The Memory Collector

by Meg Gardiner

  “Stop it. Focus,” he whispered.

  He put the Navigator in reverse and whipped out of the driveway. He jammed it into drive and drove into the morning sun. He knew who he had to find. Alec. Shepard was target number one. The others were down the line. But even if he killed the others, even if he tortured them before he executed them, Alec would be the worst, because when Kanan found him, they’d be confronted with the inescapable truth of his betrayal.

  A new song rolled from the stereo. “Breakdown.” Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, cold and sinuous. Break down, go ahead and give it to me . . .

  That was more like it.

  12

  “Forget the coffee. Get in the garage. Now.”

  Murdock opened the door and jerked a thumb at Ken and Vance. Ken lumbered through the doorway. His shirt stretched over the fat around his waist and across the veined flesh of his bulging arms. His acne seemed more inflamed than ever.

  “I told you Kanan was a wild card,” he said. “He’s gone off the rails and he’s going to take us with him.”

  “Hold it together,” Murdock said.

  The garage was cold and the bare bulb gave off unfriendly light. Vance jittered in a circle around them. “Are we screwed?”

  He sniffled and tugged on his belt buckle to keep his jeans up. Or maybe to check whether his package had slunk away overnight without him knowing.

  Murdock shook his shaven head. “Focus on the big picture. We hold the winning hand. Kanan is going to close the deal.”

  Vance wiped his nose. “’Cause if we’re screwed, I want to get out of here. Get things over with. I’m sick of waiting. And bored out of my skull.”

  Murdock glanced at Ken. “Explain to your cousin what we need to do.”

  Ken sucked his teeth. “We’re going to stake out places Kanan is likely to show. You’re going to watch his house.”

  Vance adjusted the blue bandanna that was tied over his hair as a do-rag. “This was supposed to be a sure thing.”

  Ken glowered at him.

  Ken may have been a pessimist, but he was a pro. Vance, though, was an incurable amateur. He was supposed to be Ken’s apprentice in the art of specialist theft, but Murdock saw that even Ken had doubts about his cousin’s potential. And this was a job on which they couldn’t afford any more mistakes.

  “Eyes on the prize,” he said. “That lab in South Africa made bottled magic, and Kanan got it.”

  “So how come he ain’t delivered?” Vance said.

  “Stop fidgeting.” He stepped toward Vance. “Do you realize what a huge advantage we have, obtaining this stuff? This isn’t like trafficking firearms or C4 overseas. The logistics are astounding. We don’t need a Ryder truck or a shipping container. This stuff can be carried in your pocket. It’s the score of a lifetime.”

  Ken rubbed his nose. Yeah, yeah, Murdock thought—the stuff was incredibly tricky, too. But that was what made it so incredibly valuable.

  He pointed a finger at Vance. “This is going to turn you into a badass beyond your wildest, gun-toting, ho-and-bitch-filled dreams. This stuff is the real deal. It’s a superstar. And we’re about to be the world’s sole suppliers.”

  Vance shrugged his shoulders and wiped his nose again. “Yeah. Cool.”

  Murdock nodded at Ken. “Call Sales. There’s no need to postpone the auction. One way or another, Kanan’s going to deliver today.”

  He spread his arms. “We’re going to be the lords of fear.”

  Amy Tang was waiting outside Ron Gingrich’s apartment building on a side street in the Haight, talking on the phone. The breeze lifted Jo’s hair from her collar and spun it around her face. She buttoned her peacoat and jogged across the street to the magenta-painted building.

  Tang, repudiating the neighborhood’s Day-Glo color scheme, was wearing black jeans, a black sweater, black boots. She looked like she’d shopped at Baby Gap for Goths.

  She put away her phone. “I told Gingrich his boss is dead. He’s upstairs bawling like a baby. I need you to tell me if he’s faking.”

  Behind Tang on the corner, three grimy teenagers slouched on the sidewalk, panhandling. One of the girls held out her right hand for money and talked on a cell phone with her left. The cardboard sign at her feet said, AT LEAST I’M NOT A HOOKER.

  Jo and Tang walked up creaking stairs to the third-floor apartment where Ron Gingrich lived with his girlfriend. A uniformed SFPD officer was standing outside the door. The apartment was small and haphazardly friendly. Batik sheets covered the sagging sofa. Spider plants decorated the television and bookshelf. Hendrix and Grateful Dead posters decorated the walls. The kitchen smelled like bacon and fried eggs.

  Gingrich’s girlfriend, Clare, was thin and nervous. So were the three Chihuahuas jumping around her feet like grease in a frying pan.

