Ed Dames

pp. 2-8, 19-79 of Matrix Intelligence/Ed Dames, author unknown

first chapter heading:

Promotion

first full sentence:

Long before the film The Matrix and the hit TV show The X-Files, there was Ed Dames.

Full text (OCR scanned with some errors):



Ed Dames

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Long before the film The Matrix and the hit TV show The X-Files, there was Ed Dames. Matrix Intelligence will take readers behind the scenes of some of his most fascinating and offbeat cases as the world's premier remote viewer. The model for enigmatic FBI agent Benjamin O'Ryan (played by Ben Kinglsey in the movie Suspect Zero), Dames has applied his unique detective skills on the most baffling military Black Ops in modern times, as well as tackling mysteries so unusual and gruesome, they could have been ripped from the darkest recesses of our imaginations.


The foremost proponent and instructor of the psychic practice known as "remote viewing" (performing clairvoyance under controlled conditions), Major Edward A. Dames (U.S. Army, Ret.), was an original member of the Army's prototype remote viewing program and later served as the training and operations officer for the Defense Intelligence Agency's super-secret Psychic Intelligence Unit. The Psi Spy group operated under the cover of various code names like, SUN STREAK, GRILL FLAME and STARGATE. As an operative himself and the unit's sole Psi-spymaster, Major Dames was in charge as these paranormal divisions took on such sensitive Black Ops as gathering intelligence on Soviet nuclear weapons sites, the Iranian hostage crisis, the kidnapping of Gen. James Dozier, and the espionage case of Aldrich Ames, among many others. But it is Major Dames' work outside the military that he is perhaps best known for, employing his skills searching for abducted and endangered children around the globe, tracking international terrorists and most recently attempting to recover the remains of renowned aviator Steve Fossett. Over the years his remote viewing targets have run the gamut from scientific to the occult, from locating missing aircraft, lost treasure and ancient civilizations, to UFOs, life on Mars and the Devil himself. As an educator, he has traveled the world revealing his remote viewing techniques, teaching an entire new generation about the psychic ability lying dormant in all of us. His regular appearances on the popular Coast to Coast AM radio show are legend to millions of listeners worldwide as are his catastrophic predictions about the future which helped earn him the title - "Doctor Doom."

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Promotion

The current crop of occult-related television programs such as Medium, The Ghost Whisperer, and Heroes, demonstrates the public's thirst for unique and paranormal ideas. What could be more unique than remote viewing? Through a well-executed ad campaign introducing the public to the notion that psychic skills can be taught, a vast well of interest and sales will open in support of the book. In addition, Major Dames is currently in production with renowned television producer Phillip David Segal (Twin Peaks, Thitysomething, China Beach) on a new reality-based TV series on remote viewing featuring him as host. Major Dames also has an impressive built-in audience himself, not only because of his exclusive agreement with international web marketer MindValley.Com, and the myriad of independent websites devoted to him and his work, but the fact that an average often-million listeners have been tuning in regularly to his appearances on the Coast to Coast AM radio show for years, both with former host Art Bell and in its current incarnation under Emmy award-winning journalist George Noory. Ed's guest shots on this top-rated program are a bookseller's dream come true. He is also a much sought-after public speaker and has held remote viewing workshops to packed houses around the country, each making for excellent venues in which to sell the book. His Learn Remote Viewing DVD course offers a free online forum providing unlimited assistance to students during and after their training. Another major avenue for point of purchase promotion and sales.

Aside from retailing at bookstores, the book would make an excellent choice as a book club title and will move not only at remote viewing conferences and seminars, but because of its detailed exploration of what some describe as "occult," would be a hot ticket at sci-fi and new age conventions. The subject matter of the book lends itself easily to guest speaking engagements (The Oprah Winfrey Show comes to mind) not to mention a host of others. Ed is a proven professional having appeared not only on radio but on such programs as In Search Of and A&E's Real Premonitions. His contacts in the movie and television industry will also provide many future avenues for free publicity.

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Ed Dames

Edward A. Dames is a ROTC Distinguished Military Graduate of the University of California, Berkeley. Between 1979 and 1983, Major Dames served as an electronic warfare officer and scientific and technical intelligence officer. In 1982, Ingo Swann, under the direction of Dr. Harold Puthoff, head of the Remote Viewing Laboratory at Stanford Research Institute, realized a breakthrough, developing a working model for how the unconscious mind communicates information to conscious awareness. To test the model, the Army sent Major Dames and five others to Swann as a prototype trainee group. In six months, Major Dames' teammates were producing psychically-derived data with more consistency and accuracy than had ever been seen in similar intelligence projects using even the best "natural' psychics." As the new operations and training officer for the unit, Dames took this breakthrough skill, dubbed '''Coordinate Remote Viewing" and began a new phase of research, testing, and evaluation in order to both uncover its true capabilities, and to perfect its application to fit crucial intelligence collection needs.

Professional Experience - Department of the Army

Scientific Intelligence Collection and Strategic Operations: for purposes of evaluating foreign offensive strategic weapons potential. Identified emerging military threats, presented validated intelligence to heads of all intelligence agencies and science boards, the NSC and U.S. President. Selected critical targets for national intelligence collection operations, formulated attack strategies, committed required resources, designed supporting technologies, and orchestrated missions. Advised senior military leaders of enemy deception operations and was responsible for identifying unknown toxic biochemical agents and energetic weapons employed by foreign forces and clandestine operatives to neutralize or incapacitate human targets.

Science and Technology Management: managed research scientists working at major government, commercial, and university laboratories in support of classified defense programs. Recruited leading U.S. academics and commercial scientists for

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national-level intelligence operations. Was a key figure in securing congressional funding for the Defense Intelligence Agency's Biological Threat Analysis Center.

Field Work: field representative for a national intelligence community Enigma Working Group, evaluating reports of unexplained anomalies /transient phenomena, investigating their possible connection to novel or "exotic" foreign military weapons use or testing. Debriefed foreign emigres and defectors and assessed the veracity of their information and value to U.S. Intelligence. Extensive travel and direct contact with witnesses and sources from all cultures and walks of life establishing and maintaining rapport and trust. Required to operate under civilian cover in the role of professional toxicologist and research physician, among others.

Citations

Meritorious Service Medals (2) for distinguishing himself by outstanding meritorious achievement as targeting and analysis officer, United States Army Systems Exploitation Detachment. Dames identified and confirmed the existence of an entirely new Soviet offensive weapon, and then personally briefed senior officials of the National Intelligence Agencies regarding the significance of this new Soviet capability. Major Dames supplied the U.S. President and NSC with proof that the Soviets had clandestinely developed a new generation of biochemical warfare agents and as a result, Congress approved funds for a new DIA Biological Threat Analysis Center.

Legion of Merit for distinguishing himself in the performance of outstanding services as an intelligence officer in the United States Army Intelligence and Security Command and the Defense Intelligence Agency. His insightful threat analysis has contributed significantly to maintain and improve this country's military.

Competition

While there is no shortage of books on remote viewing to compete with, what makes Matrix Intelligence stand out is what the others dance around but don't have:

Major Ed Dames. Not a single book claiming authenticity on the subject published in the last ten years has failed to mention him in one way or another, but few have the details

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only he can offer. Whether it is to praise or vilify him, Ed Dames is a force in the field and history of remote viewing who cannot be easily dismissed. In his own words, this book will cover what the others could not -- his life and times and the secrets he's kept.

Competing titles include:

-- Mind Hunter: Inside the FBI's Elite Serial Crime Unit, by John Douglas and Mark Olshaker (Scribner, 1995). John Douglas, the authority of the FBI's Investigative Support Unit (ISU) shares his most famous cases and how his specialty of "criminalpersonality profiling" helped identify accurate profiles to catch some of the nation's most notorious killers. Dames' book will follow a similar format in sharing his most important cases, and shares his fascinating method of remote viewing that predicted the Madrid train bombings and helped locate missing airman Steve Fossett.

-- The Field: The Questfor the Secret Force of the Universe, by Lynne McTaggart, (Harper Collins, updated edition 2008). McTaggart, an investigative journalist, describes scientific discoveries that point to a unifying concept in nature, a cobweb of energy that links everything in the universe harnessed through techniques such as remote viewing. While McTaggart's book takes a broader, conceptual approach, Dames' Matrix Intelligence is focused specifically on remote viewing proves its validity through real case studies.

n Remote Viewers: The Secret History of America's Psychic Spies, By Jim Schnabel, (Dell Publishing, 1997). The true story of the Pentagon's attempts to develop the perfect tool for espionage: psychic spies. These psychic spies, or "remote viewers," were able to infiltrate any target, elude any form of security and never risk a scratch. While this book provides an interesting introduction to remote viewing'S origins, Dames is product of the Pentagon program and a recognized authority on the subject of remote viewing who readers will turn to.

