Crush - Alan Jacobson [58]
Mayfield logged off, rose from his chair and walked stiffly toward his vehicle. He had to get out of there before he did something people would notice. He drove down the road, reached beneath his seat, and pulled out a case. With one hand, he flipped open the lock and lifted the lid. Gleaming knives were nestled in soft velvet holders, blades down, ready to be used.
He had a victim he’d marked for killing, and there was a date by which he had planned to act. It was still a week off—but doing it now would be dramatic. And it would send a powerful message to Karen Vail, FBI profiler and “director of marketing and promotion.”
The concept of sending a message appealed to him. Figuratively—and literally. He pulled over to the side of the road as cars sped by. Tourists and wine aficionados out for a memorable time on the town. I’ll do my bit for making it memorable, no need to worry.
He reached into his pocket and extracted a disposable cell phone. He turned it on and waited for it to find its cell service. Then he went about his business.
He shoved the phone back in his pocket, yanked the gearshift back into Drive, and returned to the highway. I’m in promotion, too, Agent Vail. Of my own services and handiwork. So be prepared, because sooner or later you’ll want to make me happy. You’ll come around. You’ll have to.
He reached over, then removed one knife from the case and lifted it toward his face. The bright sun glinted off the highly polished chrome.
Promote this, Agent Vail.
FOLLOWING LUNCH, Vail and Dixon were killing time, awaiting word the UNSUB had gotten the message. An email, a phone call to the sheriff’s department. Something.
“I’ll give you a tour of Silverado Trail,” Dixon had said. “Beautiful road.”
As they passed notable wineries, Dixon played tour guide: Hagafen Vineyards—“an award winning kosher winery”; Regusci—“they fooled the Feds by operating secretly during Prohibition to produce bootleg wine”; and, “There, coming up on your left, is Baldacci Family Vineyards. Their vines go back ninety years and give some of the best Cabernet—”
“It’s 12:24, Roxxann.”
Dixon glanced over at her. “I’m just trying to take your mind off it.”
Vail’s elbow rested on the window frame while she rubbed at her forehead. “He’s seen it by now.”
“Probably,” Dixon said. As she drove past Baldacci, she said, “What do you think will be his next move?”
“He probably knows the sheriff’s department is on alert, monitoring the entrance and lobby area. Watching for him. Let’s hope he reads the article and sends me an email.”
Just then, Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed on her belt. She leaned left and pulled the device from its holster. “He just texted me.”
“Texted?” Dixon asked. “How is that possible? You didn’t put your cell number in the article.”
Vail stared at the screen. Her body had broken out into a nervous sweat. “I don’t know,” she heard herself saying in response to Dixon’s question. Because she didn’t know—but it would be something she’d have to think hard about. Her larger concern at the moment, however, was the message she received.
She closed her eyes. “He said we didn’t comply, so we should expect a new victim in the next few hours. And to expect a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises,” Dixon said.
Vail didn’t reply. Her mind was flooded with emotions ranging from fury to guilt to anxiety-ridden frustration.
“We knew the risks,” Dixon said. “You can’t feel responsible for what this asshole does.”
“I know that intellectually, and I still feel it was the right way to go. But when I stare at the next woman’s mutilated body, I can’t help but ask myself if it needed to happen. Was I responsible?”
“The guilt. Comes with the territory, I guess. A perk of the job.”
Vail sat back. She thought about the killer stalking his victim. If he was organized, as she was sure he was, he would’ve already had his next target chosen. He might have been stalking her, waiting for an excuse to strike. And she just gave it to him.
Yes,