The Hunted

by Alan Jacobson

  Until her father called to her, in a weak voice.

  He was flat on his back, his own blood pumping from a hole in his abdomen, the Colt lying in his open hand. Young Lauren looked at her mother, who was crumpled in a corner, her face frozen in shock.

  The terrified ten-year-old grabbed the phone and dialed 911, gave the location of their house, and told the woman, “My dad’s hurt, there’s blood all over. Please hurry!”

  Lauren set down her brush beside the Hoppe’s cleaner and cotton patches. As she thought about that night, she remembered the paramedics carting her father away. He survived that injury but had been paralyzed from the waist down, a condition that caused his premature death five years later. He had left her a gun in his will, along with an apology for not being able to leave something more valuable to make things easier for her. But having the gun that had saved her life was far more precious than he could ever know.

  She polished it lovingly and brought the chrome to a bright, reflecting shine, just as her father had liked it. One by one, she inserted the six bullets and took aim at the wall in a phantom shooting stance. But she felt strangely repulsed by the thought of using the weapon. In the years since his death, she had viewed the firearm with conflicting emotions: it may have saved her life, but one just like it had sent her father to an early grave.

  With the immediate threat now behind her—if that car was even a threat to begin with—Lauren returned the Colt to its box and placed it on her night table. She lay back on the bed and Tucker spread himself out across the wood floor in a spot where he could see clear down the hallway to the staircase.

  She grabbed Michael’s pillow, closed her eyes, and gently rubbed her face against the soft cotton, taking in her husband’s familiar scent.

  “Michael, where are you?” she whispered, then fell off into a fitful sleep.

  3

  Lauren had only slept for three hours before awakening suddenly at one o’clock in the morning. She was lying on her bed and sweating profusely, still gripping Michael’s pillow. Tucker was on the floor near the doorway, sleeping.

  She sat up and was instantly wide-awake. Her mind was swirling with thoughts... questions about patients, progress notes she had forgotten to dictate, and... Michael. She looked back at the bed where the sheets were still tucked in.

  She stood and went downstairs to the kitchen. She turned on the light in the garage, but Michael’s Chrysler wasn’t there. Neither was her car, for that matter—and then she remembered she had left her car on the side of Pike Road.

  Lauren opened her purse and pulled out her A-I Roadside Assistance card, dialed the number, and told the operator where her Honda was parked. She asked the dispatcher to send a truck in the morning to change the tire and tow the car up to her house.

  With that out of the way but still feeling wide awake, Lauren went to the cupboard, boiled water for a cup of tea, and added a dash of milk. She nursed the hot drink until she started to feel the slight pull of fatigue on her eyelids.

  She climbed into bed and lay there awake for another half hour. She was tired but her mind was still focused on all things Michael—from dates they had had before getting married to events in their everyday life.

  As the hours passed, her fears that she might never see him again became almost suffocating.

  The overcast morning came upon Lauren suddenly. She awakened with a start, a noise out on the roadway below jogging her out of a dream she couldn’t recall. Lauren rolled out of bed and stumbled downstairs to the kitchen, where she expected to find Tucker sitting next to his bowl.

  But the dog wasn’t there.

  She gave a whistle, but there was still no response. “Tucker! Where are you?”

  She hurried through the house, moving from room to room, continuing to call out his name. As she reentered the kitchen, something slammed against the door. Lauren recoiled backward, her shaking hands finding the countertop behind her for reassurance. Something hit the door again—but this time, she caught a glimpse of Tucker’s head protruding above the glass window.

  Lauren stood there for a second staring at the dog, her heart banging out an angry rhythm in her chest. She pushed away from the counter and shook her head, annoyed with herself over her ridiculous behavior.

  She opened the door and let him in, then walked over to the garage and scooped a cup of dog food out of the bag. As he inhaled the small chunks of food, it suddenly hit her: When I went back to bed, he was inside. She racked her brain, trying to figure out how he could have been getting in and out of the house.

