bedroom door, then stopped in the darkened hallway. Be cool, be cool for your mom. His arm and hand ached, his head hurt like hell, and now, the fighting done for a moment, in the darkened house, the fear rushed back into his chest.
A dim light shone from the open area downstairs; Evan was on a second floor of what appeared to be a spacious house. Thick pile carpet covered the hallway; more high-end art on the walls. The air conditioner purred a blanket of noise. From below, he heard the thin whisper of the television, its volume inched low.
He crouched, the gun out in front of him, listening.
He fortified himself with two deep breaths and crept down the stairs. What do you do next? Keep fighting. That’s the choice you made.
But now he had nothing to bargain with, to save his life. Jargo – if he was one of the men at the house – had stolen or destroyed the data. The files – if they had ever existed – were gone.
Evan reached the last stair when he thought, You dumbass, you should have gagged Gabriel. He’ll wake up and shout for help while you’re sneaking up on any buddies downstairs.
But he had gone too far to turn back, knowing in his heart that he wouldn’t hesitate now, he could shoot anyone who tried to stop him, and hoping he could remember to aim at legs. Unless the other guy had a gun, and then he would aim for chest. Chests were big, he could hit a chest. Remember to take a second to aim, squeeze, prepare for the kick. If he had a second. No practice target had ever shot back at him.
Evan entered the den, gun leveled to fire. A widescreen TV stood in the corner next to an ornate stone fireplace. A commercial announced the latest pharmaceutical that you couldn’t live without, as long as you risked at least ten side effects. Then the CNN theme played and the anchor started a story about a bombing in Israel.
He moved along the wall, peered into an elaborate kitchen. Empty. A lunch sat on the counter: a ham sandwich, a glass of ice water, a pile of potato chips, a Snickers bar. Lunch for himself, probably, if he’d cooperated with Gabriel.
He checked the back of the house, stopping at a marble-topped bureau with a smattering of family photos. Gabriel posed with two girls young enough to be his grandkids.
No one around. The only sounds were the air conditioner and CNN beginning a story about a bizarre homicide and kidnapping in Texas.
Evan ran back to the den and saw his face was on the TV. His Texas driver’s license photo, not a bad one and true to how he looked: shaggy blond hair, high cheekbones, hazel eyes, thin mouth, the single small hoop of earring. The crawl under his face read MISSING FILM-MAKER. The news announcer said, ‘Police investigators are still searching for Evan Casher, the Oscar-nominated documentary filmmaker, after his mother was strangled to death in her Austin, Texas, home, and an armed gunman kidnapped Casher from a police cruiser, assaulting two officers.
‘Casher, the director of two acclaimed documentaries, first gained attention with Ounce of Trouble, a biting expose of a corrupt police officer who framed a former drug dealer. Joining me is FBI special agent Roberto Sanchez.’
Roberto Sanchez looked like a politician: perfect haircut, immaculate suit, an expression that said, I am the most competent person on earth. The newscaster went for the bone: ‘Agent Sanchez, is it possible that whoever kidnapped Evan Casher was responsible for Donna Casher’s death? I mean, Mr. Casher was the only witness and then he’s grabbed, right from the police.’
‘We’re not prepared to speculate as to motives, but we are concerned about Mr. Casher’s safety.’
‘Is there any possibility that this wasn’t an abduction, per se, but that Evan Casher was taken from the police because he was a suspect in his mother’s murder?’ the anchor pressed.
‘No, he’s not a suspect. Obviously, he’s a person of interest to us because he found his mother’s body, and we have not had a chance to fully talk with him, but we have no reason to believe that he was involved. We would like to talk to Mr. Casher’s father, Mitchell Casher, but we have not been able to locate him. We believe he was in Australia this week, but I can’t share further details.’
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
