Crush - Alan Jacobson [142]
Panda leaned back and thrust forward again, and this time he had greater impact, because her eyes bulged and she coughed. Hard.
But a crashing blow to his right cheek knocked him back and temporarily blinded him. What the fuck was that?
She yelled—hoarse, loud—
But it disappeared into the deadening fog.
And then she landed another blow, from the left, across his jaw—blinding pain—and he staggered back. He saw her darting around his side. No—can’t let her get away—
He reached out and grabbed her arm—slipped off the wet skin—but he’d gotten just enough because she went sprawling forward. He swung hard, connected with something, and he felt her body jolt. He wasn’t sure what he hit, but all that mattered was that it was her. And he wanted to do it again.
Panda reached back and swung again, and hit hard flesh again. He thought he heard a cry, but in the jet-noise and dense fog, it was swallowed whole, absorbed into nothingness.
He leaned over for a better look—he’d finish her on the ground if need be—and saw a blur of skin in front of him—reached out and grabbed—felt a breast and pulled her body against his. She was facing away, which would not do. He needed to watch her face. As he squeezed the life out of her.
FIFTY-TWO
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