The Hunted

by Alan Jacobson

  “Don,” Lauren said. “Or Dan. Maybe it was Dave.”

  “What?”

  “One of his frat buddies. I just remembered Michael mentioning him once. I think it was Dan.”

  “I’ll check into it. Do you know which fraternity it was?”

  Lauren thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I checked through his stuff yesterday to see if I could find something, a plane reservation or a car rental confirmation number, or whatever. I didn’t see anything with a fraternity logo on it, not even a pin or a shirt.”

  “I can do some legwork on it, but once I figure out which one he was a member of, I’ll need Deputy Vork’s help. Frats don’t release rosters to anyone without a court order. But what about a yearbook? Maybe we can start there.”

  “I couldn’t find one. He once told me he had a fire in his apartment just before we met. He lost most of his stuff.”

  Bradley clicked his pen shut. “How about your relationship with Michael?”

  “What about it?”

  “Were you two having problems, was it strained, that sort of thing.”

  She hesitated for a moment. “I’ve been thinking about that ever since Deputy Vork told me that most cases of missing husbands are actually men leaving their wives behind.”

  Bradley studied Lauren’s expression for a moment. Her eyes were downcast, and she was fiddling with a small piece of paper in her hands. “Is that possible, Lauren? You’ve got to be honest with yourself here, and with me. No matter how painful it might seem.”

  “At first, no, I didn’t. But now...” Lauren’s eyes met Bradley’s. “I guess it’s possible.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Bradley waited for her to gather her thoughts.

  “Are you playing therapist with me, Nick?”

  “I’ve heard it helps.” He smiled warmly.

  “Michael had been a little down the past few months. I don’t know how to describe it. And I didn’t even see it that way until today. But maybe that’s the whole problem. It’s always about me, the focus is always on me, ever since we got married.”

  “Let’s back up a minute. You said he seemed down. How so?”

  “Restless. Bored.” She shook her head. “I’m a damned psychologist and I couldn’t even see the signs under my own nose.”

  Bradley placed a hand on hers. “How was he bored? You mean with you?”

  “With everything. It all started with me. I ran into problems with my practice. Things didn’t work out, and I ended up having to shut it down. I had a bad time with it, accepting it, you know? I lapsed into a nasty depression, I was prone to panic attacks... Michael had to leave his job in San Francisco.”

  “That could’ve been a positive for him. The commute’s a bear.”

  “Nice try. But he was a software engineer for an upstart Internet company that had incredible potential. He said that one day we’d hit it big and money would never be an issue for us. He was excited, passionate about his work. That’s why he never cared about the commute. He would stay over some nights, when he had to work late. They had a cot in the back room where a few of them would sleep.” She sat there for a moment, staring off at the wall before continuing. “He left that job because he needed to be home for me every night. I wasn’t doing well and he didn’t want to be that far away.”

  “Do you think he resented you for it?”

  Lauren snorted. “Michael would grin and bear it, never let on that he was upset or disappointed. But about a year and a half after he left the company, they went public and the remaining partners took in fifty million apiece. And where was Michael? Working that dead-end job he found with Cablecast. When he left the Internet company, we needed money right away. Cablecast had an opening for a network account manager. He jumped at it and that was it. About six months later I was well enough to take a counseling job with the state. Of course, Michael arranged that one for me, too.” She shook her head. “He’s done everything for me. And I just let him do it.”

  “So he gave up an exciting, stimulating career for something that was boring with little room for advancement or personal growth. It would be only natural for him to have developed resentment, don’t you think?”

  “I didn’t see it at the time, but now...” She looked down at her lap. “I’d have to say it wasn’t just professional boredom. Michael was born in Los Angeles, he loved city life. When we met, I had a job that was tied to Placerville and he was just starting work with the company in San Francisco. Cost of living was much less here, and it reminded me of my home, in Wyoming. He missed the city, its excitement. I shouldn’t have forced him into living such a quiet life. It just wasn’t him.”

