by Meg Gardiner
Jo came in behind him. Gabe sipped his coffee, looking like he had all the time in the world. For a man qualified far beyond paramedic level, a man trained for trauma evac under battlefield conditions and who had more parachute jumps under his belt than some members of the 101st Airborne, he knew how to project the image that life’s a beach. Nothing but flip-flops and good surf and a cold bottle of beer. But Jo had spent enough time with him in the past few months, and before that, in the direst of circumstances, to know that his passions and his pride and a fierce killer instinct ran deep.
He was staring at her notes on Ian Kanan.
Ferd stepped between them. “This virus has been documented in the Congo. I read about it on the World Veterinary Association web-site. Several species in the interior highlands have been affected.”
Jo slid past him. “Glad the vets are on the case.”
A pebble of annoyance lodged in her mind. Gabe was reading her notes and looking at the photocopies of Kanan’s passport and driver’s license. She gathered them up and closed her laptop.
“I’m monitoring the situation,” Ferd said. “But I don’t know the latency period for the virus.”
“Sure you don’t want a doughnut?” she said.
“How long can these diseases incubate?”
Jo put her hands on her hips. “Dude. Mr. Peebles didn’t come from the Congo. He came from a pet shop in San Mateo.”
Mr. Peebles was the monkey Ferd had managed to obtain as an emotional assistance animal. But the little creature was every bit as suspicious and overanxious as Ferd and acted out its compulsions without inhibition. It escaped from his house with semi-regular efficiency. It had a look in its eye like it was getting instructions via a Secret Service earpiece—for a hit. And it knew how to fling shit with deadly accuracy.
With his miniature doppelgänger living in the mansion, Ferd seemed closer to panic than ever.
He eyed Gabe. “These viruses can rage like wildfire. It could make Outbreak look like a picnic.” He turned to Jo. “Don’t worry, I’m on top of things.”
“Good to know.”
He stood smiling at her, head slightly tilted, eyes defocusing.
“Ferd.” She didn’t want him daydreaming that he had rescued the Elf Princess Johanna and saved the hobbits from doom.
His head snapped back up. “I’m wondering. You know, about the symptoms.”
“A vet would know,” Jo said.
God exists and will punish you for ruining the life of a local veterinarian , her conscience muttered.
“The abstracts only mention physical signs,” Ferd said. “Not psychological symptoms.”
Jo shook her head. “Nope.”
“But—”
“Mr. Peebles is eighteen inches tall and weighs four pounds. He’s small enough. He doesn’t need a shrink.” And especially not her.
“He’s ...”
Gabe looked up from his coffee. “Write it all down. Keep a log.”
Ferd nodded. “That’s not a bad idea. I’m just worried that—”
“Keep it quiet for now. You don’t want to start a panic.”
Ferd frowned. Venting his worries aloud was his modus operandi.
“Picture driving down Geary Boulevard with Mr. Peebles in the passenger seat, when the city’s scared witless about infected monkeys,” Gabe said. “A mob would put a trash can through your windshield.”
Ferd put a hand to his stomach. “But . . . I just can’t help worrying about the way he’s acting. He—”
“You’d be lucky to get out with anything besides your socks on.”
Jo said, “Just keep an eye on things.”
Ferd straightened and nodded sternly. “If he shows symptoms, I’ll alert you.”
“Please.” Jo began inching him toward the door.
He called over his shoulder. “Have a good day at school, Gabe. I’m going to work.”
Jo got the door closed and walked back to the kitchen. Gabe was pacing near the kitchen table, arms crossed. She gave him a look.
He nodded at her notes. “That a new case you’re working on?”
She stuck her hands in her back pockets and waited for him to apologize. He didn’t.
“That’s confidential information,” she said.
“The notes were open on the table. I didn’t mean to pry.” His eyes were a warm brown, but his gaze was cool. “The man involved, Kanan—he grabbed you and threatened you?”
“I’m fine. The police are looking for him.”
“Kanan’s a security consultant for an outfit in Silicon Valley?”
