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?’
‘You’re in a shitload of trouble.’
‘You have information on who killed my mother, Mr. Gabriel. I have a gun. Do you see how this equation works out?’
Gabriel shook his head.
Evan leveled the pistol at Gabriel’s stomach. ‘Answer my questions. First, where are we?’
‘You won’t kill me. I know it, you know it.’ He put his gaze to the wall, as though bored.
Evan fired.
10
Galadriel, Jargo’s computer goddess, spent the night trying to track Evan and his kidnapper. She broke into national databases. She wormed her way into the Austin Police Department’s computer system, searching for traces, for reports, for the barest sign of Evan Casher. She moved through a jungle of information as patiently and efficiently as a hunter bringing down prey.
She called at Saturday’s dawn with her first report.
Jargo woke Carrie on the couch and Dezz in the other bedroom. Jargo spoke at length with Galadriel, then put Carrie on the phone while he tended to private business on his phone in his bedroom.
‘Evan hasn’t used his credit cards or accessed his bank account. No one has. Do me a favor, hon. Look at the file I just sent you.’ Galadriel was a former librarian, a heavyset woman who spent her hours away from the computer refining gourmet recipes and watching 1950s movies, when she believed the world had been a kinder place. She had a warm, Southern accent and sounded as if she ought to be a friend’s sweet mother. ‘See if you see what I see.’
Carrie opened the e-mail attachment, and a list of messages appeared, lifted from the Cashers’ e-mail accounts: a private account for Donna, one for Mitchell Casher’s personal e-mails, and another for his work as a computer security consultant.
‘I just tiptoed into their ISP’s database and copied their messages. Since the boys didn’t have time at the Casher house to go through their e-mails,’ Galadriel said.
Carrie scanned through the messages on Mitchell Casher’s account. Mitchell had sent a few e-mails to his son; nothing of great interest. One update on how his golf game was progressing, a mention of a couple of vintage jazz recordings he liked and thought Evan would enjoy along with the songs in digital format, a request that Evan come home soon for a visit. A few Christmas photos done by his mother. No message appeared encoded or encrypted in any way. There were no suspicious attachments.
Donna Casher had a separate e-mail account through the same provider. More messages to and from Evan. The rest of her e-mails were mostly chatty exchanges with fellow freelance photographers. Except for Friday morning.
‘She sent him four digital songs, two photos,’ Galadriel said. ‘But note the size of the photos. They’re larger than they should be.’
‘They had the files hidden in them,’ Carrie said.
‘I suspect one photo contained a decryption program. The other photo contained the files. So when he downloads the photos, the decryption software launches secretly and decodes the files hidden in the second photo. Buries them in a new folder deep on his hard drive, where he wouldn’t look normally. And he never sees or knows that they’re present.’
‘Please tell that to Jargo. That she could have snuck the files to Evan without him seeing them.’
‘But he could have seen them, hon, if he knew they were coming,’ Galadriel said. ‘You know Jargo isn’t going to take the risk that he saw them.’
And you, Carrie thought, you act like you’re sweet as sugar but you won’t be stupid and help me when I really need it. She wasn’t fooled by Galadriel’s honeyed voice. A steel-spined woman was at the other end of the line. ‘Are there copies on the servers that delivered the mail?’
‘Cleaned off. I assume by Donna. Smart cookie,’ Galadriel said.
‘Was Donna your friend?’
‘I don’t have friends in the network, honey, even you. Attachments are dangerous.’
‘So we have nothing to go on.’
