He flicked a document aside and spread his fingers to enlarge a printout that looked like rudimentary computer text.
“So here’s the info we’ve got.” He moved his finger toward the top of the screen and the long document scrolled top to bottom. “You want the name of the guy who created this document?”
Brix sat forward in his chair. “You got the killer’s name?”
Tomás moved the page a bit and zoomed in on lines of text. “I’ve got the name of the computer user who registered the software on this particular PC. If it’s a real name or an alias, I have no way of knowing.”
“And?” Brix asked. “What’s the name?”
Tomás looked away from the camera, said something to someone off screen, then turned back to Lugo. “I’ve got it right here.” Tomás zoomed again and a name filled the screen. “John Mayfield.”
Brix’s eyes widened. “Holy shit. We’ve really got a name?” He reached for the phone.
“Hold it,” Tomás said. “Before you make any calls. There’s another name embedded, so I asked the licensing team to check the database used for binding the registered user to the software. Just to try to verify if that name is real or not.”
“And?” Agbayani asked.
“And the software was registered to a John Mayfield. So Mayfield appears to check out. But I don’t know what to make of this other name. The document’s author. Both names could be real, or they could be fake, I’ve no way of telling.”
“What’s the other name?” Brix yelled.
“Right here.” Tomás flicked the screen and it scrolled down. Tapped it again and it stopped. Zoomed. “There. The document’s author.”
FIFTY-ONE
There she was. Naked. Hair clipped back. Dixon looked up—surprise—
“George—what the hell are you doing in here?”
Panda smiled disarmingly and stepped forward, then grabbed Dixon beneath her armpits and threw her across the room, into the opposing wall. A flat tile wall, perfect for his needs.
Dixon slipped on the wet tile and went down hard. Panda turned and grabbed her. She shook her head, fighting through the momentary daze. He lifted her off the ground and pounded her against the wall. Clamped his left hand across her mouth. Grabbed her left bicep and squeezed. “Very good, Roxxann. Very nice.”
Dixon yelled and kicked, her right foot slipping on the moist floor—and landed a knee to his groin. But it didn’t matter because he was wearing a cup. It landed impotently against the hard plastic.
That didn’t stop her. She kicked again, in the thigh, and then again. The last one knocked him back a bit—she had powerful legs. He’d have bruises for sure, but again, it was nothing he couldn’t handle.
He brought his right forearm out in front of him and grinned, then bent his elbow and slammed his arm into her throat. Her body rebounded against the tile, but his forearm bounced back. Her neck muscles had prevented the crushing blow.
Panda leaned back and thrust forward again, and this time he had greater impact, because her eyes bulged and she coughed. Hard.
But a crashing blow to his right cheek knocked him back and temporarily blinded him. What the fuck was that?
She yelled—hoarse, loud—
But it disappeared into the deadening fog.
And then she landed another blow, from the left, across his jaw—blinding pain—and he staggered back. He saw her darting around his side. No—can’t let her get away—
He reached out and grabbed her arm—slipped off the wet skin—but he’d gotten just enough because she went sprawling forward. He swung hard, connected with something, and he felt her body jolt. He wasn’t sure what he hit, but all that mattered was that it was her. And he wanted to do it again.
Panda reached back and swung again, and hit hard flesh again. He thought he heard a cry, but in the jet-noise and dense fog, it was swallowed whole, absorbed into nothingness.
He leaned over for a better look—he’d finish her on the ground if need be—and saw a blur of skin in front of him—reached out and grabbed—felt a breast and pulled her body against his. She was facing away, which would not do. He needed to watch her face. As he squeezed the life out of her.
FIFTY-TWO
The air in the locker room was damp, with a musty, stale smell. Vail sat on the brown resin bench to tie her shoes, the repetitive beat of some inane pop song droning through the speakers. The workout refreshed her, gave her a jolt of needed energy and a renewed outlook that they were going to catch the Crush Killer . . . sooner rather than later. Hopefully Agbayani’s Microsoft contact would be able to extract hidden information from the document. But even if he couldn’t, she still had the sense they were getting close.
