Vail 02 - Crush (49 page)

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 here, with the unbridled power of the locomotive bearing down on her, knowing she was going to have to jump onto this moving monster, she started to have doubts she would be able to carry through on her plans. And that didn’t happen often to Karen Vail.

The train rumbled by her, first the locomotive and then the dining cars. She fought the urge to shut her eyes, to tell her there wasn’t a train barreling down the track to her left. Step the wrong way and she’d be crushed. Or worse.

And up ahead, just as she had suspected, John Mayfield moving closer to the train. The bastard wasn’t going to make this easy. As she started to feel the burn of the cold night air in her lungs, Vail realized she had no choice. It was either that or shoot him. And while that was an option, it was not a good one. She had a chance to catch him—ethically. When she reached the point that plan was no longer viable, she would raise her Glock and fire. But not yet.

As she mused on that thought, John Mayfield reached out and grabbed the iron railing on the third car, jumped, and pulled himself aboard.

T
here were some things about being a profiler Karen Vail did not enjoy. She had made a list once, then folded it and shredded it. She didn’t need to be reminded she was dealing with the extremes of human depravity.

But one thing that was not on the list was jumping onto a moving train.

The wine train did not travel at the same speeds as a traditional train—because, after all, its purpose was to leisurely troll the five cities it passed through en route to its turnaround point, to allow its passengers ample time to enjoy the lush countryside, mountains, and vineyards, while savoring a wine-paired, freshly prepared meal at the hands of a renowned, onboard chef.

That’s what she kept telling herself as she pumped her arms harder, catching up a bit to the last car, reaching up for the railing—lifting herself up—and getting thrown back against the train’s siding. She held on, whipped around and stretched her right arm onto the opposing handle while feeling for the wide metal steps she knew lay somewhere near her feet.

She lunged forward—and slammed her shin into the hard edge of the step above. But at least she was aboard. She had a feeling that would not be the hardest part of catching John Mayfield.

A sudden, spasmodic coughing fit wracked her body. She bent forward while straining to hold on, hacking away until her throat felt raw. A moment later, she was able to stand erect, the spasm passing. She risked taking a deep breath, squared her shoulders, then wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

Vail pushed through the door, then reached for her handgun—but it wasn’t there. Neither was her backup weapon, which had been burned in the fire. Her Glock was locked in Dixon’s vehicle, where she had left it when they went to work out. There were no fixed Bureau rules on where to leave your sidearm when you were not able to carry it with you—so long as it was secure. Leaving it in a gym locker did not qualify as “secure”—so she’d left it in the car.

Fuck.
Given Mayfield’s size—and what he does to his victims—she would have to be extremely careful, unarmed and in the close quarters of a train. Not much room to maneuver, to duck and roll—or run. Not that she shied from a conflict—this was Karen Vail—but cooler heads had to prevail, and if the circumstances were not to your advantage, you changed those circumstances so they would help you achieve your goal.

Vail apparently did not have that luxury.

She looked around, then stepped into the rail car and pulled her credentials case. Held it up to soothe the minds of the passengers and to identify herself should a fight with Mayfield break out. At least they’d know who to root for.

As she moved forward, the creds raised to eye level, the passengers waved and gave her a thumbs up. Actually, they did neither. Most sat there, some squinting confusion. The presence of an FBI agent who no doubt wore a very serious expression did not spell good news for the rest of their expensive wine train journey.

None of them presented a threat, so Vail moved on. She walked through the car, headed toward the end of the train, searching the seats—below and behind—for the big man who, until recently, went by the moniker of “UNSUB.”

But Mayfield was no longer an “unknown subject.” They knew who he was. And, at the moment, they knew where he was.

Except that Mayfield was not in this car. Vail turned around and walked toward the front of the train, the slight side-to-side sway of the car throwing off her balance as she stepped toward the doorway. Into the next car, also one with large, plush, fixed rotating seats that faced the windowed sides. And above, a glass ceiling.

But this was not time to dream about the vacation that could have
been, the one that John Mayfield had stolen from her and Robby. Now was the time to catch the bastard, make him pay for the people he had murdered.

So she moved forward, suddenly realizing that while she was making her way through the train, there’d be no way to know if Mayfield had jumped off the train.
Fuck. I hadn’t thought of that. I hate it when I blow something. And I blew this. But what was I to do? No backup. It was just me and my two eyes.

Vail pulled her phone and moved to the nearest window. Normally, the patrons in the gold velour seats would’ve moved aside at the sight of her big, black handgun. People tended to do that, FBI badge or not. But those who were unaware of who she was merely threw dirty looks at this pushy woman who was bullying her way past them to grab a window view.
C’mon, people, it’s dark out now. Not a whole lot to see out there.

While standing there, nose against the glass, hoping to see a large man dressed in gym clothing bathed in a car’s headlights, she phoned Dixon. Dixon answered quickly, as if she was expecting the call.

“Yeah—”

“I’m on the train. You see Mayfield?”

“Who the hell’s Mayfield?”

“Panda,” Vail said. “Panda’s other name—his real name, I think—is John Mayfield. He was onboard, but I lost sight of him and have no way of telling if he’s jumped off.”

“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.”

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.

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.

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.”