Synopsis

Dr. Dan Trix is scheduled to give the commencement address at his high school in Mirage Flats, Nebraska. He refuses to have his speech vetted and is promptly replaced. His replacement, a U. S. Senator from Nebraska, is assassinated at the podium. A Nebraska State Senator is killed in Montreal while attending a jazz festival. The Lt. Governor of the State of Colorado dies in the restroom of the Performing Arts Center in Parker. The Sheriff of Mirage Flats needs an arrest. As a man impatient to live up to his image of himself, being noticed is more important than being right. Trix and Lester need to discover whether these deaths are random and coincidental or if there is a sinister commonality that portends explosive social consequences.

Chapter 1.

The Sandhills of western Nebraska are a unique geographical area. They stretch roughly 250 miles across the state, encompassing an area, were it a square, that would be about 150 miles on a side. That’s a lot of sand.

Driving through the Sandhills is a mantra, a rhythm of sameness that subtly changes constantly. The landscape is interrupted only by cows chewing cud, coal trains that stretch for miles and pickups that drive slowly for fear of bruising the wind.

The dunes have elevation sufficient to tire grouse hunters. New Yorkers think they’re driving across a hell of a long parking lot. Were it not for the grasses and sage, the land would be appropriate for camels and Bedouins.

The area sits atop the Ogallala Aquifer. This accounts for the surprising number of low-lying lakes and ponds that provide rest stops for geese, cranes and ducks migrating from Canada to the south and returning. The birds share space with the half-million head of cattle that rely on windmills and lakes to mitigate the effects of the hot summers and cold winters.

The sandy soil was considered uncultivable until the advent of center pivot sprinkler systems. Agriculture has since encroached on the fringes of the dunes, but little more than a nibble.

Although there is no recorded history to substantiate how Mirage Flats got its name, you’d join the consensus when you curl to the top of a high dune on Highway 385 south. Five miles in the distance is a plateau of trees and greenery. Given the uniformly stark nature of the landscape, if you were slapping reins on the flanks of a team pulling a Conestoga when you came over that rise, you’d think it was a mirage. The truth, whatever it is, withers before that fable.

After Five Mile Dune there are a few modest single-story homes with origins as uncertain as the name of the town. There are rusted farm machines in the yards and garages in need of paint. Maybe the people inside are there for the privacy, maybe for income reasons, maybe because they inherited the place, maybe because they didn’t have the spunk to leave.

Maybe there are reasons born of generations tied to the land, unwilling to concede the horizon, or to concede that a mini-mart is a convenience, or to agree that the sound of TV game show is more soothing than the sound of the wind chimes on the porch.

There is a large feedlot where small heifers and steers become large steaks. Many of the billboards were erected fifty years ago. Many of those have been repainted or repapered in the original as the business has been inherited twice over, name and address unchanged. Juxtaposed next to those billboards are calls for residents to subscribe to one of several internet and TV service providers, which tells us that if there is competition for this market, there are few bones left to be picked.

There are opportunities to buy propane, to lease a winch, to secure window frames, to satisfy your welding needs.

Set back from the highway, some jolly joker has stacked square bales of hay in the form of a large couch. On the hay couch is a toilet next to an easy chair. A sloppy hand-painted sign on the side of an overturned refrigerator reads, “Rest Stop.”

“If that is the hallmark of Mirage Flats, I’m going to adore this town,” Elaine said.

Old timers in town rock and squeak and roll a toothpick from one side of their mouth to the other as they recall the days when the gas station at the corner of Highway 385 and Third Street (Highway 2) was named Terrible Terry’s. Gas was two bits a gallon and everybody chipped in a quarter on Saturday night so they could go cruising. Since then the station has had more name changes than Larry King has had wives. No matter the name, it still attracts locals who appreciate no-frills discount gas, and tourists on the way north to the Black Hills and Mt. Rushmore.

We turned right onto Third Street. Over the two blocks to the motel it was confirmed that if you allow people freedom, innate entrepreneurship will chart the movement of the economy as naturally as do the stars the sky; bird feeders, chicken feed, a chainsaw, a Smart TV, a sandwich the size of a brick, irrigation equipment. All that was in the first block.

The Panhandle Express is the Ritz of Mirage Flats. Better than the Ritz. Breakfast is included. If you don’t like Raisin Bran or biscuits and gravy, you can walk across the street for a breakfast burrito, or next door for a breakfast pizza. A drive to the other side of town is required if you want ham and eggs.

The sign outside the motel read, “Welcome to Mirage Flats. Gateway to Wherever Your Going.”

“The cookies just came out of the oven and the coffee’s fresh,” said the young woman behind the counter. She had been either an outside hitter on the volleyball team or a forward on the basketball team. Maybe both.

“You don’t even know if we’re staying here,” I said.

“People rolling their suitcases behind ’em don’t just want directions,” she said. She had sunshine highlights in her long brown ponytail, a commercial-bright smile and happy eyes.

“You go to school here?” I said.

“Yes, sir. K through 12.”

“They done ya good,” I said.

“This is Dr. Daniel Trix. I’m his wife Elaine. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Constance.” The ladies shook hands.

“They actually call you Constance?” I said, nodding at her nametag.

“They call me Connie till they’re tired of the bruises on their shins,” she said.

“Give her your credit card, Daniel,” Elaine said.

“I know who you are,” Constance said.

“Wanted poster outside the sheriff’s office?” I said.

“Is he always like that?” Constance said to Elaine.

“Even when he talks in his sleep,” Elaine said.

“You’re giving the commencement address to the graduating class,” she said.

“I was flattered to be asked. I’m surprised anyone knows. I’m certain they don’t care,” I said.

“Why would you say that?” Constance said.

“Who was the speaker at your graduation? What did he or she have to say?” I said.

“I see your point,” she said.

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