Title: Z is for Zzyzx
Author: Zubeneschamali
Rating: T (language, violence)
Summary: A bizarre case involving a crashed sports car, an abandoned gold mine, and a Mars rover put Charlie and Don in the path of danger in the Mojave Desert.
Disclaimer: These characters so totally do not belong to me. Or are, like, making me any money or anything. As if!
Author's note: This story is inspired by real events, but not strictly based on them. Thanks to rittenden, brainstormer and researcher extraordinaire.

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Prologue
June 2, 2006
4:25 A.M.
Interstate 15, Milepost 241

"On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair…"

Rick Winters raised his hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn, then reached over to turn up the volume on the big rig's satellite radio. This used to be one of his least favorite stretches of highway, between Las Vegas and Barstow, back when he had nothing but hissing static on the radio. He checked the gas gauge, then cast his eyes back to the empty highway before him. Eighty-five miles to Barstow, then 130 to Long Beach, where he'd pick up his container of televisions or t-shirts or blue jeans, depending on what was on the schedule, and carry them back to Topeka. Another day, another seven hundred miles.

The Mojave Desert stretched out on either side of him, an expanse of mountains, rock, and scrub only barely lit by the full moon overhead. He'd seen the view hundreds of times by daylight, and it wasn't any more attractive when you could actually see it, even though the mountains were at least more interesting than the flat plains of the Midwest. Still, it was dry and barren, not good for much but driving through as fast as you could.

Headlights flashed in his side mirror, and a CHP car rolled past. He instinctively checked the speedometer, although he knew the cruise control was set at 78. They wouldn't nab you unless you were at least ten miles over, certainly not in the middle of the night when you were just about the only vehicle on the road. He watched as the patrol car passed on ahead, the distance to its red taillights slowly increasing as they both drove along.

Traffic in the other direction was even lighter. You'd have to have been leaving San Bernardino at two in the morning, or L.A. at one, to be out on this particular stretch of road at this time. The few vehicles that had passed him were either trying to get to the sprawl of L.A. before rush hour started, like he was, or were heading home after a late night in Vegas. He'd tried the casinos once or twice himself, years ago when Vegas was the only place outside of Atlantic City where you could try your hand at a game of chance. He'd lost a week's salary in a matter of hours and had never gone back.

He checked the side mirror again and saw a pair of headlights coming up fast. He looked more closely. Really, really fast. In just a matter of seconds, they would be passing him.

Sure enough, it was only a few heartbeats later that he heard a roar from the roadway down to his left, through the open window of the cab. A car zoomed by so quickly he could barely believe it. His headlights picked out only a flash of dark blue as the vehicle flew past him, the taillights receding into the distance before he could blink.

"Damn," Rick muttered, reaching for his cell phone. He wasn't one to tattle on other folks, especially when it came to going a little faster than the CHP might like, but this was actually dangerous. It was hard to be certain in the dark, but based on how fast the blue car pulled away, it must have been going well over one hundred miles per hour. Coming up on a vehicle with a burnt-out bulb or mud over its taillights that was actually going the speed limit would be like hitting a wall at over thirty miles an hour. Not good.

Then he faintly heard the piercing sound of the siren on the patrol car ahead of him, and he grinned. "Never mind," he muttered, replacing the cell in its holder. Probably some rich kid from Beverly Hills who'd lost too much of Daddy's money tonight and was trying to reclaim his manhood by pushing down on the accelerator as hard as he could. Idiot. He'd seen a few wrecks along this stretch of road, guys who thought that just because the road was mostly straight and level, there were no consequences if they lost control of their vehicle. They tended to forget about things like oncoming traffic. And the patrol cars that traveled up and down along this lonely desert highway, even in the middle of the night.

"Welcome to the Hotel California," came the chorus for the third time. Great song, especially the guitar work at the end. He reached over to adjust the volume again, then froze with his hand on the knob when he heard something up ahead that made his blood run cold. There was a harsh, high-pitched squeal of tires suddenly being forced to stop their rapid rotation, no doubt leaving thick, black marks across the concrete pavement. Then there was the inevitable crash, signaled by the screeching, twisting sound of metal moving in ways it wasn't designed to do. He closed his eyes for a second, not wanting to think about what he was going to see in a few minutes when he came across the site, hoping that at least the CHP car hadn't been involved.

Inevitably, the wheels of his own vehicle carried him ever closer, and in the space of a minute, his headlights illuminated the first exit sign in many miles. Or at least, what was left of the exit sign. It was listing heavily towards the road, the nearest support pole missing and the sign itself heavily damaged. He eased on the brakes, ready to pull over to the side of the road and deliver any help that he could with his first-aid training, although he figured the CHP could deal with whatever was left of the poor bastard who had been in that car as well as he could. The highway patrol car was sitting by the side of the road, headlights illuminating the remains of the exit sign. At least those guys were all right.