  The ring of the doorbell interrupted her thoughts and sent Tucker barking and running toward the front door. Lauren peered out the peephole and saw a tow truck driver standing on the porch, her car hitched to the man’s vehicle behind him.

  “It’s okay, boy,” she told the dog. She grasped Tucker’s collar and held him by her side as she pulled open the door. The driver introduced himself and explained that he needed the key to access the spare.

  “If you don’t mind, can you tow it into my carport around back?”

  “No problemo,” he said.

  Lauren handed him the key, then hurried into the bathroom, showered, and dressed. She wanted to get to the sheriff’s office by nine-thirty, as it was a full forty-eight hours since Michael had been due home, and she could now file a missing person’s report.

  After towel-drying her hair, she looked out and saw her Honda in the carport. She handed the man a $5 tip and headed out the door.

  Her father had always said that the morning sun brought new hope, new opportunities. But there was no sun to be had... only low-hanging gray skies. As she drove to the sheriff’s department, Lauren could see black clouds hovering over the Sierra, no doubt dumping inches of new snow on its peaks.

  The El Dorado County Sheriff’s Department had the distinction of being the oldest such law enforcement organization in California. Although it had already wrapped up its well-publicized sesquicentennial celebration, its anniversary had only served to underscore that its current home was vastly in need of renovation. Located in rural, picturesque Placerville, the single-story, mustard-colored building looked every bit as outdated as its thirty-two years indicated. Its only redeeming feature was that it was set up high on a hill overlooking U.S. 50, a four-lane highway carved through a mountainside thick with a blend of aging pines and redwood seedlings.

  Lauren pushed through the double doors and immediately saw the receptionist, who was seated behind a bulletproof enclosure to the right of the entryway. The woman was engrossed in shuffling some papers and seemed to ignore Lauren’s presence. Finally, without looking up, the receptionist spoke into the microphone that snaked up from the countertop in front of her. Her voice was tinny and muffled.

  “Yes, can I help you?”

  Lauren stepped closer to the glass but did not see a microphone. “I’m here because I, I can’t find my husband. I mean, it’s not like I can’t find him, it’s that he was supposed to be home a couple of days ago and he’s not, and I was told I could file a missing person’s report today,” she said, running fingers through her shoulder-length, honey-brown hair.

  The woman did not initially respond. Lauren wondered if she had heard her; maybe she needed to press a button to activate a speaker. As she glanced around the ledge in front of her, the woman finally looked up, swiveled on her stool, and walked out of the small reception booth into an anteroom that fed the administrative offices.

  Lauren stood there, wondering if she should sit down or wait at the window. She took a few breaths to calm herself. With everything that had happened to her the past forty-eight hours, her stomach was rumbling and her eyes were roaming the hallways scouting out the nearest restroom.

  Just then, a heavy metal door next to the reception booth opened with an electronic click. A large, smiling woman in her late fifties, her dark hair pulled back into a bun, stepped into the hallway. “I’m Carla Mae. I’m a volunteer here, helping out the community service off
icer. You say your husband might be the victim of foul play?”

  “No, I said he’s missing.”

  “Oh.” The woman threw an annoyed glance at the receptionist. “C’mon with me.” She took Lauren by the crook of her arm and started off down the corridor. “Sorry for the misunderstanding. Miss Dawson...sometimes she and I don’t communicate well.”

  She led Lauren down a narrow hallway lined with dark brown carpet, tan brick, and walnut paneling. Small rectangular signs protruded into the corridor from the tops of door frames, noting RECORDS DEPARTMENT and COMMUNITY SERVICE OFFICER. Rather than windows, dark one-way glass reflected back at Lauren from all the doors lining the hall.

  Finally, they arrived at a room marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY; Carla leaned against the door and stepped inside.