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n The Seventh Sense: The Secrets of Remote Viewing as Told by a Psychic Spyfor the Us. Military, By Lyn Buchanan, (Simon & Schuster, 2003). Lyn Buchanan tells his view of nearly a decade in the Army intelligence Remote Viewing Unit. Ed Dames presents current, real life cases ripped from the headlines.

n Entangled Minds: Extrasensory Experiences in a Quantum Reality, by Dean Radin, (Simon & Schuster, 2006). Radin shows how we know that psychic phenomena such as telepathy, clairvoyance and remote viewing are real, based on scientific evidence culled from thousands of controlled lab tests. Matrix Intelligence focuses on real-world remote viewing cases.

n The Stargate Chronicles: Memoirs of a Psychic Spy, By Joseph McMoneagle, (Hampton Roads, reissue, 2002). Joseph McMoneagle was known as "Remote Viewer 001" in the United States Army's previously top-secret classified Stargate program. He and his work have been featured in Newsweek, Time Magazine, Reader's Digest, and on ABC's Nightline and CBS's 48 Hours news programs as well as prime time broadcasts both on British and Japanese television. One of the pioneers of remote viewing, this book shares the story behind RV's flagship experiment, Stargate. Matrix Intelligence is the most current title to become available on remote viewing'S latest successes.

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Annotated Table of Contents

Introduction: The Lion and The Tower.

On the morning of March 11, 2004, a series of bombs ripped through four commuter trains during the morning rush hour in Madrid killing 190 and wounding more than 1400. Five weeks before, while conducting a remote viewing workshop in Las Vegas, Major Ed Dames accurately predicts the coming terrorist attack. Bart Woodworth, one of sixty individuals in attendance at the time, describes how he and his fellow students working with Major Dames helped uncover the shocking event.

Chapter One. For Christina.

Ed Dames and his Remote Viewing Investigative Unit take on the case of Christina White, a young girl missing for nearly thirty years. The team travels to the rural community of Asotin, Washington, to recover the child's remains and find the individual responsible for her abduction and murder.

Chapter Two. The Jersey Devil.

A supposed creature of the New Jersey Pinelands, the Jersey Devil has haunted the state and surrounding areas for the past 250 years. Some residents would point a finger at Ed Dames as being the mythical beast. Growing up, he finds comfort in exploring the peat bogs and thick woods behind his home, wrecking havoc with his friends along the way. In and out of trouble with school officials and the police most of his youth; we trace Ed's interest in the occult to his joining the military where he's quickly promoted up the ranks of military intelligence. As a top spy, he works for years under assumed identities on high-value targets before being recruited into the Defense Intelligence Agency's prototype remote viewing program.

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What people can't pigeonhole they al I too oTten reject. The results we del ivered might very wei I remain secret Tor

pol itical reasons or distain, hidden I ike vague shapes in the mind waiting to be revealed in a penci I sketch.

Five weeks later, I ike so many around the world,

could only sit and watch as the bloodbath in Madrid unTolded on the evening news. My darkest Tears had been real ized. Despite accurately predicting the carnage, nothing had been done about it. At least nothing I could see. What happened in Vegas had stayed in Vegas. Perhaps one day we' I I Tind out why no one acted, why those innocent people had to die. We'l I just have to take a closer look.

Bart Woodworth

Smal I Business Owner Tempe, AZ.

Chapter One "For Christina"

You know what this is.

The phone rings, but somehow you already knew it would.

You even know who's cal I ing. Or maybe it's a song that transports you to another time, another place. The world suddenly unravels into moments -- you're at a Tuneral, or in

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a strange room, at an accident along some unfami I iar road. Anything can trigger it. Photos, a certain scent, a few random words or numbers and you're gone. Somewhere else.

It happened to phi losopher Emmanuel Swedenborg in 1789.

Having dinner with friends, he became terrified after "seeing" a hel I ish fire that had broken out in his hometown of Stockholm, some 300 mi les away. He couldn't explain it, but Swedenborg claimed to know exactly where the blaze started, the number of homes destroyed and how many people were hurt. He could even smel I the smoke. When a messenger arrived days later with news of the distant fire, the old man's eerie vision was confirmed. Down to .the last detai I. As if he'd actually been there.

Cal I it clairvoyance, ESP, remote viewing. It has many names, al I of them rooted in one special place. A vast universal I ibrary where every thought, act and idea that has ever existed or wi I I ever exist is stored. Imagine if you could tap into this wondrous place, to use its power to find lost treasure, predict catastrophes, or even solve a murder. To touch a distant fire and not get burned.

I have.

# # #

I knew nothing about Christina White that early July morning in 2004. Nothing about how she was kidnapped and

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ki I led or about her grieving fami Iy, or the fact that in over twenty-five years nothing had happened with the case. She was never found. I had no clue her short I ife would soon connect with mine, as so many others had in the past. Chi Idren, who I ike her, simply vanished one day with no rhyme or reason. Kids that just fel I off the earth.

AI I I knew watching the sunrise over the sleeping sands of Wai lea was that another night had passed in paradise.

The moon was sti I I up, suspended I ike a Chinese lantern, the air windswept and fresh. It was that perfect moment when darkness col I ides with dawn. The world holds its secrets in the morning; al I I ight seems fleeting, creating a sense of certainty wei I defined, but just out of reach. Fami liar things become foreign, a jumble of chance shapes that stir us, urge us to consciousness. Time to wake up.

So I woke up. Did what I do every morning. Have some coffee, ignore the usual phone and email messages pi I ing up, then head out to the beach berore the tourists take it over. I free dive. Have been ever since I was thirteen. No air tanks or depth gauges or anything else to keep you safe. Take a long breath and plunge into the murky unknown, just you and freedom and the big deep blue. In the warm waters off the Maui coast is the very essence of remote viewing.

No think, no thing, no one. Nothing to distract you from entering another world. It was way to escape real ity when was young. Now, it's a way in.

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Diving and remote viewing are very much al ike. One opens a door to the secrets of the sea, the other, mysteries of the unconscious. The gateway to both I ies at the surface, masked in things you can see and understand. For a freediver, it's the waves and wind, your fins moving, the second skin of the wet suit tight on your body. In remote viewing, it's the images of dai Iy I ife, the routine things we accept without question. A rundown house, a smokestack, a rich field of wi Idflowers. Perhaps the face of a young girl you've never met before. But soon wi I I.

Like free diving, RV involves a structured technique, a set of rigorous protocols designed to get you there and back in one piece. It's a discipl ined abi I ity anyone can master, a method of acquiring information that normally has no venue of expression except in rare moments of revelation or in dreams. Learn it, and you become extremely aware of everything around you, moving past shadows into a dreamscape of strange and fluid forms. You see as if through a glass darkly the patterns of another dimension distant in time and space. Interpret these patterns correctly and you're in. The universal I ibrary is open for business.

I got home around ten after free diving for two hours.

Hit about 30 meters and figured I'd better not push my luck. The ocean can be a very unforgiving place with no air to breathe. One misstep on a breath-hold ascent and you can totally black out. Quietly and unnoticed, you're dead.

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There was a lot more work waiting for me today than usual. I had spent the night before as a guest on Art

Bel I 's radio talk show, which meant tons of extra email . Being on Coast to Coast attracts al I sorts of souls trying to reach me for one reason or another. Some personal, some for business, some I really can't talk about. But one particular letter this morning stands out among the rest.

It practically jumps off my screen. A retired cop from Colorado is asking me -- imploring me -- to help solve the mystery of a missing girl from Washington State. Christina White. His name is Paul Ramsay, an ex-officer from Eagle Rock who quit the force just after the Kobe Bryant debacle. The special treatment the basketbal I star received sickened him, and the ease with which his high-priced defense team outmaneuvered bumbl ing prosecutors pushed him over the edge. He just couldn't stomach al I the pol itical crap anymore, something a grizzled old army spy I ike me can understand.

Ramsay says he met Christina's older sister at a local hospital where they both worked after trading in his badge for a new career as an emergency room tech. The morbid story she told about the abduction shocked him and he's been itching to do something about it for a long time. When he heard detai Is about my Project GOldeneye on the program last night, he felt compel led to write. He figured since Goldeneye's mission is to find kids who can't be found by traditional means, it was at least worth a shot to reach me.

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Up to now, ongoing pol ice investigations had uncovered nothing. Not Christina, not one new piece of evidence, nothing. The case remained open on the pretty 12-year-old who left home one chi I Iy spring afternoon and never returned. Worse yet, the animal responsible for taking her was sti I I at large. The very idea this guy was out walking the streets free as a bird was keeping Ramsay up at night. He wants me in on this bad. To him, I'm some kind of an occult super-detective, a cosmic Colombo. He wants my team of remote viewing investigators and me to come to the town of Asotin, Washington, where the troubles began. Where he hopes this nightmare wi I I finally come to an end.

