Crush - Alan Jacobson [3]
But despite the region in which John Mayfield worked—the Napa Valley—the crush of death wasn’t reserved just for grapes.
John Mayfield liked his name. It reminded him of harvest and sunny vineyards.
He had, however, made one minor modification: His mother hadn’t given him a middle name, so he chose one himself—Wayne. Given his avocation, “John Wayne” implied a tough guy image with star power. It also was a play on John Wayne Gacy, a notorious serial killer. And serial killers almost always were known in the public consciousness by three names. His persona—soon to be realized worldwide—needed to be polished and prepared.
Mayfield surveyed the room. He looked down at the woman, no longer breathing, in short order to resemble the shriveled husk of a crushed grape. He switched on his camera and made sure the lens captured the blood draining from her arm, the thirsty soil beneath her drinking it up as if it had been waiting for centuries to be nourished. Her fluid pooled a bit, then was slowly sucked beneath the surface.
A noise nearby broke his trance. He didn’t have much time. He could have chosen his kill zone differently, to remove all risk. But it wasn’t about avoiding detection. There was so much more to it.
The woman didn’t appreciate his greatness, his power. She didn’t see him for the unique person that he was. Her loss.
Mayfield wiped the knife of fingerprints and, using the clean handkerchief, slipped the sharp utensil beneath the dead woman’s lower back. He stood up, kicked the loose dirt aside beneath his feet, scattering his footprints, then backed away.
TWO
As Karen Vail walked the grounds of the Mountain Crest Bed & Breakfast, holding the hand of Roberto Enrique Umberto Hernandez, she stopped at the edge of a neighboring vineyard. She looked out over the vines, the sun setting a hot orange in the March chill.
“You’ve been quiet since we got off the plane. Still thinking about your application to the Academy?”
“Am I that transparent?” Robby asked.
“Only to a sharp FBI profiler.”
Robby cradled a tangle of vines in his large hand. “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking about.”
“You’ll get into the Academy, Robby. Maybe not right away, with the budget cutbacks, but I promise. You’ll make the cut.”
“Bledsoe said he could get me something with Fairfax County.”
“Really? You didn’t tell me that.”
“I didn’t want to say anything about it. I don’t really want it. If I talk about it, it might come true.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
He shrugged a shoulder.
“Fairfax would be a step up over Vienna. It’s a huge department. Lots more action.”
“I know. It’s just that there’s an eleven-year wait to become a profiler once I get into the Academy. The longer it takes to get into the Bureau, the longer I have to wait.”
“Why don’t you call Gifford,” Vail asked. “I thought he owes you. Because of your mother. Because of their relationship.”
“That was Gifford’s perception, not mine. He promised her he’d look after me.” Robby glanced off a moment, then said, “He doesn’t owe me anything. And I don’t want any favors.”
“How about I look into it, quietly, under the radar, when we get home?”
Robby chewed on that. “Maybe.”
“I can call first thing in the morning, put out a feeler.”
“No. We’re here on vacation, to get away from all that stuff. It’ll wait.”
They turned and walked toward their room, The Hot Date, which was in a separate building off the main house. According to the information on the website, it was the largest in the facility, featuring spacious main sleeping quarters, a sitting area with a private porch and view of the vines, and a jetted tub in the bathroom. A wooden sign, red with painted flames, hung dead center on the door.
Vail felt around in her pocket for the key they’d been given when they checked in fifteen minutes ago. “You sure?”
“Absolutely sure. I’m wiping it from my mind right now. Nothing but fun from here on out. Okay?”
Vail fit the key into the lock and turned it. “Works for me.” She swung the door open and looked around at the