Rick saw the letters "Rd" on the sign, then realized it was only the right half that was still there. The sign itself had been torn in two, the other half probably lying wherever the blue car had come to rest. He shook his head as his truck came to a stop on the shoulder behind the patrol car. What a mess this was going to be.

He grabbed the first aid kit and flashlight from the cab and hopped down onto the shoulder. There was one figure in the patrol car, and he could see the beam of a flashlight wavering back and forth well off the road, where his partner was apparently looking for the wreck. Then he saw a large object right on the edge of the right-hand lane, with two red lights on the back. Walking past the patrol car, he shone his own flashlight on the object. Then he drew in a sharp breath.

It was a dark blue, high-performance sports car. A Lotus something; he remembered his son going on and on about something like it on a TV show they'd seen a couple of weeks ago. It was definitely the car that had passed him. But it was only the back half of the car. The vehicle had been split in two by the force of the wreck, and the front half was nowhere to be seen.

"Sir!" The sharp voice came from behind him, and he whirled around to see the patrolman out of his car, then blinked in the light that was trained on him.

"Just offering help if you need it," he said, carefully keeping his hands away from his sides as he spoke. "I got a first aid kit here."

"Well, I doubt that's going to matter much, but I appreciate the gesture." The flashlight was lowered, and Rick waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. "You the trucker we just passed?"

"Yeah, that's me." He gestured back at the decapitated vehicle. "How fast was he going, anyway?"

He could see the patrolman shake his head. "We couldn't keep up, and Jeff was pushing 120. He was drawing away from us like nothing."

"Damn." He opened his mouth to say more, but there was a shout from off in the distance, well off the road.

"Hey, Todd! Call for paramedics, then bring the first aid kit!"

Rick didn't wait for instruction, but turned and sprinted away from the interstate, his legs a little sluggish after sitting in the cab for over three hours, towards the small beam of flashlight he could see in the distance. He stumbled a little on the rocky ground, then topped a slight incline, expecting to see the patrolman sitting on the ground with a twisted ankle or something. What he saw made him stumble again, then come to a complete stop.

It was nearly indistinguishable from a random pile of twisted metal, but the front half of the Lotus was pointing back towards the highway, the windshield shattered and the driver's door bent outwards at an odd angle. That, he had expected. What had shocked him was the young woman standing next to the shattered wreck, the patrolman holding her elbow solicitously while she put her hand to her head and then straightened up. "I'm fine," he heard her say as he approached. "Thank you so much."

"You were in that?" Rick asked, stunned. Then he remembered why he was there and opened up the first aid kit, saying to the patrolman, "I was driving along and heard the wreck, thought I could help."

"Thanks," the other man said. "Looks like a miracle, doesn't it?"

He nodded in agreement as he pulled out an antiseptic wipe and a gauze pad, having seen a small cut on the woman's forehead. "You're pretty damn lucky, Miss, driving like you were." She was wearing a tight little black number that made Rick wish he was about twenty years younger and an unmarried man. At the edge of his flashlight's beam, he could see from the expression on the patrolman's face, who was about twenty years younger, that he was similarly aware of the young lady's appearance.

She shook her head sharply, then put a hand to her temple underneath a curtain of dark blond hair with a wince. "I wasn't driving," she said faintly. Then, more clearly, she added, "I was kidnapped. He forced me into the car in Las Vegas, and he was the one driving. He escaped when the car crashed, and I don't know where he went. I'm just glad he left me here." She repeated more softly, "I'm so glad."

Rick and the patrolman looked at each other. Then, as they both realized the implications of what she had said, their eyes swept the darkness around them. Was there someone else out there who needed assistance? Or was there someone else out there who wished the young woman, and maybe themselves, some kind of harm?

"We'd better get you back to the road," the patrolman said hurriedly. "Sir, can you give us a hand and hold the flashlight?"

They hurried back to the relative safety of the road shoulder. Off in the distance, Rick could hear the siren indicating that paramedics were on their way. He had to fight the urge to keep looking back over his shoulder for the unknown driver who had apparently climbed out of the wreck as unharmed as his victim had been. When they were within shouting distance, the patrolman with him called, "Hey, Todd! Get on the horn to dispatch and put us through to the FBI. Looks like we've got a kidnapping here."

"What?" The young patrolman had questions all over his face as he looked at the three people making their way towards him, but he reached inside the car for the radio without verbalizing any of them. He depressed a button on the radio, then paused. "Where are we, anyway?"

Rick recalled the flash of bright green metal under his flashlight beam out near where the girl had been, and the strange name he had seen the other half of the sign. He remembered it now, one of the few exits on the long stretch between Barstow and Las Vegas with no services of any kind. Truckers tended to remember those kinds of things.

"Zzyzx," he called out to the CHP officer, pronouncing it to rhyme with "Isaacs." "We're at the exit for Zzyzx Road."