The Hunted

by Alan Jacobson

  Lauren placed them in her purse and thanked Carla again for her assistance. She then headed out, stopping at a fast-food drive-through to pick up dinner. When she arrived home, Bradley was sitting by the back door, cell phone in hand.

  Lauren glanced at her watch. “I thought you were going to meet me at six.”

  “I finished what I needed to get done, put out a bunch of calls. Most of the other people I needed to talk with knock off at five, so I left and came here. I figured if I was sitting outside your house, it may deter your friend from coming in and doing the laundry or something.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I guess not. Sorry.” He took the bag of food from her as she fumbled for her house keys. “The fraternities threw a fit, as I expected. I’ve got a call in to Vork for help. But unless we can narrow it down a bit, it could take a week or two just to call all the names on every frat roster. That’s if we have help and get lucky by hitting on the right people sooner rather than later.”

  “We don’t have a week or two.”

  “It’s just one of many things I’ve got in the fire. I’m sure something else will turn up.”

  Lauren pulled out the slips of paper Carla had given her and handed them to Bradley. “Here are some messages Carla took today. Maybe there’ll be some leads in there.”

  “I’ll get right on them.”

  Lauren inserted her key and unlocked the backdoor. She greeted Tucker with a pat to the head as Bradley placed the bag of food on the kitchen table. “What about all these other ‘things’ you’ve got in the fire?” she asked.

  “I’m trying to pinpoint places in Colorado Michael could’ve gone cross-country skiing.”

  “And?”

  “And you can ski in practically any rural area where there’s snow. That leaves a lot of territory to cover.”

  Instead of responding, Lauren began unwrapping the food.

  “It’s not going to be easy,” Bradley said. “There are so many angles to take on this and no simple way to narrow it down. He could be in Colorado, or he could be in California somewhere. Or anywhere in the other forty-eight states for that matter.”

  Lauren removed a couple of plates from the cupboard and placed them on the table. She pressed her fingertips to her lips, hoping to hold back an outburst of tears.

  “We’re not giving up, Lauren. I told you, I’ve got stuff in the works. It’s just not going to be easy, that’s all.”

  Lauren nodded. “I bought you a cheeseburger and fries.”

  Bradley studied her face for a moment, then took a seat. “Thanks. My favorite.”

  They sat and ate their food in relative silence. Tucker sat calmly by Lauren’s side, devouring the occasional french fry she slipped him. When they had finished, Lauren took out the handheld PC and set it down on the kitchen table. As she logged on, Bradley began clearing the table.

  “You know, it would be a good idea to send out a message to everyone on your e-mail list, just in case any of them have heard from him.” Lauren started to protest, but Bradley held up a hand. “I know, it’s a huge long shot, but sometimes playing the long shots pays off.”

  Lauren frowned and shrugged a despondent shoulder. “Guess it wouldn’t hurt.” She touch-screened through Internet Explorer to get to the Hotmail Website. She clicked on COMPOSE, and began to write her e-mail message. Once she was satisfied with the wording and tone of the message, she touched SEND and waited as the little PC transmitted the appeal across the internet to her eleven contacts.

  “Done?” Bradley asked.

  “Done.”

  She clicked OK on the screen that informed her that her messages had been sent, then began scrolling through the six new e-mails she had received. Two had been sent to her from professional organizations she belonged to, another was a joke forwarded from a friend in Los Angeles, and the fourth one was probably spam, or junk mail—from someone or some company called “lost_in_virginia.”

  She skipped the messages from the psychological groups and thought about just deleting the forwarded joke, but figured the humor might do her some good. She was wrong. It was stupid and she immediately zapped it from her inbox.

  As she did so, the next message, the one from lost_in_virginia, popped up on her screen. The first line caught her attention immediately. “Oh my God—” She cupped her mouth with her right hand.

  “What?” Bradley asked, swiveling around to grab a view of the tiny color screen.

  “He’s alive, Nick, and he’s in Virginia!”