  “You’re a shrink?” she said. “Please tell me what’s wrong with him.”

  Gingrich was sitting in a beanbag chair by the bay window in the living room, wearing gym shorts and a Metallica T-shirt. His ponytail was greasy. His eyes, watching pro wrestling on the television, were bright.

  Clare and the dogs approached him. “Ron, sweetie, the doctor’s here to see you.”

  Gingrich looked up pleasantly. “Hey, it’s the shrink from the plane.” He stood. “Man, that was weird. Did you end up sectioning the guy?” He offered his hand to Tang. “I’m Ron.”

  Tang’s mouth tightened. “We met a few minutes ago.”

  A dust bunny of confusion scooted across Gingrich’s face. “Sure. You guys here to interview me about the fight on the plane?”

  “No,” Jo said. “About Jared.”

  “Just give him a call. He’ll be happy to talk. He’s rich and all, but you don’t need to go through me. He’s approachable.”

  Tang shifted uncomfortably and cut her eyes at Jo.

  “Want coffee? Clare, baby, we got some of that Colombian?” Gingrich smiled and headed into the kitchen. “We haven’t eaten—you gals want to stay for breakfast?”

  Clare’s face was frozen. “He ate three eggs, toast, and bacon half an hour ago. He ate three more eggs fifteen minutes ago.”

  Whistling, Gingrich pulled out a skillet and turned on the stove. “How you like ’em, ladies?”

  Jo avoided Tang’s scowl and walked into the kitchen. “Ron, hold on a second.”

  “No eggs for you?”

  “I need to ask you about Jared.”

  “Sure, but why so serious?” His eyes were red but untroubled. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s about the party at his house last night.”

  “Last night?” He smiled, but his expression was vague. “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you flip the electrical switch in the pool shed?” Jo said.

  “Doctor, I think you’re confused. I just got back from London.”

  “Ron, Jared’s dead.”

  He stopped cold, holding an egg in his hand. For a moment, it looked like he’d taken a two-by-four between the eyes. Then he sagged back against the stove. He groped for balance and crushed the egg against the counter.

  “No. How did it . . . ? Oh, Christ.” He looked at his girlfriend. “Clare—Jared’s . . . oh, God.”

  Gingrich slid down the counter into a wretched crouch and burst into tears.

  Jo saw the red slice on his forearm. It looked like it had been gouged with a dull nail.

  “Ron?” she said.

  He thrust his head into his hands.

  Jo turned to Clare. “He needs to get to the hospital.”

  She took out her phone and called neurologist Rick Simioni.

  Kanan swung the maroon Navigator into the marina. The bay was stippled with whitecaps. Alcatraz shimmered in the morning haze. He cruised toward the forest of sailboat masts, scanning for threats.

  He was operating on a simple principle: To stay alive, assume the worst. Expect an ambush. He’d once seen a sign tacked to the door at a U.S. Marine firebase: HAVE A PLAN TO KILL EVERYBODY YOU MEET TO
DAY. It was pertinent advice.

  He cruised along, checking for vehicles or people who seemed out of place. Two Post-it notes were stuck to the dashboard. The first read: Vehicle, Weps, Alec, THEM. The word vehicle was crossed out. He was driving it. The second note said, Somebody’s Baby.

  The voice of the GPS system said, “Make a U-turn.”

  He looked up. He was at the San Francisco marina, staring out the windshield at the Golden Gate Bridge.

  He turned around, drove back to the boats, parked, and got out. The sky was a happy, mocking blue, but the pines shuddered in a melancholy wind. He pulled up the collar of his denim shirt and walked toward the mooring slip.

  He felt the dagger jammed in his boot. Felt a rock where his heart should be, dense and so heated that for a moment he could barely inhale.

  Suck it up, he told himself. Go past the betrayal, finish the job, and get them.

  The marina looked full—only a few sails were visible on the bay. The people who moored their boats here were at work in the financial district or Silicon Valley, humping sixteen-hour days to pay for their hundred-thousand-dollar toys.

  Ahead he saw Somebody’s Baby. Her fiberglass hull gleamed in the sunshine. He hopped aboard, descended the stairs, and jimmied the lock on the cabin door.

  Ken Meiring sat in the black van and watched the Navigator cruise past him, twice, three times—Jesus, how many times was this guy going to circle the parking lot? Finally the Navigator U-turned and drove back. Ian Kanan got out and headed for the boats.

  Meiring got out and followed.

  Inside Somebody’s Baby, the cabin was sleek and quiet. Nobody was aboard. Kanan went to the galley, got a set of keys, and unlocked a cabinet built into the bench seat along the cabin wall.

