Jeff Abbott - Panic

Published by Hachette Digital

ISBN: 978-0-748-12967-6

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2005 by Jeff Abbott

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

Hachette Digital

Little, Brown Book Group

100 Victoria Embankment

London, EC4Y 0DY

www.hachette.co.uk

Jeff Abbott is the internationally bestselling author of thirteen novels, including Adrenaline, Panic, Fear and Run. He is a three-time nominee for the Edgar Award. He lives in Austin with his family.

Do Unto Others

The Only Good Yankee

Promises of Home

Distant Blood

A Kiss Gone Bad

Black Jack Point

Cut and Run

Fear

Run

Trust Me

Adrenaline

For Peter Ginsberg

T he phone awoke Evan Casher, and he knew something was wrong. No one who knew him ever called this early. He opened his eyes. He reached across the bed for Carrie but she was gone, and her side of the bed was cool. A note, folded, on the pillow. He reached for it but the phone continued its insistent shrill, so he answered.

Hello.

His mother said, Evan. I need you to come home. Right now. She spoke in a low whisper.

He fumbled for the bedside lamp. Whats the matter?

Not over the phone. Ill explain when you get here.

Mom, get real, its a two-and-a-half-hour drive. Just tell me whats wrong.

Evan. Please. Just come home.

Is Dad all right? His father, a computer consultant, had left Austin three days ago for a job in Australia. He made databases dance and sing for big companies and governments. Australia. Long flights. Evan had a sudden vision of a plane, scattered across the outback or Sydney Harbor, ripped metal, smoke rising. Whats happened?

I just need you here, okay? Calm but insistent.

Mom, please. Not until you tell me whats going on.

I said not on the phone. She fell silent, he said nothing, and the uncomfortable tension of an unexpected standoff rose for ten long seconds until she broke it. Did you have a lot of work to do today, sweetheart?

Just edits on Bluff.

Then bring your computer with you, you can work here. But I need you here. Now.

Whats the big deal about not telling me?

Evan. He heard his mother take a steadying breath. Please.

The naked, almost frightening neediness a tone he had never heard in his mothers voice made her sound like a stranger to him. Um, okay, Mom, I can leave in an hour or so.

Sooner. As soon as possible.

All right then, in like fifteen minutes or so.

Hurry, Evan. Just pack and come as fast as you can.

Okay. He fought down a rising panic.

Thank you for not asking questions right now, she said. I love you and Ill see you soon, and Ill explain everything.

I love you, too.

He put the phone back in the cradle, a little disoriented with the shock of how the day had started. Now wasnt the time to tell his mother that he was in love. Seriously, crazily in Romeo-and-Juliet love.

He opened the note. It simply said, Thanks for a great evening. Ill call you later. Had early morning errands. C.

He got in the shower and wondered if hed blown it last night. I love you, hed told Carrie, when they lay spent in the sheets. The words rose to his mouth without thought or effort, because if hed weighed the consequences, he would have kept his mouth shut. He never said the L-word first. Before, he had told only one woman he loved her, and that had been his last girlfriend, hungry for his reassurance, and hed said it because he thought it might be true. But last night was different. No might or maybe; he knew with certainty. Carrie lying next to him, her breath tickling his throat, her fingernail tracing a line along his eyebrow and she looked so beautiful, and he said the big three words and they felt as true in his heart as anything he had ever known.

Pain flared in her eyes when he spoke and he thought, I should have waited. She doesnt believe it because were in bed. But she kissed him and said, Dont love me.

Why not?

Im trouble. Nothing but trouble. But she held him tight, as though she were afraid he would be the one to vanish.

I love trouble. He kissed her again.

Why? Why would you love me?

Whats not to love? He kissed her forehead. You have a great brain. He kissed between her eyes. You see the beauty in everything. He kissed her mouth and grinned. You always know the right thing to say unlike me.

She kissed him back and they made love again, and when they were done, she said, Three months. You cant really know me.

Ill never know you. We never know another person as much as we like to pretend.

She smiled, snuggled up close to him, pressed her face to his chest, put her mouth close to his beating heart. I love you, too.

Look at me and say it.

Ill say it here to your heart. A tear trickled from her cheek to his chest.

Whats wrong?

Nothing. Nothing. Im happy. Carrie kissed him. Go to sleep, baby.

And he did, and now, in the hard light of day, she was gone, the whispers and the promises gone with her. And this distant note. But maybe this was for the best. She was nervous. And the last complication he needed was explaining a mysterious family disaster.

He tried Carries cell phone. Left her a voice mail: Babe, Ive got a family emergency, Ive got to go to Austin. Call me when you get this. He thought, I shouldnt say it again, it scared her off, but he said, I love you and Ill talk to you soon.

Evan tried his fathers cell phone. No answer. Not even voice mail picking up. But his dads phone might not connect in Australia. He put the plane-crash scenario out of his mind. He followed his clockwork morning regimen: fired up his computer, checked his to-do list, checked his news feed: no disasters reported in Australia. Perhaps this was a disaster on a smaller scale. Cancer. Divorce. The thought dried his throat.

He clicked on his e-mail, shot off a message to his dad saying, Call me ASAP, then downloaded his e-mails. His in-box held an invitation to speak at a film conference in Atlanta; e-mails from two other documentary filmmakers who were friends of his; a pile of music files and a couple of his mothers latest digital photos, all sent by her late last night. He synced the music to his digital player; hed listen to the songs in the car. Mom thrived on obscure bands and tunes, and shed found three great songs for his earlier movies. He checked to be sure he had all the footage he needed to edit for his nearly completed documentary on the professional poker circuit. Made sure that he had the raw notes for a talk he was supposed to give at the University of Houston next week. He slid his laptop, his digital music player, and his digital camcorder into his backpack. Evan packed a bag with a weekends worth of clothes his mother hated for him to wear: old bowling shirts, worn khakis, tennis shoes a year past their prime.

His watch said seven fifteen. It was not quite a three-hour drive from Houston to Austin.