The Hunted

by Alan Jacobson

  “Please, don’t take it. Please...”

  He did not answer her. Again, she attempted to block thoughts of panic, instead trying to find something to focus on. His breathing grabbed her attention: a steady, though rapid and shallow wheezing—it reminded her of a patient she had once treated.

  “There,” he finally said. “A masterpiece. I take a great deal of pride in my work, you know.” His voice had a deep resonant quality to it, with a slight hoarseness. The more he talked to her, the better. She realized that the only weapon she had was her mind... her expertise in dealing with all sorts of psychopathologies. She was a therapist, and in front of her was a person in need of help. A patient. She told herself that this was the only way out, the only way she could simultaneously keep herself from losing control—and perhaps defeat her captor. Her only means of escape.

  He stood behind her now, his breathing still rapid and shallow. He pulled down on something behind her head—the blindfold—and removed it.

  The room was dimly lit. A broad, stout candle perhaps six inches in height sat on a small metal stand in the far corner of the room, flickering wildly from the draft that wormed its way through the slats of what appeared to be a large shed or cabin of some sort. It was no more than twenty-five feet long and fifteen feet wide, and cobwebs clung everywhere.

  Lauren tried to focus her eyes, but because she’d been blindfolded for so long, her vision was blurred. Where was he? Still behind her? What was he doing? Get him to talk.

  “Thank you for taking that off. Lovely place you have here.” She decided to try humor, to gauge the man’s response.

  “Isn’t it? A friend of mine... found it. He said the owner didn’t want to stick around for the winter.” He laughed, a haunting, malignant outburst.

  A shiver jolted her body.

  “The ropes hurt. Would you mind loosening them, please?” Again, an attempt to communicate. The more he spoke to her, the greater the likelihood of developing some type of psychological profile of him; it wasn’t a gun or a knife, but it might give her a weapon of a different sort.

  The man stepped around the chair and stood in front of her. With the dim lighting and the candle behind him, she was unable to see his face. From what she could tell, he had a fairly long beard and a knit cap on. “You don’t get it, do you?” he asked.

  Lauren looked at the man, her heart beginning to pound against her chest.

  Her vision began to sharpen; his vacant eyes were now barely visible to her. From what she could see, they were large, as if on fire. He moved slowly to his right, to the left of the chair. Lauren’s gaze followed him as the flickering candlelight began to ease across his face.

  “You were at the Neighborhood Watch meeting, you were staring at me in the back. You—you were the one in my house, weren’t you?”

  “The light begins to shine, I see. But not brightly enough. Here, let me give you a little more help. Let’s see if the sun will rise. If not, I’ll be terribly, terribly disappointed.”

  He reached up and grabbed the long hair of his beard and pulled it away from his skin. He removed the knit cap and slipped on a pair of large, rectangular-rimmed, rose-tinted glasses.

  “Just how much does the rope hurt, Gina?” he whispered.

  Lauren’s voice was a mere squeak as tears poured from her eyes. “Oh, my God.”

  “I see you recognize me, Dr. Chambers. Very good. Very good. I have to say that your hypnosis skills are exceptional.” He tilted his head slightly, as if he were studying her. “I recorded the whole session. And, just for the record, my torture fantasies are real, Doctor.” He paused. “Of course, my name isn’t Steven. But you know that by now, don’t you?”

  He smiled, then jumped forward and shoved his grimy face into hers. “You,” he whispered in her ear. “You are my fantasy tonight, Dr. Chambers.”

  20

  The wall of ventilation fans roared loudly as Jonathan Waller pressed a button to the left of shooting booth number 13 at the FBI Academy’s indoor range. Harper Payne—now operating under the cover of Special Agent Richard Thompson until the start of the Scarponi trial—pressed the magazine release button on his Glock, then watched as the cardboard bottle target rolled toward them.

  “Nice shooting,” Waller said as he unhooked the target. “Nearly every round in the kill zone. Only two strays outside the bottle.”

  “I thought I nailed every shot.”

