E van drove the pickup truck past the gated community’s wall. The condos stood behind wrought iron and imported stone. The building lay at the edge of the Galleria district, Houston’s Uptown, crammed full of high-end shops and eateries and condominiums catering to both the aged oil money and the young high-tech rollers. This particular enclave was called Tuscan Pines, but tall Gulf Coast loblollies, less romantically named than European evergreens, shaded the lot. Across the street stood high-end office space and a small, boutique hotel. Evan parked in the office lot.
He waited. He expected to see police cars. But instead a parade of Mercedes and BMWs and Lexuses came and went out of the gate. After another hour Shadey walked out of the security guard’s box, headed toward a beat-up Toyota, got in, and puttered out of the complex. Evan followed him as he headed down Westheimer, toward River Oaks and the heart of Houston.
He stopped next to Shadey at the first light. Waited for Shadey to look over at him. Shadey was a typical Houston driver who didn’t mess with glancing into other lanes.
Evan risked a honk.
Shadey looked over. Stared as Evan smiled, as he recognized him under the black hair.
I need to talk to you, Evan mouthed.
Hell no, Shadey mouthed back. He shook his head. Blasted through the red in a sudden sharp left turn.
Evan followed. He flashed his lights. Once. Twice. Shadey made two more turns and drove behind a small barbecue restaurant. Evan followed him.
Shadey was at his window before Evan had shifted into park. ‘You stay the hell away from me.’
‘It’s nice to see you, too,’ Evan said.
Shadey shook his head. ‘It’s not nice to see you. No fucking way nice to see you. I got an FBI agent I’m supposed to call if I see your smiling face.’
‘Well, I’m not smiling, so you don’t have to call.’
‘Just go, man. Please.’
‘I’m not a suspect, I’m not a fugitive. I’m just missing.’
‘I don’t care about what you calling yourself. I don’t need trouble in my life.’
‘You complained on national TV that I didn’t set you up in movies, or as a pro poker player.’
Shadey glared at him. ‘Hey, man, I was just making myself available to interested parties. You never know who’s watching the news.’
‘Well, since you told a couple of lies about me, you can help me and wipe the slate clean. I need cash.’
‘Do I look like an ATM?’ Shadey lowered his sunglasses so Evan could see his eyes. ‘I’m a security guard, I don’t got cash.’
‘I know you can get cash, Shadey. You have connections.’
‘No more. Get your unconnected ass on its way.’
‘It’s funny how being cleared of a crime creates this wave of gratitude,’ Evan said. ‘Considering you didn’t even have a good lawyer when I met you.’
‘I don’t owe you forever, Evan.’
‘Yes, you actually do. Without Ounce of Trouble your ass is still in jail, Shadey, and, yes, you owe me forever.’
Shadey closed his eyes. ‘You’re in trouble. I don’t do trouble anymore. I help you, I’m a felon.’
‘No. You’re a friend.’
‘Spare me, man.’
‘I pissed off the wrong people, just like you did years ago, and they’re trying to kill my ass to make a problem go away. I need cash, I need a computer.’
‘Make yourself a movie. Explain it to the world.’ Shadey shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, no way, no how.’
‘You know what, you didn’t deserve me, as an advocate or a friend. I’m sorry I bothered. You live your life of freedom. Free to complain and bitch. Thank me when you think of it.’
Shadey stared at him. Pushed his sunglasses back into place.
Evan started the pickup’s engine. ‘If people come around looking for me, tell them you haven’t seen me. But don’t be surprised if they kill you just to cover their trail.’ He started to put the car into reverse and Shadey put his hand on the door. Evan stopped.
‘I already got a call. After I was on CNN. A lady. Said her name was Galadriel Jones. She said she worked for Film Today magazine. Said if I heard from you or could tell her where you was, exclusive-like, I’d get fifty thousand in cash. Under the table.’
Evan knew Film Today. It was a small, influential trade-press publication, and he didn’t believe for a second a reporter would pay fifty thousand dollars to a tipster; an industry magazine couldn’t afford it.
‘How did this woman sound?’
‘Too-sweet nice.’
‘Did she give you a phone number?’
‘Yeah. Said not to call the magazine’s number, said to call her number.’
‘They’re playing you for a fool, Shadey. They won’t pay you. They’ll kill us both. The people who killed my mom, I think they’ve got my dad. The only way you’re safe is if you help me.’
