by Meg Gardiner
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Meg Gardiner
The Dirty Secrets Club
China Lake
Mission Canyon
Jericho Point
Crosscut
Kill Chain
DUTTON
Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First printing, June 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Meg Gardiner
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Gardiner, Meg.
The memory collector / by Meg Gardiner.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-06018-6
1. Forensic psychiatrists—Fiction. 2. Amnesiacs—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6017.A725M46 2009
823’.92—dc22 2009003612
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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For my brother and sisters: Bill, Sue, and Sara
1
Later, Seth remembered cold air and red light streaking the western sky, music in his ears, and his own hard breathing. Later, he understood, and the understanding stuck in his memory like a thorn. He never heard them coming.
The trail through Golden Gate Park was rutted and he was riding with his earbuds in, tunes cranked high. His guitar was in a backpack case slung around his shoulders. Crimson sunset strobed between the eucalyptus trees. When he reached Kennedy Drive, he jumped the curb, crossed the road, and aimed his bike into the shortcut through the woods. He was a quarter mile from home.
He was late. But if he rode hard he could still beat his mom back from work. His breath frosted the air. The music thrashed in his ears. He barely heard Whiskey bark.
He glanced over his shoulder. The dog was at a standstill on the path fifty yards behind him. Seth skidded to a stop. He pushed his glasses up his nose, but the trail lay in shadow and he couldn’t see what Whiskey was barking at.
He whistled and waved. “Hey, doofus.”
Whiskey was a big dog, part Irish setter, part golden retriever. Part sofa cushion. And all heart, every dumb inch of him. His hackles were up.
If Whiskey ran off, chasing him down could take forever. Then he’d totally be late. But Seth was fifteen—in a month, anyhow—and Whiskey was his responsibility.
He whistled again. Whiskey glanced at him. He could swear the dog looked worried.
He pulled out his earbuds. “Whiskey, come.”
The dog stayed, fur bristling. Seth heard traffic outside the park on Fulton. He heard birds singing in the trees and a jet overhead. He heard Whiskey growl.
Seth rode toward him. It might be a raccoon, and even in San Francisco raccoons could have rabies.
He stopped beside the dog. “Hey, boy. Stay.”
He heard a car door close, back on Kennedy. Boots crunched on leaves and pine needles. Whiskey’s ears went back. Seth grabbed his collar. Tension was vibrating from the dog.
The birds weren’t singing anymore.
“Come. Heel,” Seth said and turned around.
A man stood on the trail in the dusk, ten feet ahead. Surprise fizzed through Seth all the way to his hair.
The man’s shaved head ran straight down to his shoulders without stopping for a neck. His arms hung by his sides. He looked like a ball-park frank that had been boiled all day.
He nodded at Whiskey. “He’s a handful. What’s his name?”
The sun was almost down. Why was the guy wearing sunglasses?
He snapped his fingers. “Here, dog.”
Seth held Whiskey’s collar. The fizzing covered his skin, and he had a bright, thumping feeling behind his eyes. What was this guy after?
The hot dog in shades tilted his head. “I said, what’s his name, Seth?”
The brightness pounded behind Seth’s eyes. The man knew who he was.
Of course the man did. Seth was lanky and had coppery hair that stuck up like straw and pale blue eyes that could shoot people the look, the one his mom called the thousand-yard stare. Just my luck, she said sometimes. You look exactly like your father.
Seth gripped Whiskey’s collar. Just his luck. His bad luck. His bad, bad, oh, shit—this had to do with his dad.
What was this guy after? This guy was after him.
He took off. He jumped on the pedals and bolted like a greyhound, ninety degrees away from Oscar Mayer man, riding like a maniac into the woods.
“Whiskey, come,” he yelled.
There was no trail, just bumpy ground covered with brown grass and dead leaves. He gripped the handlebars and pedaled harder than he thought his legs could turn. His glasses bounced on his nose. His earbuds swung down and bu
cked against the bike. Tunes dribbled out.
Behind him, Whiskey barked. Seth felt too scared to look back.
Oscar Mayer wasn’t the only one. Whiskey had been growling at something on Kennedy Drive, and Seth had heard a car door slam and footsteps on the trail. His throat felt like it had an apple jammed down it. Two guys were here to get him.
He had to warn his mom.
His cell phone was in his jeans pocket, but riding like a psycho, he couldn’t reach it. A moan rose in his throat. He fought it down. He couldn’t cry. The trees had darkened from green to black. Ahead, a hundred yards away through the branches, he glimpsed headlights passing on Fulton Street.