  “That said,” Bradley softly remarked, “I think you should take a minute and consider the possibility that maybe Michael did just leave...”

  Lauren was quiet for a moment, but then shook her head. “It just doesn’t feel right. I can’t explain it, but I really believe that Michael’s not here because he can’t be, Nick, not because he doesn’t want to be.”

  Bradley nodded. “Okay. Then we need to get started on trying to find Michael instead of waiting for him to find us. I’ll go to Cablecast, poke around a little, then look into his buddy’s e-mail address and see what I can do to narrow down where he went in Colorado. I know you said it was near Vail, but you can cross-country ski practically anywhere there’s snow, so it could be tough. But we may get lucky and catch a break. At some point, I might need to go there, but I’ve got a friend who can get some of the legwork done for me. I’ll look into the fraternity, then check with the airlines and monitor your credit cards in case Michael or someone using his card makes a purchase. All the standard missing person stuff. You say he wants to be found. Fine, then I’ll assume you’re right. But if I start seeing otherwise, I’m going to tell you that, too.”

  Through glassy, red eyes, Lauren said, “I understand.”

  “I’ve got some herbal stuff that works for me when I have a tough time sleeping.” He dug into his left pocket and pulled out a small black film canister. “I always keep some in my glove compartment. In my line of work, I find myself sleeping on a lot of crappy motel beds.” He popped open the lid and handed her a couple of brown capsules. “Take these and you’ll have a restful sleep. Looks like you can use it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Valerian root extract. All natural, don’t worry.”

  Lauren took the pills and washed them down with the glass of water. “How long till they take effect?”

  “About twenty minutes.” Bradley stood and stretched his legs. “I’ll be right back, I have to dig your Colt out of the dishwasher.” He smiled. “Better there than in the deputy’s car getting run for a license he’s probably not going to find.” He winked and walked out of the room.

  In the kitchen, Bradley pulled the Colt from the silverware tray in the dishwasher, opened the cylinder and gave it a spin: six rounds were loaded. He snapped it closed and walked back into the living room, where Lauren was lying on the couch, her head resting against the back cushion, her arms splayed out and her eyes closed.

  Bradley inserted the Colt into his front jeans pocket. He looked down at Tucker, who was lying beside Lauren’s feet. “Guess she didn’t need the pills, huh, boy?” The dog’s ears bobbed up and down with Bradley’s voice, but Tucker did not move.

  Bradley bent over in front of Lauren, placed her arms over his shoulders, and lifted her swiftly and carefully off the couch. He carried her upstairs and laid her in bed, then slipped her shoes off and pulled the covers over her body. He saw the floral sheets and instantly understood why she didn’t like them.

  Tucker lay on the wood floor at the foot of the bed. Bradley stood there for a moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of Lauren’s chest. Then he hit the light switch and bathed the room in darkness.

  10

  Michael Chambers was sitting on the cot staring off into the pitch-black of the room. What is it with roses? he thought as he recalled yet anot
her dream about the fragrant flower. Am I a florist?

  He swung his legs off the bed and hit a switch on the wall. A bank of bright fluorescents hummed to life, and he threw up a hand to block the light. He wondered how long he had been asleep. He had been awoken by a police officer—no, a security guard—looking for a patient. But how long ago had that been?

  There was no clock in the room, but there was a phone. He lifted the handset and asked the hospital operator for the time: it was five-fifteen in the evening. He fished around in his shirt pocket and found the receipt from the doctors’ lounge where he had eaten. It was time-stamped 2:02 p.m. He felt tired, but not exhausted, which was an improvement. The nap had done him some good.

  He called information and a moment later was speaking with the Yellow Cab dispatcher. He requested that a taxi meet him at the front entrance of the hospital in ten minutes.

  “I need you to be on time,” Chambers said. “But I want you to wait for me in case I get delayed. If I’m not there, I’ll be on my way.”

