The Hunted Read online

  “If he did, it wasn’t something he told me about.”

  “Any business problems he complained about?”

  “He was a supervisor, so he had a lot of people under him. I think he had a good relationship with them. But he never brought his work home. He never complained about anything.”

  “What about financial problems? Did you handle the family finances or did Michael?”

  “Michael did. I was never any good at math, and after the first few bounced checks, I just let him handle it all.”

  Vork sighed, then stroked his mustache. “Okay. When you go home, I want you to look around and see if you can find something that might have the name of your husband’s college or fraternity on it. If we get that, I can put someone on it, track down his friends. Meantime, I’ll alert the sheriff’s department in Vail, let them know we may have a group of people stranded somewhere. Maybe we’ll get lucky. If they’ve got a report of another family member missing, one of your husband’s buddies, we’ll know we’re on the right track. But again, I want to be honest with you, Dr. Chambers. If they haven’t had other calls, they may not put much effort into it. We’re not sure of our facts, and they don’t want to be wasting their time. And sending up a whirlybird in the high country is expensive and risky business. I’m sure they wouldn’t want to put anyone in danger if we didn’t know for sure your husband and his buddies were even out there. I don’t even know where to tell them to search.”

  “Then they’re not going to do it, are they?”

  “Honestly, I can’t say they will. I wouldn’t. But I will make the call, I promise you that much—”

  The phone buzzed, followed by a filtered voice through the intercom speaker. “Deputy Vork, please report to the break room.” Vork shook his head. “Sorry again.”

  “There is something else.” The deputy nodded for Lauren to continue. “I got the feeling last night that I was being followed, when I was driving home.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “I think so. I mean, I was sure of it at the time, but... I think so. Yes.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “I didn’t see it, it was dark out. All I saw were the headlights.”

  “How many people were in the car?”

  “I—I don’t know. Like I said, it was dark.”

  “Why do you think it was following you?”

  “Because I made a lot of turns, and it turned with me, always staying about two blocks back.”

  Vork regarded her for a second. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but have you ever had that feeling before, that someone’s following you?”

  “I’m not paranoid.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying”—Vork crossed his arms over his chest— "maybe your concern over your husband has put you on edge. Being a little paranoid would be a normal reaction, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Look, Deputy, I’m the psychologist here. Don’t try—”

  “I didn’t say that to make you uncomfortable. But we do get some training in psychology. Helps us to understand the criminal mind and such.”

  “Your point?”

  “From what I remember, and correct me if I’m wrong since you’re the expert, but isn’t paranoia kind of a reaction to a situation that poses no real threat, or some such thing like that?”

  Lauren nodded, her gaze finding the ground.

  Vork let that thought hang in the air a long second.

  “Well, then,” he finally said, “I’m no doctor, but is it possible that this feeling of being followed is just, I don’t know, an offshoot of the fact that your husband’s missing?”

  “No, Deputy, it’s not.” Lauren knew that it was possible, but she didn’t want to admit it out of fear that it could taint everything she had just told him about Michael’s disappearance.

  “Is that a professional opinion, Dr. Chambers, or did it come from the heart? Which hat are you wearing right this second?”

  Lauren didn’t answer.

  The door swung open and the young man who had intruded earlier poked his head in again. “I don’t know if you heard the page, but—”

  “Thank you,” Vork said. “I heard it. I’ll be right there.”

  The door closed and Vork stood. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance. If you find that note he left, or the name of that college or fraternity, we can take a more aggressive approach. In the meantime, I’ll get all the info out to every officer in California through our CLETS system, just in case.”

  Lauren, her eyes still focused on the ground, nodded. “Thanks for your help,” she mumbled. A second later, the door clicked shut.

  After Lauren had walked down the hallway and made her way through the front doors, she heard someone call her name. She turned slowly and saw Carla Mae hurrying after her into the parking lot. Lauren stopped, then squinted against the gray brightness and waited until Carla caught up to her.

  “Was Deputy Vork helpful?”

  “Not really.”

  “He means well, he really does, Dr. Chambers.”

  “I’m sure he does. Thanks for your help.” Lauren turned and continued on toward her car.

  “It’s this murder investigation, it’s got everyone all stressed out,” Carla called after her. “We don’t get many killings here, and being shorthanded and all, it’s made it hard to deal with other important things, like your problem.”

  Lauren stopped and turned to face Carla. She did not feel like speaking with anyone at the moment. She wanted to go to her office, rummage through her desk again, and see if she could locate Michael’s information. “Don’t worry about it.” Lauren forced a smile. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure you will be, missy. But we’re going to make sure of it.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I need a photo of your husband, the sooner the better.” Carla held out a hand and wiggled her thick fingers.

  Lauren saw the impatience in Carla’s mannerisms and realized that the woman was serious. Lauren opened her purse and pulled out a wallet-size photo they had taken last year at Dean Porter studios. “Will this do?”

