Deadly Chimes: A Blayne Mitchell Story

1

Chapter 1

I cranked up the stereo to full volume. And the air conditioner to full power.

Southern California heat was nothing to be messed with. I could feel the sun's rays penetrating the car and striking my back. Then again, it probably didn't help that I drove a black car. A black '85 Porsche 928, to be precise. The spoils of a war that happened almost three months ago.

I was cruising down the 43, heading to nowhere in particular. I had spent a little touring in Sacramento, San Francisco, and San Jose, after gratefully leaving the rainy state of Washington where my brother, Vance, lived. Apparently I prefered hot and dry to rainy and cold.

The obvious next stop would be Los Angeles, if I was following a pattern. The problem was that I couldn't afford to follow a pattern. So I was scanning the green signs for towns that were discreet and out of the way to stay the night. Maybe even a few nights, if I felt like it.

I shifted in the seat and checked the fuel gauge. Almost empty. I sighed and, instead of scanning for small towns, scanned for gas stations. There was an Arco at the next exit, so I cut in front of an angry truck driver and bumped over railroad tracks onto a smaller side street.

The road was dark and deserted and I started having second thoughts. The paved road was worn and unmaintained and it bordered some kind of lake. The tires crunched over the pavement noisily, and I searched the horizon for the bright lights that usually indicated a gas station. There were none. The sun slowly fell behind the horizon, casting orange and pink stripes across the sky. The clouds then reflected those colors and turned the sky into an expert painter's masterpiece. Southern California sunsets were worth the trip. I pulled over off the old road and climbed out of the car. No reason to waste such a sight preoccupied by driving. After watching the sunset disappear and give way to a swath of bright stars, I got back in the car and continued driving, relaxed and rejuvenated. With a satisfied grunt, I flicked on the headlights and watched as they popped up and shone outwards. I loved to do that, for no real reason but pure entertainment.

The car crawled along faithfully, even though the gas was far below empty. I had heard that cars could last just as long as empty tanks as on full tanks. Purely dependent on the kind of car. I had figured this to be the empty means empty kind of car. I was proved wrong. I had no beef about being wrong. In fact, I'd rather to be wrong than right in a situation were it could prove troublesome. I was happy about being wrong until the car sputtered and gasped and heaved forward one more yard before coming to a complete stop. I pressed the gas pedal, more out of frustration than to try and get the car going, I guess I had been right. Which really did prove troublesome. I was in the middle of nowhere on an abandoned road with an empty car. The only thing that made me feel better was the matte black Ruger Winchester .308 that was nestled under the passenger seat. It offered some level of calming security. I just sat there, really having nothing else to do because I really didn't want to walk all the way back to the 43 at night. I would sleep in the car and set out at morning.

That was my original plan until the faint hum of motor drifted on the breeze. The distant engine was accompanied by a small pinprick of light that dotted the horizon. I hurriedly stepped out of the Porsche and waved my arms frantically to the approaching car. The giant bubble of light separated into two different beams of light, headlights. They shone bright enough that I was bathed in their glow within seconds of seeing the car on the horizon. It was a grey, mid-sized sedan that was rolling along the old road patiently. The driver slowed when he saw me waving my arms around like a maniac. He pulled off parallel to the Porsche and rolled down the window. I walked up to the open window cautiously.

The driver was an older man with a receding hairline and tired green eyes. He glowered, impatient because of my interruption.

"Whaddya want?" He asked gruffly, sticking his arm out the open window. I paused at his rudeness, but realized he was probably my only chance.