Take "a ride down the roaring rapids" as New York Times bestselling author Jeff Abbott has "put together a hell of a page turner" (Michael Connelly, #1 bestselling author of The Law of Innocence ).
What if everything about your life was a lie?
Evan Casher is a successful documentary filmmaker with a perfect life--until the day his mother is brutally murdered. Suddenly pursued by a ruthless circle of killers, Evan discovers his entire past has been a carefully constructed lie. With only one chance at survival and no one he can trust, Evan must discover the shocking truth about his family--and himself...
Review
" Panic is a sleek, smart thriller that combines a family tragedy, international intrigue, and the redemptive power of love into one of this year's best books. There is no question: Jeff Abbott is the new name in suspense."―Harlan Coben
"A superior, fast-paced thriller.... White-knuckled suspense that's extremely hard to put down."―Publishers Weekly
" Panic is a ride down the roaring rapids. Jeff Abbott has put together a hell of a page turner."―Michael Connelly
"Compulsively readable...an engaging page-turner that makes for fast and enjoyable reading."―Chicago Sun-Times
"Edge of your seat quotient: sky high... Panic opens with an action-packed, man-on-the-run scenario that doesn't let up..."―Entertainment Weekly
About the Author
Jeff Abbott is the New York Times bestselling author of fourteen novels. He is the winner of an International Thriller Writers Award (for the Sam Capra thriller The Last Minute) and is a three-time nominee for the Edgar award. He lives in Austin with his family. You can visit his website at www.JeffAbbott.com.
The phone awoke evan casher, and he knew something was wrong. No one who knewhim ever called this early. He opened his eyes. He reached across the bed forCarrie but she was gone, and her side of the bed was cool. A note, folded, onthe pillow. He reached for it but the phone continued its insistent shrill, sohe answered.
"Hello."
His mother said, "Evan. I need you to come home. Right now." She spoke in a lowwhisper.
He fumbled for the bedside lamp. "What's the matter?"
"Not over the phone. I'll explain when you get here."
"Mom, get real, it's a two-and-a-half-hour drive. Just tell me what's wrong."
"Evan. Please. Just come home."
"Is Dad all right?" His father, a computer consultant, had left Austin threedays ago for a job in Australia. He made databases dance and sing for bigcompanies and governments. Australia. Long flights. Evan had a sudden vision ofa plane, scattered across the outback or Sydney Harbor, ripped metal, smokerising. "What's happened?"
"I just need you here, okay?" Calm but insistent.
"Mom, please. Not until you tell me what's going on."
"I said not on the phone." She fell silent, he said nothing, and theuncomfortable tension of an unexpected standoff rose for ten long seconds untilshe 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."
"What's 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 hismother's voice—made her sound like a stranger to him. "Um, okay, Mom, Ican 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 I'llsee you soon, and I'll explain everything."
"I love you, too."
He put the phone back in the cradle, a little disoriented with the shock of howthe day had started. Now wasn't 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. I'll callyou later. Had early morning errands. C.
He got in the shower and wondered if he'd blown it last night. I loveyou , he'd told Carrie, when they lay spent in the sheets. The words rose tohis mouth without thought or effort, because if he'd weighed the consequences,he would have kept his mouth shut. He never said the L word first. Before, hehad told only one woman he loved her, and that had been his last girlfriend,hungry for his reassurance, and he'd said it because he thought it might betrue. But last night was different. No might or maybe ; he knewwith certainty. Carrie lying next to him, her breath tickling his throat, herfingernail tracing a line along his eyebrow and she looked so beautiful, and hesaid the big three words and they felt as true in his heart as anything he hadever known.
Pain flared in her eyes when he spoke and he thought, I should have waited.She doesn't believe it because we're in bed. But she kissed him and said,"Don't love me."
"Why not?"
"I'm trouble. Nothing but trouble." But she held him tight, as though she wereafraid he would be the one to vanish.
"I love trouble." He kissed her again.
"Why? Why would you love me?"
"What's not to love?" He kissed her forehead. "You have a great brain." Hekissed between her eyes. "You see the beauty in everything." He kissed her mouthand 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 can't really know me."
"I'll never know you. We never know another person as much as we like topretend."
She smiled, snuggled up close to him, pressed her face to his chest, put hermouth close to his beating heart. "I love you, too."
"Look at me and say it."