  “Our community service officer, who usually handles missing persons, is out ill this week with that bad flu going around. Nasty stuff, I’m told.” Carla slipped beside Lauren and motioned to one of two red vinyl chairs whose arms were worn down to the metal substructure. “Have a seat. The deputy will be by shortly.”

  Lauren settled into the hard chair and looked up at Carla. “Any idea how long that might be?”

  “He’s smack-dab in the middle of a big murder investigation. Maybe you heard about it yesterday, that rich computer guy who was shot and killed in his own home. Terrible, terrible. Anyway, Deputy Vork is trying to coordinate with the authorities in Sacramento and he’s just a tad busy at the moment.”

  “Is there someone else I can talk with?”

  “Normally there would be. But the detective who handles missing persons took leave and moved to Utah. His mother was in a bad way and she needed constant attention, poor thing.” Carla shook her head. “So we’re a bit shorthanded.” She sat down behind the desk at the PC, clicked with the mouse, struck a few keys, and looked over at the LaserJet. “I’m printing a form for you to fill out, to save time. Answer as many of the questions about your husband as you can.”

  Carla pulled the two-page form from the printer and handed it to Lauren with a pen. “I’ll make sure Deputy Vork comes by as soon as he gets a break in that murder case.” Carla rose and moved toward the door. “Is there anything I can get you? Coffee, tea, portable heater?”

  Lauren looked up, unsure if the woman had made a joke.

  “You are tense,” Carla said, a smile spreading across her cherubic face.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Lauren said.

  Lauren sat for thirty-five minutes alone in the interview room, the cold penetrating to the bone. A shiver rumbled through her body. She glanced over at the one-way glass in the door and wondered if she was being watched.

  It took her less than five minutes to complete the form Carla had given her. It consisted primarily of questions regarding Michael’s physical description, schools he had attended, date of birth, and social security number.

  She put the form aside and gripped the arms of the chair. In front of her was a metal and wood-laminate desk that appeared to be from the early seventies. The room itself was finished with the same dark paneling she had seen in the hallway. Duty clipboards marked WARNINGS and NOTICES were hanging from nails haphazardly slammed into the wall. Binders expounding rules and procedures were stacked on a small desk to her right, and a baseball cap hung from the pull tag that was attached to a gray metal fuse box.

  She turned her body slightly and noticed a small corkboard behind her, with bulletins and employee memos pinned to it. The familiar “DARE” bumper sticker was affixed to the side of a metal file cabinet but after her initial glance, she realized the slogan “DARE to keep kids off drugs” was replaced by “DARE to keep cops off donuts.” She wrapped her arms around her torso and closed her eyes. The room was starting to feel very small.

  Just then, a tall, thick man with a full mustache and a hard brow entered the room dressed in an olive and tan uniform. A handgun, baton, flashlight, and an assortment of communications paraphernalia dangled from his utility belt. He leaned against the edge of the desk and crossed his arms. “I’m Deputy Vork. I was told you’ve got a problem, ma’am.”

  Lauren straightened up. “Yes... my husband was on a cross-country ski trip in Colorado and was supposed to be home day before yesterday. When he didn’t show up, I called here to report it. They told me I had to wait forty-eight hours before he was considered missing.”

  Vork looked down at the form and scanned Lauren’s answers. “Six-one, one-ninety, brown hair, and hazel eyes. Thirty-eight years old?”

  “Thirty-nine in two weeks.”

  “Uh-huh, yup. Got that right here.” He turned the form over and hiked his eyebrows. “You’re a doctor?”

  “Psychologist.”

  Vork nodded, then put the form down and looked at Lauren. “So ... Colorado, you said?”

  “An old college frat buddy of his was starting some kind of cross-country-skiing tour company somewhere near Vail. This was supposed to be their first big trip, and he invited a bunch of his buddies to help him out, kind of like the maiden voyage or something.”

  The deputy nodded. “Then you knew—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” a young man said, poking his head through the door. “We’ve got a Channel Ten reporter here, he wants to ask you some questions about the Ellis case.”