  After receiving assurances the driver would be given his instructions, he hung up.

  Chambers quickly combed his fingers through his hair, then stepped out of the room. A couple of doctors were standing by the nurses’ station, signing patient charts. Except for an elderly woman shuffling along with an IV stand, the rest of the corridor was empty.

  As he made his way down the hall, he felt a pulling sensation in his leg. The pain was still there, but it wasn’t as intense as he remembered. He made eye contact with one of the nurses and nodded, figuring that a direct approach would be less conspicuous than avoiding her gaze and appearing shifty. Once down the corridor, he pilfered a patient chart that was hanging in a wall receptacle and carried it with him into the elevator. He pretended to be absorbed in a printout of diagnostic test results as he descended the floors, the doors eventually opening at the main level.

  He stepped out of the elevator with a doctor and a nurse. The physician headed left toward the emergency room, and the nurse matched him stride for stride in the direction of the front entrance. Through the clear glass doors, he saw the taxi pulling up to the curb. But he slowed his pace when he caught sight of the security guard stationed off to the right.

  Chambers closed the patient chart, tucked it beneath his arm, and did his best to stride normally, and confidently, toward the doors. As he passed the guard, he threw a quick half smile at the man and continued on, out into the cold night air. With only a pair of hospital scrubs covering his skin, gooseflesh immediately popped out across his arms. He calmly sat down in the warm backseat of the cab and slammed the door shut.

  “Okay, Doc, where are we going?” the driver asked. He had a walrus mustache and a dash of silver in his wavy black hair.

  Realizing he had not formulated a plan, Chambers directed his gaze downward, toward the seat. He could ask for a Laundromat and hope that someone who happened to be of similar build was doing his laundry. Or, he could try to steal a pair of pants and a shirt from a store. Either way, there were risks.

  “Where’s the nearest mall?” he asked.

  The driver smiled. “Three blocks down. You didn’t need a cab to take you three blocks.”

  “That’s okay. My car’s down and I don’t have long before I have to be... back in surgery.”

  The cabbie nodded and pulled away from the curb. Chambers knew he did not have any money to pay for the ride—let alone to buy clothes with—but he did have one thing of value: appearance and presumption.

  As the man pulled up in front of Macy’s, Chambers leaned across the bench seat and told him he would be back in fifteen minutes. The driver nodded and shifted the car into park as Chambers left the cab and headed into the mall.

  He found a directory and quickly scanned the list of potential targets. He wanted a store that was large enough that he could put the clothing on without having to check into a fitting room suite, where an employee might be counting the number of items with which he entered—and exited.

  Macy’s was his best bet. He strode into men’s casual wear and made a quick assessment of the available sales staff. One clerk was at the register with a customer and one was straightening and refolding clothing on a display. Since he was already somewhat conspicuous in hospital scrubs, he knew he needed to be fast and be out.

  Surveying the display of Badge jeans, he picked a stonewashed pair—they’d be harder to tell new from used—and grabbed a 34 waist, hoping it would fit. He yanked off the large cardboard placards that were fastened to the rear pocket with clear nylon filament and bent down behind a rack that displayed sweatshirts.

  Checking again that the sales staff was busy and that no customers were in sight, he kicked his tennis shoes off and slipped the jeans on over the scrubs, not an easy feat with his thigh throbbing and the stitches pulling. Although he could have used a 33, they fit well enough so as not to attract attention. He pulled a gray sweatshirt off the table in front of him, used his teeth to break off the tag, and slipped the garment over his head.

  He shoved his tennis shoes back on and faced the task of having to somehow bend over to tie the laces. He was able to knot the right by resting his foot on the display, but there was no way he could lift the left to do the same. Gingerly, he knelt down as far as he could, resting his head against the display for balance. He tied a quick knot, then pulled himself up and glanced around to see if anyone was watching.