Shadey cracked knuckles, cussed under his breath. Leaned in close to the window. ‘I don’t like gettin’ played. By either them or you.’
‘I’m the one being straight with you. I’ve always been straight with you, no matter what you think. Please help me.’
Shadey gave Evan a hard stare. ‘You remember where my stepbrother’s house is, over in Montrose?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Meet me there in two hours. You ain’t there when I arrive, I ain’t waiting, and we never saw each other, we never talked, and you never come look for me again.’ He got back into his car, waited for Evan to back out, then peeled out of the parking lot.
Evan drove in the opposite direction, watching for cars that were watching him.
The next theft: a computer.
He couldn’t go to Joe’s Java, where he’d met Carrie – too many people there knew him. He remembered an independent coffee shop called Caf-fiend near Bissonnet and Kirby, usually with a big Rice University undergrad clientele. As a visual-arts student just a few years ago, he’d edit film on his laptop, leaving it at the table because there were always nice folks around and he was just up at the counter getting coffee, he could keep an eye on it. But he’d turned his back on it plenty. Laptop users could be complacent.
Shadey might not show with the money, much less with a computer. He had already stolen a truck that was someone’s pride and joy; he could steal a computer. Shame welled in him. He needed something, he’d steal it. It would hurt an innocent person to steal and he still cared about that. But his survival was at stake.
He wondered as he walked into the coffee shop, Who am I becoming?
He put on the sunglasses he had found in the stolen pickup, ran a hand over his shortened black hair. The shop was busy, nearly every table taken, and a steady business of people buying coffee drinks to go.
A new line of computers stood on a counter running along one wall, Internet-ready. He wouldn’t have to steal one – at least not to do half of what he needed. His next serious crime could wait.
He got a large coffee, surveyed the crowd. No one paid him any attention. He was anonymous. He put his back to the room, the sweat dampening his ribs. He opened a browser on one of the computers. He was the only one using the store-provided systems; most people had brought their own.
He went to Google and searched on Joaquin Gabriel. No clear match; there were quite a few men named Joaquin Gabriel in the world. Then he added CIA to the search terms and got a list of links. Headlines from the Washington Post and the Associated Press.
VETERAN SPY’S CLAIMS ARE ‘DELUSIONAL,’ CIA SAYS. And so on. Most of the articles were five years old. Evan read them all.
Joaquin Gabriel had been CIA. Before the bourbon and paranoia got hold of him. He was charged to identify and run internal operations to lure out CIA personnel who had gone bad – a man known as a traitor-baiter. Gabriel launched a series of increasingly outrageous accusations, condemning CIA colleagues for collaborating with imaginary mercenary intelligence groups, of running illegal operations both in America and abroad. Gabriel accused the wrong people, including a few of the most senior and honored operatives in the Agency, but his claims were hard to swallow given his alcoholism. And complete lack of evidence. He left, abruptly, with a government pension and no comment. He had moved back to his hometown of Dallas and set up a corporate security service.
Why would his mother trust this man – a drunken disgrace – with their lives?
It made no sense. Unless Gabriel had been dead right in theory. Mercenary intelligence groups. Freelance spies. Consultants. What he claimed Jargo was.
That’s why Mom went to Gabriel. She knew he would believe her; this was the evidence that would vindicate Gabriel, redeem his career.
He had another idea. The names on his father’s passports. Petersen. Rendon. Merteuil. Smithson. You also don’t know shit about your parents. Gabriel meant more than the usual unimaginable life of his parents before he was born or their hidden dreams and thoughts. More than regrets of youth or unfulfilled hopes or an ambition never mentioned to him but allowed to die in isolation. Something bad.
Petersen. Rendon. Merteuil. Smithson.
First he did searches on Merteuil. Most of the links referenced Merteuil as the surname of the vicious aristocratic schemer from the French novel Les Liaisons Dangereuses, variously played in film adaptations by Glenn Close, Annette Bening, and Sarah Michelle Gellar. He wondered if that meant anything, an alias based on a deceitful character. But then he found a reference to a Belgian family with that surname, killed five years ago in a Meuse River flood. The dead Merteuils had the same names as those on his family’s Belgian passports: Solange, Jean-Marc, Alexandre.
