Vail 02 - Crush (24 page)

Vail sighed. She had thought Fuller was annoying—but harmless. It now appeared she was wrong. Not that she was never wrong—but it didn’t happen often, which was a good thing—because in her profession, being wrong often met with disastrous consequences.

She was looking forward to seeing Robby, to sharing a glass of wine with him and unwinding, telling him about Fuller. She was grateful that Rooney was such a hound dog with an acute intuitive sense.

So much had happened in the few days since they had arrived. And this was supposed to be a time for her to get away from the stress of the past couple months.

As she drove along 29, she thought about where she’d like to take her real vacation. But when would she go? She couldn’t leave Jonathan again, certainly not right away; that wouldn’t be fair to him. And they will have burned through Robby’s vacation time. She’d gotten so
caught up in the hunt—in the need to help—that she had selfishly, and foolishly, pursued this case at Robby’s expense. This was supposed to be their time together, and she had ruined it. And at the moment, she wasn’t even sure she had done the community any good. Like Gifford had said, she seemed to be a magnet that frequently sent the Shit-Happens Meter off the scale.

Perhaps she and Robby could steal a weekend here and there for an overnight or two. Maybe the Red Fox Inn in Middleburg—she’d forgotten about that place. Close to home, but far enough away that it would provide a needed change of scenery for both of them.

Vail was surprised at how few cars were on the road. She knew most wineries closed around 5 p.m., so the tourists were probably back at their bed-and-breakfasts, dressing for dinner and a relaxing night out—something she would be doing very shortly, as well.

Her headlights hit the sign ahead that announced Calistoga would be coming up in fifteen miles. Calistoga? Her Napa geography was fairly poor, but she remembered Calistoga being toward the top of the map—farther down the road,
after
St. Helena—meaning she should’ve turned left onto 29, not right.

She slowed to see where she could make a U-turn, but headlights in her mirror caught her attention. Same ones she saw a few moments ago when leaving the police department? Impossible to say—and normally she wouldn’t give it much thought. But last night someone—Fuller?—had tried to turn her into a french fry and today a serial killer texted her phone. Her sense of awareness, always pretty good, was heightened.
Paranoid?
Realistic. Someone might be following her. She wasn’t about to let whoever it was have the upper hand again.

A few yards ahead was Pratt Avenue. Without signaling, she hung a sharp right onto the narrow, two-lane road and accelerated, coming up quickly on Park Street. Swerved right again, then made an immediate left onto Crinella Drive. Residential.

Glanced up, saw nothing—no headlights.
All that for nothing.
She felt her heart rate moving at a good pace. Nothing like a little scare to get the blood pumping. She followed the road as it curved right, keeping an eye on her mirror, just in case. If nothing else, it’d be a long way around to getting back onto 29 in the correct direction.

Parked cars populated driveways and lengths of available curb space. To her right, a portable basketball standard stood poised for action, sandwiched between neatly placed garbage and recycling containers.

She followed Crinella as it proceeded straight, then hooked right again.
Perfect, a circle.
She would stay on it and loop back onto Park, then get back onto 29. Of all things—a detour when she desperately wanted to meet up with Robby and relax. If she told him about this, he’d laugh at her. Then again, given all they’ve been through lately, he probably would not find it amusing.

After turning right onto Park, she took a couple of deep breaths to slow her pulse rate.
This can’t be healthy
, she thought.
Doesn’t stress kill? A totally different kind of serial killer. One I’d never be able to catch.
She chuckled at the absurdity of her thought, how the mind turned to humor at strange times.

As she passed the opening of the Crinella loop, she caught a glimpse of a car sitting at the curb ahead of her, its headlights burning.
So what? It’s just a mother who’s running to the store for milk. Waiting for me to pass so she can turn onto Park.

Vail continued along Park, headed toward Pratt. Looked in her side mirror. The car had turned onto Park but was several dozen feet behind her.
But what if it’s not an innocent resident?