He had to get home. His mom—God, what if these guys went after her, too?
Ninety yards to Fulton. Headlights glared white through the trees. Seth’s hands were cramping on the handlebars, his legs burning. The guitar bounced in the backpack case. The bike slammed over a rut. He held it, straightened out, and kept going. There’d be people on Fulton. The headlights drew closer.
Behind him, Whiskey yelped.
He looked over his shoulder. His dog was bounding after him through the brush. Behind the dog came Oscar Mayer.
“Whiskey, run,” Seth yelled.
His legs felt shaky but he dug in again, flying toward the street past an old oak tree.
The second man was waiting behind it.
He shot out an arm as Seth rode past and grabbed the neck of the guitar, yanking Seth off the bike. Seth’s feet swung up and his arms flew wide. He crashed to the ground on top of the guitar. Heard the strings sproing and the body crack. The breath slammed out of him.
The man grabbed him. This guy was square with a gray buzz cut, like a concrete brick. He was old but covered with acne. He dragged Seth to his feet.
Seth kicked at him. “Let me go.”
It came out as a scream. Seth swung a fist and kicked for the man’s knees.
“Jesus.” The man twisted Seth’s arm behind his back.
A sharp pain wracked Seth’s elbow. The man shoved him toward the bushes.
Then, in a rush of muscle and power and furious barking, Whiskey attacked. The dog lunged and sank his teeth into the man’s wrist. The brick reeled and let go of Seth.
Seth staggered, glasses crooked, through the trees toward Fulton Street. Behind him he heard crazy barking. The brick shouting. A horrible yelp from Whiskey.
Forty yards to Fulton. Whiskey’s whimper fell to a moan of pain. Seth kept running. Twenty yards. He could hear his dad: Don’t swerve for an animal. If it’s between you and a dog in the road, you need to be the one who lives.
But this was happening because of his dad, and he had to get out of it or he and his mother were going to be in a whole huge world of pain and fear.
Fifteen yards. He could see the street, cars, the sidewalk, the cross street that led off Fulton. His street—his house was a block up the road. He squinted, trying to tell if his mom’s car was parked there.
Somebody was standing on the driveway. A woman—he saw pale legs in a skirt. Long light-brown hair.
His strength flooded back in a vivid burst. “Mom!”
Whiskey wailed.
Seth faltered. Whiskey had rescued him—he couldn’t abandon the dog. He spotted a rock, picked it up, and turned around.
Oscar Mayer was barreling straight at him. Before Seth could jump the man hunkered low, like a linebacker, and tackled him.
Seth hit the ground so hard his glasses flew, but he kept hold of the rock. He bashed it against the guy’s head.
“Let me fucking go.”
The man grabbed Seth’s hand and pinned it to the ground. The brick ran up, jerking Whiskey by the collar.
“Really is his old man’s kid, isn’t he?” The brick turned his arm, looking at a bloody bite. “Bastard mutt.”
Seth threw his head back. “Mom!”
Oscar Mayer grabbed Seth’s face and tried to force his mouth open and shove a handkerchief inside to gag him. The man had blood on his forehead where the rock had hit. Seth locked his jaw. Whiskey surged, trying to reach him. The man pinched his nose. Seth kicked, trying to get the guy’s knees, but next to the human hot dog he was just a stick insect. He opened his mouth to gulp a breath and got the handkerchief jammed past his teeth.
The man grabbed Seth’s hair, leaned down, and put his lips next to Seth’s ear. “I’ll hurt you.” His voice, so close, made wet noises against Seth’s skin. “But first I’ll hurt your dog. With a screwdriver.”
All Seth’s strength turned to water. A dark weight pressed on his chest, and tears rose uncontrollably toward his eyes.
Oscar Mayer smiled behind his shades. His gums looked pink and glistening. He turned to the brick. “Call.”
Without his glasses the twilight looked blurred and murky. Seth heard the brick on a cell phone.
“Come on.”
Oscar Mayer wiped the back of his forearm over his brow. “You know what this is about?”
On the street, a black van screeched to a stop. A man hopped out and strutted toward the woods. He was a skinny white guy, but he looked like a gangbanger. Or like one Seth had seen on MTV. Blue bandanna tied around his forehead, chain hanging from the pocket of his saggy jeans, shoulders rolling. He was like the Mickey Mouse Club version of a lowrider.