Vail was reaching back into the locker for her phone when the BlackBerry buzzed. “Vail.”
“Karen, it’s Brix. I tried Roxxann, but she didn’t answer. Where the hell is she?”
“We’re at the gym, working out. Why?”
“We got an ID on the killer—the document he sent, that Microsoft guy said that unless he’s using an alias or someone else’s PC, the name we’ve got is John Mayfield. My sense is that’s his real name. But there’s another name embedded. George Panda. We’re putting out an APB for both—”
“Wait—George Panda, are you sure?”
“Yeah, he’s—”
“He’s here, Brix—at Fit1.”
“Fucking A. Keep an eye on him. We’re on our way. Do not engage until you’ve got backup. You hear me, Karen? Do not—”
FIFTY-THREE
John Wayne Mayfield—a.k.a. George Panda—struggled to turn Dixon around while maintaining a tight hold on her body, determined not to let her land anymore punches. They did an awkward dance as he drove her forward, smashing against the tile seat. She swung her elbow back, landing a soft blow against his left bicep. He continued to wrestle with her—until he finally gained leverage and spun her fully onto her back.
He was now over her.
And there was little she could do to hurt him. He clapped his hand over her mouth, but she knocked it away, then clawed at his face, scratching his cheek. It reminded him of a rough sexual encounter he had as a child. Sexual encounter my ass—the bitch raped me.
He growled—fuming at the memory. Yet relieved he finally had Roxxann Dixon where he wanted her. “Say good-bye, Roxxann,” he said close to her face, then slammed his hand over her mouth again. He would squeeze her carotids, cut her blood supply, then have his way with her body. It wouldn’t be what he wanted, but at this point, he had to think about survival: If he got caught, it’d all be over. And as good as he was, the longer he remained in this steam room, the higher the risk he’d get caught. Better to get rid of her, then live to kill another day.
He clamped his large right hand across her neck and squeezed. She should feel the pressure building in her head. In five seconds, her brain would be hungry for oxygen. But there won’t be any. And then, sleep. Unconscious.
But Dixon swung her arms upward, slamming against his forearm and knocking his hand off her neck. Fuck—he withdrew the hand from her mouth to catch himself from falling over—just as she swung her head forward and slammed it into his nose. He heard a crunch—his vision blurred—his hearing blunted—and he staggered back and off her, twisting around, where—
—he could see, at the door, a dark, amorphous silhouette.
The steam room jets stopped. Numbing quiet.
But then, somewhere in the distance, Dixon was yelling and kicking, trying to get his weight completely off her legs.
He felt a blow to the back of his neck—not enough to make him go down, but the door, now a foot from his face—was swinging open. He powered forward and lunged, slamming his weight against it. The glass shattered into hundreds of pieces and the wood frame flew open, into the person who was behind it.
He stumbled out, down the corridor, toward the exit. Right now, it was about survival.
Another victim
Another day
>
Survival—
FIFTY-FOUR
Vail picked herself up off the damp floor—her pants were now wet—and watched as the man—Panda?—ran down the hall.
“Hey, stop!”
“Karen—”
Vail turned, her shoes crunching and slipping in the glass fragments. Standing naked in the steam room, steadying herself against the doorway, was Dixon.
“Roxx—you okay?”
“Get him—Panda—he’s the killer—”
Yeah, I got that. A little late, but I got it. Vail took off.
“Meet me out front at the car—” Vail yelled back at Dixon, then burst through the locker room entrance, nearly running over another woman heading toward her. Vail pushed her aside and saw Panda running out Fit1!’s front door. Vail ran across the padded rubber workout flooring and hit the door before it closed. In the glow of the parking lot’s lights, she saw Panda in the street, running along Highway 29. He veered too far right into the roadway. Headlights. Blaring horn. And the oncoming car swerved around him.
