by Haris Orkin
“Yes! N! I need to see him immediately.”
The door to N’s office opened and out stepped a corpulent man with a bald head and an insincere smile. “You need to see whom immediately?” the corpulent man asked.
“Who are you?” Flynn demanded.
“I’m Dr. Grossfarber.”
“Where’s N? Is he ill?”
“If you’re referring to Dr. Nickelson, he is no longer with us.”
“No longer with us. You mean—”
“He’s gone.”
Flynn looked stricken. “Gone? You mean—”
“It happened yesterday afternoon. He knew it was coming. He just didn’t know when.”
“Why didn’t he say something? I could have helped him. I could have protected him. That’s why I’m here.”
“And you are?”
“Flynn. James Flynn.”
“Ahh, of course, Mr. Flynn. Please come in. I’ve been looking over your file.”
Grossfarber directed Flynn into the office and planted himself behind N’s old desk. James sat on the couch and eyed Grossfarber skeptically. Grossfarber had files piled everywhere. He opened one in particular and scanned the dog-eared pages. Then he looked up at Flynn and said, “HMSS brought me in.”
“Her Majesty’s Secret Service?”
Grossfarber smiled, but only with his mouth. His eyes were cold and calculating and without the slightest trace of humor. “Health Management System Services. I’m the new senior psychiatrist, and from now on things will be very different around here.”
“Where’s Miss Honeywell?”
“Gone as well.”
James flinched as if he were struck. “How? Who?” He jumped to his feet. “What in bloody hell is happening?”
“Nothing is happening and that’s why I’m here. I get results. Now, please. Sit down.” James remained on his feet. “Please...” said Dr. Grossfarber gently.
James Flynn sat back down. “Your file is quite fascinating, Mr. Flynn. You’re a very unusual man.” James shrugged, still upset about N and Miss Honeywell. “According to this, your parents were killed in a car accident when you were ten.”
“What are you talking about?”
Grossfarber continued to scan the file, reading aloud snippets and passages. “No other living relatives. Went from foster home to foster home...became an obsessive fan of espionage films of the sixties...developed an imaginary persona which later became a full-blown delusion.”
“What are you saying?”
Grossfarber glanced at Flynn as if he were a rare laboratory specimen. “You were helpless and had no control over your life. So, you became the most powerful person you could imagine. Someone who could handle any situation.”
Flynn suddenly stood, furious. “What did you do with Q?”
“Who?”
“Q! And his colleague! Dulcinea Delgadillo!”
“Miss Delgadillo’s insurance was no longer covering her stay here, so I’m afraid she had to—”
“You think I don’t know what’s happening?”
“Mr. Flynn, please.”
“What’s your ultimate plan, Grossfarber?”
“Please, sit down.”
“What are you trying to do?”
“I’m trying to change the way you think.”
“And the others? Do you want to change the way they think too?”
“Of course,” said Dr. Grossfarber. “That’s what I’m paid to do.”
“Using Q’s mind control technology?”
“Mr. Flynn—”
“Do you really believe you’re going to get away with this?” James took a few steps toward Grossfarber and the doctor pushed a red panic button next to his intercom. Instantly the office door opened and O’Malley and Barker came rushing in.
James moved into a fighting stance, slicing his hands through the air like Bruce Lee. “Mr. Flynn, please,” said Grossfarber. “We’re all here to help you.”
“Help me what?”
“Get well.”
O’Malley and Barker stepped closer. Flynn gracefully backed away. “Gentlemen, I must warn you, I know thirty-seven different ways to kill a man with my bare hands, five of which only require the use of my right middle finger.” Flynn flipped the orderlies the bird with both hands.
O’Malley snarled and lunged. James easily evaded his grasp, grabbed O’Malley’s wrist, wrenched his arm behind him, and unceremoniously slammed him into a wall.
Barker grabbed Flynn in a bear hug, his beefy arms squeezing him tight. Flynn struggled as Grossfarber readied a syringe. The doctor went to plunge it in just as Flynn spun, making Barker the unwilling recipient of the powerful tranquilizer. Barker roared with anger and pain and Grossfarber looked nonplussed. The big orderly staggered backwards, ripping the syringe out of his shoulder. He rushed at Flynn, brandishing the syringe like an ice pick, but James sidestepped him and put his foot out. Barker tripped and tumbled forward, inadvertently plunging the tranquilizer into Grossfarber’s chest.