She reasoned most people would turn left here, to get to the main drag, Highway 29. So she turned right, down toward a darker area. If the other vehicle stayed with her, the chances were greater its occupant was trailing her. She would then call Robby, have him drive toward her.
Enough of this shit.

As she crossed a set of railroad tracks, Vail wished she had Stella with her. She didn’t know her way around—especially in the dark—and the Taurus wasn’t equipped with an in-dash GPS. She then realized she should’ve headed back to 29, a road she had been on and which was a main thoroughfare. Then she could have gone back to the police department.

As she mentally kicked herself, the two pinpricks of bright light appeared in her mirror. The car had turned right and was now behind her again. She accelerated hard, took it up to seventy for the next half mile as the road doglegged left. This had to open up somewhere, spill onto
another road. If not, she’d need to find a street to turn around, then head back toward whoever was following her. She pressed her left forearm against her waist and felt her Glock.

While she mulled her options, Pratt dead-ended at what looked like a main road a hundred feet ahead. She remembered looking at the map when they were planning the trip and seeing another artery that paralleled Highway 29. Silver-something. It was the road she was on earlier today with Dixon.

Yellow traffic sign: Narrow Bridge. She slowed hard, then crossed the two-lane cement-walled overpass. Street sign—Silverado Trail.
Yes, that was it.

She turned left while sneaking a peak in her mirror. No one there. No lights. Was he still behind her, running silent? She accelerated hard through the turn and brought the Taurus up to sixty, alternating her gaze between the road ahead and the rearview mirror. She flipped the signal bar forward and threw her headlights into the brights setting so they illuminated a wide arc on the asphalt ahead. They also stretched upward, reaching the lower branches of the tree-lined road.

She pulled out her BlackBerry and struggled to navigate to Robby’s phone number. But because this was a new phone, none of her contacts were loaded. She’d have to go into her call history, to when he had called her. That’s all she needed—to get into an accident by dividing her attention among three different tasks. But no one else appeared to be on the road, which was good. If those headlights appeared again, she would have to take action.

And as luck would have it, a few seconds later when she glanced up, she saw those fucking headlights appear in her mirror, turning onto Silverado from Park. She thought of texting the killer back on his number—but she had to keep her head about her. What would that accomplish? If it wasn’t the Crush Killer following her—if it was Fuller, for example—she could set in motion a series of events that would be potentially disastrous. If she had her original phone, she could call Fuller and find out if it was him behind her.

Up ahead—a turnout. She cut her headlights and downshifted into low. The car lurched hard as it abruptly dropped into third gear. Vail yanked hard on the wheel, screeching round the bend onto a narrow,
unmarked road—without applying the brakes. She wanted to give her pursuer the illusion her car had disappeared from existence. Beamed away into thin air—neat trick if it were possible, but this should work fine, too.

Vail swerved onto the narrow side street, regained control of the vehicle, then hung an abrupt U-turn, using the skills she had learned in the tactical driving course at the Academy. She brought the car around facing Silverado Trail and pulled hard right against the soft shoulder. Cut her lights and disabled the interior dome light—in case she had to exit the vehicle.

She sat there and counted. Based on the distance the car was behind her, she figured she had no more than four seconds before it would pass her. But she was ready.

The Taurus was in neutral, her foot off the brake and her head ducked down low to prevent the driver from seeing her—in case he was looking in her direction when he passed.

There! The car zoomed by, its headlights off now. Speeding, no doubt looking for where she had gone. Keeping her own lights off, she pulled the Ford into drive, accelerated hard and went into pursuit mode.

He was traveling fast—but with a dark dashboard, she could only guess at the speed. What mattered was she was losing ground. She glanced up—saw another car behind her—and ignored it. Focus on the task ahead.

She depressed the accelerator. The engine downshifted, hesitated, roared, surged. But the vehicle ahead was still expanding the distance. The roadway curved left, then right.

He blew through the flashing red, and with a quick glance at the intersecting street, Vail followed suit.

She wasn’t sure he was aware of her presence; in the near-total darkness, she didn’t think he’d be able to see her. He wasn’t driving evasively; he was driving as if he was pursuing, searching. Wondering where the hell she had gone. Whoever he was, he was clearly motivated to find her.

