Jeff Abbott - Panic

Evan broke the lock on the fifth try. Small, paper-wrapped packages spilled out, and Evan hurried back to the office in case the grumpy clerk made good on his threat. The clerk didn’t look over from his TV basketball game as Evan slid the tool back across the counter.

The low groans of a couple sounded through the thin walls when he went back into the room. He didn’t want to hear them and he cranked on the TV. Evan opened the first package. Inside were passports from New Zealand, held together with a rubber band. He opened the top one: his own face stared back at him. He was David Edward Rendon, his birthplace listed as Auckland. The paper looked and felt appropriately high-grade government authentic; an exit stamp indicated he’d left New Zealand a scant three weeks ago.

He picked up another New Zealand passport from the spill of papers. His mother’s picture inside, a false name of Margaret Beatrice Rendon, the paper worn as if it had flown a lot of miles. A South African passport in the name of Janine Petersen. Same last name as his African identity. A Belgian passport for his mother as well, her name now Solange Merteuil. He picked up another Belgian document. His picture again, but with the name of Jean-Marc Merteuil. He opened the second package: three passports for Gabriel, false names from Namibia, Belgium, Costa Rica.

The next package held four bound passports at the bottom of the pile, looped together by a rubber band. He flipped them over, freed them from the band. South Africa. New Zealand. Belgium. United States. Opened them. And inside each, his father’s face stared up at him. Four different names: Petersen, Rendon, Merteuil, Smithson.

Odd. Three for him, three for his mother, but four for his dad. Why?

In the final package were credit cards and other identity documentation, tied to his family’s new names. But he was afraid to use the cards. What if Jargo could find him if he charged gas or plane fare or a meal? He needed cash, but he knew if he made an ATM withdrawal from his accounts, the transaction would register in the bank’s database, the security tape would capture his image, and the police would know he was back in Houston. So what if they know you’re in Houston? You’re leaving for Florida. But he was still reluctant to go to a bank.

He tucked the passports back into the bag.

The awful question wormed in past his fatigue: Was Jargo waiting for you at Mom’s? If Jargo wasn’t expecting Evan, then they were after his mother and Evan had simply arrived at the wrong time. But if they were… how had they known he was coming? He had talked directly to no one but his mother. He could phone in an anonymous tip to the police, suggest they look for bugs on her phone. Or on his. He had called Carrie, left her a voice mail. They could have intercepted that message.

You’re ignoring that Carrie quit her job that morning. She vanished without telling you. Did she know about this?

The thought dried his throat. Don’t love me, she had said. But that couldn’t mean regret. That couldn’t mean she was preparing to betray him. He knew her, he knew her heart. He could not believe Carrie would have any voluntary involvement in this horror. It had to be a phone tap. Which was an entirely scary prospect of its own. Gabriel had called Jargo a freelance spy – assume that was true, then Jargo could tap phones. But if it wasn’t, then Jargo was working for a bigger fish. The CIA. The FBI.

He needed money. He had the Beretta he’d fired at Dezz, but he had no ammo left. He needed help.

Shadey. He could call Shadey. The falsely accused man who had been at the heart of his first documentary. Shadey had bitched about Evan plenty on CNN, but he was tough and smart and resourceful.

Evan paced the floor, trying to decide. He suspected if the police were serious about finding him, Shadey might be under surveillance. And Evan was a little afraid of Shadey. He had been wrongly persecuted by a vengeful cop, but he wasn’t a saint. He was a risky choice as an ally. He craved attention, and from his TV interview he acted as if Evan had done him wrong. He might turn Evan over to the police immediately and grab a headline for himself.

But Evan had no one else to ask.

He doused the lights. Played back every moment he had spent with Carrie Lindstrom over the past three months, when she had stepped into his life. When he slept, he did not dream of her, but of the noose tightening around his neck as his mother lay dead below his feet.

A harsh buzzing woke him. Forgetting where he was, he first thought it was his old alarm clock, and that Carrie was in the bed with him, and all was right with the world. But it was the stolen cell phone from the truck. Probably the owner, calling to chew him out for stealing the phone. It was 6:00 A.M. Sunday morning. He picked up the phone; the display screen didn’t reveal a number.

He clicked on the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Evan. Good morning. How are you?’ a voice said. It had a soft Southern drawl.

‘Who is this?’

‘You can call me Bricklayer.’

‘Bricklayer?’

‘My real name’s a secret, son. It’s an unfortunate precaution I have to take.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Well, Evan, I’m from the government, and I’m here to help you.’

‘H ow did you get this number?’ Evan whispered. Outside was still and quiet, except for the infrequent hum of traffic; the lovers next door slept or, more likely, had concluded their business and crept back into the empty night.

‘We have our ways,’ Bricklayer said.

‘I’m hanging up unless you tell me how you got this number.’

‘Simple. We recognized Mr. Gabriel from the police description. We know Mr. Gabriel seized you for, well, let’s call it his version of protective custody. We know he was in Bandera because of a credit-card charge he made. We know he has a family member with a house that has been occupied, damaged, and abandoned as of yesterday. We know Mr. Gabriel is missing. We know a truck with a cell phone in it was stolen from Bandera. We arranged with the owner and the cell phone company to keep the phone activated. So we could talk to you, if you or Mr. Gabriel was in possession of the phone. And I see that you are.’

Evan got up and began to pace the room.

‘May I speak to Mr. Gabriel?’ Bricklayer asked.

‘He’s dead.’

‘Oh. That’s unfortunate. How did he die?’

‘A man named Dezz Jargo shot him.’

A long sigh. ‘That’s very regrettable. Are you injured?’

‘No. I’m fine.’

‘Good. Let’s proceed. Evan, I bet you’re scared and tired and wondering what you ought to do next.’

Evan waited.

‘I can help you.’

‘I’m listening.’ He wondered – they had found him because of a stolen phone. Jesus. Could they be tracing the call, turning a satellite miles above to shift its lens onto Texas, onto Houston, onto this seedy nowhere?

‘You and I have a mutual problem. Jargo and Dezz.’

Evan blinked. ‘Dezz is Jargo. Jargo’s his last name.’

‘Clarification, Evan. I say Jargo, I mean a man we know as Steven Jargo. Dezz is his son. Of course, those aren’t their real names. No one knows what their real names are. Probably even they don’t.’

‘His son.’ He’d had it wrong. Dezz and Jargo. So there were two. Son and father. ‘They killed my mother.’

‘Dezz and Jargo will kill you, too, if they get a chance. We don’t want you hurt, Evan. I want you to tell me where you’re at, and I’m gonna send a couple of men to pick you up. Protect you.’

‘No.’

‘Evan, now, why say no? You’re in terrible danger.’

‘Why should I trust you? I don’t even know your real name.’

‘I understand your reticence. Truly. Caution is the hallmark of an intelligent mind. But you need to come in under our wing. We can help you.’