  Bradley quickly scanned the message, then reached for the telephone. He booked two seats on a flight out of Sacramento to Reagan National, due to leave at nine forty-five in the morning. After hanging up the phone, he turned to Lauren, who had tears rolling down her cheeks.

  He took her in his arms and let her cry on his shoulder.

  18

  Hector DeSantos and Brian Archer walked the circular path across from the inscribed black granite walls of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Between them was Director Knox, a brimmed hat deflecting the drizzle that fell from threatening skies.

  “I’m glad we were able to come to an agreement on this,” Knox was saying. “Let me reiterate that there never was an attempt to keep you men in the dark.”

  “We understand, sir,” DeSantos said. “Communication is vital to what we do. When we felt we’d only received half the message, we were... concerned.”

  Knox stopped and faced DeSantos. “I know you, Hector. You felt betrayed.”

  “Yes, sir,” DeSantos said.

  “And you, Brian, you were trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Well, you’ll have your pieces. As we get them, not days later this time. Agreed?”

  Archer and DeSantos nodded.

  “There’s something else.” Knox hesitated a moment before continuing. “I’ve been thinking this may be the end of my... involvement with OPSIG.”

  “Any particular reason?” DeSantos asked.

  “Nothing I care to discuss.” Knox glanced over his shoulder at the security-detail agents leaning against a sedan. “Let’s just say it’s a personal decision.”

  “Then it’s going to be a sad day, sir, when this assignment is over,” Archer said.

  “I just thought you two should know.”

  “What about the others?”

  “They’ll all be told, in time.”

  The three of them stood there for a long moment looking at each other, the rain whipping against their coats, the cold air snaking around their exposed necks. It was an awkward moment, one where there should have been more emotion evident. But they were professionals, and their silence said enough.

  Finally, DeSantos broke in. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  They shook Knox’s hand and the man was off into the wind, which was blowing rain straight at him. He disappeared under the watchful eye of his security detail into his black sedan.

  DeSantos looked at Archer. “Well?”

  Archer’s jaw moved furiously as he chomped on his piece of Juicy Fruit and considered DeSantos’s question. “I think it’s really sad. I mean, it’s like losing a brother. Knox has been with us since—”

  “I mean about Scarponi.”

  “Oh.” Archer sighed. “I think the guy’s out of his mind if he thinks he can threaten the director and not have serious heat come down on him.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe he is out of his mind. Or maybe he feels like he doesn’t have anything to lose.”

  Archer shook his head. “Knox is still keeping something from us. I’m not sure what, though. You?”

  DeSantos nodded. “Yeah. It’s not all adding up.” He stuck his hand into his pocket and felt a piece of paper Knox had palmed him when they shook. “With these INFOSEC pass codes he gave us, we’ve got access to just about any U.S. intelligence network we could want. I say we get started.”

  Archer turned and they began to walk back to their car. “I think we have to look at it one of two ways. Either there�
��s nothing to be found, or he’s purposely making us work for our information.”

  DeSantos chewed his bottom lip. “Something else is going on. For whatever reason, Knox isn’t making it easy.”

  Just then, Archer’s phone vibrated. “Man, I hate putting these things on vibrate. Scare the shit out of me every time.” He pulled it off his belt and checked the number.

  “Maggie loves mine. She clips it to the front of her pants and then calls herself.”

  “You guys are the kinkiest couple I’ve ever known.”

  DeSantos pulled down on the bill of his baseball hat to prevent the increasing rain from blowing in his face, then nodded at Archer’s phone. “What’s up?”

  “Trish was having some cramping this morning. She wants me to meet her at the OB’s office. That was my reminder.”

  “When you’re married, that phone becomes a ball and chain, man.”

  Archer smiled. “For you, that must mean a hell of a good time in bed.”

  19

  Lauren was singing James Taylor, moving with a twirl or a skip from drawer to drawer while gathering her clothing: “all you’ve got to do is call, and I’ll be there, yeah, yeah, yeah...” She tossed a pair of jeans into her suitcase as if she were slam-dunking a basketball.

