Panic

7

C arrie thought, My short, sweet life is over.

She left Dezz playing his Game Boy and went into Jargo’s bedroom. He was on the phone, talking to his elves, the technical experts who worked for him. They were masters at locating information, rooting into private databases, uncovering crucial nuggets to help Jargo find what he wanted. The Ford’s plates were a dead end, stolen from a car in Dallas between midnight and 6:00 A.M. this morning. But the elves now tiptoed into the Casher phone records, credit card accounts, and more, searching for a pointer to Evan Casher’s savior.

Behind a closed door in the bathroom, Carrie washed and then studied her dripping face in the mirror. No pictures of her as Carrie Lindstrom existed, except for her forged passport and driver’s license, and a photo that Evan had snapped before she could stop him as they drank on an unusually warm New Year’s Day at a beach-side bar in Galveston. That girl with the beer in her hand would soon be dead. When the elves found Evan, their next job would be to create a new persona for her. She liked the name Carrie – it was her own – but since she had used it, Jargo would make her use another one.

It had been eighty-nine days since she wormed her way into Evan’s life. Jargo’s instructions were simple and clear: Go to Houston and get close to a man named Evan Casher. I want to know what films he’s planning to make. That’s all.

Couldn’t I just break in and search through his files, his computer?

No. Get close to him. If it takes a while, it takes a while. I have my reasons.

Who is he, Jargo?

He’s just a project, Carrie.

So she got a hotel room near the Galleria, on the edge of Houston’s heart. Jargo gave her forged ID in the name of Carrie Lindstrom, and she started following Evan, mapping his world.

She made her approach at his favorite coffee shop, a quiet non-chain joint off Shepherd called Joe’s Java; the first week she kept him under surveillance, he went there four times. That second week she appeared at Joe’s twice, once getting her coffee to go in case he did, too; the next day arriving an hour before he did, sitting on the opposite end of the cafe, reading a thick paperback on the history of film that she had studied so she could draw him into conversation. He preferred to sit close to the electrical outlets where he could plug in his laptop. She never saw him with a camera, only frowning over the laptop, listening to headphones; she assumed he was editing a film and having problems.

Carrie watched him. His life was dull; he spent most of his time working, attending movies, or at his house. He was a year or two older than she was. His hair was blondish brown, a bit too long and shaggy for its cut, and he had the unconscious habit of dragging a hand through it when he was deep in thought. He wore a small hoop earring in his left ear but no other jewelry. He was handsome but seemed unaware of it. She watched two other women check him out at the coffee shop, one giving him a boldly appraising once-over as she walked by, and Evan, lost in his work, hand snagged in his hair, never noticed. He didn’t shave every day if he didn’t have to, and he was on the verge of getting too old for his wardrobe, which seemed to consist of worn jeans and funky old shirts and high-top sneakers or sandals. He watched the smokers standing outside the cafe, puffing, and she decided he must have given up cigarettes once. She was careful to spend most of her time reading her book, not watching him, not being too obvious. It would work better, much better, if he made the first move.

‘You’re reading Hamblin? That’s not a good survey,’ he said to her. She sat at a marble-topped table near the counter, and he was in line for a refill on his French roast.

Carrie counted in her head to five, then looked up at him. ‘You’re right. Callaway’s book is better.’ She said this with confidence that he would agree with her. Two nights earlier, she’d followed him as he went alone into the River Oaks Theater, an art-house cinema near his home. Then she’d snuck into his backyard, disarmed his electronic alarm system with a code-breaker program on her PocketPC, eased open the lock of his door with a lockpick that had been her father’s, surveyed his library of film books, spotting the Callaway as the most worn and treasured, cataloged what DVDs he owned, hunted for his weaknesses. But there were only two bottles of beer in the fridge, an unopened bottle of wine, no pot, no coke, no porn. The house was neat, but not compulsively so. His interest was his work, and his house reflected that simplicity of focus.

She did not touch his computer, his notebooks. That would come. She locked the door, reset the alarm, and left.

‘Yeah, Callaway rocks. You studying film?’ Evan said. The guy in front of him in the line stepped up a space but Evan, last in line, stayed put.

‘No. It’s just an interest.’

‘I’m a film-maker,’ he said, trying hard not to make it sound like bragging or a pickup line.

‘Really? Adult movies?’ she asked innocently.

