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.’
19
‘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.’
‘Help me by finding my dad.’
‘I don’t know where he is, son, but if you come in, we’ll move heaven and earth to find him.’
It sounded like an empty promise. ‘I don’t have the files you all want. They’re gone. Jargo and Dezz destroyed them.’ He picked up his music player. Perhaps not. But if he simply gave them the files, they could use them how they wanted, destroy them, and make him vanish. He would only trade them for his father. Nothing else.
Bricklayer paused, as though contemplating unexpected news. ‘Jargo won’t leave you alone.’
‘He can’t find me.’
‘He can and he will.’
‘No. You want what he wants. These files. You’ll kill me, too.’
‘I most certainly would not.’ Bricklayer sounded offended. ‘Evan, you’re emotionally exhausted. It’s understandable, given your horrible ordeal. Let me give you a number, in case we get disconnected. I loathe cell phones. Will you write the number down?’
‘Yes,’ and Bricklayer fed him a number. He didn’t recognize the area code.
‘Evan. Listen to me. Jargo and Dezz are very dangerous. Extremely.’
‘You’re preaching to the choir.’ He risked a guess. ‘Are you with the CIA?’
‘I loathe acronyms as much as cell phones,’ Bricklayer said. ‘Evan, we can have substantive talks when you come in. I personally guarantee your safety.’
‘You won’t even tell me your name.’ Evan paced the room. ‘I could buy time by talking to the press. Telling them the CIA is offering to help me. Give them this number.’
‘You could go public. I suspect, though, that Jargo will kill your father in retaliation.’
‘You’re saying he has my father.’ Evan waited.
‘It’s most likely. I’m sorry.’ Bricklayer sounded like a mortician, gently agreeing that, yes, it was a beautiful casket. ‘Let’s move forward, so we can work together to get your dad home. Would you meet with me? We can meet in Texas; I assume you’re still in the state…’
‘I’ll consider it and call you back.’
‘Evan, don’t hang up.’
Evan did. He switched off the phone, dropped it on the bed as if it were radioactive. If Bricklayer could triangulate on the phone, the government could just bust the door down.
He pulled on a change of clean clothes he’d packed in the duffel. He spread his cash in front of him. He had ninety-two dollars. A camcorder, a cell phone, a Beretta with no ammunition.
He couldn’t face Shadey or the sweet-talking Bricklayer or Dezz and Jargo without being armed. It would be suicide. But he didn’t think gun shops were open on Sundays, and he couldn’t go into one anyway, not with his