Barker teetered as the powerful narcotic raced through his blood stream. When the sedative finally reached his brain, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed, falling limply across his unconscious cohort.
Grossfarber stumbled out his office door and staggered into the anteroom, the syringe still hanging from his chest. He lurched towards Nurse Durken and his secretary. “Arga hana lomma haa.” As he collapsed, Flynn slammed the office door shut, locking it tight.
Grossfarber’s dried-up secretary looked at her boss floundering on the floor. As he continued to mumble incoherently, Durkin calmly picked up the phone and hit a few numbers. “Can I please have security?”
James Flynn sat at Grossfarber’s computer and brought up the patient data base. He found nothing for Q. But he did discover an address for Dulcinea Delgadillo. A fist pounded on the office door as he wrote the address on a scrap of paper. He could hear Nurse Durkin shouting from the anteroom, “Mr. Flynn! Open the door! Mr. Flynn!”
Flynn glanced at the image of a security cam in the top right corner of Grossfarber’s monitor. He watched as two security guards rushed into the anteroom just outside the office. Nurse Durkin pointed at the door.
Out in the anteroom, Durkin impatiently watched as one of the guards pulled out a massive key ring. He fumbled until he found the right one, and slid the key into the lock. The door flew open and the men barreled into Grossfarber’s office, stun guns charged, set to fry Flynn’s ass.
They found O’Malley and Barker unconscious on the floor. And James Flynn? Gone. The dumbfounded guards stood there stupidly, and then Durkin heard creaking from above. She glanced up and noticed a ceiling panel was missing.
Chapter Five
The Rose Parade route begins on Orange Grove Avenue in Pasadena and continues past a mansion once owned by the founder of NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Besides being a rocket scientist, John Whiteside (Jack) Parsons was also a devotee of the infamous English occultist Aleister Crowley. Science-fiction writer and future founder of Scientology L. Ron Hubbard was a frequent house guest and would often participate in the occult rituals and “sex magick” ceremonies Parsons would hold in his living room. The goal was to conjure the anti-messiah who would overthrow Judeo-Christian civilization and lead Earth to a new Aeon.
Mrs. Doris Frawley, the oldest patient at the City of Roses Psychiatric Institute, told Sancho she came to California from Arkansas in 1948. She was fourth runner up in the Miss Arkansas pageant and her ambition was to become a movie star. Instead, she dated both Jack Parsons and L. Ron Hubbard and in 1952 gave birth to the Anti-Christ. Every day she told Sancho how sorry she was for bringing so much evil into the world. Every. Single. Day. And Sancho was starting to believe her. He had worked at the hospital for two years now and it wasn’t getting any easier. The nightshift always kicked his ass and he never seemed to be able to get enough sleep.
Sancho dragged his tired twenty-two-year-old butt across the parking lot and fantasized about climbing into
his saggy sofa bed. He bought the beige micro-suede futon at a garage sale. The sheets hadn’t been changed in weeks. There were unknown, unnamed crumbs everywhere, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to be horizontal.
Sancho spotted his rusty, dented red ‘92 Mustang next to a gleaming BMW 760i. The Beemer’s gotta belong to a doctor, thought Sancho. Fuckers make a fucking fortune. I gotta make some changes. Gotta buckle down. Otherwise I’m gonna be wiping the asses of nutcases for the next forty fucking years.
Sancho climbed into his beater and sighed. Fast food bags, empty soda cans, and old newspapers covered the seats and the floor. He turned the key and after a few tries, the old engine finally kicked over. The muffler roared. It obviously had a hole in it, and he knew he had to fix it, but somehow, he just never got around to it. He turned on the radio and blasted heavy metal to drown the muffler out. Then he hit the gas and got his ass out of there.
The bored guard at the front gate raised the wooden arm and waved at Sancho as he pulled through. Sancho waved back. The guard, Bill Keeler, a forty-five-year-old pear-shaped guy with a bad complexion and receding hairline was always telling Sancho about his sexual conquests. Sancho didn’t know whether to believe him or not. Was it bullshit? Or was Bill just banging the old, the fat, and fugly? Not that Bill was any prize. Maybe he just had a great rap. It pissed Sancho off to think that Bill might be getting more chocho than him.