‘Uh, no.’ He was next up to place his coffee order, and he did, turning his back on her, and she thought, That didn’t work.

But he gave the barista his order and took the five steps back to her table. ‘I make documentaries. That’s why I don’t like Hamblin’s book. He gives us short shrift.’

‘Really?’ She gave a smile of polite interest.

‘Yeah.’

‘Would I have seen one of your movies?’

He told her the titles and she raised her eyes when he mentioned Ounce of Trouble. ‘I saw it in Chicago,’ she said. ‘I liked it.’

He smiled. ‘Thanks.’

‘I did. Bought a ticket, didn’t even sneak in from another theater.’

He laughed. ‘Oh, my pocketbook appreciates it.’

‘Are you making another movie now?’

‘Yeah. It’s called Bluff. About three different players on the pro poker circuit.’

‘So, are you in Houston to film?’

‘No, I still live here.’

‘Why don’t you move to Hollywood?’

‘There’s a difference?’ he asked with a laugh.

She laughed, too. ‘Well, nice to meet you. Good luck with your movie.’ She stood and headed to the counter to order a fresh latte.

‘My treat,’ he said quickly. ‘If I may. I mean, you bought a ticket. It’s only fair.’ So she smiled and let him buy her latte and she moved to sit close to him, wondering, Why on earth could Jargo be interested in this guy? And they talked for an hour about movies they liked and loathed, and she gave him her cell phone number.

He called the next day, they had dinner that night at a Thai place he loved; she was new to town so she couldn’t suggest she had a favorite place to go. She suspected Evan was the kind of man who would simultaneously pity her loneliness and admire her guts in moving to a city where she knew no one. They talked baseball, books, movies, and avoided their personal lives. She told him she was thinking of graduate school in English and was living off a trust fund, keeping her situation intentionally vague. She tried to pay for the dinner; he slid the check to his side of the table and smiled. ‘But you bought a ticket.’

She liked him. But over two more dates in the next five days, she hit a stone wall: he wouldn’t talk about what Jargo cared about, his future movies.

She’d watched his two finished films on DVD before she’d come to Houston to lay her snares. He only talked about those movies when she asked. He never mentioned his Oscar nomination for Ounce of Trouble, which impressed her far more than the honor itself.

Their fourth date, she saw Dezz watching them in the restaurant. He sat alone at the bar at the small Italian eatery, drinking a glass of red wine, pretending to read the paper. Jargo watched her, through him. He left halfway through their meal.

‘You’re upset,’ Evan said, not thirty seconds after Dezz had walked past their table.

This would be a whole world easier if he were one of those men lost in himself. But Evan, when he wasn’t immersed in his work, seemed to notice every small detail of her.

‘No. I saw a man who reminded me of someone I once knew. An unpleasant memory.’

‘Then let’s not dwell on it,’ he said.

Ten minutes later he asked her about her family. She decided to stick close to the truth. ‘They’re dead.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Burglary. They were both shot. A year ago.’

He went pale with shock. ‘Oh, Jesus, Carrie, how terrible. I’m so sorry.’

‘Now you know,’ she said, ‘but I’d like to talk about something else.’

‘Sure.’ He glided the conversation back onto safe ground, smoothing out the awkwardness. She saw a real tenderness in his gaze toward her and she thought, Oh, no, don’t do that, you make me feel as though I’m using their deaths and I wasn’t planning to tell you and I don’t know why I did. She was afraid that, having a storyteller’s curiosity, he’d visit the Chicago Tribune Web site, search on her name, look for an account of the murders. And she’d had a different surname then; there would be no Carrie Lindstrom whose parents had died in a burglary. She had made a mistake, but if he never looked it up, then that was okay.

They went back to his house to watch a movie and drink wine. She knew she should sleep with him; it was time to seal the deal, insert herself deeper into his life. He didn’t have a steady girl – there had been a woman last year, another film-maker named Kathleen, who had dumped him for another guy and moved to New York. He had mentioned Kathleen only once, which she considered healthy. Evan seemed a little lonely but not needy, she could keep a closer eye on him for Jargo, for whatever odd reason. But she hesitated.

