FLIPKA

Chapter Thirteen, Part One

The third Mrs. Doug Hyman, who now went by the name “Jasmine Morningstar”, expressed barely guarded disappointment when the famous Dr. Fi Butters turned out to be the smelly woman she’d picked up by the side of the road. But because she’d been able to charm a judge in Reno into ordering her daughter Meredith released to an expensive psychiatric facility, she no longer really cared. She was curious, however, curious enough to listen as I explained to both her and Ms. Peterson why the old mine entrance needed to be sealed at once. 

“Wow,” she muttered, shifting uncomfortably in the metal chair. “When I was her age, I thought Elvis was some kind of god, but at least he was alive.”

“Well, the girls evidently think Major Olivore was able to evade the Grim Reaper and now waits for them at the caves of Osceola. I’m sure it’s just a phase they’re going through—like a fascination with the occult. Course it doesn’t help that they’re with a bunch of other girls with no real-life boys to agonize over.”

“We’ll find the mine entrance tomorrow and seal it, if indeed it does exist.” Ms. Peterson interrupted with an assurance aimed at the third ex-Mrs. Hyman, not me. 

“Well then, that’s great,” I replied, “and now, since my services are no longer needed, I’ll be on my way.” It was nearly 10 pm, and I had just enough gas in the Nova to reach Pioche, a town rumored to have an all-night service station. With any luck I’d make it to Vegas by one or two in the morning, take a shower, and finally get some sleep. 

“I’m leaving too,” Mrs. Hyman reported. “As soon as I round up my Merry.” 

“And you complete the release of liability,” Miss Peterson reminded her, as she readied a daunting pile of release paperwork, “and these other forms.” 

“And—you get someone to sell you some gas!” I chimed in. The Jag had sputtered to a complete stop about one hundred feet from the entrance to Enev and still sat outside the gate, useless. There being no gas station and only a few ten-gallon drums of low grade gas used for the emergency generators at the facility, she would have to convince one of the staff to let her siphon gas from the tanks of their own cars if she had any hope of getting anywhere that night. “If I were you, I’d spend the night here and have someone in Ely bring you out the high octane stuff in the morning. You’ll blow out the engine of the Jag if you put rat-butt gas in it.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” she said, “it’s just a car. A possession. I can’t stay here—the vibes are too strange.”

“OK, suit yourself.” The car must belong to Doug Hyman, hence disposable, I thought. I’d forgotten that in order to achieve Nirvana, you have to rid yourself of all possessions—even if it costs you or someone else a fortune. Nirvana ain’t cheap.

Poor Ms. Peterson. First she’d been jolted from her nightly routine by our unscheduled and unorthodox arrival on-scene, then informed by court order that she was to release a girl forthwith (on a Saturday night! After hours!). And finally, to find out there was a mine shaft somewhere on the grounds of Enev. I hated to spring the worst on her, but it had to be done. 

“If I were you, Miss Peterson, I’d have the police search the caves beneath the mine shaft before you seal it up. I hate to say it, but that’s probably where you’ll find the missing counselor. She may have followed the girls up there and fallen into one of the many crevasses.” 

“The police?” 

“Yes. The police,” I repeated. Was she considering not calling the police? “Listen Ms. P., I don’t know who those bozos running around down there are, but I’m quite certain there is no department of the government called ‘The Lamarckian Echolocation Cultivation Theory Administration.’”

“I don’t even know what that means.” 

“Well, Lamarck was a French scientist who put forth a controversial theory on evolution, and echolocation refers to the ways bats communicate—what the two of them have to do with each other, I don’t know and I don’t care. All I know is they have guns and are extremely paranoid.” 

“Well, Dr. Butters, in this neck of the woods . . .”

“Yes, I know. That could describe half the people in these parts. But thanks to me, these particular idiots have their sights on your little facility.”

Winnie Peterson picked up the phone, thought a second, and then put it back down again. “I can’t call the county sheriff tonight. It’s Saturday night. Stoney doesn’t respond to nonemergencies on a Saturday night. And tomorrow, that’s a Sunday—earliest he’d make it out here would probably be Monday.”

“Then I’d suggest calling in any extra security folk you can.”

“Oh, that’s ridiculous. No one would try to break into a state prison.”

She did have a point and so—giving myself permission not to give a damn what happened next—I said adieu to the two ladies. There’s only so much you can do to save the world. I did know one person who could help. It was a long shot, but I decided I’d give it a try once I got home.