"I'll say it here to your heart." A tear trickled from her cheek to his chest.
And he did, and now, in the hard light of day, she was gone, the whispers andthe promises gone with her. And this distant note. But maybe this was for thebest. She was nervous. And the last complication he needed was explaining amysterious family disaster.
He tried Carrie's cell phone. Left her a voice mail: "Babe, I've got a familyemergency, I've got to go to Austin. Call me when you get this." He thought, I shouldn't say it again, it scared her off , but he said, "I love youand I'll talk to you soon."
Evan tried his father's cell phone. No answer. Not even voice mail picking up.But his dad's phone might not connect in Australia. He put the plane-crashscenario out of his mind. He followed his clockwork morning regimen: fired uphis computer, checked his to-do list, checked his news feed: no disastersreported 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 meASAP , then downloaded his e-mails. His in-box held an invitation to speak ata film conference in Atlanta; e-mails from two other documentary filmmakers whowere friends of his; a pile of music files and a couple of his mother's latestdigital photos, all sent by her late last night. He synced the music to hisdigital player; he'd listen to the songs in the car. Mom thrived on obscurebands and tunes, and she'd found three great songs for his earlier movies. Hechecked to be sure he had all the footage he needed to edit for his nearlycompleted documentary on the professional poker circuit. Made sure that he hadthe raw notes for a talk he was supposed to give at the University of Houstonnext week. He slid his laptop, his digital music player, and his digitalcamcorder into his backpack. Evan packed a bag with a weekend's worth of clotheshis mother hated for him to wear: old bowling shirts, worn khakis, tennis shoesa year past their prime.
His watch said seven fifteen. It was not quite a three-hour drive from Houstonto Austin.
Evan locked the door behind him and headed to his car. This wasn't the day hehad planned. He fought his way through the morning snarl of Houston traffic,listening to the music his mother had sent last night. He wanted Spanish-flavored electronic funk for the opening scenes of his poker-player documentary,and no songs he'd heard yet sounded right, but this music was perfect, full ofdrama and energy.
He tapped his fingers to the beat as he drove and kept waiting for his cell toring, his father or Carrie calling, his mom calling to say all was suddenlyfine, but his phone stayed silent all the way to Austin.
CHAPTER 2
His mother's front door was locked. Mom kept her photography studio out in agarage apartment, and he decided she must have retreated to the comfort of film,primer, and solitude.
He unlocked the door with his key and stepped inside. "Mom?" he called out. Noanswer.
He walked toward the back of the house, toward the kitchen. He had bought hismom her favorite treats, peach pastries from a bakery she adored on the way fromHouston, and he wanted to put up the food before he headed to her studio.
Evan turned the corner and saw his mother lying dead on the kitchen floor.
He froze. He opened his mouth but did not scream. The world around him wentthick with the sound of his own blood pounding in his throat, in his temples.The sack of peach pastries tumbled to the floor, followed by his duffel bag.
He took two stumbling steps toward her. Her throat was puffed and savaged, hertongue distended, and the kitchen air held the unmistakable stink of death. Hesaw a silver gleam of wire wrapped around her throat.
An empty kitchen-table chair stood next to her, as though she might have beensitting in it before she died.
Evan made a low moan in his throat, knelt by his mother, brushed a tangle of hergraying hair from her face. Her eyes were wide and swollen, unseeing.
"Oh, Mom." He put his fingers over her lips: stillness. Her skin was still warm.
"Mom, Mom!" His voice rose in grief and horror. Evan stood. A wave of dizzinessbuckled his legs. The police. He had to call the police. He staggered around herbody to the kitchen counter, where her breakfast still sat: a coffee cup with alipsticked edge, a plate dotted with plum-jelly drips and a scattering ofEnglish-muffin crumbs. Evan reached for the phone with a shaking hand.
Metal hammered the back of his head. He dropped to his knees, his teeth bitinginto his tongue, the tang of blood in his mouth. The world started to crumpleinto dark.
A gun pressed against the back of his head; the perfect circle of the barrel wascool in his hair. A nylon rope looped over his head and tightened around histhroat with a yank. He tried to jerk away but the gun cracked hard against histemple.
"Be still," a voice said. "Or you're dead." It was a young man's voice. Amused,saying dead in a cruel singsong. Day-ed.
