Crush (Karen Vail Series)

by Alan Jacobson

  Clearly, that was not in the original designers’ plan when they sketched out the lighting requirements for the facility. Shame on them.

  Vail heard a noise behind her—swung around hard—and saw Dixon.

  She leaned in close toward Vail’s ear. “Brix and Agbayani are here. They’re coming in through the front. Cruisers are in the lot, making sure he doesn’t leave with his car.”

  “I wish that was comforting, but there’s a lot of rural real estate out here. I’m not sure we caught a break when that cruiser forced him off the road.”

  Dixon’s head was turned, taking in the area in front of them. “There’s an iron fence that surrounds the property, so if we don’t get him in the castle, it’s not likely he’ll be able to get away without going past one of our people.”

  “Even armed, I’m not sure a one-on-one confrontation will be to our advantage.” Vail pointed with her Glock. “You go left. Into the plaza. I’ll go right.”

  Dixon nodded and Vail headed down a stairwell that sported slightly improved lighting—but opened into what appeared to be a gift shop. A large armored knight exoskeleton stood guard to her right, against the wall. To her left was a series of catacombs, all illuminated with mood lighting. Filling the main space and directly ahead was a well-camouflaged sales counter and tasting area. Two women stood there, one pouring wine for a husband and wife and the other exchanging a charge slip with a customer.

  Vail stepped forward, her pistol by her right thigh and her badge now clipped to her belt. She unfolded her credentials, held them up and played show-and-tell. “FBI. Have any of you seen a bodybuilder come through here dressed in gym clothes?”

  The two women and the couple shook their heads. “Okay, leave what you’re doing and get out of here. Move to the parking lot and wait there. Don’t scream. Go quickly, but don’t panic. You hear me?”

  Their eyes, wide with fear, registered their understanding and they moved off.

  Vail continued on, through the gift shop, into tasting stations that were tucked into small rooms off the main hallway. She felt her anxiety bubbling up, the pressure in her chest, the sense that she had to get the hell out of here.

  Claustrophobia sucks. And it’s goddamn inconvenient.

  I don’t have time for this shit. She pressed on, following the tasting room into what was apparently a wine cave. The hallways were narrow, the ceiling was low, and the lighting was dim.

  Hundreds of wine bottles were stacked horizontally against the wall, twelve rows high and several dozen wide. Up ahead, oak barrels rested on their sides along the walls, making the rooms seem even narrower. She turned down another bend and entered a similarly slender hallway. With only one bulb now every twenty or so feet, it was getting darker. And she was finding it more difficult to breathe.

  This is ridiculous. Mayfield could be anywhere. He must’ve known this place. Maybe the cruiser didn’t force him down this road. Maybe he knew how many caves and corridors and hidden rooms there were down here.

  How are we going to find him?

  Vail kept wandering through the maze of passageways, the anxiety and dread now consuming her thoughts. No. Focus on Mayfield. On Mayfield. He could be anywhere. Stay focused—

  Up ahead—a larger room. Time to breathe, regroup. Think things through.

  She stepped into a vast brick-encased vault—filled with oak barrels. It was brighter in here, and the ceiling was higher. She continued in, eyes scanning every corner and the subrooms created by the stacks of barrels. It was not unlike the thousand square foot barrel room she had been in at Silver Ridge.

  When they found Victoria Cameron. When this whole mess started. In a sense, she had come full circle.

  She walked down the wide, main aisle, her head swinging from side to side, trying to ensure John Mayfield didn’t ambush or blindside her. A few feet more and then she stopped. Turned 360 degrees, then backed against the nearest wall. Crouched down and pulled her BlackBerry. She had minimal service—one bar—but hopefully it was enough.

  She looked for messages. Nothing. Robby had still not replied. What was up with that? That was a pretty frantic message she left. He wouldn’t ignore it. He’d never ignored any message she left him. Ever.

  With her Glock in her left hand, she thumb-typed Robby a quick text:where r u. need help

  Then she texted Dixon and Brix, Lugo and Agbayani:in large room filled with oak barrels. past gift shop. somewhere in tunnels. no sign of mayfld. ur 20?

  As she reholstered her BlackBerry, she heard the tone of a cell phone. It was more than nearby—it was damn near next to her. She rose from her crouch and started searching. Whose phone had rung? It wasn’t a prolonged ring, as if someone had called. It was more like a quick, repeated beep. Then nothing.

  A text.

  She had just sent a text. Shit, this is not good.

  Vail tightened her grip on the Glock, then moved slowly forward. Looked left, into a smaller room—also lined with oak barrels—and saw a body. Lying supine. With a shiny, thick liquid beneath it.

  Vail rotated her head, checking as best she could around the barrels. Finding nothing, she inched closer to the body, still keeping an eye on her immediate vicinity. She moved to the far wall and cleared that completely, then kept her back to it. Directly in front of her was the victim. Male, well-dressed.