  “That’s perfect. We can crop you out. No offense, missy.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I’m going to make up a flyer that we’ll post all over town. And as soon as I get back to the office, I’m going to get our phone tree up and running.”

  “Phone tree?”

  “Neighborhood Watch. That’s how we do things here. Everyone comes together to help everyone else.”

  Lauren allowed a smile to spread across her face.

  “Thank you, Carla.”

  “Tonight at, say, seven o’clock, we’ll all gather in the middle school gym. Don’t be late.”

  Lauren found herself nodding. “I’ll be there.”

  Lauren drove to her office in Cameron Park, a ten-minute ride west of Placerville. As she approached the exit off U.S. 50, she dabbed at the perspiration across her brow. Freeway driving was one of the more difficult tasks for an agoraphobic to handle. Blaring music made the ride more tolerable by minimizing all other surrounding stimuli. In this case, an Elton John love-songs CD Michael had bought her a few months ago provided the diversion. She lowered the music, slowed onto the Cameron Park exit ramp, then turned right into the small office complex.

  Lauren pushed through the door to her office and sat down at her desk. Six files were piled to her left, and another was lying on her blotter with a microcassette recorder tossed across it. She realized she had never dictated the notes on her new patient, Steven Simpson, the one with the sadistic torture fantasies. She looked down at her pad of scribbled notes and shook her head. Only next week’s visit would tell her if she’d had a positive effect on Steven’s behavior.

  Lauren opened her drawer, again trying to locate the slip of paper, pad, or message slip on which she’d written Michael’s information. She had searched her office yesterday, to no avail. Now she was back, hoping that a fresh lo
ok at things would produce a different result.

  She rummaged through her files, checked her wastebasket, which had since been emptied, and then cradled her head in her hands, elbows resting atop her desk. In her mind, she walked herself through Michael’s phone call. It was hectic; she had just taken a call from another psychologist about a patient. As she hung up, her late appointment came running out of the elevator—and then the receptionist informed her that Michael was on the phone.

  She opened her eyes and looked around the office. She remembered walking in and grabbing something to write on as Michael was rattling off his itinerary. She kept telling him to slow down, but he said he would leave a note for her and that he had to go before the traffic made him miss his plane.

  Her eyes roamed the office and came to rest on an issue of Sports Illustrated. “That’s it!” she said, rising from her chair. She lifted the magazine and looked for her handwriting. Finding it clean, she walked out of the room and into the waiting area where the other magazines were haphazardly tossed on a large coffee table in between two couches.

  None of the issues had her handwriting on the back. But she remembered it all now, from Michael’s phone call to scribbling her notes across the back of a magazine. After making sure no stray issues were beneath the couches or in the empty rack on the wall, she walked up to the receptionist, who was fielding a phone call.

  Lauren knew that either a patient had taken the magazine home with him or her, or-—

  The receptionist disconnected her call and was looking at Lauren. “Yes, Doctor?”

  “Do you know if there are any other magazines floating around the suite? I wrote something down on the back of one of them and I can’t seem to find it.”

  “I did a clearing just before the patients went in, about half an hour ago. I put all of them on the table.”

  “Do you remember seeing one that had my writing on the back?”

  “Not offhand. But you know how patients are. Sometimes they ask to borrow one, but most of the time they just take them.”

  “If you find it, would you please call me immediately?” Lauren then turned toward the stairwell. “And do me a favor and reschedule tonight’s and tomorrow’s patients for another time. I’ve got some... personal matters to deal with.”

  Lauren headed back to her car, angry that she had not written Michael’s itinerary down in a safe place. But, as Deputy Vork had said, at the time it did not seem to be important. Michael had said he was leaving the information for her.

  So why wasn’t it there when she got home that night?

  Lauren returned to her car and headed down Cambridge Road toward the freeway. She was on her way to Michael’s office in Folsom, where she hoped to find an enlightening morsel or two of information. Though she had spoken on the phone with his secretary at length yesterday, it was not the same as being there and examining his office herself.

  After stopping at the traffic light, Lauren noticed that her fuel gauge light was lit. Her eyebrows rose in disbelief. Empty? She had filled the tank a couple of days ago. She tapped the dashboard plastic in front of the gauge, but the orange warning light continued to glow. Fortunately, an Arco station was a mile away. She hung a U-turn and headed back toward Cameron Park Drive.

  Standing outside in the chilled wind, Lauren alternately lifted her feet, trying to generate some warmth. After another gust hit her, she took shelter inside the car and rubbed her hands together. She’d figured the tank would only take a few gallons—thus confirming her thought that the gauge was defective. But as the LCD readout approached seventeen gallons, she realized that something was definitely wrong.

  And it had nothing to do with a faulty fuel gauge.

  4

  Lauren walked up to the new four-story office building on East Bidwell Road and shielded her eyes from the high gray sky that was bouncing off the reflective glass. Inside the lobby, the directory displayed the company name, Cablecast, and listed the three floors that it occupied. She had not been to Michael’s office since his division had moved suites six months ago and had to ask several people before finding the proper floor and section.

