The Hunted (6 page)

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.

“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.

“Where am I?”

“Virginia Presbyterian. You had a nasty car wreck and the paramedics extracted you from the vehicle and transported you here. I’m Dr. Farber.”

The room was beginning to come into focus. Chambers rotated his head, searching for a wall clock. “How long have I been here?”

“About two hours.”

“Two hours—” He started to sit up, but he felt sharp thigh pain and his headache intensified. “Oh, that’s not a good idea.”

“Careful there,” Farber said. “We had to do a little emergency surgery. Nothing major, but you had something lodged in your thigh and we had to get it out before you developed a nice little infection.”

“Not to be ungrateful, Doc, but right now, my head is spinning and hurts a whole lot more than my leg.” Chambers put a hand on his forehead.

“We gave you another shot for the pain, but it probably hasn’t kicked in yet. As for your head, I’ve got you scheduled for an MRI to make sure you don’t have any internal brain swelling. You took a hell of a blow. I’ve called neurology for a consult, but they’re a little backed up.” The doctor paused to sign a chart the nurse had handed him, then turned back to Chambers. “Mind telling me what your name is?”

“My name?”

“You didn’t have any identification with you, and the car you were driving in was reported stolen.”

“My name. My name is... my name is... I don’t know. How can I forget my own name?”

“You’ve suffered a concussion, probably from hitting your head on the steering wheel. Paramedics said you bent it pretty good. But it also appears as if you had another blow to the posterior portion of your head very recently. Judging by the looks of it, I’d say it’s not from this accident. Do you know anything about that?”

“No, nothing.”

Farber nodded. “How about where you were born, let’s start with that.”

Chambers stared at the doctor, his mind as blank as the man’s white coat. “I don’t know.”

“Can you recite the alphabet for me?”

Chambers frowned. “A, B, C, D, E, F, G—”

“Okay. I’m going to tell you a color, and I’m going to ask you in a minute what color I told you. Magenta. Got it?”

“Magenta,” Chambers repeated. “Got it.”

“By the way, what color is magenta?”

“Kind of a purple-red.”

“Good. Okay. Tell me, do you know where you live, what your home address is?”

A long silent moment passed, then Farber clicked his pen open and jotted a note in the file. “How about what you ate for breakfast this morning?”

“Eggs.”

Farber regarded his patient for a moment. “You’re sure about that? Eggs?”

Chambers looked away. “No, I’m not sure. I don’t remember eating anything this morning. I can’t even remember what I was doing before I woke up here.”

“Can you count backwards by ones and threes?”

“Look, Doc, are all these questions necessary?”

Farber sighed. “Since I’ve called for neurology, I guess not. They’ll go through everything with you in much greater detail. I was just hoping to narrow down what we’re dealing with.”

“How serious is this? I mean, I’m gonna get my memory back, won’t I?”

Farber hiked his eyebrows. “Generally, the more severe the concussion, the more substantial the neurologic deficits could be. And if you’ve had any concussions in the past, it could make the effects of this one that much more significant.” Farber looked over to the nurse. “Can you page neurology again?”

The nurse nodded and walked over to a wall phone.

Chambers looked at Farber. The man was about thirty years old and had short, dark hair with deep rings beneath his eyes. “You look tired.”

Farber smiled. “I’ve been on for thirty-three hours and I’m looking forward to a warm shower and a long, uninterrupted nap. Do you remember anything about what happened to you, how you got into the accident?”

Chambers shook his head.

“Do you know why you had a bullet in your thigh?”

Chambers looked hard at the doctor. “A bullet?” Something wasn’t right. A stolen car, a bullet...
am I a victim or a criminal?
He felt an overwhelming sense of unease, of the need to protect himself. He looked away from Farber. “No, I—I don’t.”

Farber pulled a penlight from his breast pocket and flicked it into Chambers’s eyes. Farber shook his head, then sighed again. “Well. Until we can find out your name, we’re going to call you John Doe. Like I said, you’re scheduled for that brain scan and I’ve been told the police have some questions for you—”

“They asked me to let them know as soon as he’s lucid,” the nurse said.