“Gabe, you don’t need to worry about this.”
His shoulders tightened. “Is he?”
She relented. “Yes.”
“He doesn’t sound like a corporate sheepdog. He sounds like a security contractor.”
She didn’t think she was hearing him right. “You think he’s a mercenary?”
“Describe the guy for me,” Gabe said.
“You saw his photo.”
“Passport head shot. It’s not enough.”
“Midthirties. Your height. Dressed casually, but obviously in shape. Lean. Carries himself . . . alertly.”
“Ripped?”
“Yes,” she said.
“‘Alertly.’ You mean high-level situational awareness?”
“Aside from his memory loss, yes.” She recalled thinking that Kanan held himself like a gunslinger. “Go on.”
“It’s just a suspicion. But the kind of people corporations hire to shepherd their employees on trips to third world countries aren’t school crossing guards.”
His seriousness shook her. “I’ll check it out,” she said.
“Good. Mind if I do as well?”
“You don’t need to.”
“Do you mind?”
“You’re not involved.” She saw no change in his expression. “No, I don’t mind. Depending on what you plan to do.”
“Find out who he worked for before signing on as in-house security for Chira-Sayf. I can ask people I know. See if he worked for a security contractor with military ties.”
“Okay.” She felt uncomfortable accepting his offer of help. She wasn’t a damsel in distress. “Gabe, this is generous of you, but overcautious. Kanan doesn’t scare me.”
Even then, his face didn’t change. She saw only a flicker in his eyes before he stepped forward and put his hand on her hip.
“He should.” He kissed her again. “I’ll call you.”
9
Seth had lost track of time again. He couldn’t keep his mind focused. He tried to think about school, about algebra, but couldn’t concentrate. Today was one more day when he hadn’t turned in any homework. He tried to think about the band but kept hearing his guitar crack and sproing when he fell off his bike and landed on it. The fear swallowed everything.
He looked at his plate. It was chipped. His hot dog sat there, lukewarm.
He knew the men were out there. He was being watched. The whole house was. And if he tried to leave. . . . He smelled the hot dog. His stomach rumbled. His mouth watered. He grabbed it and ate it in three bites.
Whiskey still cried now and then. Did dogs remember traumatic events? It gave him a hairy lump in the throat. Stop that, he told himself. Whiskey was alive. They hadn’t killed him.
He still couldn’t figure out why they wanted him. Except that it couldn’t be anything besides his dad, and his dad’s work.
He knew more than he’d ever let on around his folks. He knew they didn’t want to talk about too much in front of him.
What do you do, Dad?
That usually got either a shrug or a brush-off. Once it had gotten a bit of truth: “I keep people out of trouble.”
When his dad said that, his mom had looked across the room with concern. Seth got the feeling they had some secret deal not to tell him about his dad’s work, and that his dad had just violated it.
Like Dad was a criminal. And Seth was a baby.
�
��Your dad’s home nowadays,” his mom had said.
Mostly, Seth had thought. His dad didn’t have overseas deployments anymore, but he still went on business trips. Seth would see him packing his passport in his jacket pocket.
I keep people out of trouble. But now Seth was in trouble, and it was because of his dad. Where was his dad? Did he know about this? It had been six days. Seth might keep losing track of time, but he knew that much. Six bowls of Rice Krispies. Six Hot Pockets. Now six hot dogs. Later he’d drink a bottle of Gatorade and then it would get dark and the house would get locked down tight and he would feel the fear because the men were out there.
He had heard them talking, when they grabbed him in the park. The human hot dog told the man with acne that security was going to be useless. “The returns are going to be huge. Through the roof.”
How long was this going to go on? When was his dad going to get here?
Because he would. Seth knew it. He knew it like he knew the way home through the park in the dark. Like he knew the entire back catalogue of the Foo Fighters and the guitar riff for “The Pretender.” Dad would get here. The men might have threatened him, told him if he didn’t behave he’d never see his dad again, but he didn’t believe them. No matter how scared he got of his dad—and he did, because he knew his dad wasn’t like other fathers, didn’t install electrical wiring in apartment buildings or put braces on people’s teeth. He kept people out of trouble.
