The Hunted Read Online Free PDF Page A

doorbell interrupted her thoughts and sent Tucker barking and running toward the front door. Lauren peered out the peephole and saw a tow truck driver standing on the porch, her car hitched to the man’s vehicle behind him.
    “It’s okay, boy,” she told the dog. She grasped Tucker’s collar and held him by her side as she pulled open the door. The driver introduced himself and explained that he needed the key to access the spare.
    “If you don’t mind, can you tow it into my carport around back?”
    “No problemo,” he said.
    Lauren handed him the key, then hurried into the bathroom, showered, and dressed. She wanted to get to the sheriff’s office by nine-thirty, as it was a full forty-eight hours since Michael had been due home, and she could now file a missing person’s report.
    After towel-drying her hair, she looked out and saw her Honda in the carport. She handed the man a $5 tip and headed out the door.
    Her father had always said that the morning sun brought new hope, new opportunities. But there was no sun to be had... only low-hanging gray skies. As she drove to the sheriff’s department, Lauren could see black clouds hovering over the Sierra, no doubt dumping inches of new snow on its peaks.
    The El Dorado County Sheriff’s Department had the distinction of being the oldest such law enforcement organization in California. Although it had already wrapped up its well-publicized sesquicentennial celebration, its anniversary had only served to underscore that its current home was vastly in need of renovation. Located in rural, picturesque Placerville, the single-story, mustard-colored building looked every bit as outdated as its thirty-two years indicated. Its only redeeming feature was that it was set up high on a hill overlooking U.S. 50, a four-lane highway carved through a mountainside thick with a blend of aging pines and redwood seedlings.
    Lauren pushed through the double doors and immediately saw the receptionist, who was seated behind a bulletproof enclosure to the right of the entryway. The woman was engrossed in shuffling some papers and seemed to ignore Lauren’s presence. Finally, without looking up, the receptionist spoke into the microphone that snaked up from the countertop in front of her. Her voice was tinny and muffled.
    “Yes, can I help you?”
    Lauren stepped closer to the glass but did not see a microphone. “I’m here because I, I can’t find my husband. I mean, it’s not like I can’t find him, it’s that he was supposed to be home a couple of days ago and he’s not, and I was told I could file a missing person’s report today,” she said, running fingers through her shoulder-length, honey-brown hair.
    The woman did not initially respond. Lauren wondered if she had heard her; maybe she needed to press a button to activate a speaker. As she glanced around the ledge in front of her, the woman finally looked up, swiveled on her stool, and walked out of the small reception booth into an anteroom that fed the administrative offices.
    Lauren stood there, wondering if she should sit down or wait at the window. She took a few breaths to calm herself. With everything that had happened to her the past forty-eight hours, her stomach was rumbling and her eyes were roaming the hallways scouting out the nearest restroom.
    Just then, a heavy metal door next to the reception booth opened with an electronic click. A large, smiling woman in her late fifties, her dark hair pulled back into a bun, stepped into the hallway. “I’m Carla Mae. I’m a volunteer here, helping out the community service officer. You say your husband might be the victim of foul play?”
    “No, I said he’s missing.”
    “Oh.” The woman threw an annoyed glance at the receptionist. “C’mon with me.” She took Lauren by the crook of her arm and started off down the corridor. “Sorry for the misunderstanding. Miss Dawson...sometimes she and I don’t communicate well.”
    She led Lauren down a narrow