Panic

by Jeff Abbott

  The archived story offered no picture of the Smithson family. No further links to indicate that there was a follow-up story on them.

  Another family, dead like the Merteuils in Belgium, the Petersens in South Africa, and the Rendons in New Zealand. But not dead. Vanished. Unless this Washington Smithson was now the Smithson selling insurance in South Dakota or the Smithson teaching Shakespeare in Pomona.

  What had Gabriel said during their wild car ride out of Houston? I’ll tell you who I am. Then I’ll tell you who you are. Evan thought he was crazy. Maybe he wasn’t.

  He stared at the name of the vanished child. Robert Smithson. It meant nothing to him.

  He jumped to a phone-directory Web site and entered the name Bernita Briggs, searching in Virginia, Maryland, and D.C. It spat back a phone number in Alexandria. Did he risk the call on the hot cell phone? Bricklayer would know, no doubt accessing the call log. No. Better to wait. It might put her in danger if Bricklayer knew he was calling her.

  He wrote down Bernita Briggs’s phone number. He left, conscious of the barista’s eyes on him. Wondering if this was paranoia, settling into his skin and bones, taking up permanent residence in his mind, changing who he was forever.

  21

  T he house stood on the edge of the Montrose arts district, on a street of older homes, most tidy with pride, others worn and neglected. Evan drove by Shadey’s stepbrother’s house twice, then parked two streets over and walked, the duffel over his shoulder. The cap and shades made him feel like a bandit waiting outside a bank. A FOR SALE sign stood in the overgrown yard, a full sleeve of brochures awaiting curious hands. Every drape in the house lay closed, and he imagined the police waiting, or Jargo handing a suitcase full of cash to Shadey, or Bricklayer and government thugs smiling at him behind the lace. He remembered interviewing Shadey’s stepbrother, Lawan, here for Ounce of Trouble; Lawan was a smart, kind guy, quiet where Shadey was loud, ten years older. Lawan managed a bakery and his house always smelled of cinnamon and bread.

  Evan waited at the street corner, four houses down.

  Shadey was ten minutes late. He came alone, walked up to the front door, not looking at Evan. Evan followed a minute later, opening the front door, not waiting to knock. The inside of the house smelled now of dust instead of spices and flour. No one was living here.

  ‘Where’s Lawan?’ Evan asked.

  Shadey stood at the window, peering out to see if anyone had followed Evan. ‘Dead. Two months ago. The AIDS caught up with him.’

  ‘I’m really sorry. I wish you had called me.’

  Shadey shrugged. ‘When was the last time you called me, just to see how I was?’

  ‘I’m still sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to be. Back to biz, son.’

  Evan waited.

  ‘I scrounged up green for you. But you get caught, you keep my name out of it.’

  ‘Why are you so mad at me?’

  Shadey lit a cigarette. ‘Why you think I’m mad?’

  ‘On CNN. You acted like I’d ripped you off. I didn’t make a lot of money on the movie, Shadey. I’m not Spielberg. I didn’t promise you a career in entertainment, I couldn’t make that promise.’

  ‘Being in your movie, you gave me a taste of a better life, Evan, better than what I had here. Better than what I could have gotten when I dealt.’ He watched Evan through the smoke. ‘You know, once Ounce came out, I wanted to make a movie. Tried writing a script. Took classes. Couldn’t stitch two scenes together. No head for it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I would have helped you with your script.’

  ‘Would you? I think you were one busy white boy after Ounce hit big. You get into your work, you don’t pay so much attention to people. You’re right, I had my freedom because of Ounce. But you had your career because I said yes to letting you film my story. That’s a debt you can’t repay, either.’

  ‘Shadey. I’m sorry. I had no idea. I do owe you. Thank you. I’m sorry if I never said it before.’

  Shadey offered his hand; Evan shook it. ‘The whole damn world boils down to you owing another fool something. So it don’t matter. Because now we’re even. If I was mad – well, you limited my career options.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Shadey leaned forward in the quiet of the house. ‘I was still dealing dope on occasion, Evan. Yeah, that fucker Henderson framed me, he planted the coke in my car. But I had kilos of coke riding in the trunk not three days before. A shitload more of it.’