Sancho yawned as he pulled out onto the highway. He looked at the Styrofoam cup in his holder and made a decision to try some of that old, cold coffee. Anything to stay awake. He took a sip and made a face and wondered if Coffee-mate ever went bad. Can it give you food poisoning? What the hell was Coffee-mate anyway? As quickly as the question entered his mind, it flitted away. He turned up the heavy metal and took another sip. Something gritty rolled on his tongue and he wondered if it was a bug. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He involuntarily squeezed the coffee cup, popping the plastic top off, spilling java all over his hospital pants.
“What is that bloody music?”
Sancho jerked around. James Flynn sat in the back seat, his tuxedo all dusty and wrinkled.
“What the hell?”
James leaned over the front seat and turned off the radio. Sancho couldn’t believe Flynn would have the guts to touch his radio.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
“The door was unlocked. I didn’t think you’d mind.” James peeled a Big Mac wrapper off the front of his tux. “But Sancho, seriously, this car is a pigsty.”
“Dude, they’re looking everywhere for you.
“Of course they are. They want me dead.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“Dude, I don’t.”
“You do.”
“If I knew, why would I be asking you?”
“Only you know the answer to that one, my friend,” Flynn said.
“But I don’t!”
“Tell me this then, Sancho. Do you know what a mole is?”
The topic of the conversation had changed so abruptly, Sancho had trouble finding his bearings. “Isn’t that like a big freckle with a hair growing out of it?”
“I’m talking about a spy. An enemy agent who has infiltrated our organization at the highest level.” Sancho sighed and pulled out a cell phone. “Who are you calling?”
“I gotta let ‘em know where you—” James put Sancho in a choke hold, seizing him from behind. Sancho looked panicked and terrified, swerving as he struggled to stay in control of the car. His face turned purple and his eyes bugged from his head. Flynn ripped the cell phone from Sancho’s grasp and threw it out the open window. Sancho’s voice was tight, strangled. “Hey, hey, hey, let go…Let. Go!”
Still choking him, Flynn demanded, “Are you working for the other side?”
“No way, man,” he said hoarsely. “I’m your friend! I’m not one of them!”
James locked eyes with him in the Mustang’s rear-view mirror. “If you’re lying to me I’ll find out and when I do—”
Sancho’s lips turned midnight blue. “Honest to God, dude, I’m on your side!”
Flynn let Sancho go. He coughed and hacked and desperately sucked down oxygen as he pulled over to the side of the road.
“Sorry, Sancho. Sometimes it’s hard to know who to trust.” Sancho nodded and rubbed his throat. “We have to find Q and Dulcie before they break them. They’re likely interrogating them, doing God knows what to them.”
“Who? Why?”
“For the mind control technology, obviously.”
“Riiiiiight.” Sancho nodded, going along with him as if Flynn actually made sense.
Flynn pulled out a scrap of paper. “I found an address for Dulcie in Grossfarber’s database. Unfortunately, I found nothing for Q.” James climbed over into the front, shoving Sancho into the passenger seat.
“Hey, hey what are you doing?”
“Do you carry a gun?”
“No, man, I don’t have a gun.”
“Neither do I, but luckily, I have this.” James reached into a pocket and pulled out a black and silver laser pointer.
“A pen?”
“Looks can be deceiving, my friend. It’s actually a high-intensity laser that can cut through virtually anything. Q loaned it to me just last week.” Sancho reached for the pointer, but Flynn kept it out of his grasp. “Careful, Sancho, this miracle of technology can slice through an engine block like a chainsaw through Jell-O.” Sancho looked a little dumbfounded as James tucked the laser pointer away. He shifted into drive and hit the gas, burning what was left of the rubber on Sancho’s bald tires.
Bodies lined the walls and filled every chair in the staff meeting room. Yet no one made a sound. Everyone stared at Dr. Grossfarber, who dominated the head of the conference table with his presence, holding an ice pack to his forehead. An oversized bandage covered O’Malley’s nose. Barker looked furious and embarrassed and just a bit nauseous. Nurse Durkin stood on Grossfarber’s left, glaring like the wrath of God at all the nurses and orderlies.