Oscar Mayer eyed the man like he was dressed for a parade. Marking him down as a moron. A scary one.
Then he turned his hot dog head back to Seth. “You know where your dad is? What he’s doing?”
Seth clamped his mouth shut.
“You got a choice. You want to get hurt or disappear?” He scanned Seth’s face and let his wet mouth smile again. “Didn’t think so.” He looked at the other men. “Get him up.”
2
The wind grated across the water. Chuck Lesniak ran a handkerchief over the back of his neck. Along the riverbank the green grass was shoulder-high. It swayed under the breeze, whispering to him. Brass ring.
The first mate walked past, carrying a beer cooler down the dock to the jet boat. It was a humid March evening, and the first mate’s faded Manchester United shirt clung to his back. The skipper of the jet boat wore epaulets and a sea captain’s hat with gold braid, even though they were a thousand miles inland. He was a compact Zambian with a smile the size of an ostrich egg.
He waved to Lesniak. “Please, come aboard.”
His Tonga accent was heavy. His warmth seemed genuine. His name tag read WALLY. He sensed Lesniak’s nervousness. Chuck was the only passenger on tonight’s cocktail-hour tour of the Zambezi River. He’d paid for a private ride.
“Please. The boat is thoroughly sound. I will show you. Her engine is three hundred fifty horsepower and built by Chevrolet.”
Captain Wally was misreading Lesniak’s apprehension, but that suited him. He nodded. “Made in the USA. Then it’s A-okay with me.”
Lesniak climbed aboard. The boat rocked and his binoculars swung from the strap around his neck. It was a whomping big speedboat, called a jet boat to convince tourists they were having an extreme-sports experience along with their wine coolers. He touched his pants pocket to check that the flask was secure. The flask was the only bottle he needed tonight. The wind hissed through the grass again. Not long now.
The first mate cast off from the dock. Captain Wally started the engine. It rumbled awake, spewing exhaust. He goosed the throttles and slid smoothly away from the dock. White water churned behind the boat.
Over the gargle of the engine, the captain called to him. “Please, have a seat in the bow. It is cooler there. Enjoy a beverage.”
Lesniak edged to the front of the boat, grabbing a beer from the cooler. A beer couldn’t hurt. Could steady his nerves. Brass ring. Last chance to grab it.
He had to keep calm. If he could do this, he’d be set for life. Then he could split to California. Forget South Africa—he was never going back. He’d only moved to Johannesburg to work for the company, and that job was gone. He snorted.
It’s not a job, it’s a malaria-ridden adventure. Screw Chira-Sayf and all its shiny promises. He’d never adapted to South Africa, even though Jo’burg looked like Dallas, and everybody spoke some kind of English, and he had a Porsche and a house with a maid and a cook and guard dogs and CCTV mounted behind the razor wire on the walls that surrounded his lush garden. And he’d had money, boo-coo bucks compared to what a materials technician made in the U.S. Until the boss pulled the plug.
The boat accelerated through thick air. The sun hung fat and red above the water. Lesniak uncapped his Castle lager, tilted his head back, and drank.
The beer was icy. Yes, he deserved this. This drink, this chance. The flask felt warm in his pocket. Brass ring.
Why had the boss shut the project down? Only one answer made sense: He was getting rich out of it. Screw the employees, lay everybody off, while the fat cats slurped the cream.
Yeah, Alec Shepard was keeping the technology, keeping the product for himself, and planning to sell it to God knows who. That’s how the rich operated.
The river was huge—sinuous, half a mile wide, and running high. In the ripening sunset the water looked darker than blue, almost purple. He checked his watch. Ten minutes to rendezvous.
He’d been here less than a day, taken a flight from Jo’burg to Lusaka and then a commuter hop down to Livingstone, Zambia’s tourist hot spot. He’d spent the night in a five-star lodge beside the river. Ignored all the activities on offer—wildlife safaris, African dance performances, whitewater rafting below Victoria Falls. Sat in his air-conditioned room watching ESPN on cable. March Madness, Kentucky vs. UCLA. He’d kept the blinds closed. Even ten thousand miles from California, smack in the center of southern Africa, he felt paranoid.
When you renegotiate a deal to cut out the middleman, you’d better look over your shoulder.
His contacts had chosen this spot for two reasons. First, because Livingstone and Mosi-O-Tunya National Park were full of European tourists, so a couple more white faces wouldn’t draw attention. Second, because this was a great place to smuggle something across a border.
