Lauren nodded. “I know. My daddy used to tell me that. Actually, tell isn’t the right word. Ordered, or commanded, might be more accurate.”
“Sounds like he taught you right.” Bradley finished tying his left shoe, then arose. “Well, I’d better get to my office, start making some calls. Get the wheels in motion.” He regarded her haggard appearance for a second and hesitated. “Will you be okay by yourself? You can come with me to my office—”
“It’s broad daylight, I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“You’ve got my number. Call me if anything doesn’t seem right to you. Anything, okay?”
She smiled. “Okay.”
“I’ll be back in the evening, say around six.”
“Thanks. For everything.”
Bradley headed toward the back door. “If I find out anything about Michael, I’ll call you. Otherwise, stay alert and be aware of your surroundings.”
After she heard the door close, the quiet of the house made her feel uneasy. She held the Colt in her hand and felt the weight of the weapon. Aiming it at the door, she lined up the sight with the knob.
“Shoot to kill,” she said.
Lauren spent the morning and early afternoon at the Neighborhood Watch Center, a makeshift room that had once been a sheriff’s department storage closet that Carla Mae had commandeered two years ago. It provided a base of operations for the organization, complete with its own phone line and answering machine, small roll top desk and chair.
Because of its cramped quarters, Lauren sat just outside the room. Throughout the day, she fielded calls providing leads and reported sightings of Michael that led nowhere. Finally, with her frustration building, she left the sheriff’s department and drove forty-five minutes to Sacramento. Though the ride was difficult for her, she divided the trip into manageable units with brief rest stops at a couple of freeway-accessible gas stations. With Elton John blaring from the speakers, she managed to maintain control over her anxieties.
Her first stop was the Cordova Shooting Center, where she polished her rusty skills. Lauren did well by all measures, except her own, which was nothing short of perfection. The target was ripped to shreds directly over the spot representing the heart, where her father had taught her to aim. But a number of other shots had missed their mark. If she had fifteen rounds and an ample amount of time to shoot at a still target, her assailant would be dead many times over. But if he was in motion, and she only had the six bullets she expected to have in her revolver, she could not be assured of disabling her enemy. And that bothered her.
But it didn’t bother her as much as having to rely on the weapon for her safety. She wished she could toss it in the river, put that part of her life behind her. But like a bad dream, it would not release its grip. The memories were too strong. She remembered the days when her father had taken her to the open field on the land they had owned in Wyoming. She was much too young to be handling a loaded pistol, but after the experience with the intruder, her father wanted to make sure she was prepared to defend herself. In an eerie way, he seemed to know that he was not going to be around in the coming years to look after her.
She recalled one day in particular when she was having difficulty hitting the beer can target. “When it counts,” he had told her, “you’ll get the job done, sweet thing. You’ll be in control, you’ll know how to handle the weapon. All you’ve got to do is keep calm. And shoot to kill… because your enemy won’t be showing you no mercy, that much I guarantee you. Trust your daddy on that.”
Lauren realized she was sitting in her car, staring ahead at nothing in particular. The memory of her father’s voice was soothing, almost cathartic for her. She started the engine and headed back to the freeway. Fifteen minutes down the road, she arrived at the California Department of Justice building, a sprawling, modern facility that housed a horde of agencies with more than two thousand employees. She parked in the visitors’ lot in the back and pulled her raincoat tight across her body as the brisk winter wind blew hard against her face.
A moment later, the guard in the large bulletproof security booth was regarding her driver’s license. “You say you’ve got a three o’clock with someone in Missing Persons?”
Lauren nodded. “Ilene Mara.”
The guard lifted a phone and spoke into the receiver in a muffled tone that Lauren could barely hear. He hung up and handed her a card to fill out.
“Give this back to me when you’re done,” he said. “I’ll have someone escort you to Missing Persons.”
Lauren slid the completed form back through an opening in the thick glass and waited as the man read it over, filed it in a slot, and handed her a red visitor’s pass. She glanced up at the black-and-white video monitors that lined the wall behind the guard. They displayed views of the vast parking lot as well as various landmarks in the building.
Just then, a buzzer sounded and the metal door to the left of the security station snapped open with an electronic click. “Mrs. Chambers, I’ll take you back to see Ms. Mara now.” A young man in his late twenties with a prominently displayed identification placard clipped to his shirt was standing in the doorway.
With her escort, Lauren walked the halls of the building, noticing the photos and artifacts that were displayed in glass enclosures depicting important triumphs in law enforcement.
They took the stairs up to the third floor and entered the Missing/Unidentified Persons Department, where the escort introduced Lauren to a lady standing nearby.
“You’re here for Ilene?” the woman asked.
Lauren nodded. “I’m a little early.”
“Have a seat, I’ll let her know you’re here.”
Lauren’s gaze immediately took in the harried activity of the large room. Telephones rang, intercoms buzzed, voices murmured. She dabbed at her clammy forehead, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Shutting out her surroundings, she gathered herself and then opened her eyes. Mazes of cubicles filled the entire suite, the kind that can be rearranged easily and quickly depending on need. Judging by the intense wear marks in the carpet lining the aisles, however, the cubicles had not been moved since the building had been built.
On the far wall was a huge white board — at least twenty feet across — filled with names, physical descriptions, and places and times the missing persons were last seen. Although she could not make out much from this distance, she hoped Michael’s information was on the list.
“Hi, I’m Ilene Mara.”
Lauren turned and faced the short, gaunt woman, who was smiling. Shaking hands, Lauren was surprised by the woman’s firm grip. “Lauren Chambers. I really appreciate your meeting me on such short notice.”
“Oh,” Ilene said with a wave of a hand, “short notice is the credo around here. Time isn’t just money, it’s lives.”
Lauren felt a little uncomfortable with that comment, as it sounded like a sales pitch used on a promotional brochure.
A few seconds later they had made their way to Ilene’s cubicle. On the material-covered, five-foot high walls were photos of different sizes and quality, some studio-produced and some family snapshots. Photos of people. Children, women, men. Smiling photos of individuals Lauren knew were missing. Many of whom were probably dead.
“Well, Mrs. Chambers—”
“Please, call me Lauren.”
“All right, Lauren. I have your husband’s file right here. Deputy Vork forwarded it to us yesterday.” Ilene moved the file over so that Lauren could see it. Lauren scanned the report, which contained the information she had provided on the questionnaire, as well as the notes Vork had made following their meeting.