Rendon produced a bunch of results, and he specified the search more carefully on the name in his alias: David Edward Rendon. He got a Web site rallying against drunk driving in New Zealand and listing a long history of people killed in accidents as meat for the argument for stiffer penalties. A family had been killed in a horrific crash in the Coromandel mountains east of Auckland, back in the early 1970s. James Stephen Rendon, Margaret Beatrice Rendon, David Edward Rendon. The three names on the passports.
He searched on the Petersen names. Same story. A family lost in a house fire in Pretoria, blamed on smoking in bed.
Dead families hijacked, he and his parents readied to step into their identities.
The coffee in his gut rose up like bile.
It was the nature of a good lie to hug the truth. He was Evan Casher. He was supposed to be, in addition, Jean-Marc Merteuil, David Rendon, Erik Petersen. Every name was a lie waiting to be lived by his whole family.
Except the one name that didn’t have a match in his mother’s or his fake passports. Arthur Smithson.
Searching the name produced only a scattering of links. An Arthur Smithson who was an insurance agent in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. An Arthur Smithson who taught English at a college in California. An Arthur Smithson who had vanished from Washington, D.C.
He clicked on the link to a story in the Washington Post.
It was a report on unsolved disappearances in the D.C. area. Arthur Smithson’s name was mentioned, as well as several others: runaway teens, vanished children, missing fathers. Links offered the original stories in the Post archives. He clicked on the one for Smithson and found a story from twenty-four years ago:
SEARCH FOR ‘MISSING’ FAMILY SUSPENDED
by Federico Moreno, Staff Reporter A search for a young Arlington couple and their infant son was called off today, despite a neighbor’s insistence that the couple would not simply pull up stakes without saying goodbye. Freelance translator Arthur Smithson, 26; his wife, Julie, 25; and their two-month-old son, Robert, vanished from their Arlington home three weeks ago. A concerned neighbor phoned Arlington police after not seeing Mrs. Smithson and the baby play in the yard for several days. Police entered the house and found no signs of struggle, but did find that the Smithsons’ luggage and clothing appeared to be missing. Both the Smithsons’ cars were in the garage. ‘We have no reason to suspect foul play,’ Arlington Police Department spokesman Ken Kinnard said. ‘We’ve run into a brick wall. We don’t have an explanation as to where they are. Until we receive more information, we have no leads to pursue.’ ‘The police need to try harder,’ said neighbor Bernita Briggs. Mrs. Briggs said she routinely babysat for Mrs. Smithson since Robert was born and that the young mother treated her as a confidant and gave no indication that the family planned on leaving the area. ‘They had money, good jobs,’ Mrs. Briggs said. ‘Julie never said one word about leaving. She was just asking me about what curtains to pick out, what patterns to get for the nursery. They also wouldn’t leave without telling me, because Julie always teased me as being a worrywart, and if they just took off and left, I’d be worried sick, and she wouldn’t put me through grief. She’s a kind young woman.’ Mrs. Briggs told police that Smithson was fluent in French, German, and Russian and that he did translation work for various government branches and academic presses. According to Georgetown University records, Mr. Smithson graduated five years ago with degrees in French and Russian. Mrs. Smithson worked as a civilian employee of the navy until she became pregnant, at which point she resigned. The navy did not return calls for this story. ‘I wish the police would tell me what they know,’ Mrs. Briggs said. ‘A wonderful family. I pray they’re safe and in touch with me soon.’
The archived story offered no picture of the Smithson family. No further links to indicate that there was a follow-up story on them.
Another family, dead like the Merteuils in Belgium, the Petersens in South Africa, and the Rendons in New Zealand. But not dead. Vanished. Unless this Washington Smithson was now the Smithson selling insurance in South Dakota or the Smithson teaching Shakespeare in Pomona.
What had Gabriel said during their wild car ride out of Houston? I’ll tell you who I am. Then I’ll tell you who you are. Evan thought he was crazy. Maybe he wasn’t.
He stared at the name of the vanished child. Robert Smithson. It meant nothing to him.
He jumped to a phone-directory Web site and entered the name Bernita Briggs, searching in Virginia, Maryland, and D.C. It spat back a phone number in Alexandria. Did he risk the call on the hot cell phone? Bricklayer would know, no doubt accessing the call log. No. Better to wait. It might put her in danger if Bricklayer knew he was calling her.
He wrote down Bernita Briggs’s phone number. He left, conscious of the barista’s eyes on him. Wondering if this was paranoia, settling into his skin and bones, taking up permanent residence in his mind, changing who he was forever.