Crush

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