He had spent his childhood in New Orleans while his father completed a master’s in computer science at Tulane. When Evan was seven, they moved to Austin. He thought he had been born in New Orleans. ‘Did they ever mention New Orleans to you?’
‘No. What have you found out about them?’
‘I’ve found pieces that don’t quite fit together.’ He blew out a sigh. ‘You wouldn’t happen to be a pack rat, would you, Mrs. Briggs?’
She gave a soft, warm laugh. ‘The polite term is collector.’
‘Did you keep a photo of the Smithsons? Since you and Julie Smithson were so close?’
Silence again. ‘You know, I did, but I gave it to the police.’
‘Did you ever get it back?’
‘No. They kept it, didn’t return it to me. I suppose it might still be in the case file. Assuming there is one.’
‘You didn’t keep another photo?’
‘I think I had a photo of them at Christmas that I kept, but I don’t know where it would be. They didn’t travel at Christmas. No family but each other. They met at an orphanage, you know.’
‘An orphanage?’
‘Positively Dickensian. Oliver Twist marrying Little Nell. I couldn’t get to my sister’s for Christmas one year because of a snowstorm, so I spent Christmas Eve with the Smithsons. Arthur drank. He didn’t want me around. It embarrassed Julie, I could see, but we still had a nice time once Arthur passed out.’ She shook her head. ‘I just don’t understand the pressure people inflict on themselves. It ages them. Me, I never worry.’
An indecisive mother, a drunken father. It didn’t sound like his parents. ‘Mrs. Briggs, if you have another photo of the Smithsons, I would be very obliged if I could get it from you.’
‘And I would be if you would tell me who you really are. I don’t think you’re a reporter, Mr. Rendon.’
Evan decided to play it straight. Trust her, because he needed the information. ‘I’m not. My name is Evan Casher. I’m sorry for the deception.’
‘Who are you, then?’
This was a huge risk. He could be wrong. But if he didn’t chance it, he was hitting a dead end. ‘I think I’m Robert Smithson.’
‘Oh, my God. Is this a joke?’
‘It’s not the name I grew up with, but I found a connection to my parents and the Smithsons.’ He paused. ‘Do you have Web access?’
‘I’m old, not old-fashioned.’
‘Go to cnn. com, please. Do a search on Evan Casher. I want you to tell me if you recognize any of the pictures.’
‘Hold on.’ He heard her set down the phone, heard a computer rouse from sleep. She clicked and typed. ‘I’m at CNN. C-A-S-H-E-R?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
He heard her clacking on a keyboard. Silence.
‘Look for a story about a homicide in Austin, Texas,’ he said.
‘I see it,’ Mrs. Briggs whispered. ‘Oh, dear.’
The last time he’d checked out the Web site, the update included a picture of his mother and of himself on the site. ‘Does Donna Casher look like Julie Smithson?’
‘Her hair is different. It’s been so many years… but, yes, I think that is Julie. Oh, my God, she’s dead.’ She sounded as grieved as she would if Julie were still her neighbor.
‘Oh, God.’ He steadied his voice. ‘Mrs. Briggs. I believe my parents were the Smithsons and they got into serious trouble all those years ago and had to take on new identities. Hide from their past.’
‘Is this you? The picture next to her?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You look like your mother. You’re the spitting image of Julie.’
He let out a long sigh. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Briggs.’
‘This says you were kidnapped.’
‘I was. I’m okay. But I don’t want anyone to know where I am right now.’
‘I should call the police. Shouldn’t I?’ Her voice rose.
‘Please don’t call the police. I have no right to ask it of you, and you should do what you think is right… but I don’t want anyone to know where I am. Or that I know what my family’s names used to be. Whoever killed my mom might kill me.’
‘Robert.’ She sounded as if her heart were breaking. ‘This better not be a joke.’
‘No, ma’am. It’s not. But if Robert was my name, I’ve never known it.’
‘They both loved you very much,’ she said. Choking back tears.
Evan’s face went hot. ‘You said they met at an orphanage. Where?’
‘Ohio. Oh, dear, I don’t remember the town’s name.’
‘Ohio. Okay.’
‘Goinsville,’ she said with sudden assurance. ‘That’s the town. She joked about it, never going back to Goinsville. It was so sad that they were both orphans, I remember thinking that at Christmas. And that they were so happy to have you. Julie said she never wanted you to endure what they did.’
‘Thank you, Mrs. Briggs. Thank you.’
Now she cried softly. ‘Poor Julie.’
‘You’ve been a tremendous help to me, Mrs. Briggs.’ A terrible reluctance to hang up, to break this fragile link to his past, shook Evan. ‘Good-bye.’
‘Good-bye.’
He hung up. She might have caller ID. She might have seen the number and be calling the police right now. They might not believe her, but it would be a lead, and it would be followed.
Goinsville, Ohio. A place to begin.
Smithson. Why would Gabriel prepare a passport with his father’s old identity? Possibly that information – of who the Cashers once were – was part of the payment. Possibly it was Gabriel’s idea of a joke.
He found Shadey’s stepbrother’s laptop, stored on a closet shelf. It was a nice new system. He hooked up his digital music player to the computer, made sure it had all the same music software as his original laptop, and transferred the songs his mother had e-mailed him Friday morning.
He searched for newly created files. None, other than the songs themselves. He went through every folder, opened every file, to see if an unseen program dumped new data.
Nothing. He didn’t have the files. His mother had used another method to get Jargo’s treasured data on his system, or the program simply didn’t execute more than once. Maybe the data was erased or ignored if the encrypted songs were copied again.
He had nothing to fight Jargo with now.
Except Bricklayer.
Shadey was watching TV downstairs. ‘May I have that number that Galadriel lady gave you?’
‘Tell her I said hi,’ Shadey said. ‘Not.’
Evan went back upstairs. Shadey followed him. Evan dialed.
Four rings. ‘Yes?’ A nice-sounding lady, Southern accent. Calm.
‘Is this Galadriel?’
‘Who’s calling?’
‘I’m actually more interested in talking to Mr. Jargo, please.’
‘Who’s calling?’
He wasn’t going to give her enough time to trace the call. ‘I’ll call back in one minute. Get Jargo on the line.’ He hung up. Dialed back in two minutes.
‘Hello.’ Now a man’s voice. Older. Cultured.
‘This is Evan Casher, Mr. Jargo.’
‘Evan. We have much to discuss. Your father is asking for you. He and I are old friends. I’ve been taking care of him.’