# # #

The former cop is stunned when I get him on the phone.

suppose he didn't think I'd cal I, at least not this soon.

His voice is a I ittle higher up the register than I thought it would be, but he sounds strong and in control of himself. He thanks me for contacting him, says how much it means to everyone involved. I ask him if he has anything on Christina for me. He draws a long breath before answering.

"I won't waste your time," he says. "Just have a short story from a local newspaper."

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tel I him to send it along, that every I ittle bit helps. Again he takes a breath, this time fol lowed by a surge of emotion, which seems out of character for him.

"So, we' I I be seeing you in Asotin -- 1'1 I make al I the arrangements -- you won't have to do a thing."

I hesitate now. He's going too fast. Pushing a little too hard. Desperation is no place to start anything, especially something this compl icated. It's taken nearly thirty years for this horror to find me, might take a tad longer to produce some results.

"Get back to you on that, okay?" I say. End of conversation.

Ramsay's background material shows up a New York minute later. It isn't very much, only a weathered blurb scanned from the Lewiston Morning Tribune dated Apri I 30, 1979. Nothing there of any real use to me, simply a statement of fact. A frightening moment frozen in time forever.

ASOTIN, WA. -- A County sheriff's posse

has launched a search for a 12-year-old Asotin girl who disappeared Saturday night. The missing girl is Christina White, daughter of Betty Eminger, The girl was last

reported seen at the Asotin County Fair.

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I get really pissed when I read this. It's that anxious instant when you look at something already knowing what it is. Though I can't be sure if Christina is al ive or dead, the story conjures a rush of murderous scenarios in my mind. I can see her at the county fair, the sound of laughter and music everywhere, the Ferris wheel creaking round and round. She's so happy eating her kettle corn by the handful, playing with friends. To her, this is a place fi I led with magic not dread. How could she know she's being fol lowed, hear the overlapping rhythm of the man's footfal I just behind her. The dark one, the lover of shadows and dense I ife, the swarming air of chi Idren. His victims.

He's watching her, I can feel it. Watching and waiting. When it's done, I imagine Christina lying in the darkness where he took her, where she fel I spread out on the floor of some dinghy room, face buried in cold wood. Or was it something even worse?

A lengthy web search turns up nothing. Not so much as a mention of her name anywhere, as if she never existed, completely forgotten by the world. It takes a couple of hours more of this, but I eventually find what I'm looking for. A picture. A grainy out of focus black-and-white photograph featured on some bizarre ani ine sleuthing site with a host of other lost kids, It's Christina, maybe the

last picture ever taken of her. A chi I I runs through me. Some images just stick with you, especially those of

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chi Idren who get stolen and hurt. There she is, a little chubby, sti I I carrying some baby fat, smooth skin, long hair, bright eyes beaming with typical adolescent excitement about everything. The photo is at once private and thoroughly publ ic, a singularly iconic image of chi Idhood innocence. The face of purity before evi I took a hand.

What the picture captures -- what lingers -- is a shared

intimacy with others now shared with me. This photo wi I I prove important over the course of any future investigation. It reminds me what needs to be done. What has to be done. It also makes me madder than hel I.

Sti I I, I hesitate. Not because it's something I haven't done before. I've used remote viewing to find missing kids for years, their broken bodies, who did it to them and why. I hesitate because of the pain. The pain such a search causes fami I ies should it prove unsuccessful. As a father, I know having a chi Id disappear is the worst possible hel I anyone can go through. When chi Idren are abducted they're inevitably ki I led after being sexually abused by the monsters that took them. That's why I launched Project Goldeneye in the first place. It's a human monster hunt. But I ike any hunt, you have to be wary of not accidentally becoming the hunted, There's a power curve on the part of some parents I get involved with that isn't always pleasant to be around. For them or for me. It begins with grief, when the official pol ice investigation

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has gone cold and they're at their wit's end. Most suspect their case wi I I fal I off the radar, but there isn't much they can do about it. Just stand by as the press and pol ice heap endless attention on them for a lousy week or two whi Ie the story grabs ratings. Then when nothing turns up, and interest begins to wane, watch helplessly as their chi Id is kicked to the curb, exi led to the back of some mi Ik carton or sad footnote on an obscure web page. "We'l I get in touch when we have more," is the usual refrain.

Parents are freaked out angry after that. They want justice, but it never comes. It's an act of desperation by the time they cal I on me. I'm the proverbial "last resort." Most are grateful when we step in, but that can change fast. Since you're the final hope, you're the one who takes the ful I brunt of their rage if you come up empty handed. You said you'd find their baby and didn't del iver. They begin despising you, a sentiment I completely understand, but one that makes getting the job done even tougher. Ever try helping someone who wants to bury you?

It's the same with law enforcement. That's why I make it a rule not to work with them. The only dirrerence with cops is, they resent people I ike me right from the get-go. Very few states use remote viewers, Florida being the exception. Most others are loath to mention us. We're lumped into the same category as some demented B-movie psychic I iving in a tacky trai ler on the outskirts or town.

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The kind that latch onto vulnerable fami I ies under the guise of caring, only to re-victimize them when their so-cal led findings turn out to be crap. The kind of phonies who give people I ike me a bad name. The pol ice rightfully don't want such charlatans in their knickers, but they're not always on their game either. Sometimes cops won't even cooperate with each other, let alone with me.

A good illustration is JonBenet Ramsey, the tiny beauty queen found brutally murdered in her own home the day after Christmas. Her mother Patsy once lamented in a TV interview "the truth wi I I preva ii," but she certa i n Iy d i dn 't get to see it. She died waiting for a cal I that never came. Four separate law enforcement agencies fought for that case and noth i ng happened. I twas c I ass i c Keystone Cops as the

publ ic's shock over the crime soon began to share equal time with its growing dismay at the inept pol ice investigation. So then here I come, a decorated mi I itary officer who's located hostages and terrorists around the globe tel ling them how it's done. If I succeed, it means they didn't do the i r job right, and cops don't take very kind I y to that sort of thing. They usually run your butt out of town.

Too many cases ended this way with Project GOldeneye.

There was Leah Freeman, the 15-year-old whose body was found in a wooded area outside of Coqui I Ie, Oregon. Stephanie Condon, only 14 when she disappeared whi Ie babysitting. Ashley Pond and Miranda Gaddis, the seventh graders who

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searchers discovered buried under a concrete slab in a barrel and tool shed box in the backyard of their ki Iler's shabby house. We weren't exactly warmly welcomed on those investigations but volunteered anyway, supplying ground and aerial reconnaissance teams in support of law enforcement and the National Center for Missing and Exploited Chi Idren. Despite that, my unit became the focus of publ ic outrage when things didn't work out. The success we enjoyed in

simi lar cases in Japan and Europe seemed to mean nothing to anybody. It was somehow our fault these heinous crimes went unsolved, our fai I ing the authorities went out of their way to trash us at every turn. When stacks of hate mai I addressed to "Hey Asshole" hit my doorstep, I thought it best to end operations on Project Goldeneye. Permanently.

But my conversation with Paul Ramsay moves me. His desire for a ful I accounting of what happened to Christina is genuine. I don't need remote viewing to see it's coming from the heart. The fact he's a cop who actually wants to work with us ratchets up my interest. When my people rol I out of a car with bundles of equipment, he can explain what we're doing to the local pol ice, maybe even get them to

I isten to us for a change. With a trained cop aboard we

also have a very capable search and rescue man, someone who knows how to keep people al ive when they're busted up. Most important, Ramsay has the complete confidence of Christina's

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fami Iy. He says they' I I support us no matter what happens. That's an enormous weight off my shoulders.

The more I think about it, the better this al I sounds.

Normally, time is of the essence when I'm asked to help with a missing persons or abduction investigation, it's al I too often a race against the clock. But that's not an issue here. Because of the strange circumstances surrounding Christina's disappearance and the eagerness of the individuals involved, I decide to take the case. It's

unl ikely any progress wi I I be made finding her if I don't. But we definitely have our work cut out for us on this one. It's the coldest damn case I've ever seen.

# # #

log onto my Matrix Intel I igence Agency website. The Remote Viewing Investigation Unit has to be brought in, the wheels set in motion for Christina. Ramsay couldn't have picked a better time to get us. We're currently between assignments for various cl ients, coming off work on approaching catastrophic earth changes and a form of bovine AIDS that can be transmitted to chi Idren. We also recently dropped the bombshel I that North Korea would test its first nuclear weapon by the end of the year. The press of course ignored us, but much to the chagrin of my critics (and Korean dictator Kim Jong I I), our prediction was right on

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the money. The nuke blew several months later, just as we said it would.