  Lauren kept checking the time. Three and a half hours till we leave. Then, three hours and twenty-five minutes. Three hours twenty minutes. She couldn’t help watching the clock—she was finally going to see Michael again. She could feel it.

  Her carry-on almost completely packed, she set it near the door. Bradley had left to get them some breakfast at McDonald’s while Lauren finished gathering her things. The item she really wanted to carry on with her was her daddy’s handgun, but Bradley had told her it would have to be unloaded, locked in a gun box and checked through.

  She had just zipped her flight bag when she heard the knock on her back door. “Just a minute, Nick,” she called out. She bounded into the kitchen and grabbed the handles on her bag.

  “All you got to do is call, and I’ll be there, oh yes I will,” Lauren sang as she made her way to the door. But her throat tightened the second she opened it and saw a man with panty hose stretched across his face. The scream was there, but it was caught somewhere in her constricted throat and never made it out of her mouth. She reached for the gold-plated key around her neck and backed away, wishing her gun were within reach. Daddy. Intruders. She was frozen, consumed by the memory, as the man grabbed her by the arms.

  “I hope you liked the flowered sheets,” he said in a deep, cold voice.

  Lauren bolted upright. She was still dream-drunk, her heart pounding from the horrible nightmare. The noise she had heard was a thump, nothing loud, more like a muted thud, as if someone had dropped a sack of potatoes on the carpet. She sighed relief that it was only a dream, thankful something had awoken her. The LED clock on Michael’s night table across the bed glowed 2:47 A. M.

  Lauren reached for the small switch on the lamp and gave the dial a flick with her finger. But the room remained dark.

  A foul-smelling cloth was suddenly shoved up against her nose and mouth. Lauren wind milled her arms, grabbing on to something or someone—an arm or a leg. She felt a painful pinprick in her thigh, then her strength began melting away.

  “Nick,” she struggled to shout. But as she lost consciousness, she wasn’t sure if she had actually yelled it aloud, or if it had been a benign utterance in her mind.

  Everything was black.

  Now, as she was slowly gaining some form of groggy consciousness, she tried to gain her bearings. A minute passed before she became somewhat aware of her surroundings. She appeared to be lying in a car, blindfolded, her shoes removed. Hands and ankles bound. Goose bumps had risen all over her body and she was shaking. It was freezing, and she had a pounding headache.

  As Lauren lay there, the blackness of her world descended on her. Amid a stale humidity inside the vehicle, a clamping pressure tightened her chest. Her throat was closing down on her and her heart rate was increasing.

  Lauren forced herself to relax. She knew she mustn’t succumb to the fear, to the negative thinking that could plunge her into a panic attack so severe that it would render her completely helpless.

  She felt the vehicle rocking from side to side due to rough terrain, movement she recognized from the time she and Michael had taken their neighbor’s four-by-four to the back roads in Tahoe. It was part of her therapy at the time, an attempt to take her out of her “safe places”—home and work—and help her confront her fears: unknown, open spaces. She remembered that weekend well; it was the first time she had been out of Placerville since she had stopped her antidepressants.

  As the car jolted hard to one side, she used the momentum to help push herself up with her elbow into an erect posture. It didn’t help much other than to give her some sense of control over her body. But sitting there, she became aware of the feel of the seat, the way her knees were bent and the bounce of the ride. It felt as if she was inside some kind of pickup or sport utility vehicle.

  Suddenly, the truck lurched to a stop. The gearshift slid into PARK and the engine cut off. The front door slammed, and the rear door to her left—no, the right—opened as she felt a rush of cold air snake around her bare feet.

  “Let’s go.” The voice was male, deep and matter-of-fact.

  “Who are you?” Lauren’s speech was still somewhat slurred from the drugs she had been injected with. “What do you want from me?”

