Crush

by Jacobson, Alan

  “Haven’t seen him. I’m in the car, coming up alongside the train now.”

  “Good. Keep pace with it. I’ll let you know if I find him.”

  If I go flying through the glass, that would likely serve as your first clue.

  Vail signed off, shoved her BlackBerry into its holster, then crossed into the next car. No windowed skylight in this one. But a well-restored and meticulously maintained interior nonetheless. Carpeted interior, paisley fabric seats . . . and curtains on the windows. I could enjoy this, she thought, if Robby were here and she wasn’t chasing a serial killer through the Napa countryside.

  Focus, Karen. Catch the fucker.

  She moved between cars, hearing the rhythmic clanking as the wheels struck the rail joints, thump-thumping as the train barreled down the track. Vail scanned the car she was in. People seemed to lean away when they caught a glimpse of her—she was no doubt looking pretty ragged . . . hungry, tired, stressed, and, oh, yeah, there was that gold badge she was holding out in front of her. She hoped people still respected authority.

  Vail forged forward into the next car, where patrons were sitting at tables, gold velour curtains blanketing the mirrorlike windows, beyond which lay the Napa countryside—actually, probably now Rutherford, on its way toward St. Helena, if she remembered her map correctly. There was a hint of light out the left windows, to the west . . . a silhouetted vineyard flicking by.

  Gone, blurring past her, signaling the metaphoric passage of time.

  Then she had a feeling. John Mayfield was still on the train. Somehow, she just knew.

  So she moved forward. Stopped to ask a man in his forties if he had seen a large man dressed in gym attire moving through the cars. Yes, he said, and he pointed “thataway.” Vail couldn’t help thinking she was in some inane children’s cartoon, asking “Which way did he go?”

  But she continued on nonetheless. Because this wasn’t an ink and celluloid drama. It was an honest to goodness race to find a man who murders people. Innocent people.

  She moved into the next car and saw the door ahead close suddenly. Was it possibly her offender? Impossible to say. She pulled her phone and called Dixon. “Anything?”

  “If he came off the west side of the train, no. If he came off the east, I have no fucking clue.”

  “I think I just saw him. Who’s en route?”

  “Task force is lights and siren, but probably at least fifteen out. I just called St. Helena and Calistoga PDs.”

  “Ten-four. Wish me luck.”

  Vail signed off and hung up. For now, it was her ballgame. Hopefully she could stay in the game until the others arrived. And being on a train filled with people—who paid handsomely to be here—didn’t make her job any easier. If Mayfield wanted to make this a hostage situation, there’d be little she could do to stop, or defuse, it. So she kept moving forward.

  As she climbed through the doors of the next car, she grabbed the waitress and asked a question she should’ve thought to ask earlier. “Just how many goddamn cars are on this train?”

  The answer told her she was in the last one before the locomotive. Mayfield was either here—which he was not—or he was in the locomotive. Or he had bailed out. Vail looked west first and did not see anyone—but in the near darkness, there was no way she could be sure of what she was seeing. To her right, the east was totally black.

  Yet she sensed Mayfield was still aboard the train.

  Vail pushed forward into the connecting area between the car and the locomotive—and saw, to her right and now behind her as the train continued on, John Mayfield, standing in the middle of the road, car-jacking a vehicle.

  So much for intuition—

  She pulled her BlackBerry, but Dixon was already calling through.

  “Got him—” Dixon said. “Two cars ahead. Silver SUV—”

  “I see it.”

  Dixon pulled right, around the car in front of her, along the shoulder of the winding road.

  “I’m getting off,” Vail said. “Pick me up.”

  She yanked open the side door, looked at the descending metal stairs, and stepped down. Damn. It’s not enough I had to jump onto the train, now I have to jump off it. If she didn’t hate Mayfield before, she sure hated him now.

  Glanced right. Saw what looked like Dixon’s car.

  Why haven’t I heard back from Robby? Where the hell is he?

  Vail stepped down to the lowest rung, then sprung off the train and into the brush, rolling onto her shoulder as she landed. Cushioning scrub or not, the impact still stung.

  She pushed herself up, saw Dixon’s head poking through the window, yelling at her.

  “Hurry the hell up!”

  Blaring horns. Vail ran onto the roadway and got into Dixon’s car.

  Dixon floored it as soon as the door closed, throwing the seatbeltless Vail backwards and sideways. She grabbed for the door handle and righted herself. Pain shot through her left shoulder.

  Dixon’s engine was revving, groaning as she kept the pedal against the floor.

  “Don’t lose him,” Vail shouted. As if she had to tell Dixon to step on it. Dixon was driving along the rough hard-pack shoulder, which made for a less than comfortable ride. But neither of them cared, not with their quarry in the SUV ahead of them, speeding along this twisty-turny stretch of Highway 29 that was now out in the suburbs, vineyards on both sides illuminated by Dixon’s headlights.

  Suddenly, a buzz on Dixon’s phone.

  “Get it,” she yelled.

  Vail reached over, grabbed Dixon’s cell, and flipped it open. “This is Vail.”

  “It’s Brix. I’m en route, passing Pratt Avenue.”

  Now there’s a street that rings a bell. “He’s at Pratt,” Vail said to Dixon. To Brix: “I don’t know where we are—”

  “Sounds like he’s a couple miles back,” Dixon said. “Tell him we’re passing Ehlers.”

  “We’re—”

  “I heard,” Brix said. “I’ll be there soon.”