Matrix is a private consulting group, a think tank's think tank where I serve as executive director. The name isn't taken from the hit movie, but rather from the man who first coined it, Max Planck, the father of Quantum Theory. Planck cal led it "The Divine Matrix," an energy field that connects everything in al I creation, al I we love and hate create and experience, the sum of our innermost fears and desires. Carl Jung described the phenomena as "Universal Unconscious" -- "The Mind of God" to renowned astrophysicist Steven Hawking. For me, The Matrix is something real and practical, a way to gain direct knowledge of inaccessible targets, both mi I itary and civi I ian. A noble tool to boldly go where no mind has gone before.

I generate a search term, CHRISTINA WHITE/NOW. The term represents the target data that must be found, This is for my eyes only, fi led in a case folder and stapled shut. No one is privy to this information except me. No need to set the team's psychic apparatus flashing with al I the wrong signals. These strict measures are taken to avoid "front loading" -- bogging down the viewer with too many clues too soon. We can't assume anything about the target, regardless of the avai lable evidence or conclusions drawn by others.

An RV session needs to be done bl ind, there can be no preconceived notions or an accurate transfer of information

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from the unconscious to the conscious mind is impossible. The arrogant part of the brain that thinks it knows everything always gets in the way, distorting and contaminating the flow of data. The mind hates what it can't understand. It compensates by trying to make something identifiable out of blurred and indistinct images. Imagination must be separated out for a viewer to stay focused, to stop it from fi I I ing in the blanks with rubbish. Think of it as tuning in the fl ickering signal of a far off radio station. Get the frequency right, cut through the storm of static, and the station comes in loud and clear.

Next is the target reference number, a set of eight random numbers to further mask what I want from the team.

AI I they get are the numbers, and that's al I they'l I need.

A trained remote viewer acquires a signal I ine from the reference number, locks onto it, then decodes the data to uncover the essence of a target -- that thing which makes it uniquely what it is. Using only my numbers, they wi I I train their mind's eye on a separate real ity that should lead us right to Christina. The numbers are Christina.

The reference number I use for this mission: 9290/4097. This is Stage I in remote viewing, the al I-important phase that al lows the viewer to make initial target contact. Properly executed, Stage I is the very foundation of remote viewing. It maintains structure throughout a session so no one wanders off the reservation. Contrary to what most

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people bel ieve, we don't cool down before remote viewing, no meditating or chanting or zoning out. We're shooting for a concert pianist's state of mind, a heightened hyperconsciousness that el iminates al I distractions. No boss glaring at you, no bi I Is to be paid, no mother-in-law coming to visit. The more the noise inside your brain fades, the stronger the signal I ine grows. After that, it doesn't matter if the target is in another room or another planet. You zero in I ike a laser on sights and sensations existing anywhere at any time along any point in the universe.

In Stage I I, we increase the connection, obtaining information that includes sounds, textures, temperature, tastes and smel Is. Visuals such as colors, luminescence and contrasts. It's in Stage I I I that we touch the target, making a sketch of it using only a penci I and paper to draw what you "see." We begin here with ideograms, spontaneous impressions -- a staccato of irregular shapes, sometimes straight, sometimes just odd squiggly I ines. Written characters symbol izing a thing without indicating the sounds used to say it. There is no scale to an ideogram, no relevance to the actual size 01 the target. It can be almost anything, mountains or structures, air or water, even movement, Ask a chi Id to draw a sunny day. What you get at the start is an ideogram.

At some point during the session, if you're lucky, the viewer's attention is so strongly directed toward the target

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that conscious awareness becomes spl it between his physical location and the target site. This is bi location, a physical rather than spiritual phenomenon. A person experiencing it can interact with their surroundings as normal, experience sensations and manipulate objects exactly as if they were there, when they're not. The Franciscan monk Padre Pio was said to posess this ski I I. Many eyewittnesses attested to seeing him simultaneously on different continents. Some claimed to smel I him. The odors associated with his presence were described by some as roses and by others as tobacco. Quite a mix.

Finally, a site template is created in Stage IV to enter al I we have seen. Target contact is often profound here, you never forget it. Observe, remember and record.

From talking with Paul Ramsay to tasking my team takes about two days, but the payoff is immediate. Sketches begin streaming in from across the country. It doesn't take a brain surgeon to interpret the drawings, connect the dots and there they are. I can see tracts of open land, mountainous vistas strewn with rocks and boulders. But this is no desolate moonscape, the terrain in the unit's sketches al I share a simi lar theme. A deserted landscape completely overgrown with tal I weeds and grass and dense fol iage, each area ringed by rol I ing hi I Is to one side, tree-I ined paths shrouded in darkness to the other. And there's water.

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The Stage I I "fee ling component" is com i ng in strong as wei I; written down in the order each viewer perceives them. Word descriptors are attached to the sketches, words I ike "flow i ng" and "co I d" and "wet to the touch." More fo I lows, one team member repeats the feel ing of something "gritty," and "earthy," the sound of "rhythmic rustl ing" close by the target. Another hears a "metal I ic" noise accompanied by

"gr i nd i ng" and the clamor of rush i ng fI u i ds. My fi rst impulse is to say this a place of water where something mechanical is involved, but I stop myself. Though a real time picture is emerging of a possible crime scene here, the clues by themselves mean nothing. It's I ike trying to decipher a jigsaw puzzle using only individual pieces. As the project manager, it's my duty to make everything fit.

To see the big picture.

Based on my review of the team's sketches, I find what they've uncovered about the target isn't very encouraging. Among the many impressions they've viewed, the one thing missing is a person. We don't have a human here, there's no sense of personal movement, of a I ife being I ived I ike you and me. No common everyday emotions. A young girl would be playing with her friends, talking about boys, eating, sleeping -- something. What we have is a non-being, an absence of humanity. I'm left with only one conclusion.

Christina White is dead.

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The phone rings. The noise rattles me and I quickly pick it up. "What took you so long?" I say.

It's Brent Mi I ler, one of my best RV investigators, someone who worked his way up from a wet behind the ears novice to a ful I member of the unit. His voice is tortured in a way to sound I ike the bending of natural law, I ike a rock or a tree stump trying to speak.

"Th i s person we want, she's a I itt leg i r I - - yes?" "Yes," I answer, amazed at how the accuracy of remote viewing sti I I knocks me off my feet after al I these years. Armed with only a number, Brent knows who the target is.

"Go on," I say.

"She's been missing for a very long time." "That's right."

An extended si lence passes between us before another

word i s spoken. "She's gone," he says f i na I I Y .

"I know."

Dead si lence this time. Brent is clearly upset. "So what are we going to do about it?"

"Let's bring her home," I tell him.

I have much the same conversation with other members of the unit that day, but I keep the dialogue to a minimum.

1'1 I see them soon enough in the town of Asotin, Washington.

# # #

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Last I ight drained into the Blue Mountains, turning the tops a soft cold purple. A sl ight red orange shaft of sunshine sti I I prevai led as dark clouds I ingered overhead. It was almost sundown when I arrived in Asotin.

A storm was coming.

pul I my rented car up to the motel we al I agreed to stay in. It isn't very fancy, but has a smal I conference room where we can meet for more session work. I I ike Asotin. Reminds me of how Maui was before the developers ruined it. Nestled on the banks of the Snake River, it's a quiet vi Ilage, a popular last stop for tourists to fi I I up on gas and beer before heading out to visit Hel I 's Canyon along the Oregon Idaho border. The kind of classic smal I town you see in a storybook, with a general store and quaint I ittle post office and gleaming white church with a pointed steeple. The church stands out, it seems uneasy perched along the main road, its perfectly coiffed grounds uncomfortable being so close to hot greasy blacktop. Not an easy fit for the old place, it belongs to another time.

The name Asotin comes from the Nez Perce language meaning "place of eel" from the abundance of eels that once I ived here. Now it's al I steel head trout and sturgeon waggl ing downriver. No more eels. It's also home to bighorn sheep and elk, as wei I as the Asotin County Fair, complete with a rodeo and rodeo queen, a I ivestock auction and ful I dress parade. The fair's mission statement is

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posted al lover town every Apri I to let everyone know exact I y what they're in for. I treads: "To prov i de recognition and inspiration to county youth and youth leaders for encouragement toward greater achievement."

Christina was lost at this county fair.

My room is okay, sl ightly grimy around the edges, but okay. I make the mistake of opening the refrigerator door and peering inside. Somebody left some food the cleaning staff obviously missed, and a strange hissing sound is escaping from the half-eaten meat wrapped in a Ziploc bag. It's a sickening crackl ing noise, I ike what a body decomposing might sound I ike in slow motion, the freezedried sizzle of molecules boi I ing and breaking down, resolving sol id matter to free vapor. There's a single hair on the bag too, a thin brown hair that if I touched it would mean sharing an intimacy with some faceless food handler or faraway stranger's I ife. I'm not al I that picky, no one who's served in the mi I itary has that luxury, but I can't help think what strange passage this hair made to get into my fridge. From one person to another across vast stretches of time and space and places and diseases and unclean foods. It's enough to make you puke.

