shall I take offense at that? Just an observation Anyway, about your boy. Tell me. I got the report on that pistol already. Its registered in your name. Gave it to him when he went off to college. You gotta have some kind of handgun when you take off for nowhere. Thats one attitude look at where it gets you. At least it wasnt him that got shot.

You prefer the electric chair to a gunshot? I prefer to find the truth and get my son out of jail. So whats happened thus far? Hes booked for first degree shot the guy from about six feet away. Bang. Must have been premeditated because he brought the gun. Look, Karen, just Its Kate. I asked him already on the phone if he did the shooting and he said no. She didnt respond immediately. Instead she looked this big sophisticated country bruiser right back in the eye. I asked him too, she said. I got there about forty minutes after the shooting, I live way up the canyon. He was just sitting there on the sofa staring at his buddy. They were friends. Thats what he told me. I know homicide, seen more than my share. In this town? Until four months ago I was down in the city. Oh? None of your business but same situation, where it looked like Id sided with the suspect rather than the victim. So with your boy when I first questioned him, even then, his answers werent what someone like him would say if hed just shot his best friend. He told me point blank he didnt do it. Hard tone to fake. I know. And especially with something like this, Tim would never lie to me. You know that, do you? Well theres a lot you dont know. Stuffs been happening up on Holy Hill the last few days, crazy stuff, and all centered around this dead kid. Tell me about it. You think Im including you in this investigation? I aint going away, if thats what you mean.