‘If the CIA has the files, then we need to run,’ she said.
Dezz grabbed her by the throat, gave a cruel squeeze with his fingers that worked the flesh around the carotid and the jugular like dough. ‘If you’d done your job and kept him in Houston, this wouldn’t have happened.’
‘Let her go, Dezz,’ Jargo said.
Dezz released her and licked his lips. ‘Don’t worry, Carrie. All is forgiven.’
Jargo’s cell phone rang. He went into the other room to answer it, shut the door behind him.
Carrie sat huddled on the couch.
Dezz leaned down and massaged the feeling back into Carrie’s neck. ‘I’m watching you, sunshine. You messed up.’
She slapped his hand away. ‘That’s not necessary.’
‘He got under your skin, didn’t he?’ Dezz said. ‘I don’t get it. He’s not better-looking than I am. I’m gainfully employed. I share my candy. Granted, I was never an Oscar nominee, but, fuck, that’s just a piece of paper.’
‘He was an assignment.’ Carrie stood and walked to the kitchen bar and poured herself a glass of water.
‘You enjoyed playing house,’ Dezz said. ‘But playtime’s over. If he’s seen those files, then he’s a dead man, and you and I both know it.’
‘Not if he’s made to understand. If I can talk to him.’
‘Make him into you,’ Dezz said. ‘The amazing avengers of murdered parents. It could be a comic book.’
‘I can turn him to help us. I can.’
‘I hope so,’ Dezz said. ‘Because if you don’t, I’ll kill him.’
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.