  Convinced he had remained unnoticed, he moved off into the sportswear department in search of a jacket, where he found himself staring at a full-size fashion photo in the adjacent lingerie section of a twenty-something woman smelling a red rose. Rose—

  “Can I help you?” The voice was sweet and youthful.

  Chambers turned and a woman in her early thirties was standing there, her eyebrows raised. “Uh, I’m looking for the entrance to the mall.”

  She directed him out of the store, and a couple of minutes later he was moving past the various cart vendors who had set up shop along the center of the ground-floor walkway. The one selling fresh cut flowers caught his attention. He was greeted by a thin woman holding an arrangement of long-stemmed roses accented by a smattering of baby’s breath. She smiled broadly and locked eyes with Chambers. “Would you like a bouquet for your loved one? It’s only eleven ninety-nine...”

  Chambers was staring at the roses, mesmerized by the deep crimson velvet of the petals. He shook his head, then backed away from the woman, who had turned her attention to the next customer standing at her booth. He turned and bumped into a blue kiosk with the GlobalNet logo emblazoned on the side. He stood there reading the advertisement scrolling across the computer screen: “The world within your reach.” His eyes glided down to the keyboard, where instructions were mounted: “To access the Internet via GlobalNet’s lightning fast broadband, swipe your credit card in the slot to the left...”

  The Internet.

  Chambers sat down in the seat and watched as the words scrolled by him: “Send or retrieve e-mail messages, surf the Web, make purchases...” He looked down at the console again. “Set up your own free Hotmail® e-mail account. Just swipe your card to log on...”

  Chambers glanced at the screen. The world within your reach.

  He shook his head. That’s what we have at the office. The office—what office? He slammed his fist down on the console and tried to concentrate.

  The world within your reach.

  Roses.

  No, just rose.

  Just Rose.

  Then it hit him: just_rose@hotmail. Yes, that was familiar. But what did it mean? Was it his own e-mail address? A friend’s? His mother’s? A girlfriend’s? Who was Rose?

  Chambers let his eyes roam around the mall. He needed a credit card. He headed toward the other end of the mall, then entered a Dillard’s department store. He wound his way to the women’s petite section, where he chose a rack that provided an adequate view of the cashier. Waiting for the right moment to approach, he watched four women c
ome and go, only one of whom had placed her credit card on the counter in such a position that he could have safely taken it. But it was a proprietary Dillard’s card, and it would not have done him any good.

  Just then, the cashier placed a Citi MasterCard on the countertop and moved to lift the phone. Chambers quickly made his way toward the register and placed his hands on the cold laminate—his right hand covering the credit card.

  As the woman hung up, he excused himself. “Which way to the parking lot?” He reasoned that when they finally realized he was the one who had taken the charge card, they would first search the place they thought he was headed: to a car, out back, in the lot.

  “Behind you, just past the shoe department.” He turned to look where she was pointing, as did the woman whose card he was now palming.

  “You sure it’s not that way?” he asked, pointing in the opposite direction as he slipped the card into his front pocket.

  The woman forced a smile, trying to mask her impatience. “I’m sure. It’s back that way, behind you.”

  “Must’ve gotten turned around,” Chambers said as he flashed an embarrassed smile. He turned and quickly made his way down the aisle in the direction of the parking lot. As soon as he was out of view, he circled around the store and headed back toward the mall.

  As Chambers was approaching men’s sportswear, he heard an announcement over the public address system. “Security to women’s petite, security to women’s petite.” He grabbed a blue baseball cap, tore the tag off, and pulled it down over his head.

  A minute later he was back in the mall, hobbling toward the GlobalNet kiosk. He was only hoping he could swipe the card before the bank put a hold on the number. Even if the woman—Ellen Haskins, according to the name on the card—reported the theft immediately, he figured it would take a few moments for them to take the information and freeze the account.

  Only a few steps away now, he could see that the chair was occupied by a youth about eighteen years old.