Seth was in trouble. His dad would help. Seth could count on that. He could tell his dad anything, no matter how hard it was—even this. He just had to be patient. But for now, right now, he had to get out of here.
“This the place?”
Ian Kanan looked up from his phone. The taxi was crawling west along Crissy Field Avenue. The field was empty. Nobody was out. The cabbie eyed him in the mirror.
“Hang on,” Kanan said.
He couldn’t go home. They’d be watching the house, twenty-four/ seven. And they’d be trying to trace his location via cell phone triangulation. He went into the phone’s menu, deep down, and set it to Nontransmit. Airplane mode—he could leave the phone powered up, take photos, retrieve all the information stored in it, but his handset would not transmit or receive. It didn’t check in with any cell towers. And nobody could find him.
In a submenu, he configured the phone to activate the transmit mode at ten P.M. Friday night.
He saw the writing on his right arm. Severe memory loss. I cannot form new memories. No kidding. He didn’t remember telling the cabbie to come to Crissy Field. He didn’t remember getting in the taxi.
He was in trouble. He didn’t have his backpack, his computer, anything besides his phone. His head was leaking memories like air from a punctured scuba tank. He was alone, by the bay in San Francisco, and he was aiming to lay low. The plan, obviously, was blown.
He had to go to his fallback.
“Let me out here,” he said.
“You sure, buddy?”
“Positive.” He buttoned his denim shirt over the Fade to Clear T-shirt. It was going to be cold out. “Do you have a pen and paper I could have? I’ll buy them from you.”
That got him another look in the mirror. The cabbie turned, heavy in the seat, and handed him a ballpoint pen and a chunk of Post-it notes.
“Thanks.” Kanan paid him, stuck the pen and paper in his shirt pocket, and got out.
The wind slapped him side-on. The cab drove away, heading for someplace that wasn’t deserted.
The plan was blown. He had to go to the fallback. That thought blew through him harder than the March wind. He turned up his shirt collar and snugged his arms to his sides. Seth’s Fade to Clear shirt could help keep the chill out. He told himself to hang on to that thought.
For a second, he saw Seth, all elbows and skinny legs, glasses sliding down his nose, face deadly serious as he played his guitar. The school talent show, an audience of loopy fourteen-year-olds cheering for his kid’s band. Misty standing by his side, face bright. She had leaned against him, almost laughing with pride. In the din, he leaned down, pulled her hair back, and murmured in her ear, “He’s all you, babe. Talent and passion.”
Now he hoped that Seth had inherited enough of Misty’s grit. His son would desperately need it.
Kanan had never felt so alone. He wanted to see his family more than anything, but he couldn’t, not until this thing was done. He fought to keep his focus. He couldn’t let his mind wander. He had to do the job.
I cannot form new memories. And he realized that from now on, all he might have of his family were memories.
He needed a plan. It had to be simple.
Get a vehicle. Get weapons. Track Alec, then the others.
He scanned the road, the steel-gray bay, and the towering Golden Gate Bridge. The bridge approach loomed high overhead on the hillside, through eucalyptus trees and pines bent to the wind. He put his head down and walked into the wilderness of the Presidio.
Late that afternoon, Jo got through to Misty Kanan. Ian’s wife didn’t like the idea of being interviewed.
“Ian’s lost and sick. Why aren’t you out on the street looking for him instead of giving me the third degree?” she said.
“We’ll have a better chance of finding him if we talk to the people who know him best. And that’s you.”
Misty paused. “Fine. Five P.M.”
At four thirty, Lieutenant Tang pulled up in front of Jo’s house in an unmarked car. She honked like an impatient teenager. Jo hopped in and Tang peeled away from the curb.
“Got a plan to tackle this psychological non-autopsy?” Tang said.
“The groundwork’s the same for evaluating Kanan’s situation as for a case of equivocal death. Build a personality profile of the subject.”
