Karma: A Blayne Mitchell Novel

5

Chapter 5
Me and my brother had been "as close as stink on shit," my dad had once said. It was partially because of our overbearing older sister, Joanne, and partially because we shared the same opinion towards the everyday repetition. It broke my heart to leave him the most, because of the tight bond we shared. But he understood what I had to do. So, upon leaving him, there was no further connection between us.
And now we both turn up in the secluded town of Maryland, within miles of each other, and he is accused of killing three couples and a girl in cold blood. One hell of a coincidence. It also turned the case from an interest to a necessity. And a fear.
What if Vance had killed those seven people? Had he really changed so much since we last saw each other, countless years ago? Was he employed?
Did he have a wife?
I was pondering the last option until I realized the others were still in the room with me. They all had looks of shock, as if they forgot I could have family.
"Your brother?" Andrew stammered, "That's one hell of a coincidence."
I nodded absently, "I haven't seen the guy for years. Probably wouldn't recognize him if I saw him. I wonder why they don't have a picture on the file?" I mused, passing the sheet back to Garrett. He looked at me sympathetically, "It's not everyday that your brother is suspected of murdering innocents."
I chuckled lightly, "Unless they're related to me." Dunphy glowered.
"This is not something to be treated with levity, Mr. Mitchell. Your brother is now one of the most wanted men in the state. Any clues on where we can find him?" He lifted his large mass out of the chair with visible struggle.
"Like I said, haven't seen the guy in years." I shrugged helplessly, there was nothing else I could say. We had been close, but weren't anymore.
"Damn it, Mitchell!" Dunphy screamed, "You don't even know anything about your brother." I noticed that the chief was now referring to me by my last name. then realized that Dunphy was probably his last name.
"I haven't seen the guy in years." I repeated defensively. Andrew looked somber, deep in thought. Probably wondering if the Jack in the Box had any more breakfast croissants.
"We could use you as bait." He offered quietly, and tried again louder when no one responded. I stared at him incredulously, "Bait? No way in hell will I be bait, Andrew!"
"Actually, it is a good idea." Garrett said, and I gave him the same look.
"What, you guys want me to go break a leg and wait on the streets until my brother so happens to swing around?" I glanced at each of them in turn, "My brother has not seen me for years, and I doubt he'll help me if he does." They stood in silence, in denial.
"Get real, guys. This isn't a reality show. He isn't just going to show up at the front door and tell us everything we need to know. This is life. My brother doesn't give a rat's ass about what happens to me." I lied. I wanted a chance to talk with him before the authorities, so I had to find a way to contact him, and fast.
"What does your brother do for a living?"
"Hell if I know. Probably works in a liquor store somewhere down in El Paso."
"You really don't know your own brother?" Andrew tried to comprehend what I was saying. He most likely had a close brother.
"Yes." I sighed, "I did once, but not anymore." Garrett still had the same look of pity that made me want to slap him.  Dunphy interrupted, "Look, this is all emotionally stirring, but we still have six, no, seven, dead people. And the only thing we know is your brother's fingerprints were on the murder weapon." He opened the door and stepped outside. I said nothing, just followed him into the hall.
We all stepped out of the department, stretching on the afternoon sun.
"What's your name, Dunphy?" I asked. He glanced over with a confused look.
"Y'know, the word people call you." I urged him sarcastically, and he snorted, "What's it to you?"
I shrugged, "I, personally, like to know the names of the people I work with." He snorted again, "Pete. Peter Dunphy." I nodded. Good enough. At least the chief was showing a level of cooperation. And it also established that he accepted I was working with him. Andrew watched our scuffle with interest. The kid was learning.
"I'm going out to look for red Prius'. I saw the way he went earlier, I'll be able to track his movements." I said, and started walking towards a police cruiser. Garrett stopped me, "But won't he be too far out?"