It was after seven and the bloated clouds outside had turned progressively darker. They were almost black now, and the temperature dropped. I could feel the approaching storm, a feel ing simi lar to what happens when you touch

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static electricity, I ike when you take the clothes out of a dryer and separate the socks from the shirts. There would be I ightning, the hair on my body stood on end and my fingers were tingl ing. A second or two later it struck, a razor sharp bolt out of the sky branching out many times

I ike the I imbs of a tree, generating a rumbl ing thunder clap reverberating down the canyons outside. A soft raindrop ping hit the window ledge in countable taps at first, then banging everywhere fi I I ing up the motel's drains and downspouts. A passing housekeeper tel Is me it's an unusual storm considering the season, but I'm used to unusual.

I compose my face and walk into the conference room.

They're al I waiting for me, my investigators, seated in armchairs around a large table in the center of the room. There's Brent Mi I ler, the software engineer from Las Vegas with an 10 of about 160. Alex DiChiara from Sausal ito, a former Greco Roman wrestler into commercial real estate management. Joe Bush, a master gunsmith and father who works as an insurance bounty hunter. And Dawn Stoltz, a Virginia Beach-based massage therapist, the youngest member 01 the team and one 01 our most gifted. Each has taken last minute red eyes to be here, they wouldn't have missed this mission for the world. They're from al I walks of life, volunteers paying their own way wherever the job takes us. They're the best, which is why I recruited them. They've worked hard to join the unit, taking 120 hours of one-on-one

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training with me, spending six months on probation unti I could be sure their work was top drawer and consistently dependable. I never take in professional psychics. They can usually find a target, but couldn't tel I you exactly where it is to save their I ives. It's I ike me sending a Delta Force squad into a jungle hotspot bl indfolded. They need to have the target down cold or it's a massacre for sure. I don't I ike massacres.

A frantic sense of urgency fi I Is the room. We only have 48 hours in Asotin, that's al I that time and money wi I I al low. Two days to find out what happened to Christina. As we're about to get started, Paul Ramsay strol Is into the room bigger than I ife. He's got to be six feet five at least, a good 250 pounds, a real bruiser. Paul shakes your hand, not the other way around. He'l I be joining us as an adjunct team member, an observer and I iaison with local authorities should the need arise. More importantly, we'l I be able to bounce our hypotheses off him, see if the crime theories we come up with are feasible. He can also alert us to what laws we're breaking along the way. No escaping that in this I ine of work, being crafty comes with the territory.

We've already determined in private RV sessions that this is the right state and region where Christina vanished. The next step is narrowing down the target to specific geographic or manmade landmarks that wi I I ultimately lead us to her remains. It could be a stadium, or a roller coaster

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or Mount Rushmore, we just don't know. We need to identify a landmark and get an anchor hold on it. Even working

bl ind, if the team fol lows the protocols correctly, we should be lead directly to her.

The team knows the routine. They pick up their

penci Is, write their names down, date and time, and then launch immediately into Stage I. The search term I use for this session is CHRISTINA WHITE/NEAREST SIGNIFICANT FEATURE. The target reference numbers remains the same. 6213/5798.

They have two seconds.

The images come one after another in machinegun bursts.

Flashing, fleeting. Riveting. What starts out as a series of squiqqly and straight penci I marks quiCkly take the form of recognizable shapes. The first contain sloping lines spiral ing from the top of their pages to the bottom. Brent says they're cables or wires because they rol I from a great height going down. Dawn has the same thing. Definitely wires of some sort.

I tel I them to try again. Define it more. They repeat the process, their eyes dropping down, penci Is to paper, moving in automatic response. Joe's eyes I ight up with that "Eureka" look in them, convinced that what we're seeing are

just ordinary telephone I ines. Alex leans over and puts his usua I cyn i ca I two cents in. "No way. It's a sk iii ft," he says smi I ing. We're looking at a ski I ift here. I'd stake Brent's life on it."

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Brent doesn't laugh and neither do I. The consensus is a ski I ift. But this is no democracy, agreeing on things doesn't count for much here, I tel I them al I to stop what they're doing. There's a serious speed bump they're hitting, a stumbl ing block that could muck up the session. It's cal led Analytical Overlay (AOL) , data that results when a viewer attempts to interpret what they're seeing by themselves, imagining the target out of step with the structure we're using. This kind of data is almost always wrong. Analyzing what you see on your own clogs up the perception equipment. A mystical indigestion sets in halting the flow of information, rendering you inert to any new data. The forces behind imagination are powerful. They have to be dumped right away for this thing of ours to work.

"No boulders in the river guys," I warn them. "Declare your AOL's and chuck them. Just draw what you see."

More sketches. A cl iff-I ike structure with wire mesh appears. They a I I have it in one form or another, it's clear enough to make out. The crisscrossing I ines, the feel ing of tensi Ie strength. I would say it's the kind 01 mesh they use to hold back rain soaked hi I Isides, but I wouldn't say it to them. No AOL's thank you.

On top of the cl iff is an old house. No mistaking it, even the worst artist in the world can render a penci I sketch of a house. But it's not enough. None of the drawings are enough. They could be anything. The cl iff

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just a cl iff anywhere, the old house an old house in any town. We need to narrow it down, find a unique feature that exists nowhere else. Something special.

Then it happens.

A strange corkscrew- like obj ect mater i a I i zes. I te I I them to redo it, draw it a few more times. Again and again the feature appears. They've connected to the same image as if they were one person. No variances, no shades of gray.

I tel I them to describe what they feel. The goal here IS aesthetic impact, to put them in the picture as an FBI

profi ler would. To find out how the site makes you feel as if you were physically there. I give them fifteen seconds max for this.

"Metal or heavy plastic," Dawn says. "It's shiny and reflective. I'm sure of it."

Brent raises his head and looks at me. To him, it's something going around and around, a sound of wind rushing. Maybe a vacuum hose? Alex doesn't think so. It's a lot bigger and nastier, and he's not sure if it's pouring or sucking things in. He begins sketching movement using arrowheads to illustrate the direction the object is taking.

"What are we looking at?" I ask.

No one answers. The sound of the rain fal I ing outside and the low rumb I e of thunder is a I I there is. I turn to Paul Ramsay. He shrugs and says nothing. His expression tel Is me he's just glad to be here. Glad we're here.

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"Water. Running water and concrete holding it back,"

Dawn says. "I can fee lit. "

"Is it the Snake River?" I ask her.

"No. Not the river. Something manmade."

A I ex sm i I es aga in. "And it's co I d," he says. "She's buried near water," Brent concludes.

I shut my eyes and I ean back i n my cha i r. I twas time to ca I lit a day. I ha I t the sess i on because the team is trying to wrap things up, to reach a conclusion with the information they've collected. That's a huge no-no.

This is what the mind does in the workaday I ife when it's trying to solve an unknown. It proclaims with certainty that the problem must be this or that, or something else. Not in remote viewing. This sort of thinking is forbidden. What you get is what you have, just the facts. No thinking.

I instruct everyone to get some sleep. They're going to need it. The aftereffects of a remote viewing session can be I ike a hallucinogenic hangover, leaving you fried and on edge. Everything becomes more intense afterwards. A door closing can sound I ike a steel bank vault, a few birds chirping I ike a flock of thousands screaming in the forest. Concentrating that much force on barely perceptible images leaves you stumbl ing and spent, "bouncing off the wal Is," as we old army boys used to cal I it. Normally after an hour or so you're good as new, but there have been those who didn't quite make the trip home with al I their luggage intact.

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Knowing when to stop is an important component of remote viewing. The alternative can be frightening.

The session was over. We'l I head out bright and early tomorrow to see what we can find in the "real world."

# # #

The next morning is fabulous. No more rain, it looks I ike summer again in Asotin, the warm sun baking the rocky grassy slopes so prevalent here. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear I was back home in the high desserts of Cal ifornia where I grew up. Where I had to grow up.

We take two cars, Paul on point with me to help steer us around. What is sti I I unknown is how far apart the features we viewed back at the motel are. This is our first time scouting the area, so they could be within a few yards of each other or hundreds of mi les apart.

We drive speculatively past several nearby towns to see if we can spot anything fami I iar, see if we're at least in the right neighborhood. The surrounding communities all look much the same, sparsely populated, wei I-maintained houses with cute white fences and sparkl ing garage doors. Lots of fami I ies and pets and kids everywhere. Lots of kids. The mel low machinery of sma I I town I ife works I ike a charm here, but strip away the fa~ade and who knows what

I ies beneath. A ki I ler for sure, in the case of Asotin.