  “You shot fifty rounds and missed two, Harp. That’s a ninety-six. You only need eighty to qualify. Combined with what you did this morning on the pistol qualification course, you’re shooting for top-of-the-class honors.”

  “Mind if I shoot another few magazines?”

  Waller smiled. “Get this through your thick head: you did great. A whole lot better than I expected. It’s not like riding a bicycle. I mean, you never forget the skills, but unless you shoot regularly, you get rusty, lose your edge. But you’re as sharp as you were six years ago. It doesn’t look like you missed a beat.”

  They proceeded into the firearms cleaning room, which was lined with wall posters displaying exploded schematics of guns in the FBI arsenal. Squeeze bottles with solvents and lightweight lubricating oil sat on metal tables beside stacks of gauze pads, wire brushes, and cotton swabs. After the instructor reviewed the Glock’s cleaning protocol with them, Payne checked his weapon in the gun vault across the hall.

  “What’s on the agenda now, coach?”

  “Now,” Waller said, “we take a stroll into town.”

  “Town?”

  They walked outside and followed Hogan’s Alley Street, a paved walkway that cut through the densely wooded Academy grounds. Up a hill was a blue phosphorescent posting that read

  HOGAN’S ALLEY

  RESTRICTED AREA

  They continued walking and passed another series of signs that were nailed into one of the trees on the left side of the path. They read:

  SUCK IT IN!

  HURT

  AGONY

  PAIN

  LOVE IT

  ATTITUDE

  INTEGRITY

  “Part of the physical training course for new agents,” Waller explained.

  They followed the winding path until it widened into a roadway at the edge of “town,” where a large wooden gazebo stood surrounded by flowers and shrubs.

  “Hogan’s Alley,” Waller said as they headed toward one of the buildings. “A five-million-dollar mock-up town where new agents train in a role-playing type environment. You never know what’s going to happen when you get the call to report here. Anything goes.”

  Ahead of them were buildings with facades that read DOGWOOD INN RESTAURANT, BANK OF HOGAN, and ALL-MED DRUGSTORE. As they walked up behind a blue Ford that was parked at the curb with its front doors open, they noticed an agent crouched behind the hood of the vehicle, shotgun trained ahead on some unseen danger emanating from the bank.

  “If I hadn’t told them we were coming, it would automatically be assumed we were part of the exercise,” Waller explained. The agent with the rifle glanced at them, recognized Waller, and turned his attention back to the developing drama.

  “So this is like a movie set?”

  “No, these buildings are real. Even though the facades are fake, the bureau maintains offices inside each of the buildings. Our photo and graphics labs are in the real estate office, the video lab is in the movie theater, and so on.”

  “I’d like to get in on a few of these training exercises.”

  “Already on the agenda for next week. Meantime, tomorrow morning we’re scheduled to review HRT procedures—”

  “HRT?”

  “Hostage Rescue Team.”

  Payne nodded. “Shouldn’t that agent wait for backup before going in?” Payne asked as he observed the man leave the cover of his unit and begin making his way toward the bank.

  “Yup. He’ll get clipped in a minute.”

  “Bad decision.”

  Waller nodded to the agent-in-charge, and
they turned left on North Broad Street to head back toward Jefferson Hall, the main Academy building, which included a portion of the dorms. After walking for a moment in silence, Waller turned to Payne. “You okay with all this so far?”

  “Seems like second nature.”

  “That’s the point,” Waller said with a smile. “It is.”

  21

  “You can’t escape me by closing your eyes, Doctor. But if you’d like, I can put the blindfold back on.”

  Lauren opened her eyes and turned so she was nose to nose with Steven. The evil of the man chilled her soul. “Leave it off,” she said forcefully.

  “A little sensitive, are we?” He stood up and moved away from her, which instantly made Lauren feel better. “Truth is, I wasn’t going to put it back on even if you begged me. But please do. Beg me. It would make the fantasy so much better.”

  “You’re not really into sadism, Steven. It’s an act.”

