Crush

before he did something people would notice. He drove down the road, reached beneath his seat, and pulled out a case. With one hand, he flipped open the lock and lifted the lid. Gleaming knives were nestled in soft velvet holders, blades down, ready to be used.

He had a victim he’d marked for killing, and there was a date by which he had planned to act. It was still a week off—but doing it now would be dramatic. And it would send a powerful message to Karen Vail, FBI profiler and “director of marketing and promotion.”

The concept of sending a message appealed to him. Figuratively—and literally. He pulled over to the side of the road as cars sped by. Tourists and wine aficionados out for a memorable time on the town. I’ll do my bit for making it memorable, no need to worry.

He reached into his pocket and extracted a disposable cell phone. He turned it on and waited for it to find its cell service. Then he went about his business.

He shoved the phone back in his pocket, yanked the gearshift back into Drive, and returned to the highway. I’m in promotion, too, Agent Vail. Of my own services and handiwork. So be prepared, because sooner or later you’ll want to make me happy. You’ll come around. You’ll have to.

He reached over, then removed one knife from the case and lifted it toward his face. The bright sun glinted off the highly polished chrome.

Promote this, Agent Vail.

FOLLOWING LUNCH, Vail and Dixon were killing time, awaiting word the UNSUB had gotten the message. An email, a phone call to the sheriff’s department. Something.

“I’ll give you a tour of Silverado Trail,” Dixon had said. “Beautiful road.”

As they passed notable wineries, Dixon played tour guide: Hagafen Vineyards—“an award winning kosher winery”; Regusci—“they fooled the Feds by operating secretly during Prohibition to produce bootleg wine”; and, “There, coming up on your left, is Baldacci Family Vineyards. Their vines go back ninety years and give some of the best Cabernet—”

“It’s 12:24, Roxxann.”

Dixon glanced over at her. “I’m just trying to take your mind off it.”

Vail’s elbow rested on the window frame while she rubbed at her forehead. “He’s seen it by now.”

“Probably,” Dixon said. As she drove past Baldacci, she said, “What do you think will be his next move?”

“He probably knows the sheriff’s department is on alert, monitoring the entrance and lobby area. Watching for him. Let’s hope he reads the article and sends me an email.”

Just then, Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed on her belt. She leaned left and pulled the device from its holster. “He just texted me.”

“Texted?” Dixon asked. “How is that possible? You didn’t put your cell number in the article.”

Vail stared at the screen. Her body had broken out into a nervous sweat. “I don’t know,” she heard herself saying in response to Dixon’s question. Because she didn’t know—but it would be something she’d have to think hard about. Her larger concern at the moment, however, was the message she received.

She closed her eyes. “He said we didn’t comply, so we should expect a new victim in the next few hours. And to expect a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises,” Dixon said.

Vail didn’t reply. Her mind was flooded with emotions ranging from fury to guilt to anxiety-ridden frustration.

“We knew the risks,” Dixon said. “You can’t feel responsible for what this asshole does.”

“I know that intellectually, and I still feel it was the right way to go. But when I stare at the next woman’s mutilated body, I can’t help but ask myself if it needed to happen. Was I responsible?”

“The guilt. Comes with the territory, I guess. A perk of the job.”

Vail sat back. She thought about the killer stalking his victim. If he was organized, as she was sure he was, he would’ve already had his next target chosen. He might have been stalking her, waiting for an excuse to strike. And she just gave it to him.

Yes, this emotional torture did come with the territory. Vail knew the risks. But to remain effective on the job, she had to tell herself that this was the right thing to do, that the goal of catching the offender before he killed on a grander scale was more important than this one life.

It didn’t help. And there was nothing she could do now but wait for the call.

IT CAME EXACTLY three hours later. Brix sent a text message blast to the task force members that was as chilling as it was short:

new vic. meet me.

And he gave them the address.

Dixon made it there in ten minutes, driving the speed limit—keeping it a low profile approach, at Vail’s urging—despite her desire to floor it, lights blazing.

When they drove up, Vail noted that the parking lot to Crooked Oak Vineyards in the Georges Valley District was full of unmarked county vehicles. Even Lugo was in a plain vanilla white Chevy Impala. Vail and Dixon got out and walked past the parked cars, looking for their comrades. Approximately a hundred feet away, amidst an adjacent, well-kept vineyard, they were all huddled around something, their heads down, hung low. Looking at a body, Vail surmised.

But as she and Dixon got closer, Vail was not prepared for what she saw.

VAIL STOOD OVER THE BODY trying to process what she was seeing. But no matter how hard she tried to focus, she couldn’t hone in on what she was feeling, what she was thinking. Come on, Karen. They’re all looking at you—to you—for answers.

But I’ve got nothing.

“Karen,” Brix said again. She barely heard his voice, off in the distance. Then a hand on her shoulder. “Karen, what’s the deal?”

Vail kept her gaze on the victim. On the male body that lay before her. The right shoe and sock were removed. And the second toenail had been forcibly extracted.

VAIL KNELT BESIDE THE BODY. Buying time. Trying to figure out what the hell was going on here. “Forensics?” she asked.

Lugo said, “On the way.”

“This vic, he’s a guy,” Brix said.

“Yeah, I got that. Thanks for pointing it out.” Vail tried to push the confusion from her thoughts. She needed to focus. Look at the body. See it. See the behaviors. Her mental checklist said: right second toenail missing. Breasts—or where they would be had the victim been female—had been sliced away. Bruising over the neck, so they would likely find a crushed trachea. There was linkage to the other murders—the toenail was a detail only those on the task force knew about. And the coroner.

“We’ve got linkage,” she said, hoping that talking aloud would help put it together and bring her to a logical conclusion. “The toenail, the . . . breasts, and the COD—I think we’re going to find out his trachea was crushed. Just like the others.”

“But the others were women,” Brix said.

Vail fought the urge to respond with a sharp retort. Brix was merely looking for answers, and it was anger at her own inability to mentally process this victim that was threatening to bubble to the surface.

“I don’t know,” Vail finally said. She looked up at everyone. They were huddled over the body, looking down at her. “I don’t understand it.”

They seemed to slump en masse. Or maybe she was projecting her sense of inadequacy onto them. Imagining their disappointment. Perhaps she was giving herself too much credit and they were thinking nothing of the sort. They were professionals. Cops, investigators. This was their business.

But they hadn’t dealt with serial crime. Not like this.

And, Vail suddenly realized, neither had she.