I shook my head, "No, the guy was desperate. He most likely stopped somewhere close so he could keep an eye on things and rest after his ordeal." I started walking again, then called over my shoulder, "Tell me once the autopsy results are in." Without waiting for a response, I climbed back into Dunphy's cruiser. The first time, I had missed the greasy stink in the heat of adrenaline. Now it was completely overpowering. I gagged, then stepped out and chose Garrett's cruiser instead.
So you're heading north, in a common enough car. You just saw or murdered your girlfriend, and now the cops are after you. So, you stay close enough that you'll know when they've found you, far enough that you have enough time to escape. You can't go far because that's what they'll you expect you to do. You also can't go far because your emotional state won't let you.
So that meant I had to search for places relatively close and populated. I pulled open a tourist's map of Washington I had grabbed earlier, and scanned through for possible places.  Just north of Marysville were two towns. Arlington and Trafton. With more tourist destinations highlighted in Arlington, I figured it would be more popular.
So I decided that Arlington was the right place, backed out of the department, navigated to the I-5 N, and settled for the short drive. After about nine minutes of driving on the vacant highway, I took a right onto the WA-530 E towards Arlington. It was short thirteen minute drive until the street was clogged with people. I had grown accustomed to the open air of Marysville. Now the normal packed streets of a populated city seemed alien. The transition had been even stranger.
I picked a random motel with two Priuses in the parking lot, and drove past them, scanning the license plates. No good. I stopped at three or four locations before arriving at a crowded hotel with four Priuses in the lot. The third one matched the license plate. Excited and relieved, I stepped out towards the receptionist counter.
The lobby was wide and bright, lit with a giant crystal chandelier. Two lines ran perpendicular to the counter, and I fell in behind a tall, thick man with no suitcase. He dropped out of the line at the last minute, leaving me to approach next.
"Hi, how can I help you?" The bright receptionist asked. She looked nice enough, cooperation was key. Her name tag read Bellevue.
I cleared my throat, using my most friendly smile, "Hello, Bell." She blushed.
"I was wondering if I could see the occupant with the red Prius, please." I held the warm smile.
"What's the license plate?" She asked. I recited it. Bellevue nodded and plugged the number into the computer. She gave me the room number, and I thanked her for her kindness and waited for the elevator. Three others and I squeezed in, and the same tall man who was in line was shoved next to me. He glanced over apologetically. I smiled reassuringly back. We rode in silence, shuffling in the cramped space. At the third floor, me and the thick guy stepped out simultaneously. He went right, I went left.
And we met up at the same room.
We stood awkwardly for a moment, then I assessed him. He was huge. Strong, toned muscles showed through the cheap white shirt. Same with his pants. The man's face proposed butler, but his hair suggested military.
A buff man like this wouldn't be driving around in a skimpy red Prius, so I immediately scratched him off as the boyfriend. Maybe a hired bodyguard. Or a mercenary.
"So you're who they sent?" His voice matched his build. Deep and threatening. I shook my head quizzically and said, "I don't know what you're talking about," even though I had a pretty good idea what he was talking about.
"Give it up, scrawny bastard. He didn't do anything." The man pressed a Glock 17 deep into my chest cavity. It had a two inch barrel so it had to be fairly inaccurate, from what I remembered reading somewhere. But accuracy doesn't matter when the damn thing is shoved right into your chest.
"Woah," I raised my hands up, "let's not get hasty here." He grinned and pulled a keycard out of his back pocket. He opened the door and shoved me inside, keeping the gun pointed at my chest. But the range between us meant he would have to rely entirely on accuracy. I could've dodged down and forward, then thrust upwards into his chin with my elbow and snapped his neck. I saw the scene play out in front of me. But this guy had valuable information, and I decided to keep him alive. For now.
"Are you local or bureau?" He asked. I didn't reply, just scanned the room. It was like the lobby on a smaller scale and with no chandelier. Just a bathroom to the side, some oak furniture, and a king bed.
"I asked you a question, scrawny bastard. Are you local or bureau?" The guy repeated, pissed. I relished in his anger for a moment, then replied shakily, "I was just here to see a friend."