Chambers’s gaze shifted to the nurse. “The police—for what?”

“Anytime a person comes into the ER with a gunshot wound, we’re required to notify them.”

“Can’t it wait, I’m still feeling real tired.” He gave them a slow, gaping yawn and looked at the doctor with glassy eyes. “I don’t think I’m up to answering a bunch of questions just yet. Besides, I can’t remember anything.”

Farber turned to the nurse. “Would you tell them he’s still out and it may be a little while?”

The nurse frowned. “Yes, Doctor.” She disappeared out the door.

“Doc, this memory thing is temporary, right?”

“I’d prefer to look at it optimistically. But to be honest with you, until I get that consult from the neurologist, I can’t say how permanent, or temporary, it’s going to be. Diagnosing it properly is the key. There are a number of possibilities—postconcussion syndrome, retrograde or posttraumatic amnesia, and a host of psychological or organic causes. We’ve drawn blood and we’ll run a tox screen to make sure you haven’t ingested any kind of drug that’d explain your memory problems. The MRI will help. And depending on what that shows, we may also get an EEG to rule out epileptic disorders. Until we know when and where that bullet came from, it’s possible the bullet and the accident are completely unrelated. In which case, a seizure could explain why you drove off the road.”

Chambers let his head fall back onto the pillow.

Farber gently patted Chambers’s shoulder. “Radiology should be down for you shortly. You can rest here in the recovery room. When the X-ray techs come and wheel you out, the police may see you, so you may not have any choice but to speak to them at that point.”

Farber scribbled his signature on the metal chart and hooked it to the end of the bed. “I’ll tell them they have to wait until after you get the brain scan, but my experience with the police is that they seldom listen to what I have to say.”

“Thanks for your help, Doc. I’ll remember you in my will.”

“Then for my sake, I hope that concussion isn’t too bad.” Farber turned and headed for the hallway.

“Hey, Doc,” Chambers called after him. “You forgot to ask me something. Magenta.”

Farber smiled, then walked out of the room.

As soon as the door closed, Chambers eased himself off the bed, the pain from his left thigh finally masked somewhat by the medication. He felt a slight pulling sensation and reasoned it was stitches. As he stood upright, he felt dizzy and his head began throbbing more intensely, like a jackhammer on cement. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and waited for a few seconds for his eyes to clear before hobbling across the floor and through a pair of double doors that led to a supply room. There were trauma capes, surgical gloves, stethoscopes, sphygmomanometers, and an assortment of cath kits, electrode pads for ECG units, trach tubes... and surgical scrubs. He pulled out a pair of freshly folded burgundy pants, a shirt, and a surgical cap. He quickly slipped them on, tossing his hospital gown into a basket in the corner of the room.

A bullet?
he thought.
That can’t be good.

Until Chambers could determine if he was a felon wanted by the police or an innocent bystander, he could not put his trust in law enforcement. But one thing he felt he
could
trust was his instincts. And right now, they were telling him to put as much distance between himself and the cops as possible. Self-preservation was a powerful emotion.

He took a stethoscope off a hook on the wall and wrapped it around his neck the way Farber had worn his. A few footsteps later, he was at the door and peering out. Two police officers were coming down the hallway, pointing at the adjacent room where he had been lying a few moments ago. He waited until the cops were nearly at the entrance to the recovery room, then pushed through the door.

Chambers walked out of the supply room, heading down the corridor, trying to carry himself as naturally as the leg wound would permit. He wondered how long it would take the police to realize that he was the person they were looking for. They would probably grab a nurse or doctor and ask what had happened to the patient known as John Doe. Then, they’d flash on the doctor they had seen leaving the adjacent supply room, who was sporting a slight limp; they would do a quick search of the cabinets and find the bloodied gown. Then they’d be heading in his direction. All told, he probably had three minutes, unless something unexpected occurred.