Crush

quickly looked away, then back at Vail. “I can’t.”

“You can,” she said soothingly. “Tell her what you feel, what’s on your mind. Tell her what you’ve always wanted to tell her.”

Mayfield turned his entire head this time. Facing the empty chair, staring at it, his eyes moistened. A minute passed. Then two. Finally, he said, in a low voice, “You let it happen. Why did you let him do that to me, Ma? Why?”

Vail leaned in, ever so slightly. “John, what was it that she let happen to you?”

“My father. It was my father.” He licked his lips. Hesitated, sat there quietly another moment before continuing. “I was thirteen. He wasn’t happy with me. I was a scrawny kid, unsure of myself. I walked slumped over. I disappointed him. He wanted me to play varsity football but I was too small. Guys in the neighborhood would spit on me, they beat me up, stole things from me. Made fun of me.” He stopped. The tears flowed down his cheek. “He called me a little runt.”

“It’s okay,” Vail said, barely above a whisper.

Mayfield sniffled. Still looking at the empty seat. “My father wanted to make me a man. So he hired a hooker, a whore. I ran out, but he caught me in the kitchen and dragged me back into the bedroom. Tied me down.”

Vail knew where this was going before Mayfield said it. “She raped you?”

“He said I needed to be a man. He stood outside the door and listened. I saw his feet underneath the door. Standing there.” He dragged his nose across his shoulder. Face down now, he talked to his lap. “But I was a man now. I’d had sex with a woman, with a whore. And my mother let it happen.”

“Was she there, too?” Vail asked softly.

“There?” Mayfield shook his head. “She was always working. She was never there. My father couldn’t keep a job, so he was always at home, getting drunk and smoking pot and playing cards. My mother was never around. But she knew what was happening, and she did nothing.” He lifted his head and turned to the empty chair. Took a deep, uneven breath, slumped forward and put his right elbow on the table.

“I don’t think your mother knew. I don’t think she’d let that happen to you, John. Did you ever . . . tell her?”

Mayfield swung his face toward Vail’s. “I couldn’t.”

Vail nodded slowly. “I understand.” And, honestly, she did understand. What thirteen-year-old could face his mother and tell her he’d been raped by a prostitute? The details of how it happened were unimportant. It was too embarrassing for most thirteen-year-olds to admit. Telling your mother something that personal, face-to-face, was out of the question. The evolution of John Mayfield into serial killer was now clear. She lowered her eyes, saddened by the series of events that led to this man in front of her having taken the lives of so many innocent people. People who had nothing to do with John Mayfield’s failed upbringing.

Piercing the quiet, the moment, was the grumbling vibration of Vail’s BlackBerry. Both she and Mayfield reflexively jumped as she lifted her hand off his and fumbled to answer it. She cursed herself for forgetting to silence it.

The display said it was Bledsoe. Goddamn it. Take it or not? What if he had critical information on Robby? Mayfield had revealed to her some of the most crucial details: why he killed. But she hadn’t yet gotten into the equally important questions of how and why he chose these particular victims.

Why the male?

And the document he’d sent that listed victims they didn’t know about—who were they?

Then there were those affiliated with the AVA board—the special cases. What the hell did that mean?

Phone vibrating. Answer Bledsoe’s call or not?

She may never have a chance to reestablish the connection she’d developed with Mayfield. But the decision was made for her. Mayfield yanked back, pulling his arm off the table.

His reaction took Vail by surprise. In that instant, she thought he was going to hit her, and she recoiled, nearly fell backwards in her chair. The phone stopped ringing. Fuck. Lost the connection—to Mayfield and to Bledsoe.

“I’m done talking,” Mayfield said. “You’re a whore just like my mother. Pretending to care, to be there for me. I should’ve killed you when I had the chance. Just like I killed the others. Guess I’m a fucking man now, huh!”

Vail shoved the BlackBerry into its holster and rose from her chair.

Mayfield tried to stand. But his leg cast—and the restraint cuffed to the armrest—forced him to fall back into his seat. “Remember, Vail. There’s more to this than you know. And I’m beginning to doubt you’re smart enough to ever figure it out.”

The door to her right swung open and in stepped Ray Lugo. He lifted his right hand, revealing a black SIG- Sauer pistol.

And it was pointed at Mayfield.

“Ray!” Vail lunged for the gun—but Lugo fired. The blast in the small room was deafening.

Vail grabbed Lugo’s pistol and wrapped her hands around it, trying to force it toward the ceiling. But Lugo was intent on keeping the SIG on target.

“Drop it. Ray. Drop. The. Fucking. Gun!”

Lugo twisted back, but Vail held on, ducking to keep her face from the barrel of the pistol. “Leave me the hell alone—” he yelled, then yanked down hard and drove his left shoulder into her chest.

Vail bounced into the wall fell to the side

Mayfield—blood—yelling—and

Lugo fired again.

As Vail got to her feet, Lugo crumpled and fell backwards into the wall. He grabbed for his neck. Blood was spurting, soaking the carpet and Vail—Vail pulled off her blouse and pressed it against Lugo’s neck.

Banging on the door. “Karen!”

Brix.

He was trying to get into the room, but Lugo’s body was blocking the doorway.

“Ray’s been shot,” Vail yelled. “He’s been shot!”

Holding her shirt tight against Lugo’s neck, she dragged his body a few inches to the side . . . an opening just wide enough for Brix to squeeze through.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. A ricochet?” Vail grabbed Lugo’s neck to apply firmer pressure. “We’ve gotta get him to the ER. Help me carry him—”

Brix lifted Lugo into his arms—not an easy task because the man was thick and it was a cramped space—but they managed to get him out of the room and down the hall. Vail tried her best to keep pressure on his neck wound.

“What the hell happened?” Dixon asked, following closely behind. “I was watching you on the monitor. I looked away and then there’s a gunshot.”

They stumbled through the metal door and hung a left into another corridor. “We need to get him to the hospital,” Vail said. “He’s been shot—”

“Get the van,” Brix yelled. “Bring it around Main. By the Sally Port. He’s fucking heavy. And call an ambulance for Mayfield!”

There were shouts in the hallway as deputies cleared the way and scattered.

“Bring the van around!”

“Hurry!”

“Call the Med Center,” Brix yelled. “Tell ’em we’re en route. LEO with a GSW to the neck . . .”

SIXTY-FOUR

They loaded Ray Lugo into the back of a state Department of Corrections specially outfitted Ford E-350 Super Duty van. The passenger compartment was lined with a thick gray-metal cage, so there wasn’t much room. Nevertheless, Dixon and Vail squeezed in, alongside Lugo. Vail’s head pressed tight against the ceiling.

The claustrophobic crush of being in confined spaces began building in Vail’s chest. Shit. I can’t deal with this now. Focus on Lugo, keep pressure on his neck.