"Bullshit, scrawny bastard. I saw your car drive by. Looked local to me."
"Then why did you ask, fat ditz?" I retorted, and watched with pleasure as his nostrils flared. He seemed at a loss for words. Most people don't expect others to snap when they're pointing a gun at them.
And at the worst time, the cop radio went off. I had taken it out of the cruiser and stuffed it my back pocket in case something happened while I was out. The precautionary measure, instead of saving me, threw me into deeper trouble.
The guy grinned wickedly, "Is that your backup, scrawny bastard? Why don't you answer it?" I unclipped the radio reluctantly. Garrett's tenor voice crackled loudly over the speaker, "Hey, Blayne, the autopsy results are in." He sounded worried. Anxious.
"Autopsy, eh? Sounds important. You should respond." The guy pushed the barrel of the handgun into my temple, "Just don't reveal too much, okay?" I nodded and held down the transmit button.
"Good to hear, Garrett. Hey, I can't really talk right now, okay?" I said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible. I got the sensation that Garrett nodded, then realizing I couldn't see him, radioed back, "Sure thing. Everything alright? Have you found the guy yet?" The guy shoved the gun deeper into my head and shot a warning glare.
"Yeah, it's all good." I lied, "Haven't found him yet, but I found a really good lead."
"Okay, great! Hurry back, though. Chief doesn't want us to do anything until you've seen these reports." Garrett ended the transmission cheerily. The man motioned me with his gun to put the radio back in my pocket. I did so obediently, clipping it back. That was his first mistake. His second mistake was moving the gun. But, as before, I didn't take advantage and sat quietly instead.
"Okay, scrawny bastard, or should I say Blayne," he sneered, "it looks like your backup isn't coming after all. Just some one on one time, you and me."
I struggled to stay passive, "If we're going to have some one on one time, we should learn a little about each other. Like your name, for starters."
"You don't need my name." He sneered again. I had a great deal of dislike for this man.
"Please. If we're going to do this, let's at least be chivalrous about it. What's your name?" I sighed pleadingly.
    "Okay, only because I like watching you beg. Duncan. Duncan Rodriguez." Duncan said.
"Blayne Mitchell. Nice to meet you." I responded and extended my hand. Duncan sneered for the third time, "Look, punk. If I wanted to be friendly, I wouldn't have a gun at your head." He didn't shake my hand. Forewarned is forearmed, I thought, looking satisfied. Duncan appeared disgruntled from my docile mood, a bit apprehensive too.
"You know, Duncan, it's been nice chatting with you. But you made some terrible mistakes along the way." I relaxed and gave him an unsettling smile, "Four of them."
"I don't make mistakes, scrawny bastard." Duncan snarled, and I chuckled.
"One," I started, "you've moved your gun around enough for me have to escaped and killed you a total of three times."
"Two," I continued before he could respond, "you let me keep the radio. You do know that no incoming messages can be heard while holding down the transmit button, right?" Duncan went a sickly pale when I showed him that I had used the clip to hold down the transmit button.
"Duncan Rodriguez. They're going to have a fun time with you." I beamed at him.
"Three, you messed with me. That takes a lot of guts, fat ditz. Remember my name. Blayne Mitchell. You'll run back to all your cronies. Tell them about me. Tell them I could've killed you, but I didn't, and you know why?" I asked. Duncan shook his head mutely.
"Because I like to kill people when they're sleeping. Good night, fat ditz." I said. Then I slugged him hard with my right fist. He went down like a rock, like I had expected. I released the transmit button on the radio. After a few moments of silence, Garrett responded.
"He had a gun." It was almost a statement.
"Yes. Forewarned is forearmed. If this grunt gets a gun, then we can imagine the others do too."
Garrett paused, "Are you going to stay there?"
"Yes." I answered simply. If this guy had hired bodyguards, he obviously had something of importance to hide. There was just static on the other end.
"What was the fourth mistake?" He finally asked, quietly.
I smiled, lifting Duncan's gun out of his limp hand, "He forgot to switch the safety off."