Jeff Abbott - Panic

A picture of Mitchell appeared next to Evan’s on the split screen. His father, missing.

‘Why has the FBI taken over the investigation?’ the anchor asked.

‘We have resources not available to the Austin police,’ Sanchez said. ‘They asked for our assistance.’

‘Any idea of a motive as to the murder?’

‘None at this time.’

‘We have also police sketches of the man who allegedly assaulted the two Austin officers and took Evan Casher,’ the newscaster said, and the display shifted from Evan and Mitchell Casher to a penciled drawing of Gabriel.

‘Any leads on this man?’ the anchor asked.

‘No, none yet.’

‘But the Austin police found the car he used to kidnap Evan Casher, correct? A report leaked from the Austin police that the blue Ford sedan matching the description of the kidnapper’s car was found in a nearby parking lot where another car had been stolen. Evan Casher’s fingerprints are reportedly on the radio in the kidnapper’s car. If he’s selecting music, he hasn’t been kidnapped, has he?’ Now the anchor was trying to rewrite the news, spice it with innuendo.

Sanchez shook his head and looked dour. ‘We cannot comment on leaks. Of course, if anyone has details on this case, we’d like for them to contact the FBI.’ The license plate of the stolen car and an FBI phone number popped up on the feed below the photo of Evan.

‘In case Evan Casher has been kidnapped, what would you say to the kidnappers?’ the newscaster asked.

‘Well, as we would in any situation, we’d ask the kidnappers to release Mr. Casher unharmed and to contact us with any demands, or if Mr. Casher is able to contact us directly, all we want to do is to help him.’

‘Thank you, FBI special agent Roberto Sanchez,’ the newscaster said. ‘Our correspondent, Amelia Crosby, spoke with the former drug dealer who was the focus of Evan Casher’s Oscar-nominated film.’

The camera shifted to a young black man, around thirty, looking uncomfortable in a suit and tie. The subtitle read JAMES ‘SHADEY’ SHORES.

‘Mr. Shores, you’ve known Evan Casher ever since he did a film about how you were unjustly accused and railroaded by a corrupt narcotics investigator. What do you think could be behind Evan Casher’s bizarre disappearance?’

‘Oh, shit,’ Evan said.

‘Listen, first of all, that other guy – your anchor, with that freeze-dried hair – suggesting that Evan Casher could be involved in his mama’s death, that is straight-out bleeeeeep.’ The censor swooped in for the last word.

‘What motive could anyone have to hurt Mr. Casher or his family?’ the reporter’s voice asked. ‘He upset a lot of people in Houston law enforcement with his documentary about you.’

‘No, he pointed out one real bad apple, but it’s not like he indicted the whole criminal system or nothing.’

‘Do you have any theories on what might have led to his disappearance?’

‘Well, I would think whoever killed his mama didn’t want him talking about what he saw. My worry is that the Austin police done let Evan down, letting him get kidnapped. I think they ought to be looking hard at those officers, and how they let a bleeeeep take Evan, because a lot of police don’t like to have dirty laundry aired, even when it ain’t their department, and…’

The reporter started trying to talk over Shadey, to no avail.

‘… that’s all I’m saying is, the police got to show they’re serious about finding Evan.’

‘Evan Casher saved your life, didn’t he, Mr. Shores?’

‘Look, Evan succeeds because he can be the biggest pain in the bleeep in the room. Evan Casher got a lot of fame and money out of my misfortune. He didn’t share none of them movie proceeds with me. He made promises to me, I was gonna be famous, I could get a music career out of this movie, and that’s all bleeep. I’m still working as a security guard.’ Shadey shook his head at the injustice of it all.

‘You goddamned ingrate,’ Evan said. Using his family’s tragedy as a platform for his complaining.

‘He’s making a new movie about professional poker, and he was supposed to introduce me to people who could help me get into that line of work, and he never did, so I’m thinking he got involved with illegal poker money, he done got himself in trouble.’

Shadey started to air his next grudge and the reporter briskly thanked him and shifted to the New York studio to introduce Kathleen Torrance, as another prominent young documentary film-maker. She was also Evan’s ex-girlfriend from his student days at Rice, but the reporter didn’t note that particular relationship, simply saying ‘a colleague in film.’ Their affair had cooled when she’d moved to New York, ended when she’d acquired another film-maker as a boyfriend. He had not talked to her in six months, after exchanging friendly but awkward hellos at a Los Angeles film festival.

‘Ms. Torrance, you know Evan Casher well,’ the reporter began.

‘Yes.’ Kathleen nodded. ‘Very well. He’s one of the top ten young documentary film-makers in America.’

‘What do you think has happened?’

‘Well, I have no idea. I don’t think this could be related to Evan’s work, as your previous guest suggested, because despite what people think, documentary film-makers aren’t really investigative journalists. Evan’s films have focused on individuals in extraordinary circumstances – not on political or hot-button issues.’ Prompted by the reporter’s questions, Kathleen gave brief descriptions of Evan’s films and works. ‘I just hope that if whoever has taken Evan can hear me, they will let him go. He’s a great guy, I can’t imagine him being involved with anything that is illicit or harmful to anyone.’

The reporter thanked Kathleen and went back to the anchor, and the coverage shifted to a murder-suicide at a New Hampshire truck stop.

Evan stared at the screen. His life was being dissected on national television. His father was missing. The FBI wanted to talk to him. He hurried to the phone, picked it up, started to dial.

Then put it back down on the cradle.

Gabriel was a CIA operative, and he had put two cops in the hospital and kidnapped Evan. If he was working on the CIA’s orders, and Evan went to the police… what happened next? The CIA wasn’t supposed to beat up cops or chain citizens to beds. So whatever had befallen his family wasn’t a story that the CIA wanted in the public eye.

He needed to know more. He had a sudden terror of making a wrong move, stepping out of one prison into a far worse one.

Quickly, he checked the rest of the house. A dining room and living room. A media room with a massive TV. A laundry area. Back upstairs were four more bedrooms, one occupied by another suitcase with a few clothes unpacked. No sign anyone other than Gabriel was here.

He went back downstairs. He found a garage that held a motorcycle, a gleaming Ducati. Next to it was an old Suburban. No sign of the stolen Malibu.

Evan found the keys for the Suburban, dangling from a key holder in the kitchen. He pocketed them.

On the kitchen table was his duffel bag he’d brought from Houston. He remembered Gabriel had taken it from his house after he ran. His gear was all there. His digital music player, his camcorder, his books and notes. His clothes, which looked as if they had been searched and refolded.

He zipped up the duffel bag, carried it as he ran back up the stairs.

Gabriel was awake, one eye swelling with a purple blossom of bruise, his jaw red and scraped.

‘Are you working alone?’ Evan said.

Gabriel let five seconds pass. ‘Yes. And I’m prepared to have an honest discussion with you now about our situation.’

‘You’re all for straight shooting when you’re the one chained up, you son of a bitch. You don’t have any credibility left.’ Evan waggled the ID in front of Gabriel. ‘You said you owned a security firm. This says you’re CIA. Which is it?’