Hands grabbed his duffel bag from the edge of the kitchen, pulled it out of hisline of vision. A robbery.
"Just take it," Evan whispered. "Just take it and go." He heard the rustle ofrummaging: his computer, his camera, being removed from the bag. His laptop'spowering-up chime sounded, louder than his own ragged breathing. Then longseconds of silence, fingers tapping on a keyboard.
"What do you want?" he heard himself ask.
No answer.
"My mom, you killed my mom—"
"Hush now." The gun kept Evan's face tilted forward, almost touching hismother's dead jaw. Evan wanted to twist around, see the man's face, but hecouldn't. The noose tightened, pulling savagely into Evan's throat.
"Got it," another voice said. Male, older than the first. Arrogant, coolbaritone. Then the whisper of fingers on keyboard. "All gone."
Evan heard a pop of chewing gum close to his ear. "Can I now?"
"Yes," the other said. "It's just a shame."
Steel cracked against Evan's head. Black circles exploded before his eyes,edging out his mother's blank, dead stare.
Evan awoke. Dying.
He couldn't breathe because the rope scorched his throat and his feet danced inempty space. A plastic trash bag covered his head, making the world milky grayand indistinct. He grabbed at the rope, choked out a cry as the noose strangledhim.
"You took breathing for granted, didn't you now, sunshine?" The younger man'svoice, cold and mocking.
Evan kicked his feet. The countertop, the chair, had to be there to take hisweight, to save him. He scissored his legs with what strength he had leftbecause there was nothing else he could do.
"Kick twice if it hurts bad," the younger voice said. "I'm curious."
And a blast filled his world. Shattering glass. Gunfire. A second of silence.Then the younger man yelling and screaming.
The rope swung. Evan attempted to inch his fingers under the choking, killingcord. Then another rattle of gunfire boomed huge in his ears and he fell, hitthe floor, plaster and splintered wood dusting him. The loose length of thegunshot-torn rope landed across his face.
He tried to breathe. Nothing. Nothing. Breathing was a forgotten skill, a trickthat Evan no longer knew. Then his chest hitched with sweet air. Drinking inoxygen, drinking in life. His throat hurt as if it had been skinned from theinside.
Evan heard another eruption of shots, the sound of weight crashing intoshrubbery outside the windows.
Then an awful silence.
Evan tore the plastic bag free from his face. He blinked, spat blood and bilefrom his mouth. A hand touched his shoulder, fingers prodded at him.
"Evan?"
He looked up. A man stared down at him. Pale, bald, tall. Around his father'sage, early fifties.
"They're gone, Evan," Bald said. "Let's go."
"Ca-call ..." Every syllable was fire in his mouth. "Call ... police. My ...mother. He ..."
"You got to come with me," Bald said. "You can't stay here. They'll be huntingyou now."
Evan shook his head.
Bald reached down, worked the broken rope off Evan's neck, hauled him to hisfeet, herded him away from his mother's body.
"I'm a friend of your mom's," Bald said. He held a wicked-looking shotgun."Gonna get you out of here."
Evan had never seen him before. "My mother. The police. Call the police. Therewas a man ... or two ..."
"They're gone. We'll call the police," Bald said. "Just not here." He propelledEvan fast toward the back door with a shove to his back.
"Who are you?" Evan said, fighting the panic rising in his chest. A man hedidn't know, with a big gun, who didn't want him to call the police.
"We'll talk later. Can't stay. I need your—" But he didn't finish, as Evanleft-hooked Bald's jaw, without analysis or grace, his muscles still primed withfear and grief. Bald stumbled back, and Evan ran out the front door he'd leftunlocked.
"Evan, stop! Come here!" Bald yelled.
Evan bolted into the damp spring air. The pounding of his sneakered feet againstthe asphalt was the only sound in the quiet of the oak-shaded neighborhood. Heglanced behind him. Bald sprinted from the house. Shotgun in one hand, Evan'syellow duffel in the other, jumping into a weathered blue Ford sedan parked onthe street.
Evan tore across the graceful yards, expecting a bullet to shatter his spine orhis head. He saw an open garage door and veered into the yard. Please, behome. He jumped onto the front porch, leaned against the bell, pounded thedoor, shouting to call 911.
The blue Ford sped past him.
An elderly man with a military burr opened the door, cordless phone already inhand.
Evan ran back into the yard, yelling at the neighbor to call the police, tryingto catch the Ford's plates.