“James Flynn is dangerously delusional,” Grossfarber bellowed. “If he hurts or kills someone, this hospital could very well be held liable. And if that happens, I promise you…” He looked at O’Malley and Barker. “Everyone responsible will be held accountable.”
Nurse Durkin held up Flynn’s file. “The police have been alerted but we can’t just sit by and wait. We need to know if Mr. Flynn told anyone where he intended to go. Talk to the patients. Let them know that all privileges will be withheld until Mr. Flynn is captured. If anyone has any information, they need to come forward. Immediately.”
“And if they don’t”—Grossfarber shook his finger—“if they know something and they keep it to themselves, there will be serious repercussions.”
Barker’s hands balled into fists. He looked at O’Malley and saw that his compadre seethed with fury. Their eyes met and even though the communication was unspoken, the message was clear. Flynn had to be found. And he had to pay.
Chapter Six
Tujunga, California sits north of Los Angeles in the Crescenta Valley, between the Verdugo Mountains and the foothills of the Angeles National Forest. Much of Tujunga is rundown and poverty-stricken. Immigrant families live crowded in decrepit apartment complexes all along Foothill Boulevard. Farther back in the hills there are hundreds of ranch-style homes built in the forties after the Second World War. Each hillside neighborhood is a melting pot of Mexicans, Armenians, Koreans, and lower middle-class Caucasians. They’re all scrabbling for their piece of the pie, so there’s a fair amount of crime and quite a bit of gang activity. And because Tujunga butts right up to the Angeles National Forest, with its scenic drives that wind around sheer cliffs and tree covered canyons, Tujunga is also home to a handful of motorcycle gangs. There are local chapters of the Harpies, the Mongol’s, and Satan’s Slaves. All three deal in drugs and intimidation, but only the Slaves of Satan are registered as an S corporation in t
he state of California.
Flynn insisted on driving and Sancho couldn’t dissuade him. He tried to reason with him, he tried threatening him, he tried to trick him, but Flynn was on a mission. Not much of it made sense to Sancho, but not much of anything made sense to him anymore. Sancho could have abandoned his car and let Flynn go, but his old Mustang was just about the only thing he owned. Without it, he’d be lost. He couldn’t drive to work. He couldn’t drive to school. Plus, as crazy as Flynn was, Sancho had a lot of affection for him. He wouldn’t want to see him get hurt and he knew how the County Sheriffs could be with people they thought were powerless. He’d been arrested more than once for driving while Hispanic and knew that if Flynn resisted they wouldn’t hesitate to put him down hard. So, he decided to hang around and keep an eye on his crazy compadre. Eventually, he’d find a way to cajole him back to the hospital. He was sure of it.
Flynn made a hard left onto Samoa Lane, a rundown street in a small, beat-to-shit subdivision built in the fifties. Samoa ran parallel to Tahiti and perpendicular to Bora Bora. Sancho watched as Flynn checked out the addresses spray painted on the curbs in front of the bedraggled two and three-bedroom houses. The brown foothills of the Angeles National Forest loomed above, the vegetation dry as tinder and ready to burn at the flick of a cigarette.
Sancho tugged on Flynn’s arm. “James, come on, man, this is crazy. Where we going? We’re gonna run out of gas.” Flynn eyed a fifties era ranch-style tract house with peeling yellow paint, a black tar roof, and a scraggly front yard. “Look, man, whatever you think is happening ain’t exactly what’s happening. You hear what I’m saying? Am I getting through to you? Yo! James?”
James pulled the Mustang to the curb and parked it behind a late model Chevy truck. He nonchalantly glanced in the side view mirror, scanning the area for any suspicious behavior. Finally, Sancho yelled, “James! Jesus! I’m talking to you, man!”
“Shh…”
“What?”
“Hold it down, Sancho, we have to be careful. They could be watching.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“No, I don’t know who, dude!” But Flynn wasn’t listening. He was already out of the car. “James! Where the hell you going?” Sancho climbed out to follow him and Flynn darted behind a large shrub.