  Vail ended the call, shoved the phone back into Dixon’s pocket—and that’s when she realized her partner was wearing the bare minimum: gym shorts and shirt, no bra, and tennis shoes without socks. But she had her sidearm strapped to her shoulder and her phone holder clipped to the shorts’ waistband. It looked bizarre—and downright geeky—but who the hell cared?

  Vail caught a sign on the left—Bale Grist Mill State Park—and realized the area was becoming more rural as they drove down 29.

  Dixon tightened her grip on the wheel. “He’s speeding up, I think he realizes we’re behind him.”

  “Where’s your cube?”

  “In here,” she said, banging her right elbow on the large armrest.

  Dixon lifted her arm and Vail reached into the deep receptacle. She pulled out the device, flipped the switch, and the blinding light filled the interior and reflected off the windshield. It made them both recoil.

  “Jesus—”

  “Shit, sorry about that.” Vail rolled down the window and set the magnetic base on the roof.

  “Two-way’s in the glove box. Tell dispatch we’ve got a code 33. Give our twenty.”

  Vail located the radio, then saw something that brought a smile to her face: her Glock. Missed you, big fella.

  She keyed the two-way and followed Dixon’s instructions. “ . . . Code 33, stolen silver Nissan SUV headed—”

  “North.”

  “North on Highway 29.” She lowered the radio. “Get us closer, let me grab the tag.”

  Dixon pressed the accelerator, the engine roared louder and the vehicle closed on Mayfield’s SUV.

  “Roger,” the dispatcher responded. “Code 33 on primary. All non-emergency traffic go to red channel.”

  Vail leaned forward and squinted. “I see a five. X-ray, Tom, Robert—” Vail moved the radio back to her lips. “License on the stolen Nissan. California plate. Five X-ray Tom Robert.”

  Mayfield swerved left to avoid a motorcyclist, who leaned right, onto
the shoulder.

  Dixon gave the man extra room and cut back into the lane. “I hate high-speed chases. Too fucking dangerous.”

  The headlights caught a large sign up ahead and off to the right. Vail pointed. “What do you say we forget the chase and go see Old Faithful spew her wrath?”

  Dixon veered right around a stray cat. Vail grabbed the dashboard with her left hand, then set the radio between her thighs when Dixon slammed on the brakes and yelled out—

  “What the fuck!”

  A cruiser, light bar flashing, was approaching from the opposite direction. Dixon’s car dovetailed, her rear end flying right while she coaxed the front end left, back into pursuit of Mayfield.

  “Mayfield saw the cruiser, turned left,” Dixon said. “Right into the Castillo del Deseo.”

  “The what?”

  “Castle of Desire,” Dixon said. “A dozen years to build. Looks and feels like a real Spanish castle.” She accelerated up the inclined cement drive, the taillights of Mayfield’s SUV still barely visible around the bend. She sped past the seedling evergreens, then crested the hill. Ahead, in the darkness, was a large, dramatically lit brick structure.

  Vail craned her neck to take in the enormity of the approaching complex. “Robby said he went to a castle a few days ago. Wish I could’ve seen it with him. Just a guess . . . but this won’t be nearly as fun.”

  Dixon swung the vehicle in behind Mayfield’s parked Nissan. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  Dixon nodded ahead, toward the castle. “You’re gonna get your wish.”

  FIFTY-SIX

  Weapons drawn, Vail and Dixon rushed out of their car and approached the Nissan from behind, beneath window level. The headlights from Dixon’s car lit them up like precious jewels against black velvet. They moved up alongside the SUV and pulled open the doors. The dome light was disabled, but there was enough brightness from Dixon’s headlights to check the interior.

  “Clear,” Vail said.

  “Clear,” Dixon repeated.

  They looked out into the darkness.

  Vail spotted him first. “There!” She threw out a hand to the left of the castle, at what appeared to be a grassy knoll with thick elder trees peppering the hillside. A large man was running alongside the massive building.

  They took off in that direction, trying to keep an eye on Mayfield while watching for hidden ruts, low barriers or other structures that would lay them out face down on the ground.

  Dixon pointed. “Over there, by the opening in the wall—”

  They ran forward, across the grass and through the stand of thick-trunked trees. In the shadows of the dim lighting hanging from various points of the castle wall, the trees looked eerie, like witches ready to pull their roots from beneath the grass and start walking.

  They pulled up against the high, rough hewn brick wall. Vail peered around the edge. “Clear.”

  They fell in, through the opening, which was a back lot of the castle, with machinery and stainless steel white wine casks arranged against the far wall of the large square. To their left was another building constructed of the same materials and architecture. By the looks of it, it was a miniature castle all its own, perhaps a private residence for the winery’s owner.

  Vail and Dixon moved into the square and squatted to get a better view of the area. There were only a few places where someone could be hiding. Mayfield didn’t have enough of a lead on them to sprint across the lot to the stainless steel casks. And he couldn’t have made it to the residence. But to their right, twenty feet away, was a service entrance into the castle.

  Two heavy, ornate wood doors were swung fully open, inviting them in. As they approached cautiously, Dixon’s phone rang. Dixon mouthed “Brix” to Vail, who pressed forward.

  Dixon remained where she was and answered the call. “We’re at the castle, around back,” Vail heard as she moved into the room. More stainless containers stood on thick metal stands, hoses coiled on the cement ground beneath them. Metal steps led up to a catwalk, where workers could presumably monitor the huge vats of Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc.

  Vail knelt down and swept the area, then proceeded forward up a couple of steps . . . into the castle. Immediately to her left was an ornate plaza, with dim lanterns providing enough light to be romantic—and authentic—but far from useful when conducting a foot pursuit of a serial killer.

  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.

&nbs
p; 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.