  Lauren introduced herself to Amber, Michael’s secretary. Dark skinned and thin, Amber was not what Lauren had expected.

  “People in his group have been in and out of his office,” the young secretary said. “After we talked yesterday, I checked around, and everyone said they’d left things pretty much as they were.”

  Lauren thanked her and proceeded in. Amber was a lot more attractive than Lauren had imagined. Certainly, if what Deputy Vork had said was true, then Michael didn’t need to go all the way to Colorado to have an affair. He had a sweet, young candidate ten feet outside his office door.

  Lauren shook her head and scolded herself for having such thoughts. But were such thoughts any worse than imagining her husband buried under ten feet of snow, the victim of a sudden snow slide in the middle of Colorado back country?

  She stood just inside his doorway and took in the character of the office. It was dark and the air was stale, with an old, nicked and pocked wooden desk pushed over to one side of the ten-by-ten room. She turned on the overhead fluorescent lights. Piles of reports were stacked on his desk, along with a dusty collection of silk flowers protruding from a nondescript vase, and a photo of Lauren, one he had taken himself in their front yard with Tucker. She walked around and sat in his creaky chair, trying to take everything in. She couldn’t resist playing the psychologist. Was this a happy office or a sad one?

  The hum of Michael’s PC caught her attention. Like most corporations, Cablecast kept its computers running 24/7. She reached over to the monitor that was squeezed in amongst the folders and turned it on. As the image appeared on the screen, she realized that Cablecast used Microsoft Office, which she was familiar with. She started Outlook and clicked on the CALENDAR icon.

  Lauren searched Michael’s schedule for the days before his departure, hoping to find a name or phone number that could give her more information as to where he had gone. She clicked through the prior two weeks without finding any reference to the trip other than one entry on the day he was to leave: “Skiing.”

  Before closing out the software, she decided to check his inbox for e-mails. She scrolled through the more recent messages that had arrived while he was away—all of which appeared to be work-related—and found one from a month ago sent by someone identified only as “targard.” Frustrated that it didn’t provide the person’s name, she read through the short message:

  Mikee, my man. Ready for the big trip next month? We’re getting things squared away and should have all the t’s crossed in a few days. It’s a go! Can’t wait to see all you guys. It’ll be like old times. Gotta run. Catch you soon.

  The message was unsigned. Lauren reread it, then realized there was nothing of use in there... other than that this was a real trip. If she had had any doubts after speaking with Deputy Vork, they were now extinguished.

  She hit REPLY and composed her own message:

  Hi. This is Lauren Chambers, Michael’s wife. I don’t have your number or I would’ve called. But Michael was supposed to be home two days ago and I haven’t heard from him. Can you give me your name and number and tell me if you and your friends arrived home safely, and when you last saw my husband?

  Lauren added her contact information, then hit SEND and waited as the message was transmitted across the cybersphere... hopefully to someone who could provide some answers.

  She gave one final look through Michael’s drawers, hoping to find a letter, a memento from his frat days, or something else that might indicate where he had gone. There was nothing. But she did find his handheld PC. She powered it on and checked the inbox. The only message was an e-mail Lauren had sent him a couple of weeks ago. The calendar was identical to the one she had seen on Michael’s desktop computer.

  She slipped the little PC into her purse, took one more look around her husband’s office, and covered her eyes. As tears began to
well, she realized she could no longer keep her emotions under control. She sat there and wept, praying that Michael would soon be found alive.

  5

  “Pupils round and reactive to light.”

  “Plantar reflexes downgoing.”

  “BP ninety over fifty.”

  “Severe blow to the head—”

  “Stabilize C-spine.”

  “Abdomen rigid... possible internal bleeding—”

  “Prepare to transport, get him on the spine board. Stabilize and roll on my mark. Ready, one, two—hold it, he’s coming around.”

  The view of the gray sky rotated into view as a sudden wave of dizziness made Michael Chambers nauseous. “Where... ?”

  Two heads appeared above him. “You were in an accident, sir, we’re paramedics. We’re taking you to the hospital.”

  “They shot at me, had to go off the cliff.”

  “Uh, look, sir, you collided with the center median, took out another car. You didn’t drive off a cliff.”

  “Gotta go—” Chambers tried to sit up, but was held down by a couple of hands.

  “Hey, hey—you’re in no condition to get up. We’ve gotta get you to the hospital. You suffered a severe blow to the head and you might be bleeding internally...”

  “Sir?”

  The voice was distant, and fading rapidly.

  “He’s losing consciousness again...”

  Michael Chambers opened his eyes and felt groggy. He blinked a few times and tried to clear his vision.

  “Doctor, he’s awake.”

  The female voice came from his right, where a nurse was preparing an injection. “This will only hurt for a second,” she said as she pricked his skin with a needle.

  “Well, Mr. Doe, looks like you’re going to make it.”

  The doctor was smiling at Chambers with lots of white teeth, and the nurse’s dialect indicated they were probably somewhere in the South.