  Evan stared.

  ‘You really thought I was innocent, pure as the driven snow.’ Shadey shook his head. ‘Evan, I was driving the snow.’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘But you do your movie, I can’t deal no more. My face is too well known, and I’m Mr. Innocent Wronged by the Police. You get me interested in movies, but I don’t got a goddamned clue how to make ’em. So I’m a security guard. That’s about all you left me. Certain times freedom is just painting yourself into a new corner you can’t get out of.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Shadey.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it no more.’ Shadey handed Evan the case. Evan sat it on the floor and opened it. Cash, a few hundred, all in worn tens and twenties.

  ‘Count it, it’s about a thousand. All I can spare.’

  ‘I don’t need to count it. Thank you.’

  ‘Lawan had a laptop computer; you can have it.’

  ‘Thank you, Shadey. Thanks a lot.’ Evan blew out a sigh to hide the quaver in his voice. ‘I knew I could trust you. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

  ‘Evan. Listen to yourself. You think I never saw the pity in your face, that I never heard that tone of voice that let me know you were doing me a life-changing favor? You ain’t as smart as you want to be, Evan. Now you’re the one brought low. Now you’re the one needing the handout. Now you’re the one that looks like dog shit to scrape off the bottom of a shoe.’

  ‘I never pitied you.’

  ‘You didn’t believe I could stand on my own two feet to get out of jail.’

  ‘You couldn’t.’

  ‘The way the wheel of fortune spun, you landed on my doorstep, you helped me. But I want you to wake up and see the world how it is, because you don’t know what it is to be in trouble, real trouble. I trusted you because I didn’t have a choice. You trusted me when you do have a choice, Evan. You got other friends you could’ve run to, smarter than me. Don’t trust unless you must. That’s my motto.’ Shadey reached out, squeezed Evan’s shoulder. ‘I thought about what that Galadriel Jones said to me. If you came around, she said call this number, and I’d have fifty thousand bucks in cash, tax-free.’

  ‘But you haven’t called.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘No. Because you’re all about respect, and she’s trying to bribe you. Trick you.’

  ‘I pretended to listen to her. Sure I was tempted. That’s over two years’ salary taking shit from the snot-asses at Tuscan Pines. But you know, fuck her. I might lie and I might steal once upon a time, but I ain’t gonna be bought.’

  ‘I’m glad, Shadey. Thank you.’

  ‘Welcome.’

  ‘I need to borrow a phone. And I need to use your brother’s computer. Are we safe here for a while?’

  ‘Yeah. Less the realtor shows up to show the house.’ Shadey shrugged. ‘Doesn’t seem likely.’

  Evan sweated through four rings.

  ‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice, worn from a lifetime of use.

  ‘Hello, may I speak to Mrs. Briggs?’

  ‘Whatever you’re selling, I sure as hell don’t want none.’

  ‘I’m not a salesman, ma’am. Please don’t hang up – you’re the only person who can help me.’

  This appeal to elderly ego could not be resisted. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘My name is David Rendon.’ He decided at the last moment not to use his real name; old people were often news junkies, and he tossed out one of the false passport identities. ‘I’m a reporter for the Post. ’r />
  She didn’t give a reaction to this, so Evan plunged ahead: ‘I’m calling to see if you remember the Smithson family.’

  Silence for ten long seconds. ‘Who did you say you were?’

  ‘A reporter for the Post, ma’am. I was doing a search through the archives and saw a story about your neighbors having vanished over twenty years ago. I couldn’t find a follow-up and I was interested to know what happened to them, to you.’

  ‘Will you put my picture in the paper?’

  ‘I bet I can arrange a picture.’

  ‘Well’ – Mrs. Briggs lowered her voice to a practiced conspiratorial whisper – ‘no, the Smithsons never showed up again. I mean, that house was a dream, perfect for a new family, and they just up and walk away. Unbelievable. I’d gotten attached to that baby of theirs, and Julie, too. Arthur was a jerk. Didn’t like to talk.’ Reticence was clearly a crime to Mrs. Briggs.

  ‘But what happened to their house?’