But the car was gone.
CHAPTER 3
Walk me through this morning one more time," the homicide detective said. Hisname was Durless. He had a kind, thin face, with the gaunt healthiness of along-distance runner. "If you can, son."
The investigators had kept Evan away from the kitchen, but had brought him backinto the house so he could identify anything that was out of place or missing.He stood now in his parents' bedroom. It was a wreck. Four suitcases lay thrownagainst the wall, all opened, their contents spilled across the floor. Theydidn't belong here. But his mother's favorite photos, which did belong on thewalls, lay ruined and trampled on the carpet. He stared at the pictures behindthe spiderwebs of smashed glass: the Gulf of Mexico orange with sunrise, thesolitude of a gnarled oak on an empty expanse of prairie, London's TrafalgarSquare, lights shaded by falling snow. Her work. Broken. Her life. Gone. Itcould not be, yet it was; the absence of her seemed to settle into the house,into the air, into his bones.
You cannot afford shock right now. You have to help the police catch theseguys. So have shock later. Snap out of it.
"Evan? Did you hear me?" Durless said.
"Yes. I can do whatever you need me to do." Evan steadied himself. Sitting outon the driveway, crumpled with grief, he'd given the responding officer adescription of Bald and his car. More officers had arrived and secured the housewith practiced efficiency, strung crime-scene tape along the front door and thedriveway, across the shattered kitchen window where Bald had fired his shotgun.Evan had sat on the cool of the cement and dialed his father, again and again.No answer. No voice mail. His father worked alone, as an independent consultant,no employees. Evan didn't know anyone he could call to help him locate his dadin Sydney.
He'd left a message for Carrie on her cell, tried her at her apartment. Noanswer.
Durless had arrived, first interviewing the patrol officer and the ambulancecrew who had responded to the initial call. He'd introduced himself to Evan andtaken his initial statement, then asked him to come back into the house,escorting him to his mother's bedroom.
Description:
Take "a ride down the roaring rapids" as New York Times bestselling author Jeff Abbott has "put together a hell of a page turner" (Michael Connelly, #1 bestselling author of The Law of Innocence ).
What if everything about your life was a lie?
Evan Casher is a successful documentary filmmaker with a perfect life--until the day his mother is brutally murdered. Suddenly pursued by a ruthless circle of killers, Evan discovers his entire past has been a carefully constructed lie. With only one chance at survival and no one he can trust, Evan must discover the shocking truth about his family--and himself...
Review
" Panic is a sleek, smart thriller that combines a family tragedy, international intrigue, and the redemptive power of love into one of this year's best books. There is no question: Jeff Abbott is the new name in suspense."―Harlan Coben
"A superior, fast-paced thriller.... White-knuckled suspense that's extremely hard to put down."―Publishers Weekly
" Panic is a ride down the roaring rapids. Jeff Abbott has put together a hell of a page turner."―Michael Connelly
"Compulsively readable...an engaging page-turner that makes for fast and enjoyable reading."―Chicago Sun-Times
"Edge of your seat quotient: sky high... Panic opens with an action-packed, man-on-the-run scenario that doesn't let up..."―Entertainment Weekly
About the Author
Jeff Abbott is the New York Times bestselling author of fourteen novels. He is the winner of an International Thriller Writers Award (for the Sam Capra thriller The Last Minute) and is a three-time nominee for the Edgar award. He lives in Austin with his family. You can visit his website at www.JeffAbbott.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Panic
By Jeff Abbott
Grand Central Publishing
Copyright © 2013 Jeff Abbott
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4555-4611-4
CHAPTER 1
The phone awoke evan casher, and he knew something was wrong. No one who knewhim ever called this early. He opened his eyes. He reached across the bed forCarrie but she was gone, and her side of the bed was cool. A note, folded, onthe pillow. He reached for it but the phone continued its insistent shrill, sohe answered.
"Hello."
His mother said, "Evan. I need you to come home. Right now." She spoke in a lowwhisper.
He fumbled for the bedside lamp. "What's the matter?"
"Not over the phone. I'll explain when you get here."
"Mom, get real, it's a two-and-a-half-hour drive. Just tell me what's wrong."
"Evan. Please. Just come home."