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We keep going, from the edge of one vi I lage to another.

Some want to turn back. They want to bl ink and find themselves back at the hotel surrounded by their things, not seated in a cramped car on some wi Id goose chase. But we continue to even remoter areas, the air outside growing

sti I I and thick as we move, as if existing under a spel I.

can hear a smal I dog barking in the distance.

This goes on for too long. But after searching across conjunctional state I ines for what feels I ike years, we finally locate the first feature. The cl iff-I ike structure covered in wire mesh we sketched -- exactly as we sketched it. A graded hi I Iside with steel webs being used to hold muddy ground back from the highway. Construction crews were sti I I working it, adding more wire to sl ipping hi I Isides. The discovery electriTies the team. It didn't matter whether you bel ieved it or not, there it was. A tangible excitement sweept through us, an energizing mental current

I ike a glow passing Trom one to another. It was the thri I I OT Tirst contact, as landTal I must have Telt to Columbus. But this was only the beginning.

I Tee I Dawn grip me near the elbow, not so much a gesture of surprise but one OT physical support. I turn to her, she has the pal lor of someone about to pass out, a halT creamy white with just a hint OT purple. She bats her eyelashes a few times and then focuses in Brent's direction. So do I. He's pointing to a biuTT directly above us.

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Her race is white as a sheet. She's round a smal I tattered jacket, the kind a I ittle girl might wear. A purple and pink jacket with a manuracturers label rrom the 1970s on it -- the same decade Christina disappeared in. Then, an even more shocking discovery is made. A bone is uncovered within several reet or the ragged old coat. I touch it, I irt it rrom the ground and hold it up ror everyone to see. Kerri and Paul stare wide-eyed at me. They know as wei I as I do that I'm in a world or trouble ir this bone turns out to be evidence and I've tampered with it. They advise me to immediately cal I in the proper authorities to cover my butt. But I don't. I make a command decision instead. We'l I bring the objects to a lab lor analysis, I tel I them. No coroner, no cops. Paul thinks it over and reluctantly agrees. The bone doesn't really look al I that human anyway, and the jacket seems too sma I I ror a twelve year old. And since I've already put my hands on them, what harm could there be in keeping al I 01 it under our control. There's a lab in town at the regional medical center so we' I I give the items to them and see what they come up with. It's al I we have, and it isn't very much.

More bad news rol lows. Kerri says the Snake River, which runs just reet adjacent to our search area, has a long history or rlooding. Periods or heavy rainral I and the spring runorr or mountain snow pack have caused Asotin and several other counties to be declared states or emergency

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many times in the past. A flash flood struck the creek once after a storm ki I I ing two young chi Idren, both members of the same fami Iy. The seasonal flooding consistently affects growth in the area, some years washing away vast amounts of land, depositing fresh new sediment in others. With this cycle going on for who knows how long, there's no tel ling how deep or misplaced Christina's remains could be. Or even worse, just washed downstream on some lazy summer afternoon much I ike today.

As discouraging as al I this is, my team is sti I I

wi I I ing to continue. They're ready to do whatever it takes. But as always, if you want to hear god laugh, just tel I him your plans. Life has something else in mind for us.

A chopper suddenly appears overhead I ike a giant hungry insect. The ABC NEWS markings on its side are clear even from where we stand. And if that weren't bad enough, Kerri tel Is me stories about us are bound to start coming out in the local media. We'l I be the best un-kept secret in town. She must have remote viewed the situation, because not long after more unwanted attention shows up. A contingency from the Army Corps of Engineers steps in ordering us to cease

al I digging operations. We're on government land so pack up and leave or face a jUdge. Maybe even spend a night behind bars. The look on their faces tel Is me they mean business, They'd actually do it. If the Corps had been this serious about hurricane Katrina, the New Orleans bowl never would

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have fi I led, fami I ies wouldn't have suffered on rooftops, and the Superdome wouldn't have devolved into chaos. This seems a bit over the top for a simple case of trespassing. It makes me wonder. Is there more going on here?

The impact of the stop order reverberates I ike a plane crash. Not a crash-landing, mind you, but a ful I-blown crash. You can prepare for a crash-landing; there's at least some time before it happens to consider your options. A crash is too sudden, there aren't any what-ifs involved.

Not a damn thing you can do about it. Despite local support and the assistance from people in power Paul's spoken with, the Corps' order proves a fatal blow to the operation. The digging comes to an end. We load up our gear and head for the cars. No words are exchanged. What is there to say?

I remain behind for a few minutes more I istening to the wind howl down the canyon. No matter how right it is, no matter how much it screams its case or argues its rights to this site, the truth cannot be swayed. Christina is here, I'm sure of that. As sure as I am this isn't over.

Not by a long shot.

# # #

The drive back to town isn't a total loss. It's so beautiful here, the wide vistas of natural basalt, the mountains and water and blue sky. I find myself thinking

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about the eels that once ruled the waterways. Would they ever return? There was some talk about folks wanting to reintroduce them to the Snake River, but it was just talk. Life in Asotin is about tradition and people here care about nature, but not in a tree-hugging sort of way. These people are farmers, and if you're a farmer, how can you not care about nature? I've got my fingers crossed for the eels.

turn to Dawn as we head down the road back to the motel. Out of nowhere she begins to laugh, informs me one of the locals threatened her with bodi Iy harm if we told the world what a perfect place Asotin is. Seems they don't want any of our violent city ways infi Itrating their little private Eden. She didn't have the heart to tel I them they were already too late.

The country road we're on begins sloping downhi I I and curving to the left on a steep grade. When we come around the turn I see that sparkl ing white church again with its high steeple rising over the road near the end of town. But it looks different somehow in the low I ight, spooky and haunted, one of those places I used to whistle past when

was a boy to get my courage up. A kid's worst nightmare.

The good-byes at the motel are quick, no need to make this more painful then it is. Not because we're parting company, but the fact we didn't get what we came for. Except for the bone and jacket, which didn't get my hopes up, the ground truth of finding Christina's remains had

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eluded us. It wasn't anyone's fault; she'd been missing for far too long. We would have had to dig up the whole damn river val ley to find her and there just wasn't enough time. It's always I ike this. When you're sleep-deprived and crazed, the race feels I ike it's never going to end, the back-and-forth of it moves at a hyper pace. But when it's finally over, and you haven't accompl ished anything, you real ize things are ultimately tied to the moon and sun. There just wasn't enough time for us.

I put on my best supportive smi Ie and wave as the team heads out to the airport for their fl ights. Paul takes off in his car too; he'l I join me tomorrow once more to tie up some loose ends in town. It begins raining again.

The storm tonight is more humid than the last one.

It's so wet even the wal Is of my room are perspiring. Outside is a downpour, the streets empty, people scurrying in and out of the motel trying to stay dry. I look at myself in a smal I mirror propped up on the night table under a lamp. Then I think -- what am I doing? No matter what happens in the field, I have never abandoned my role as commander before. I can smoke, get drunk, hang out unti I the sun comes up, but I have never tolerated fai lure. Not

on the part of my team or myself. So why am I doing it now?

We may not have been able to find Christina, but what about her abductor? I could have tasked my people with that job, but uncovering hard evidence had to come first.

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Without it, nothing else would fol low. Putting the cart before the horse doesn't cut it with the cops. I couldn't have very wei I claimed I had the ki I ler when I didn't have the victim. Anyone who's ever watched CSI knows there's no crime without any proof -- no murder without a body. That's how it works in the real world, and in that regard, our primary mission fai led. But the secondary target remained, harder and more challenging even than the first, a dynamic encounter far removed from anything "real world." Searching for Christina's remains involved something tangible, something you could hold in your hand. Now I needed to hunt down an idea, a thought, a pattern of energy stored within the matrix. I decide to break my own rules. I'm going to remote view what actually happened to Christina. And I'm going to do it alone.

The storm is in ful I swing now, the giant weeping

wi I lows out front casting swaying shadows on the wal I. Spread out across my bed are the case notes and maps I've made, a penci I and a blank sheet of paper, the mind traveler's tools to navigate the unconscious. There's this feel ing in me I can't shake, something about that white church that sticks in my craw and won't let go. I start there. The search term I use: WHITE CHURCH.

want to know what went down in that church, if it was the place where Christina spent her last minutes on earth. This is what I tel I my mind, to reconstruct an event from

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the past as if I were there when it happened. To stretch the boundaries of perception not only beyond those of simple geography, but across the very fabric of time itself. I put penci I to paper and it comes ...

Detergent.