  Her abductor did not answer. Instead, he yanked her out of the rear seat with rough, calloused hands. She fell from the vehicle, a distance that confirmed her impression that it was an SUV of some kind. But the fresh air felt good. No walls, no confining spaces.

  The man pulled her up and fastened what felt like a collar around her neck. He pulled her along, leading her like a dog, across freezing, crunching ground cover. Snow.

  The duct tape binding her ankles made it impossible for her to walk. She had to hop awkwardly, her bare feet slipping on the sharp, icy snow. Several times she went down—and each time she fell, he yanked on the collar until she righted herself, only to stumble and fall again.

  “It’s hard to breathe,” she gasped, her voice as raspy as sandpaper. “You’re choking me.”

  After traversing what seemed like thirty or forty feet, she was pushed up onto what felt like steps and into a cold, damp enclosure. When her feet thumped against the dry wooden flooring of the interior, she realized how wet and numb they were.

  Lauren heard the strike of a match and smelled the sulfur as it wafted past her nose.

  “Down!” he said, sticking his foot in front of her ankles and throwing her to the ground. She went down hard, unable to break her fall because of her bound arms. Her face slammed against the floor.

  “Please, don’t—”

  Her captor shoved his knee into the small of her back, then grabbed the leg of her flannel pajamas. She heard a metallic ping behind her.

  “Since you can’t see, let me narrate for you. I’ve got a knife in my hand. A big, sharp knife.” He pulled up on her pant leg and in a swift, almost practiced fashion, cut away the lower portion of the material, about midcalf. First the left, then the right.

  He pressed the knife up against the back of her neck. With a quick slice, he cut away the nylon collar, then removed his knee from her back and stood, grabbing her by the arm and lifting up her entire body in one motion, like a rag doll.

  He threw her down onto a hard, wooden chair. He grabbed an end of the duct tape encircling her legs and gave a quick, hard yank, unwinding the bindings with one hand while keeping a firm grip on her ankle with the other. “Move, and I’ll hurt you. Very badly.”

  “Why are you doing this to me?” she asked. “Please tell me—”

  Her captor grabbed her wrists, ripped off the tape, then stretched her hands back behind the seat. As he held her forearms behind her, he wound coarse, thick rope around her wrists. He circled each set of
limbs several times, buttressing and knotting the bindings in an unusual manner. Her throat tightened again and she whimpered.

  The man now turned his attention to her ankles. She heard the sound of the switchblade being unfurled again. He pressed the cold metal knife blade against her skin. “A reminder. If you don’t move, I won’t cut you.”

  Lauren kept her body still—not that she could move anything other than her legs. A swift kick, she thought, and she might be able to disable him long enough to escape. But with the blindfold on, she could miss him entirely, in which case he could become enraged. With a knife in his hands, she didn’t want to take the risk. But what was the alternative? This might be her only chance. Before she finished thinking it out, her abductor began winding the coarse rope around her ankles, fastening each one to a leg of the chair. He pulled and tightened the binding in the same manner in which he had tied her wrists together. Just then, he paused—and she felt a quick, sharp slice across her right ankle. She screamed, and her captor laughed.

  “I didn’t move, I didn’t move!” she cried.

  “No. No, you didn’t.”

  “You said you wouldn’t cut me if I didn’t move.”

  Another laugh. “Guess you can’t trust me after all.” After a pause, he added, “Remember that.”

  Lauren felt the warm blood trickle down the chilled skin of her foot. She bit her lip and tried to remain in control. But her mind was racing. Was he some deranged rapist? A serial killer? Was he the one who had been stalking her?

  He tightened the ropes around her ankles and strapped a similar binding around her chest and arms, both above and below her breasts. Lastly, he fastened a ligature around her neck, but this binding he left loose. That he had put it there disturbed her; everything he did seemed to have a purpose.

  “What’s this?” he asked, grabbing her gold necklace.

  “It’s something my father gave me when I was a child.” Her voice was tight and uneven.

  He yanked hard and the chain popped off her neck.