"Is Dad all right?" His father, a computer consultant, had left Austin threedays ago for a job in Australia. He made databases dance and sing for bigcompanies and governments. Australia. Long flights. Evan had a sudden vision ofa plane, scattered across the outback or Sydney Harbor, ripped metal, smokerising. "What's happened?"
"I just need you here, okay?" Calm but insistent.
"Mom, please. Not until you tell me what's going on."
"I said not on the phone." She fell silent, he said nothing, and theuncomfortable tension of an unexpected standoff rose for ten long seconds untilshe 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."
"What's 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 hismother's voice—made her sound like a stranger to him. "Um, okay, Mom, Ican 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 I'llsee you soon, and I'll explain everything."
"I love you, too."
He put the phone back in the cradle, a little disoriented with the shock of howthe day had started. Now wasn't 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. I'll callyou later. Had early morning errands. C.
He got in the shower and wondered if he'd blown it last night. I loveyou , he'd told Carrie, when they lay spent in the sheets. The words rose tohis mouth without thought or effort, because if he'd weighed the consequences,he would have kept his mouth shut. He never said the L word first. Before, hehad told only one woman he loved her, and that had been his last girlfriend,hungry for his reassurance, and he'd said it because he thought it might betrue. But last night was different. No might or maybe ; he knewwith certainty. Carrie lying next to him, her breath tickling his throat, herfingernail tracing a line along his eyebrow and she looked so beautiful, and hesaid the big three words and they felt as true in his heart as anything he hadever known.
Pain flared in her eyes when he spoke and he thought, I should have waited.She doesn't believe it because we're in bed. But she kissed him and said,"Don't love me."
"Why not?"
"I'm trouble. Nothing but trouble." But she held him tight, as though she wereafraid he would be the one to vanish.
"I love trouble." He kissed her again.
"Why? Why would you love me?"
"What's not to love?" He kissed her forehead. "You have a great brain." Hekissed between her eyes. "You see the beauty in everything." He kissed her mouthand 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 can't really know me."
"I'll never know you. We never know another person as much as we like topretend."
She smiled, snuggled up close to him, pressed her face to his chest, put hermouth close to his beating heart. "I love you, too."
"Look at me and say it."
"I'll say it here to your heart." A tear trickled from her cheek to his chest.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Nothing. I'm happy." Carrie kissed him. "Go to sleep, baby."
And he did, and now, in the hard light of day, she was gone, the whispers andthe promises gone with her. And this distant note. But maybe this was for thebest. She was nervous. And the last complication he needed was explaining amysterious family disaster.
He tried Carrie's cell phone. Left her a voice mail: "Babe, I've got a familyemergency, I've got to go to Austin. Call me when you get this." He thought, I shouldn't say it again, it scared her off , but he said, "I love youand I'll talk to you soon."
Evan tried his father's cell phone. No answer. Not even voice mail picking up.But his dad's phone might not connect in Australia. He put the plane-crashscenario out of his mind. He followed his clockwork morning regimen: fired uphis computer, checked his to-do list, checked his news feed: no disastersreported 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 meASAP , then downloaded his e-mails. His in-box held an invitation to speak ata film conference in Atlanta; e-mails from two other documentary filmmakers whowere friends of his; a pile of music files and a couple of his mother's latestdigital photos, all sent by her late last night. He synced the music to hisdigital player; he'd listen to the songs in the car. Mom thrived on obscurebands and tunes, and she'd found three great songs for his earlier movies. Hechecked to be sure he had all the footage he needed to edit for his nearlycompleted documentary on the professional poker circuit. Made sure that he hadthe raw notes for a talk he was supposed to give at the University of Houstonnext week. He slid his laptop, his digital music player, and his digitalcamcorder into his backpack. Evan packed a bag with a weekend's worth of clotheshis mother hated for him to wear: old bowling shirts, worn khakis, tennis shoesa year past their prime.
His watch said seven fifteen. It was not quite a three-hour drive from Houstonto Austin.
Evan locked the door behind him and headed to his car. This wasn't the day hehad planned. He fought his way through the morning snarl of Houston traffic,listening to the music his mother had sent last night. He wanted Spanish-flavored electronic funk for the opening scenes of his poker-player documentary,and no songs he'd heard yet sounded right, but this music was perfect, full ofdrama and energy.
He tapped his fingers to the beat as he drove and kept waiting for his cell toring, his father or Carrie calling, his mom calling to say all was suddenlyfine, but his phone stayed silent all the way to Austin.