  “Tell him I’ll be out as soon as I can.” Vork turned back to Lauren. “It’s a big case, people are all bent out of shape over that computer tycoon’s murder. Sorry about the interruption, ma’am.” The deputy reached over and picked up a pad and pen from the desk. “So you know where he went, then.”

  “Somewhere near Vail, that’s all I remember. They were going to be camping in the back country.”

  Vork nodded. “Okay. Did you know these people, these frat buddies he was going with?”

  “I never met them. And I don’t remember Michael talking about them much.”

  “Do you know which fraternity it was?”

  Lauren shook her head. “All I remember is that it was one I’d never heard of.”

  “What college did your husband go to? We can get a list of their fraternities and take it from there.”

  “It was some place back east. New York or New Jersey, I think.”

  “You don’t know where your husband went to college?”

  Lauren shifted in her chair. “We talked about it when we first met. It came up a couple other times when he told me how much he hated the humid summers. We’ve had a lot going on in our lives. The school he went to twenty years ago just wasn’t that important.”

  “What about the names of the people he went skiing with? Maybe a phone number?”

  “Michael said he was leaving me a note with everything on it. He called my office and said there was an accident on the freeway; and that he needed to leave right away so he didn’t miss his flight. He said he was writing it all down—his friend’s name and number, the flight number, everything. But I can’t find where he left it.”

  “So he never actually told you where he was going?”

  “He did, he gave me all the details, but when he called, I was rushing to go into an appointment with a patient who was late. I had patients scheduled back-to-back so I had to get the session started. I scribbled his information down somewhere, but I can’t remember where.” She looked down at her lap. “I must sound like a complete idiot.”

  “Not at all, Doctor. I’m sure if it was something you felt was important at the time, you’d remember where you wrote it. But he said he was leaving you all the information, right?”

  Lauren nodded, then looked at Vork. “I got home late that night and was exhausted. I looked for his note, but I couldn’t find it. I figured he’d be home in a few days, I never thought—” She put a hand up to her mouth and stifled a cry.

  “Here,” Vork said, handing her a tissue. “Take a minute to get yourself together.”

  Lauren wiped her eyes. “I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay, I understand.” The dep
uty scratched at his ear for a second. “I have to be honest with you, though. A lot of these missing husband cases are just some straying from the hive, if you follow my meaning...”

  “Straying ... you mean another woman?”

  “An affair, yes, ma’am. We get a lot of missing persons around these parts, and other than the occasional skier or backpacker in the mountains getting lost over the side of the road in a snowdrift or some such problem like that, it’s a man doing something with a woman on the side.”

  Lauren sat there, trying to decide if she should be angry with the deputy or give serious credence to what he was saying. “Michael wouldn’t do that to me.”

  “Is it possible he just up and left, walked away from some kind of stressful situation? ‘Cause that’s also a major reason—”

  “No,” she said tersely.

  “Well, then. Let’s take this from another perspective. Do you know—”

  A loud buzz on his phone interrupted him. “Deputy Vork, line three, please,” the voice on the intercom said.

  “Excuse me a second.” Vork punched the line button, then listened for a moment. “Well, tell Detective Jimenez I’ll be out soon as I can. And have the people from Channel Thirteen wait with the good people from Channel Ten. I’m in the middle of an interview here.” He nodded another couple of times, then sighed. “Look, LuAnne, do me a favor and set up a press conference. Do it in the break room and give me fifteen minutes, okay? I’ll talk to all them reporters together. I’d rather not go through the same story five times.” He slammed the phone down and looked at Lauren. “Sorry again, Dr.... Chambers. As I was saying... do you remember what it was that I was sayin’?”

  “All you said was ‘Do you know...”’

  “Oh, yeah. Do you know if your husband had any enemies, anyone he’d had arguments with recently or in the past?”