  ‘Well, they defaulted on the mortgage, and the bank finally resold it through a local realtor.’

  He wasn’t sure what to ask next. ‘Were they a happy family?’

  ‘Julie was so alone, you could see it in her face, in the way she talked. Scared girl like the world had gone up and left her behind. She told me she was pregnant and I remember wondering, “Why is there dread in this sweet girl’s face?” Happiest news you could get and she looked like the whole world crashed down on her.’

  ‘Did she ever tell you why?’

  ‘I considered that she wasn’t happy in her marriage to that cold fish. Child might have anchored her down.’

  ‘Did Mrs. Smithson ever suggest that she might want to run away, go live under a new name?’

  ‘Good Lord. No.’ Mrs. Briggs paused. ‘Is that what happened?’

  He swallowed. ‘Did you ever hear them mention the name Casher?’

  ‘Not that I recall.’

  He had spent his childhood in New Orleans while his father completed a master’s in computer science at Tulane. When Evan was seven, they moved to Austin. He thought he had been born in New Orleans. ‘Did they ever mention New Orleans to you?’

  ‘No. What have you found out about them?’

  ‘I’ve found pieces that don’t quite fit together.’ He blew out a sigh. ‘You wouldn’t happen to be a pack rat, would you, Mrs. Briggs?’

  She gave a soft, warm laugh. ‘The polite term is collector.’

  ‘Did you keep a photo of the Smithsons? Since you and Julie Smithson were so close?’

  Silence again. ‘You know, I did, but I gave it to the police.’

  ‘Did you ever get it back?’

  ‘No. They kept it, didn’t return it to me. I suppose it might still be in the case file. Assuming there is one.’

  ‘You didn’t keep another photo?’

  ‘I think I had a photo of them at Christmas that I kept, but I don’t know where it would be. They didn’t travel at Christmas. No family but each other. They met at an orphanage, you know.’

  ‘An orphanage?’

  ‘Positively Dickensian. Oliver Twist marrying Little Nell. I couldn’t get to my sister’s for Christmas one year because of a snowstorm, so I spent Christmas Eve with the Smithsons. Arthur drank. He didn’t want me around. It embarrassed Julie, I could see, but we still had a nice time once Arthur passed out.’ She shook her head. ‘I just don’t understand the pressure people inflict on themselves. It ages them. Me, I never worry.’

  An indecisive mother, a drunken father. It didn’t sound like his parents. ‘Mrs. Briggs, if you have another photo of the Smithsons, I would be very obliged if I could get it from you.’

  ‘And I would be if you would tell me who you really are. I don’t think you’re a reporter, Mr. Rendon.’

  Evan decided to play it straight. Trust her, because he needed the information. ‘I’m not. My name is Evan Casher. I’m sorry for the deception.’

  ‘Who are you, then?’

  This was a huge risk. He could be wrong. But if he didn’t chance it, he was hitting a dead end. ‘I think I’m Robert Smithson.’

  ‘Oh, my God. Is this a joke?’

  ‘It’s not the name I grew up with, but I found a connection to my parents and the Smithsons.’ He paused. ‘Do you have Web access?’

  ‘I’m old, not old-fashioned.’

  ‘Go to cnn. com, please. Do a search on Evan Casher. I want you to tell me if you recognize any of the pictures.’

  ‘Hold on.’ He heard her set down the phone, heard a computer rouse from sleep. She clicked and typed. ‘I’m at CNN. C-A-S-H-E-R?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  He heard her clacking on a keyboard. Silence.

  ‘Look for a story about a homicide in Austin, Texas,’ he said.

  ‘I see it,’ Mrs. Briggs whispered. ‘Oh, dear.’

  The last time he’d checked out the Web site, the update included a picture of his mother and of himself on the site. ‘Does Donna Casher look like Julie Smithson?’

  ‘Her hair is different. It’s been so many years… but, yes, I think that is Julie. Oh, my God, she’s dead.’ She sounded as grieved as she would if Julie were still her neighbor.

  ‘Oh, God.’ He steadied his voice. ‘Mrs. Briggs. I believe my parents were the Smithsons and they got into serious trouble all those years ago and had to take on new identities. Hide from their past.’