Jargo had ordered her to sleep with a man once before, six months ago; a high-level Colombian police official, married, in his late forties. But she didn’t. Instead she let him pick her up in a Bogota bar, went back to his hideaway apartment, kissed him, and slipped a knockout drug into his beer. He passed out kissing her. She undressed the official, to let him think they’d consummated their evening and watched the man sleep. While he slept, Dezz broke into the man’s home office. Two weeks later she read about a number of police officers who were on the drug cartel payrolls being arrested. She figured Dezz had stolen financial records or payoff lists. Jargo never asked if she hadn’t slept with the official; he assumed she had, that she was willing to prostitute herself.

You never knew with Jargo on which side of the line between dark and light he would drop you.

But this. This she could not fake.

It’ll be all right, she told herself. He’s nice and good-looking and you like him. It would be easier, though, if she hated him, because it would only make her hate him more. She realized that with a shock as their lips met, his kisses tender and slow. She arched against him as he slid his hand over her breast, clutched his hair in her fingers.

‘What’s wrong?’ he said.

‘Nothing.’

He leaned back. ‘You’re not ready.’

‘You think too much.’ She kissed him hard again, willing him to just not care, willing herself not to respond to his touch, his tongue. He’s just a project.

He kissed her again but then broke it off. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

Oh, God, if I could. But I never, never will. ‘Nothing’s wrong. Except that you haven’t carried me off to bed yet.’

The lie reassured him. He smiled and picked her up from the couch and they lay down on his bed and it was not like the police attache in Colombia. She had thought, in the long, dark days of the past year, that she would never feel happiness again without pretense. But instead of being a terrible betrayal of her own self, the night with Evan broke her heart.

He’s just a project, Carrie.

The next morning she called Jargo and told him that she and Evan were lovers. ‘I don’t have any competition,’ she said in a flat voice. ‘He’s giving me a lot of his time.’

‘Is he talking about his films?’

‘No. He says if he talks too much about a movie, he’s told the story, then, and he loses the passion for making it.’

‘Search his computer, his notebooks.’

‘He’s not much of a note taker.’ She paused. ‘It would be helpful to know what exactly I’m looking for.’

‘Just find out what film projects he’s considering. Fuck him enough and he’ll tell you. He’s a man like any other. He likes to fuck and talk about work. Men are boring that way,’ Jargo said. She tried to imagine Jargo performing either activity, and the picture would not come into focus.

She went back into Evan’s bed and focused on him with the same energy he’d poured into her, feeling guilty and sick all at once.

‘Why won’t you tell me about your next project?’ she asked one afternoon after pulling him away from his video-editing and into bed.

‘I’ve got to get Bluff edited, it’s a mess. I can’t even think about the next film.’

She ran a hand down his chest, his flat stomach. Nipped at his flesh below his navel with her fingertips. ‘No worries. I’m just interested in your ideas.’ She tapped his forehead, used the line that had become their tease between each other. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll buy a ticket.’

And gave him the warmest smile she could conjure.

She could see in his face the decision to change a well-worn habit. He leaned back. ‘Well. A guy at PBS talked to me about doing a bio on Jacques Cousteau. I could get that on PBS or Discovery Channel in five seconds flat. Good for the pocketbook. But I’m not sure it’s the right career move for me.’

‘So no idea, then.’

She saw him decide to trust her, saw the smile creep across his face. ‘It’s weird, China’s Communist but they have millionaires in Hong Kong still. I think there might be a story worth doing.’

‘China. Too far away. I’d miss you.’

He kissed her. ‘I’d miss you, too. You could come with me. Be my unpaid assistant.’

‘My dream job,’ she said. ‘So who’s the lucky subject in China?’ She thought this might be the seed of Jargo’s interest. Evan had zeroed in on a high-ranker in Beijing who lined Jargo’s pocket. But how would Jargo have known?

‘There’s a Hong Kong financier named Jameson Wong who might be an interesting character, he lost all his money in bad deals, and instead of rebuilding his business he’s become a leading activist against the Communist government. Businessman turned campaigner for freedom.’

She snuggled her face against his chest. Tomorrow she would betray his confidences, report his every word. China. This Jameson Wong guy. That was the interest point. ‘I’d buy a ticket. You’re my brilliant boy.’

‘Unless I do the other project,’ he said. ‘But I think it’s a dead idea.’

She kept her face close to his chest. ‘What other one?’

‘About an interesting murder case in London, about twenty-five years ago.’