  “My name is not Steven, doctor. It’s Hung Jin.”

  “You don’t look Asian.”

  “Chinese. And I don’t care what you think.” He walked away from her and leaned against the wall of the cabin. “It’s time to get down to business. We can play later.” A wicked smile curled the left side of his mouth.

  Just then, it hit her—the patient she had flashed on earlier, the one from her private practice. It was a middle-aged man with a goatee—Chipper Ford—who had a type of dissociative disorder known as MPD... multiple personality disorder. He had the same pattern of breathing as Hung Jin. Lauren remembered studying Ford’s respirations when he lapsed into an agitated personality state, and flashing on the idea that if there was a correlation between MPD and respiratory patterns, it could be a new diagnostic aid... and the topic of a research paper. Ford’s demeanor, the way he held his head when he looked at her, was similar as well. Of course, it didn’t mean that Hung Jin suffered from the same disorder. But still...

  He dragged a wooden chair across the rough, dirt-covered floor and sat down in front of her. “Business first, pleasure second.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Question number one. Where is Harper Payne?”

  “Who?”

  Hung Jin stood quickly and swung his arm in a short, underhanded arc. The stomach blow caught her off guard. Her breath was gone, and whatever liquid was in her stomach was threatening to jump through her throat. And the pain was just beginning to set in. As Hung Jin leaned over her, he pulled upon a portion of the coarse rope that surrounded her torso, tightening its clench and preventing her from getting a full breath.

  “Please,” she begged. The pain was intense and increased each time she tried to force air into her lungs. “I’ll tell you what I know. But I don’t know... that name.”

  Hung Jin sat back down and studied her for a moment.

  “Business first, pleasure second,” he said in a whining, almost singsong manner. He craned his head toward the ceiling and raised both arms up, as if beckoning toward the heavens. “This is too easy!” he shouted.

  Lauren gritted her teeth and pulled on her wrists in a futile attempt to loosen the ropes.

  “Yes! Do you feel it? I used special knots that my Chinese master taught me. They tighten when you try to free yourself. They’re quite effective. But don’t take my word for it. Go ahead and pull.”

  Lauren instinctively turned away. She knew this man was unstable. That much was evident during their hypnosis session. Could MPD be the cause—or the symptom? It was a guess at best. MPD affected abused individuals who developed an alternate personality as an escape mechanism. Hung Jin certainly fit the profile. But she needed more of a psychiatric basis to support such a diagnosis. Yet she felt that was what she was dealing with here. Although it was based on something unscientific—intuition—she did not have much to lose by playing what seemed to be her only hand.

  The question of how to deal with him, assuming she was right, was difficult. These were far from ideal circumstances. But Lauren was used to thinking out of the box when confronted with a difficult or even impossible case. She relaxed her body and closed her eyes, taking herself back to the warm yellow tones of her office... the comfortable leather chair in front of her desk, the slight scent of rose floating on the air. Hoping there was something from her initial session with him that could help her.

  “I’ll make it easy on you,” Hung Jin said.

  She opened her eyes slowly, keeping her mind back in her office. She was the doctor now, Hung Jin the patient.

  “The sooner you tell me what I want to know, the faster I’ll be gone.” He sat down again.

  “What did you do before you went to China?” Lauren was fishing, looking for something that would trigger a specific response: a switch in personalities, one that might bring out a more docile, or even harmless, alternate personality, or alter.

  “I don’t think you understand how this arrangement works,” Hung Jin said, his fingers curling into a fist. Lauren tightened her body, bracing for another punch. “I ask the questions, you answer them. You refuse to cooperate, I hurt you.” He smiled, then took a step toward her. “Now, your husband. Tell me where he is.”

  Lauren’s eyes began to tear.

  “All you have to do is tell me where he is and I will stop this, right here. Then I’ll let you go.”

  “I thought you said I couldn’t trust you.”

  Hung Jin’s head jerked left twice in rapid succession. His face turned crimson, the veins in his forehead bulging. “Don’t use my words against me!”

