Crush - Alan Jacobson [161]
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