‘Whose murder?’

‘The guy was named Alexander Bast. He was kind of an uber-funky cool guy, very much into the art scene, very much into sleeping with young starlets, famous for his parties. Like Wong, he lost it all. In a scandal about drugs at one of his clubs. Then someone put two bullets in him.’

‘I thought you preferred your subjects living.’

‘I do. Dead people don’t talk well on camera,’ he said with a quiet laugh. ‘I thought about combining both stories. Compare and contrast two very different lives, find a common thread that gives an insight about success and failure.’ She heard his voice rise in excitement. ‘But it might not be commercial enough.’

She raised her face toward his. ‘Don’t worry about that, make the movie you want to make.’

‘I know what I want to make right now.’ He kissed her, they made love again. He dozed and she got up from the bed and washed her face.

She made no mention to Jargo, in the days ahead, of Jameson Wong or Alexander Bast or Jacques Cousteau.

‘He’s focused entirely on editing his current movie,’ she said the next week when she talked to Jargo. She had a cell phone that Evan didn’t know about; she kept it hidden in a pocket under the driver’s seat. She sat in the car, in the parking lot of a Krispy Kreme.

‘Stay on him. If he commits to another film, I want to know immediately.’

‘All right.’

‘I’ve deposited another ten thousand in your account,’ Jargo said.

‘Thank you.’

‘I wonder,’ Jargo said, ‘if you think Evan might ever consider working for me.’

‘No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be good at it.’

‘It’s an unbeatable cover. A rising-star documentary film-maker. He can go anywhere, film about anything, and no one would doubt his credentials or his intentions.’

‘He’s interested in the truth. That’s his passion.’

‘And yet he’s fucking you.’

‘Recruitment’s not a good idea. Not now.’ She was afraid to argue further; afraid of what would happen if Jargo thought Evan was a danger to him.

‘I want you to be prepared,’ Jargo said. ‘Because you may have to kill him.’

She watched the line of cars slowly move through the doughnut store drive-through. The back of her eyes hurt. Jargo had never suggested such work to her before; mostly, before sliding into Evan’s bed, she’d worked as a courier for Jargo, in Berlin, in New York, in Mexico City. Never a killer. The silence began to get dangerously long, he would get suspicious. ‘If you say so,’ she said. There was nothing else to say. ‘Then I should get distance. I don’t want to be a suspect.’

‘No, you stay close. If it has to happen, you and he both vanish. You don’t stay around. You’re both dead and gone, and we build you a new legend. I can probably use you more in Europe anyway.’

‘Very well,’ she said. He told her to have a good day and then he hung up. She filed her empty reports with Jargo, manufacturing innocuous lies about what Evan’s next project might be, until Jargo had called her two days ago and said, ‘I want to know if Evan has any files on his computer that shouldn’t be there.’

‘Be specific.’

‘Lists of names.’

‘All right.’

An hour later she searched Evan’s computer while he was out running errands. She called Jargo. ‘I found no files like that.’ Evan had scant data on his computer other than scripts, video footage, and basic programs.

‘Check every twelve hours, if possible. If you find the files, delete them and destroy his hard drive. Then report back to me.’

‘What are these files?’

‘That you don’t need to know. Don’t memorize the information or copy the files. Just delete them and make sure that hard drive can’t be recovered.’

‘I understand.’ And she did. The files were what Jargo was truly worried about, probably files that connected back to Jameson Wong or the other potential film subjects.

But if Evan’s hard drive was to be destroyed, she had a sinking, awful feeling that Evan was to be destroyed as well.

Carrie washed her face again. Evan was gone, stolen by a man who might be very, very bad, and soon Jargo’s technical elves would find a trace of him and they would go get Evan from the man who had taken him. The files had been sitting on his system this morning, she had left without looking for them, and if Jargo doubted her word, he would kill her. She had to win back Jargo’s trust. Now.

Last night, Evan telling her that he loved her, seemed like a moment from a world that no longer existed, a pocket of time where there was no Jargo and no Dezz and no files and no fear or pretending. She wished he hadn’t said it. She wanted to hit him, to push him away, to tell him, Don’t, don’t, don’t, you don’t know anything, I can’t have a life with you, I can’t be normal ever again, it can’t ever be, so just don’t.

She had to harden her heart now. She had to catch Evan.