I sketch boxes of liquid soaps and sprays and air fresheners. I can smel I the institutional odor of cleaning materials hanging in the air. The chemical stink of it

fi I Is my nostri Is unti I I feel I ike gagging. I draw a steeple. It's the church -- I've got it. But it isn't the same church. Gone is the striking whitewash paint job that first caught my attention. This church is made of stone. It's gothic, castle-I ike, a brooding red brick structure. I'm somewhere else, but there's no doubt this is a church. There are long bi I lowing curtains drawn near the rectory,

and a closet nearby. I'm inside looking in the direction of the smel I, al I the whi Ie being many blocks away from it, my physical body sitting on an unmade bed in a cheap motel.

It's dark in the church, only a naked bulb hanging from the cei I ing flashing on and off intermittently on its own.

I see some benches, an old pair of running shoes and a kid's bike that's been taken apart piece-by-piece lying there prone on the floor. From what I can tel I, it's a girl '5 bicycle. And it's red. Blood red.

I see a I ittle girl, about ten. She's not Christina, I can make that much out, but mostly her face is a fast blur.

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She enters and then leaves quickly, her feet barely touching the floor, ghost-I ike. There's music. Lively music, a band with drums and guitar and saxophone -- a cabaret show of sorts. The sound of it rushes into the air looping deeply inward to the arching cei I ing above me then swiftly returning to earth. But why is there music in this church?

hear a frightening sound after that, a shuffl ing noise, as if someone were dragging something heavy across the floor coming towards the door. My first instinct is to take cover, but this happened so long ago I stifle the urge to conceal myself. I'm not really here, I have to remember that. I keep repeating, "Don't move ... don't move."

The dragging halts just outside my view. It's quiet for a second before the thumping of someone rummaging around inside the closet begins. Impressions surge into my brain - fingers -- sweaty palms -- a man -- in faded blue jeans.

The man fal Is to his knees and begins cleaning in frenzied obsessive strokes with a fi Ithy rag. The burled wood on the floor is a disturbing taunt to him, the more he washes the more the swirls in the grain grow with every conceivable variation of hue and texture. But no matter how hard he scrubs; he can't get rid of the illusive stain. The I ight overhead is bl inding him, a knife of white dawn with edges hacked out by notches of darkness. Lit up surfaces break into clumps and patches and break again and shrink and vanish and strange tints of red spread I ike ink around him.

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He stops and turns. He looks at me. He looks up from the floor and leisurely glances over at me. He knows I'm here.

Jesus. He has no eyes. Only a grotesque pair of hoi low black sockets.

"You have my eyes," he hisses, and then reaches for me. I jump back, taking the lamp and mirror along with me.

They slam with such force to the floor they break instantly. The sound of it snaps me, I lose the moment, I'm in the motel again, in my room. I look down, my reflection looking back at me from the shards on the hardwood. Hundreds of Ed Dames' in every piece of the shattered glass, each becoming a distinct mirror whi Ie sti I I a part of the whole. The way a single drop of water holds the same elements of the entire ocean. I recal I a priest once tel I ing me that god created nature in such a way so that one pattern would fit al I. If you could recognize yourself in that pattern, then you would know who you are. Is this who I am? Jagged and ruined, a

I ittle wi Id-eyed, but not too crazy. Yeah. That's me.

The storm finally lets up, the rain more of a light drizzle now. I look out the window. There's a bird on the windowsi I I outside in the night and I want to bel ieve it sees me too. Imagine what an impossible world it would

witness, me standing there straight as a board swathed in suddenness and sweat. So flat I could be a perch to rest on. That's why birds sing after a storm. They understand such things. I move towards it to touch it, but the motion

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of my hand frightens the bird away. And then it's gone.

The terrible images are gone too, together with the demon conjured up from hel I. I'm exhausted, but it's al I clear to me now. I know what happened to Christina.

# # #

My fl ight back to Maui is in a couple of hours, but I need to make two stops first. One is to Asotin's sheriff Wayne Weber, the other Betty Wi Iks, Christina's mom. There are some questions only she can answer; dark places only she can shine a I ight on. Betty's always been in the back of my mind, the sensibi I ities of the mother. Can't gloss that over or give it short shrift. We resurrected a very difficult time in her I ife, it was only right that I pay my respects now. And with her help, I won't walk away leaving her with nothing. Paul wi I I meet me there, it's al I been arranged. My date with the sheriff I go to alone.

At the station, Wayne Weber is pol ite as he escorts me into his office. A professional courtesy given that Paul was once part of the law enforcement fami Iy. He's even friendly, asking why he had to find out from the local paper that we were in his jurisdiction. It would have been better if I'd contacted him first, he says. His door is always open to anyone who wants to help, even to remote viewers.

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Chief Weber apparently has some history with Christina.

He was a just deputy when she vanished, and has long wanted to collar the guy who did it. According to him, she wasn't the only young lady to meet with foul play in the area. There was a series of five serial ki I I ings from the late '70s and early '80s in nearby Lewiston, Idaho. Kristen David, a 22-year-old University of Idaho student who disappeared in 1982 was bel ieved to have been murdered by the same person as Jacquel ine Mi Iler, 18, and a 35-year-old man named Steven Pearsal I. They were al I at or near the vicinity of the Lewiston Civic Theater the very same night. Eight days after her disappearance, Kristen's headless torso and legs were found along the Snake River in Clarkston. Her head and arms were found the next day. My heart jumps.

This poor kid was found along the Snake River. Exactly where we bel ieve Christina is. Where I know she is.

Authorities in Lewiston had a long-time suspect In mind, but never arrested or publ icly identified the individual, Weber explains. They couldn't because the evidence that pointed to him was circumstantial. I hesitate to inform the good sheriff that evidence gathered in remote viewing is regarded by some as about as circumstantial as evidence gets. If they cal I it that at al I.

"Do you know what I do?" I ask him.

"Sort of," Weber says. "Can't say I understand it." I grin. "Not many people do."

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"My sister-in-law reads Tarot cards I ike nobody's business, though," he adds, his face brightening. "She could tel I you what you had for breakfast this morning. Amazing how she knows things. She knows everything."

I settle back in my chair and level a stare at him, the kind that means let's get down to business. He seems

rei ieved by that, not the type of man who erUoys smal I talk. The feel ing is mutual.

"Information has come to I ight regarding our visit here," I tel I him.

Now Weber grins. "That wouldn't have anything to do with the bone and jacket you found, wou I d it?"

freeze. He knows. I don't know how he found out, but it was more than likely Kerri Sandaine who rol led over. It's understandable. Withholding evidence is no laughing matter; I can't blame her for wanting to protect herself. I'm waiting for Weber to slap the cuffs on me.

"In case you want to know, I've seen the lab results," he says.

"Yes," I answer nervous I y. " I'd like that very much." "The bone was inconclusive. Probably came from an old coyote or mule deer. Hikers out by the river find ones just I ike 'em al I the time washed up along the banks."

I nod. Sti I I waiting for the bracelets.

"Like stiff sponges, bones," Weber continues. Absorb anything. The cotton from that jacket wi I I too. Both of

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them contaminated with foreign DNA, I suspect. But 1'1 I look into it some more. Bet you're disappointed. U

I nod again. Wipe the sweat from my face. I'm thinking, he isn't going to lock me up over this! I'm not go i ng to j a i I today. I'm beg inn i ng to like th i s sher i rr.

"Got anything else?U he asks.

A loaded question. I'm not sure what to say or how to say it. But I can't let this dead end here. I've got a cop's ear, and he's cooperating with me. It's now or never.

"What would you say if I told you that Christina was murdered in that white church at the end of town?U

Weber looks at me expressionless. His eyes are piercing, but his face is a total deadpan. "I'd say that's impossible,u he answers finally.

"And why is that?U

"Been shut up for years after it got damaged in a flood. Locked up tighter than a drum. A jewel thief couldn't get in there if he tried.U

bel ieve him. The church I remote viewed was made or stone, a fact I couldn't escape. It couldn't have been this one. I'd driven rrom one end of Asotin to the other and never saw a church made of stone anywhere. Then it hits me. If I was wrong about this, than I was wrong about the ki I ler too, and the I ittle girl I saw -- that phantom I ittle girl. But how could I be so far off the mark? It's never happened to me before. Sheriff Weber pokes more holes in my theory.

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"We have a suspect you know, in Christina's case," he

says. "The I ast one to see her a live. " "How do you know that?" I say. "Because he told us."

Weber says the suspect is a man who I ived several blocks down trom the Whites' home. He won't give his name because he'd since lett town, and I ike the pol ice in Lewiston, there wasn't enough to charge him with so he had to cut him loose. Weber trowns and then stares at me tor a moment. He reaches into his drawer tor something. It's an envelope with a letter inside. He tosses it on the desk and motions tor me to open it. I hesitate.