Vail looked back, hoping to see Dixon emerging—with the keys to the car—but she wasn’t there and Vail couldn’t risk losing him. Bad knee or not, she took off after him. Pulled her BlackBerry. The glow of the screen reflected off her face and fried her night vision.
She pulled up the call history, felt for the trackball, then accidentally hit the Call button—crap, who’d I just dial? Probably someone on the task force. But it wasn’t. It was Robby’s cell. Right to voicemail. “It’s me. Need your help. In pursuit of Crush Killer. John Mayfield, a.k.a George Panda . . . foot pursuit along 29—” She glanced over her right shoulder, then coughed. “Leaving Fit1, somewhere near Peju, that place we went a few days ago with the yodeling wine guy—hurry!”
Mayfield was still visible, but he was a stride faster than she and the gap was widening. She struggled with her phone, pressed the Call button again and found what she thought was Brix’s number, coughed hard again, then dialed Brix.
“Ray Lugo.”
Lugo. That works. “Ray—Roxxann and I are in pursuit of John Mayfield. Need backup.” She gave him the location, told him to call Brix and the rest of the task force. He was thirty minutes out. The others were already en route, he said, but not a whole lot closer.
She pressed End with her thumb and shoved the phone into its holster. This fucker is not getting away. Even if I have to shoot him in the back, I’ll answer for it later. But he’s not going to crush anymore throats. I’ll take whatever heat they give me—
Except that she was getting winded—not surprising given the smoke she’d recently inhaled—and she was falling further behind. She thought about yelling for him to freeze, but who was she kidding? Would he stop? That didn’t even require an answer.
Over her left shoulder, she heard the clanging rumble of a large moving object approaching. She turned and saw the lone headlight of The Napa Valley Wine Train blazing its trail along the tracks. And in that instant, she realized what was going to happen. Mayfield was going to hop the train.
Vail angled left, toward the tracks, running through scrub, on uneven terrain, gravel and angled dirt—something she was specifically advised against doing for awhile, until the knee was completely healed. In a perfect world, she would do exactly as told. But with men like John Mayfield on the loose, this world was anything but perfect.
She angled closer to the train—and for the first time realized how massive it was. Traveling in a car, at a distance, as she had been with Dixon when she had first seen it, the restored railcars didn’t look so imposing.
But running alongside it, feeling the shudder of its tonnage as it passed over the iron tracks, was intimidating. In some ways more so than staring down a serial killer in lockup. Because there the offender was in shackles. But here, with the unbridled power of the locomotive bearing down on her, knowing she was going to have to jump onto this moving monster, she started to have doubts she would be able to carry through on her plans. And that didn’t happen often to Karen Vail.
The train rumbled by her, first the locomotive and then the dining cars. She fought the urge to shut her eyes, to tell her there wasn’t a train barreling down the track to her left. Step the wrong way and she’d be crushed. Or worse.
And up ahead, just as she had suspected, John Mayfield moving closer to the train. The bastard wasn’t going to make this easy. As she started to feel the burn of the cold night air in her lungs, Vail realized she had no choice. It was either that or shoot him. And while that was an option, it was not a good one. She had a chance to catch him—ethically. When she reached the point that plan was no longer viable, she would raise her Glock and fire. But not yet.
As she mused on that thought, John Mayfield reached out and grabbed the iron railing on the third car, jumped, and pulled himself aboard.
FIFTY-FIVE
There were some things about being a profiler Karen Vail did not enjoy. She had made a list once, then folded it and shredded it. She didn’t need to be reminded she was dealing with the extremes of human depravity.
But one thing that was not on the list was jumping onto a moving train.
The wine train did not travel at the same speeds as a traditional train—because, after all, its purpose was to leisurely troll the five cities it passed through en route to its turnaround point, to allow its passengers ample time to enjoy the lush countryside, mountains, and vineyards, while savoring a wine-paired, freshly prepared meal at the hands of a renowned, onboard chef.