CHAPTER 2
His mother's front door was locked. Mom kept her photography studio out in agarage apartment, and he decided she must have retreated to the comfort of film,primer, and solitude.
He unlocked the door with his key and stepped inside. "Mom?" he called out. Noanswer.
He walked toward the back of the house, toward the kitchen. He had bought hismom her favorite treats, peach pastries from a bakery she adored on the way fromHouston, and he wanted to put up the food before he headed to her studio.
Evan turned the corner and saw his mother lying dead on the kitchen floor.
He froze. He opened his mouth but did not scream. The world around him wentthick with the sound of his own blood pounding in his throat, in his temples.The sack of peach pastries tumbled to the floor, followed by his duffel bag.
He took two stumbling steps toward her. Her throat was puffed and savaged, hertongue distended, and the kitchen air held the unmistakable stink of death. Hesaw a silver gleam of wire wrapped around her throat.
An empty kitchen-table chair stood next to her, as though she might have beensitting in it before she died.
Evan made a low moan in his throat, knelt by his mother, brushed a tangle of hergraying hair from her face. Her eyes were wide and swollen, unseeing.
"Oh, Mom." He put his fingers over her lips: stillness. Her skin was still warm.
"Mom, Mom!" His voice rose in grief and horror. Evan stood. A wave of dizzinessbuckled his legs. The police. He had to call the police. He staggered around herbody to the kitchen counter, where her breakfast still sat: a coffee cup with alipsticked edge, a plate dotted with plum-jelly drips and a scattering ofEnglish-muffin crumbs. Evan reached for the phone with a shaking hand.
Metal hammered the back of his head. He dropped to his knees, his teeth bitinginto his tongue, the tang of blood in his mouth. The world started to crumpleinto dark.
A gun pressed against the back of his head; the perfect circle of the barrel wascool in his hair. A nylon rope looped over his head and tightened around histhroat with a yank. He tried to jerk away but the gun cracked hard against histemple.
"Be still," a voice said. "Or you're dead." It was a young man's voice. Amused,saying dead in a cruel singsong. Day-ed.
Hands grabbed his duffel bag from the edge of the kitchen, pulled it out of hisline of vision. A robbery.
"Just take it," Evan whispered. "Just take it and go." He heard the rustle ofrummaging: his computer, his camera, being removed from the bag. His laptop'spowering-up chime sounded, louder than his own ragged breathing. Then longseconds of silence, fingers tapping on a keyboard.
"What do you want?" he heard himself ask.
No answer.
"My mom, you killed my mom—"
"Hush now." The gun kept Evan's face tilted forward, almost touching hismother's dead jaw. Evan wanted to twist around, see the man's face, but hecouldn't. The noose tightened, pulling savagely into Evan's throat.
"Got it," another voice said. Male, older than the first. Arrogant, coolbaritone. Then the whisper of fingers on keyboard. "All gone."
Evan heard a pop of chewing gum close to his ear. "Can I now?"
"Yes," the other said. "It's just a shame."
Steel cracked against Evan's head. Black circles exploded before his eyes,edging out his mother's blank, dead stare.
Evan awoke. Dying.
He couldn't breathe because the rope scorched his throat and his feet danced inempty space. A plastic trash bag covered his head, making the world milky grayand indistinct. He grabbed at the rope, choked out a cry as the noose strangledhim.
"You took breathing for granted, didn't you now, sunshine?" The younger man'svoice, cold and mocking.
Evan kicked his feet. The countertop, the chair, had to be there to take hisweight, to save him. He scissored his legs with what strength he had leftbecause there was nothing else he could do.
"Kick twice if it hurts bad," the younger voice said. "I'm curious."
And a blast filled his world. Shattering glass. Gunfire. A second of silence.Then the younger man yelling and screaming.
The rope swung. Evan attempted to inch his fingers under the choking, killingcord. Then another rattle of gunfire boomed huge in his ears and he fell, hitthe floor, plaster and splintered wood dusting him. The loose length of thegunshot-torn rope landed across his face.
He tried to breathe. Nothing. Nothing. Breathing was a forgotten skill, a trickthat Evan no longer knew. Then his chest hitched with sweet air. Drinking inoxygen, drinking in life. His throat hurt as if it had been skinned from theinside.