"Not to worry. We dusted tor prints already," he says. I read the letter. It's anonymous, no date, no signature, neatly printed on the kind at plain white paper you could buy in any stationary store anywhere. The person who wrote it claims to know who took Christina, someone very close to her. "Her" -- I connect with the word instantly.

"This suspect ot yours, did he by chance have a daughter?" I ask.

"As a matter at tact he did," Weber says, raising an eyebrow. "They used to play together. We think Christina stopped by to see her after the County Fair, when she was tee I ing sick. Daughter would be about thirty now."

I look at Weber. He looks at me. Bingo.

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"Are you saying it was the ki I ler's daughter that wrote this letter?" he says.

nod.

can barely contain my excitement at this point. A sma I I town po lice ch i ef has just conf i rmed what I remote viewed. Confirmed and accepted. It takes my breath away.

"But it's not enough," Weber adds. "Not enough?"

"For a warrant. There i sn' t a judge in the county who' I I get behind what you say, not unless you have something more sol id to back it up. Do you?"

I fold my arms, look at him. "There has to be a way." Weber dashes off a note to himself. He shakes his head. "Damn interesting this remote viewing. Yes sir. Makes my sister-in-Iaw's tarot look I ike chi Id's play."

My instinct is to grab him and the both of us track down his suspect and drag him in ourselves. In a perfect world he'd probably go for it, he has that look in his eyes, the look of someone who doesn't always fol low the letter of the law. I know that look. But it's not to be.

Weber won't budge without a warrant, and I have no idea how long that wi I I take to get. My time in Asotin is over.

I think fast. Maybe there's sti I I some way to salvage al I the work we've put in here. If we could find Christina, if there was a body or identifiable remains, then we'd be in business. I ask the chief if he can somehow arrange for

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Paul and me to return to the digging site, if through his good offices we could get permission from the Corps of Engineers to try one more time. He shakes his head again and grins that grin. Not a snowbal I 's chance in hel I we'l I get to snoop around up there anymore, he tel Is me. The Feds are real tOUChy about that particular stretch of land out by the water treatment plant. The Army Chemical and Biological Defense Command stockpi les twelve percent of the nation's chemical munitions upriver from it. The chemical depot's deadly stash consists of rockets, land mines, spray tanks, and bombs containing the nerve agents GB and VX, not to mention containers loaded with the bl ister agent HD, more commonly known as "mustard gas." If any of their charming inventory found its way into the water supply or was unearthed by a couple of curious remote viewers there'd be real hel I to pay. Talk about your conspiracy theories. No way Weber is stepping into this. He I ikes his job as sheriff too much.

The chief rises from his chair and thanks me for helping renew interest in Christina's disappearance. He asks that I forward any new tips directly to him in the future. I don't know what to say. None of this makes any sense. There won't be any new tips coming, not now, not ever. We both understand who the ki I ler is, so why ask?

Weber extends his hand to me. "Nice talking to you Maj or," he says. "Wa itt i I I I te I I my s i ster- i n- I aw I met

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74.

Ed Dames. She' I I f lip. "

"Don't bother," I say. "She probably already knows."

# # #

I hear the screen door slam behind me when Paul and I enter Betty's house. The place is modest, just off the main road, walking distance to the center of town. Nothing special about it, real Americana. I feel her and her husband's eyes burning a hole in me as we walk in. It's been a long time since I notified the next of kin of a death. My legs are rubbery and about to give way under me.

Betty is open and appreciative to us, but the way she reacts when I tel I her that her daughter is gone is typical. It's how most fami I ies react when informed about the loss of a loved one. A I ittle anger, a little fal I ing apart, a desire to pretend nothing happened. That there's sti I I some ray of hope they may yet be found al ive. We sit together in the I iving room and she offers Paul and me tea, managing a sl ight smi Ie as we talk. Betty doesn't know it, but her next words could be the most important she's ever spoken.

"I was just wonder i ng," I ask. "0 i d Chr i st i na have a bike? A red bike?"

She looks at me surprised, her eyes widening. "Why yes," she says. "She did. Bought it for Christmas. How'd you know it was red? She loved that bike so much."

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A tear wei Is up in her eye as she explains how Christina was riding that bike the day she left, how she loved to think she was si lent and wispy when she was on it and barely stirred the air as she went. The pol ice fai led to recover the bike. Like Christina, it was never found.

I take a time out now to let Betty compose herself.

Much as I hate doing this, I have more questions to ask. Hard questions.

"Did you know that man, the man who lived

Betty stops me now, her face flushed with anger. "The man who ki I led my I ittle girl. It was Lance Voss. He was our neighbor ... our neighbor."

At last, the suspect has a name. There's flesh on his cursed bones. Lance Voss. I ask Betty if there's anything unusual about him, something out of the ordinary that sticks out in her mind. She thinks it over and recal Is there is.

"He's a very clean man, always washing this and scrubbing that. One time his hands were as red as beets when I saw him. Oh yeah, he was a musician too. Played the saxophone." Betty sighs and takes a long sip of her tea. "Would anybody I ike a cookie?"

Paul and I decl ine the cookie. "One more thing," say. "Did he ever play at a church here in town?"

Again, Betty takes a few moments to think it over.

"No, never. But he played at the Civic Theater in Lewiston. It used to be a Methodist church. Does that help?"

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76.

I nearly fal lout of my chair when she says that.

have the suspect, the I ittle girl, and now the church. Everything I remote viewed has come to pass. Voss is the man I saw, he has to be. It al I adds up. But one question remains. "Do you happen to know if the Civic Theater is made out of stone?" I ask.

"Why yes, as a matter of fact it is," Betty says.

"Why do you ask?"

draw a breath before answering her. Paul notices me do it, but pretends not to. "No reason in particular," I say. "That' I I do it."

Betty shifts nervously in her chair. "Doesn't matter.

It won't bring my baby back wi I I it? Nothing wi I I now."

I can only watch as the old woman cradles her head in her hands and weeps. How can I tel I her what I know? Even the pol ice can't bring Voss in. He's a suspect, not a criminal in the eyes of law. What I remote viewed won't change that. There was nothing more I could say. Death is a hungry ocean where the sl ightest disturbance attracts the nibbl ing of tormented beings. I decide it's best to leave th i ngs just as they are. I t was the right th i ng to do.

I explain I have to be going and offer Betty my deepest apologies for not bringing her daughter home. She thanks me, tel Is me I've done more to put her mind at ease than anyone else has over the years, then proceeds to give me a

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big hug. It's not easy to break the heart of an old soldier, but she manages somehow. It was time to go.

Paul crosses the room to say good-bye. He lowers his huge arm on my shoulder and has this crooked smi Ie on his face. That knowing look al I cops get when they sense you're not being completely honest with them. When you're holding back, giving them a load of shit.

"Is there something you're not tel I ing me Ed," he says. "Not a good question to ask a retired spy," I answer. The big SOB nearly snaps one of my fingers as we shake

hands. "Maybe some other time," he says, st i I I sm iii ng.

"Yeah. Depend on it."

I'm almost out the door when Paul hands me the morning paper. He tel Is me to have a look at the lead story by Kerri Sandaine. We made page one.

ASOTIN, WA. -- Ed Dames and his psychic cohorts have left town after several days of working

on the 25-year-old disappearance of Christina White. He and his team of "remote viewers" came up empty-handed. They did not find the girl's remains or her 10-speed bike.

I don't want to, yet I laugh anyway. I'm pretty sure my people won't I ike being cal led "cohorts," but at least

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they got my name right. Actually, Kerri got it al I right, as far as she knows. Sheriff Weber and I know better.

Outside, a warm summer breeze flutters across Betty's lawn. I stop to I isten, to breathe in the clean air of Asotin. For some reason, I reach into my wal let for the picture of Christina I've carried with me since this al I began. It wasn't just her I ife the bastard took who did this to her, it was everything she is and was and could have been. A lost chi Idhood that in some way reminded me of my own. Only I was sti I I here, sti I I in the dance. Sti I I thinking about her. I want to let go of the picture, to

al low the wind to carry it way, but I sl ip it back into my wal let instead. This is where it wi I I stay. For Christina.

# # #

With information provided by Major Ed Dames and his Remote Viewing Investigation Unit, the suspect in Christina White's disappearance was successfully I inked to the murders of Kristen David and Jacquel ine Mi I ler. Lewiston Pol ice Lieutenant Alan Johnson confirms that Lance Voss, in the context of interviews conducted with him regarding the Civic Theater slayings, remains a "prominent person of interest" in both cases. Voss has reportedly taken up residence in Raleigh North Carol ina where state authorities, as wei I as Lt. Johnson, continue to monitor his whereabouts.

Matrix Intelligence/Ed Dames

Christina White's case remains 0pen.