  She advanced, in a crouch, her eyes still scanning below the barrels for feet—or movement of any kind.

  Looked back to the body. And then she saw the face. It was Eddie Agbayani. In this light, it was impossible to determine much about cause of death. She lay her index and middle finger across his neck to check for a pulse. Nothing. But she felt something that confirmed her suspicions.

  Vail pulled her BlackBerry. Using the light given off by the LCD screen, she scanned Agbayani’s throat area. Palpated the cartilage. And concluded—to be confirmed later under more optimal conditions—that the detective was the latest victim of John Mayfield, of the Crush Killer.

  His left wrist had been sliced, the blood moist around the wound. He was killed moments ago—which meant Mayfield was likely still nearby.

  Agbayani’s boots were on his feet—but at this point, it didn’t matter. Mayfield didn’t need to leave his calling card. They would know who was responsible.

  As she glanced back up—she’d taken her eyes off the room too long—a text came through. Brix:covered east upper level and turrets. zip.

  Then Dixon:courtyard and surrounding rooms, banquet room clear. on second floor. no way of knowing if he’s still here

  Vail replied to all:still here big room. found a db. still warm.

  She sent it without saying it was Agbayani—the revelation would no doubt upset Dixon—but then realized she had no choice. They needed to know one of their boots on the ground was now, literally, on the ground.

  She took a deep breath, looked over at Agbayani, and typed a new message:sorry, rox. vic is eddie

  Tears filled her eyes. She knew Dixon would take it hard. And though she didn’t know him well, he seemed to be a good guy.

  If Vail were to follow standard crime scene procedure, as was her duty, she needed to secure the area and remain with the body. But that was a low priority. Her greater duty was to find the killer. Besides, they knew who did the murder. And Agbayani was dead. No sense in remaining. No one was going to walk up to a dead body.

  Vail rose and moved back into the larger room. That’s where she stood while she figured out what to do, where to go.

  That’s where she stood when the lights went out.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Dixon was on the second level, her neck aching and swollen from Mayfield’s attack in the steam room.

  The adrenaline had masked the pain, but now, as time passed and the inflammation increased, she could no longer shrug it off. Her throat was narrowed and she was having difficulty swallowing and breathing.

  And her neck’s range of motion was diminished. She had to twist her torso—which was also so
re—because the cervical muscles were bruised and in spasm.

  Dixon left the room she had just cleared and moved back into the corridor when her phone vibrated. She pulled it from her belt. A text from Vail:in some kind of large room filled with oak barrels. past gift shop. somewhere in tunnels. no sign of mayfld. ur 20?

  Dixon shifted her weapon to her left hand and texted back.

  courtyard and surrounding rooms, banquet room clear. on second floor. no way of knowing if he’s still here

  Flipped the phone closed, proceeded carefully. One run-in with John Mayfield was enough. She felt fortunate to have escaped; trying to pull off a second miracle in the same night might be asking too much of her Creator. Another buzz. Pulled her cell, flipped it open. Text from Vail: still here big room. found a db. still warm.

  Goddamn it. She took a deep breath. They had to find this monster. Fast. Phone in hand, Dixon steadied her weapon with both hands and moved forward a few feet, toward a doorway that led to a balcony overlooking the square below. Black iron lights hung at various intervals from the brick walls, under alcoves and from rusted brackets, throwing romantic—but minimal—light on the courtyard.

  Her phone buzzed again. She twisted her right wrist and read the display.

  sorry, rox. vic is eddie

  Dixon stood there staring at the message. What? How can that be? Read it again: vic is Eddie. Eddie?

  She started walking, unsure where she was headed, moving toward a staircase that would take her down. Dixon wasn’t paying attention to where she was going or what was in front of her. She kept moving, through corridors, across the square, down a staircase. Someone bumped her. Brix. She looked at him.

  “Roxxi, I’m so sorry—”

  She blinked away tears. Looked off ahead of her. “Where. Where is he?”

  Brix took her by the arm and led her around the gift shop, through tunnels and small rooms lined with barrels and wine bottles. He pulled his Maglite and turned it on, twisted the beam to a wide spread.

  Eddie. Dead?

  I’ll kill that bastard. I’ll break every bone in his body—

  “Roxxi, calm down,” Brix said in a low voice. “Relax.”

  He must’ve felt me tensing. “I’m gonna kill him, Redd—”

  “Shh,” he said, placing a hand over her mouth. “Hold that thought,” he whispered. “Let’s catch him first.”

  They were moving down a long, narrow corridor when suddenly the lights went out. They both stopped. Brought their handguns up, adrenaline flooding their system.

  Ready for a fight.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Vail backed up against the nearest wall and crouched down low, into as small a target as possible. Unless

  Mayfield had night vision goggles, she would be nearly impossible for him to find. But she could not rule out him having NVGs—because, thus far, he seemed to be prepared. And because his ending up at the castle might’ve been by design.