Evan heard another eruption of shots, the sound of weight crashing intoshrubbery outside the windows.
Then an awful silence.
Evan tore the plastic bag free from his face. He blinked, spat blood and bilefrom his mouth. A hand touched his shoulder, fingers prodded at him.
"Evan?"
He looked up. A man stared down at him. Pale, bald, tall. Around his father'sage, early fifties.
"They're gone, Evan," Bald said. "Let's go."
"Ca-call ..." Every syllable was fire in his mouth. "Call ... police. My ...mother. He ..."
"You got to come with me," Bald said. "You can't stay here. They'll be huntingyou now."
Evan shook his head.
Bald reached down, worked the broken rope off Evan's neck, hauled him to hisfeet, herded him away from his mother's body.
"I'm a friend of your mom's," Bald said. He held a wicked-looking shotgun."Gonna get you out of here."
Evan had never seen him before. "My mother. The police. Call the police. Therewas a man ... or two ..."
"They're gone. We'll call the police," Bald said. "Just not here." He propelledEvan fast toward the back door with a shove to his back.
"Who are you?" Evan said, fighting the panic rising in his chest. A man hedidn't know, with a big gun, who didn't want him to call the police.
"We'll talk later. Can't stay. I need your—" But he didn't finish, as Evanleft-hooked Bald's jaw, without analysis or grace, his muscles still primed withfear and grief. Bald stumbled back, and Evan ran out the front door he'd leftunlocked.
"Evan, stop! Come here!" Bald yelled.
Evan bolted into the damp spring air. The pounding of his sneakered feet againstthe asphalt was the only sound in the quiet of the oak-shaded neighborhood. Heglanced behind him. Bald sprinted from the house. Shotgun in one hand, Evan'syellow duffel in the other, jumping into a weathered blue Ford sedan parked onthe street.
Evan tore across the graceful yards, expecting a bullet to shatter his spine orhis head. He saw an open garage door and veered into the yard. Please, behome. He jumped onto the front porch, leaned against the bell, pounded thedoor, shouting to call 911.
The blue Ford sped past him.
An elderly man with a military burr opened the door, cordless phone already inhand.
Evan ran back into the yard, yelling at the neighbor to call the police, tryingto catch the Ford's plates.
But the car was gone.
CHAPTER 3
Walk me through this morning one more time," the homicide detective said. Hisname was Durless. He had a kind, thin face, with the gaunt healthiness of along-distance runner. "If you can, son."
The investigators had kept Evan away from the kitchen, but had brought him backinto the house so he could identify anything that was out of place or missing.He stood now in his parents' bedroom. It was a wreck. Four suitcases lay thrownagainst the wall, all opened, their contents spilled across the floor. Theydidn't belong here. But his mother's favorite photos, which did belong on thewalls, lay ruined and trampled on the carpet. He stared at the pictures behindthe spiderwebs of smashed glass: the Gulf of Mexico orange with sunrise, thesolitude of a gnarled oak on an empty expanse of prairie, London's TrafalgarSquare, lights shaded by falling snow. Her work. Broken. Her life. Gone. Itcould not be, yet it was; the absence of her seemed to settle into the house,into the air, into his bones.
You cannot afford shock right now. You have to help the police catch theseguys. So have shock later. Snap out of it.
"Evan? Did you hear me?" Durless said.
"Yes. I can do whatever you need me to do." Evan steadied himself. Sitting outon the driveway, crumpled with grief, he'd given the responding officer adescription of Bald and his car. More officers had arrived and secured the housewith practiced efficiency, strung crime-scene tape along the front door and thedriveway, across the shattered kitchen window where Bald had fired his shotgun.Evan had sat on the cool of the cement and dialed his father, again and again.No answer. No voice mail. His father worked alone, as an independent consultant,no employees. Evan didn't know anyone he could call to help him locate his dadin Sydney.
He'd left a message for Carrie on her cell, tried her at her apartment. Noanswer.
Durless had arrived, first interviewing the patrol officer and the ambulancecrew who had responded to the initial call. He'd introduced himself to Evan andtaken his initial statement, then asked him to come back into the house,escorting him to his mother's bedroom.
"Anything missing?" Durless asked.
(Continues...) Excerpted from Panic by Jeff Abbott. Copyright © 2013 Jeff Abbott. Excerpted by permission of Grand Central Publishing.
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