An oncoming truck was approaching in the opposing lane. In the
glow of his headlights Vail could now see the silhouette of the driver of the car in front of her: a male, rotating his head from side to side. Looking for her, no doubt. His vehicle had the shape and smooth, curved lines of a Chrysler.

The light from the truck was a mixed blessing: It illuminated her pursuer, but it would also lay her bare as well, should he look in his rearview. And he must have done just that—because he suddenly switched on his headlights and slammed on the brakes.

Christ!
The oncoming truck was passing her the instant Vail had to swerve left into his lane to avoid smashing into the Chrysler. She narrowly cleared the truck’s rear and was now driving in the opposing lane.

Heart pounding hard in her ears.
Bam, bam, bam. Calm yourself, Karen. Focus!

She reached for the switch to turn on her headlights—but the Chrysler swerved into her, pushing her Ford further left. Onto the shoulder.

Vail tightened her grip on the wheel and leaned right, as if that would help pull the car away from the oncoming tree line.

The two vehicles were of similar size and mass, so Vail had only one option available to her: She slammed on the brakes. Screeching tires . . . ripping scraping metal as her front fender tore along the left side of his sedan.

The Chrysler braked before she was able to clear the rear of his car. She yanked her wheel hard right and accelerated. Her engine groaned in protest.

But Vail had leverage on her side and the Chrysler whipped into a violent counterclockwise spin. He swung around and smashed into her left front fender, and they careened to Vail’s right, off Silverado Trail, and slammed through the wire-and-wood fence. She struck a divot in the shoulder and went in nose-first, but the Chrysler hit the gully at an odd angle with greater force and flipped trunk-over-hood. It tumbled backward before coming to rest upside down. Vail’s Ford wedged itself in the furrow, at the edge of a vineyard.

She took a deep breath and seized into a coughing fit. Grabbed the
dashboard to calm the spasm, then steadied herself. Eyes blurry with tears. Head aching.

She forced herself to assess the situation: Airbag did not deploy. Front end lodged in some kind of ditch. And it was dark.

She turned on her headlights; the lone working lamp illuminated a portion of the vineyard ahead of her. She caught a glimpse of her face in the rearview mirror, which was cocked at an odd angle. She had a gash on her forehead above the left eye.
Fuck it. Get out of the car and find the asshole who did this to you.

Vail pushed the driver’s door open and tumbled out of the Ford. A few yards off to the right, nestled among the vines, was the Chrysler, spouting a fog of smoky steam from the front grill. She pulled her Glock—which she should’ve done before exiting the Ford—and scrambled toward the overturned car, the pistol out in front of her.

Vail shooed away the smoke and peered through the windshield, which was diffusely lit by the brightness from her headlight. But it appeared to be empty. She swung around and fired a round into the lamp, throwing her—and her pursuer—into charcoal darkness. She then headed off in the opposite direction. If her pursuer was nearby, she didn’t want him to have the advantage of seeing her. The risk of him hearing her gunshot, and thereby locating her, was fairly low. Unless he saw the muzzle blast, it was more difficult to pinpoint location based on a single shot you were not expecting.

Vail moved around the upended vehicle, encircling it, looking for signs of where its occupant could’ve gone. Just about impossible in the near-darkness. But out of the corner of her peripheral vision, she caught something—the blur of motion, perhaps, along with the rustle of leaves. She ran toward the object, her Glock firmly clasped in both hands out in front of her.

As she neared the approximate location, she sensed something slip past her, a row to her left. She dipped to the ground, rolled beneath the lowest hanging vines and cross-wires, then rolled through to the adjacent aisle. There—ahead, maybe thirty feet in the darkness, her brain combined the vague blur of motion with the shift of dirt being displaced by shoes.

Vail pushed forward, a bit more cautiously, sensing that her quarry
had stopped moving. She felt the brush of nascent grape leaves against her cheek and she nearly unloaded her weapon into the unsuspecting vine. But she regrouped and kept moving down the aisle.