  But it couldn’t be. He did not have NVGs. He was as much in the dark as she was.

  Then why would he cut the lights?

  Unless he knew where I was when he took them out. Move—I have to move. Vail clambered to her left, attempting to be quiet, but the scrape of her shoes against the cement flooring, the fine gravel and detritus from the people who’d walked through here today made stealth difficult. But that worked both ways.

  She continued left, bumped into a wall—brought up her right hand and felt around—barrels. Took a step forward to move around them—and stopped. Someone was coming. Noise in the distance.

  Vail rose, backed up behind the barrels and brought her Glock in close to her body, holding it low, so it couldn’t be easily knocked from her hands.

  Waited. Footsteps.

  BRIX HELD HIS SIG-SAUER out in front of him, the Maglite alongside the barrel, illuminating the area in front of him. In such narrow quarters, Dixon had to follow single file behind him. She was a good five feet back, giving adequate spacing.

  Up ahead, she saw the mouth to another, larger room. Brix stopped. Dixon stopped.

  VAIL LISTENED. Moved forward slightly, peeked around the edge of the barrel. Saw the flicker of a light. Then it went out.

  Her heartbeat accelerated. She felt it pounding, an aching in her head, a pulsing in her ears. She backed up a step away from the edge and listened.

  “WHAT?” DIXON WHISPERED.

  Brix shut his light. “A room up ahead.”

  “Could be the one Karen’s in.”

  “If so, Mayfield could be in there, too.”

  “Split up?”

  Brix nodded, leaned in close to her ear. “I’ll take the light. If he goes after someone, it’ll be me because he’ll know where I am.”

  Dixon gave a thumbs up. Brix lit up his Maglite and pressed forward. The room ahead appeared to be large, with curvilinear brick ceilings, like multiple gazebos launching from thick square columns.

  As Brix disappeared into the room, Dixon started ahead herself, wanting to shout into the dark, “Karen, you in here?” But she knew that was the absolute wrong thing to do. She didn’t even dare open her phone in the darkness, as that would surely give away her position.

  But just as she’d gone about fifteen paces into the large room, she saw Brix’s flashlight go flying from his hand. He let out a sickening thump and, in the twirling and carnival-like swirl of his light as it spun on the ground, he appeared to drop to the floor with an even louder thud.

  Dixon started to rush forward, then stopped. Mayfield was here. She had to get to him before he killed Brix—if he hadn’t already. She had to risk it. “Karen!”

  VAIL SAW THE LIGHT advancing into the room, footsteps approaching. She backed up further, Glock out in front of her, taking an angle on the imminent arrival of her guest. The light was moving, bouncing the way it would with someone’s gait. Or if it were held out in front of you against your gun.

  But she didn’t dare call out.

  A noise—skin on bone—and the light went flying to the ground. A bump. Something hit the cement. A body?

  “Karen!”

  Vail looked out into the near darkness. Dixon. “Over here!”

  And then she saw something dark spring toward her, a mass like a football player plowing into her, a crushing blow that knocked her back into a wall of barrels. Her air left her lungs.

  And the Glock flew from her hands.

  FIFTY-NINE

  In the distant light that was off somewhere in the background, Vail saw John Mayfield in silhouette, his massive hand over her mouth. He had her shoved against the barrels. And she knew what was coming.

  Vail swung, struck his meaty shoulder, then

  kicked him in his groin—hit something hard,

  kneed him again, and

  again,

  writhing her head from side to side, trying to open her mouth to bite—

  reached up and grabbed for his face, got hold of his nose but

  he yanked his head back and

  she threw her left hand up in time to block a massive thrust into her

  neck.

  It struck her hand and forced it against her throat and she coughed.

  Spasmodic. Coughing—

  And then she heard a nauseatingly sick bone-breaking crunch.

  “OVER HERE!”

  Dixon tried to locate Vail’s voice—but in the chamber, with its uneven and gazebo-rounded ceilings, she couldn’t triangulate on her position. She moved quickly into the large room, using whatever light was being given off by the fallen Maglite, hoping she wouldn’t run into Mayfield. Because right now, she was sure he was here. That’s what had taken down Brix.

  She saw barrels to her left and moved toward them, her right hand aiming her SIG and her left feeling the metal rims surrounding the flat oak faces, forward, forward, a few feet at a time.

  And then scuffling, struggling, muted yells—off to her right. Karen!

  Dixon ran in the direction of the noise. Around the bend, she saw, in the
relative darkness, John Mayfield, legs spread, straddling something. She couldn’t see Vail, but Mayfield was easily twice her width.

  Given Mayfield’s well-documented MO—which she’d experienced firsthand—she didn’t have to see Vail to know where she was, or what Mayfield was doing to her.