Tang headed downhill. Jo braced herself against the incline. They passed a woman in her seventies out walking her beagle, chugging up the sidewalk like Tenzing ascending Everest.
“I’ll evaluate him using the NASH rubric,” Jo said. “Try to determine whether his brain injury is natural, accidental, or a case of attempted suicide or homicide.”
In conducting a psychological autopsy, Jo normally reviewed police and accident reports along with the victim’s medical, psychological, and educational history. She interviewed a victim’s family, friends, and colleagues. Reactions by friends and relatives to a person’s death were particularly pertinent. So were early warning signs of suicide and any indication that somebody had intended harm. She looked at things the victim had written, learned about his hobbies, reading habits, taste in music. About his fantasies, fears, and phobias. She tried to find out whether he had enemies.
She explained to Tang. “I’ll build a timeline of events leading up to Kanan’s injury. Maybe that’ll help us find out what happened to him.”
“Fine. You play the good shrink. I’ll strip the bark off of Misty Kanan.”
“You think she needs it?”
“If Kanan’s involved in a bungled heist, how likely is it that his wife’s oblivious?”
Jo considered that. She had her doubts. “Let’s get the lay of the land. Build up to that slowly.” She glanced at Tang. “This is still somewhat unofficial on your part, isn’t it? Let me take the lead.”
They beat Misty Kanan to her house, a flat-topped postwar stucco home in the Richmond District north of Golden Gate Park. The houses were packed together like shoeboxes, the street a vista of asphalt, concrete, and overhead electrical wires. But cherry trees were in bloom. Bright fistfuls of blossoms had turned the curbsides an aggressive pink, brightening the view. In many cities, the neighborhood would have been considered the tough end of middle-class. But in San Francisco, if you dropped a burger wrapper on the sidewalk and gave it a street number, it was worth $500,000. The Kanans were doing well.
They parked at the curb. The rain had stopped. The clouds were broken, and along the western horizon the sun was a screaming orange. Tang huddled into her coat, chewing gum and biting her thumb
nail.
Jo said, “Are you fighting the urge for a nicotine fix? Because that would be good.”
“I’m on pins and needles, praying my dream date asks me to the prom.”
“Neato. I hear this year’s prom theme is Carrie.”
Tang hunched in her jacket. Jo backed off and shut up.
Down at the south end of the street, a midnight-blue Chevy Tahoe turned the corner from Fulton. It was tricked out with hunting lights and a bull bar. Misty Kanan was behind the wheel. She cruised up the street and turned into the driveway.
Jo and Tang got out and walked over. The Tahoe idled on the driveway as the garage door went up. Misty put down her window.
“Let me to go in and turn off the burglar alarm. I’ll come around and open the front door,” she said.
She drove into the garage. The brake lights glowed hot red, exhaust swirling around them. Jo and Tang went to the front door and waited in a blustering wind. After several cold minutes, Misty let them in.
“Sorry. I checked the bedrooms and the utility room. I was hoping Ian might . . .” She shrugged.
“Has he been here?” Jo said.
“No.” She spread her arms and let them drop to her sides. “I can’t believe he ran from the hospital.”
“You have any idea why he ran?” Tang said.
“Because he’s . . . off the wall, mentally.”
Shrugging again, Misty led them along the front hall and through the kitchen. The house was compact and modern, floored with blond wood. Dishes were stacked in the sink, a bottle of ketchup open on the counter. The fridge was covered with magnets and a high school schedule. A dog bowl sat in the corner, full of food.
Jo said, “Mrs. Kanan, the police have asked me to evaluate Ian’s mental state. I need to ask some direct questions if we’re going to find your husband and figure out what has caused this—”
“Disaster,” Misty said.
“Yes.”
“I’m a pretty tough cookie. You can be direct.”
Misty headed to the living room. It had been decorated via Target, with a cheap-and-cheerful chic. A stack of newspapers slumped across the coffee table. A hamper of laundry sat on the floor, and in the corner the ironing board was set up, iron propped up, ready to go. Misty, though, had seemingly been stopped in her tracks.