  ‘Is this you? The picture next to her?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘You look like your mother. You’re the spitting image of Julie.’

  He let out a long sigh. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Briggs.’

  ‘This says you were kidnapped.’

  ‘I was. I’m okay. But I don’t want anyone to know where I am right now.’

  ‘I should call the police. Shouldn’t I?’ Her voice rose.

  ‘Please don’t call the police. I have no right to ask it of you, and you should do what you think is right… but I don’t want anyone to know where I am. Or that I know what my family’s names used to be. Whoever killed my mom might kill me.’

  ‘Robert.’ She sounded as if her heart were breaking. ‘This better not be a joke.’

  ‘No, ma’am. It’s not. But if Robert was my name, I’ve never known it.’

  ‘They both loved you very much,’ she said. Choking back tears.

  Evan’s face went hot. ‘You said they met at an orphanage. Where?’

  ‘Ohio. Oh, dear, I don’t remember the town’s name.’

  ‘Ohio. Okay.’

  ‘Goinsville,’ she said with sudden assurance. ‘That’s the town. She joked about it, never going back to Goinsville. It was so sad that they were both orphans, I remember thinking that at Christmas. And that they were so happy to have you. Julie said she never wanted you to endure what they did.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs. Briggs. Thank you.’

  Now she cried softly. ‘Poor Julie.’

  ‘You’ve been a tremendous help to me, Mrs. Briggs.’ A terrible reluctance to hang up, to break this fragile link to his past, shook Evan. ‘Good-bye.’

  ‘Good-bye.’

  He hung up. She might have caller ID. She might have seen the number and be calling the police right now. They might not believe her, but it would be a lead, and it would be followed.

  Goinsville, Ohio. A place to begin.

  Smithson. Why would Gabriel prepare a passport with his father’s old identity? Possibly that information – of who the Cashers once were – was part of the payment. Possibly it was Gabriel’s idea of a joke.

  He found Shadey’s stepbrother’s laptop, stored on a closet shelf. It was a nice new system. He hooked up his digital music player to the computer, made sure it had all the same music software as his original laptop, and transferred the songs his mother had e-mailed him Friday morning.

  He searched for newly created files. None, other than the songs themselves. He went through every folder, opened every file, to see if an unseen program dumped new data.

  No
thing. He didn’t have the files. His mother had used another method to get Jargo’s treasured data on his system, or the program simply didn’t execute more than once. Maybe the data was erased or ignored if the encrypted songs were copied again.

  He had nothing to fight Jargo with now.

  Except Bricklayer.

  Shadey was watching TV downstairs. ‘May I have that number that Galadriel lady gave you?’

  ‘Tell her I said hi,’ Shadey said. ‘Not.’

  Evan went back upstairs. Shadey followed him. Evan dialed.

  Four rings. ‘Yes?’ A nice-sounding lady, Southern accent. Calm.

  ‘Is this Galadriel?’

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘I’m actually more interested in talking to Mr. Jargo, please.’

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  He wasn’t going to give her enough time to trace the call. ‘I’ll call back in one minute. Get Jargo on the line.’ He hung up. Dialed back in two minutes.

  ‘Hello.’ Now a man’s voice. Older. Cultured.

  ‘This is Evan Casher, Mr. Jargo.’

  ‘Evan. We have much to discuss. Your father is asking for you. He and I are old friends. I’ve been taking care of him.’

  Jargo had his dad. Evan sank to the floor. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Your mother is dead. Don’t you think such a tragedy would make your father surface and run home to you, if he could?’

  ‘You killed my mother, you son of a bitch.’ Now he’d found his voice again.

  ‘I never harmed your mother. That was the work of the CIA.’

  ‘That makes no sense.’

  ‘I’m afraid it does. Your mother worked for the CIA on an infrequent basis. She came across information that would irrevocably damage the Agency. America’s enemies already believe our intelligence operations are on the ropes; these files would be the CIA’s death knell. The CIA will kill you to keep those files secret.’

  ‘I don’t care about these goddamned files. You and your son killed my mother.’