Crush - Alan Jacobson [145]
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.”
If I go flying through the glass, that would likely serve as your first clue.
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