  Lauren flinched. “Michael was supposed to be home a few days ago,” she stammered. “On the twelfth. But he hasn’t called. I don’t know what happened to him. You heard me say that at the Neighborhood Watch meeting—”

  Hung Jin brought his fist back again and unleashed a straight-on jab that landed on Lauren’s left cheek and tipped the chair back off its front legs. She cried out as the blow landed. Instantly, a numbing deafness muffled her surroundings. She felt groggy and distant and her vision was blurred.

  “I know what you said at the meeting. But it’s all bullshit, part of Payne’s plan to get away from me. The distressed wife looking for her husband, turning to the small-town folk to help her find him. It was a nice show, Doctor. But I know the truth. You know more than you’re telling me.”

  She shook her head to fight the dizziness, to prevent herself from losing consciousness. As her senses slowly returned, tears began rolling down her cheeks. “I don’t know what you want from me,” she said weakly. “I don’t know any more than what I said at the meeting. This is all just a mistake. Michael didn’t do anything to hurt you. I don’t understand why you’re trying to hurt him.”

  “You’re right, it was a mistake. And because of that mistake, he caused me far more pain than I could ever cause you, Doctor. Now I’d love to debate the nature of pain and the methods of measuring whose pain is worse, but I need to find your husband. Now!”

  “I don’t know who Harper Payne is,” Lauren blurted, lowering her head and turning it slightly to the side, bracing for another impact. “My husband is Michael Chambers.”

  Hung Jin sat down and regarded her. “I know you’re not stupid, Doctor. You probably think you’re protecting him. But why you’d want to protect a murderer is beyond me.”

  Lauren swung her head around and locked eyes with him. “What?”

  “Yes, your husband is a murderer. He worked for me, carrying out contract hits.”

  “Michael isn’t capable of killing.” Lauren defiantly looked away, convinced that what she was hearing was a lie.

  “Of course you don’t believe me. But that’s okay, Doctor, because I don’t need to prove anything to you. One way or another you’re going to tell me what I want to know. Willingly or unwillingly.”

  “Michael’s not a murderer.”

  Hung Jin leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “This is admirable in a way, how you’re protecting him. But I saw that flicker of concern in yo
ur eyes when I told you he was a killer. So I’ll let you in on a little secret: seven years ago your loving husband was on my payroll, researching the target’s daily activities, scouting out the location, planning the hit.” He rose and pointed at her. “There it is again—it’s in your eyes. The windows to your soul. You shrinks aren’t the only ones who’ve studied the mind, you know. Right now you’re doing a quick calculation in your head. Oh my God, you’re thinking!”

  He craned his neck toward the ceiling. “She’s finally getting it!” He looked down at Lauren. “Yes, Doctor, this happened before you met your husband. You’re thinking now that maybe what I told you is true. It is true.” He sat down again. “Ask yourself this: Of all the people you’ve treated, of all the mental illness you’ve dealt with, of all the ugliness you’ve seen, isn’t it possible that your husband is a killer?”

  “No—”

  “That he did things that you would’ve never believed possible?”

  “No!”

  “Isn’t it possible he’s kept things from you, that our companions, our lovers, keep secrets from us they’d never reveal about themselves?”

  Lauren’s pulse was pounding in her ears. It was possible; she had seen it countless times. Patients telling her things they would never tell their loved ones. But was it possible with Michael?

  “I guess it’s understandable you’d protect your husband. I’d do the same in your position. The only thing is, I’m not in your position.” The same haunting laugh burst from his mouth. “Your attitude will change shortly, when you’re starving, freezing. And bleeding profusely.”

  If Lauren could only find a subject, an emotion, a song or scent that inspired a memory his alter could latch onto, she could make contact with it—if there was an alter. If her intuition was correct. She looked him in the eye, prepared to monitor his reaction to what she was about to say. “I bet you wouldn’t treat your mother like this.”

  There was a slight purse of his lips, a movement her trained eye picked up. “I never had a mother.”