That’s what she kept telling herself as she pumped her arms harder, catching up a bit to the last car, reaching up for the railing—lifting herself up—and getting thrown back against the train’s siding. She held on, whipped around and stretched her right arm onto the opposing handle while feeling for the wide metal steps she knew lay somewhere near her feet.
She lunged forward—and slammed her shin into the hard edge of the step above. But at least she was aboard. She had a feeling that would not be the hardest part of catching John Mayfield.
A sudden, spasmodic coughing fit wracked her body. She bent forward while straining to hold on, hacking away until her throat felt raw. A moment later, she was able to stand erect, the spasm passing. She risked taking a deep breath, squared her shoulders, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
Inward and onward. Mayfield’s inside.
Vail pushed through the door, then reached for her handgun—but it wasn’t there. Neither was her backup weapon, which had been burned in the fire. Her Glock was locked in Dixon’s vehicle, where she had left it when they went to work out. There were no fixed Bureau rules on where to leave your sidearm when you were not able to carry it with you—so long as it was secure. Leaving it in a gym locker did not qualify as “secure”—so she’d left it in the car.
Fuck. Given Mayfield’s size—and what he does to his victims—she would have to be extremely careful, unarmed and in the close quarters of a train. Not much room to maneuver, to duck and roll—or run. Not that she shied from a conflict—this was Karen Vail—but cooler heads had to prevail, and if the circumstances were not to your advantage, you changed those circumstances so they would help you achieve your goal.
Vail apparently did not have that luxury.
She looked around, then stepped into the rail car and pulled her credentials case. Held it up to soothe the minds of the passengers and to identify herself should a fight with Mayfield break out. At least they’d know who to root for.
As she moved forward, the creds raised to eye level, the passengers waved and gave her a thumbs up. Actually, they did neither. Most sat there, some squinting confusion. The presence of an FBI agent who no doubt wore a very serious expression did not spell good news for the rest of their expensive wine train journey.
None of them presented a threat, so Vail moved on. She walked through the car, headed toward the end of the train, searching the seats—below and behind—for the big man who, until recently, went by the moniker of “UNSUB.”<
br />
But Mayfield was no longer an “unknown subject.” They knew who he was. And, at the moment, they knew where he was.
Except that Mayfield was not in this car. Vail turned around and walked toward the front of the train, the slight side-to-side sway of the car throwing off her balance as she stepped toward the doorway. Into the next car, also one with large, plush, fixed rotating seats that faced the windowed sides. And above, a glass ceiling.
But this was not time to dream about the vacation that could have been, the one that John Mayfield had stolen from her and Robby. Now was the time to catch the bastard, make him pay for the people he had murdered.
So she moved forward, suddenly realizing that while she was making her way through the train, there’d be no way to know if Mayfield had jumped off the train. Fuck. I hadn’t thought of that. I hate it when I blow something. And I blew this. But what was I to do? No backup. It was just me and my two eyes.
Vail pulled her phone and moved to the nearest window. Normally, the patrons in the gold velour seats would’ve moved aside at the sight of her big, black handgun. People tended to do that, FBI badge or not. But those who were unaware of who she was merely threw dirty looks at this pushy woman who was bullying her way past them to grab a window view. C’mon, people, it’s dark out now. Not a whole lot to see out there.
While standing there, nose against the glass, hoping to see a large man dressed in gym clothing bathed in a car’s headlights, she phoned Dixon. Dixon answered quickly, as if she was expecting the call.
“Yeah—”
“I’m on the train. You see Mayfield?”
“Who the hell’s Mayfield?”
“Panda,” Vail said. “Panda’s other name—his real name, I think—is John Mayfield. He was onboard, but I lost sight of him and have no way of telling if he’s jumped off.”
Crush Page 35