  “Damn it.”

  No weapons. No handgun, no shotgun, not even the boat’s flare gun. Someone had taken them. He stared in dismay.

  The boat rocked and shoes squeaked on the deck above.

  Quietly, Kanan retreated to the galley. He pulled its half door partway closed and crouched behind it. The squeaking shoes came down the stairs. They sounded heavy, like rubber-soled boots. They stopped.

  Kanan peered around the half door. A man stood, his back turned, in the center of the cabin. He was in his late thirties, white, built like a freezer. Fat circled his waist like sculpted shortening. His neck was inflamed with the grotesque acne that resulted from steroid abuse. His right hand held an HK automatic pistol.

  Kanan’s skin prickled with adrenaline. A stranger with a gun. One of them?

  He estimated his chances. The man looked slow. He had turned his back without first searching the galley. If he was a pro, he was not at the top of his game.

  But neither was Kanan. This block of lard had been lying in wait, and he hadn’t spotted him.

  The man was three steps and half a second away, confined in a narrow space. Kanan bunched, threw the door back, and sprang.

  The man heard him and began to turn. Kanan swept the man’s left knee with his right leg and hit him in the spine flat-handed between the shoulder blades. The man pitched forward. His head cracked the edge of the bench seat and he hit the floor like a pot roast. Kanan stomped on his right hand and took the gun.

  He dropped a knee onto the man’s back and put the barrel to his skull. “Who are you?”

  Sounding shocked, the man said, “This is my boat.”

  “It isn’t. What do you want?”

  The man gave up the pretense. Through clenched teeth, his voice roughened. “You’re in trouble. You haven’t delivered and the deadline’s coming.”

  Kanan slid his knee up to the back of the man’s neck and pressed his weight against it. “Where are they?”

  The man’s face grew red. “Deliver the stuff.”

  “You want to walk out of this alive? Tell me.”

  “The stuff. Or go fuck yourself.” The man raised a hand to his throat. “Air . . . get off.”

  Kanan pulled his arm back like a batter winding up and swung the pistol across the man’s forehead. The man’s skin split and his eyes unfocused. A skid mark of blood pulsed from the cut. His head flopped against the floor.

  Kanan rifled the man’s pockets. He found a driver’s license and cell phone. The man’s name was Ken Meiring. He scrolled through the phone’s call register.

  Murdock.

  Vance.

  A 650 number.

  Kanan stopped. He knew that number. What the hell?

  He scrolled further. The number appeared again, and again, and again.

  “Oh, God,” he said. He had wondered who was behind everything. But not . . . “Christ.”

  Beneath him Meiring bunched and groaned. Drool slipped from his mouth. Kanan pressed the weight of his knee against Meiring’s neck. As he did, his hand hit the phone’s camera function. A stored photo popped on-screen.

  It was a snapshot of Seth.

  Kanan gaped at it. A snapshot of Seth on his bike, riding to school.

  The dense rock in his chest seemed to burn. “You stalked my son? You brought him into this?”

  Meiring struggled beneath him, lips pulled back, groaning and trying to squirm away. “We can all still go home winners. Don’t fuck this up.”

  Seth. His boy. Kanan could barely see. His voice cracked like a ruined china bowl. “Tell me where they are. Or I will kill you.”

  Meiring kicked out and tried to grab Kanan’s arm. “Kill me and you’re screwed.”

  Kanan pressed the barrel of the pistol against Meiring’s temple. “Forget going home a winner. You want to go home? Tell me.”

  Meiring’s eyes flicked to the pistol’s safety, which was off, and the trigger, which had Kanan’s finger on it.

  “Don’t—Christ, okay, I’ll . . . they’re down the peninsula.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll take you.”

  “Where?”

  “No way.”

  Like a bell had begun ringing, Kanan made the connection. The familiar number in Meiring’s cell phone. Down the peninsula. Jesus Christ.

  “Off San Antonio Road in Mountain View,” he said flatly.

  Meiring’s eyes widened.

  Shit. That was the address. An old ranch house, supposedly used as a rental—but these people were using it for a safe house. That’s where everything began and ended.

  A terrible urgency filled him. He had to get there. And he had to write it down before he forgot it.

  “San Antonio Road in Mountain View. San Antonio Road . . .”

  He looked around for something to write with. He stretched and reached for a drawer. Beneath him Meiring roared. Bucking like an animal, he threw him off balance. Kanan fell against the bench. Meiring rolled and began punching like a madman. Kanan wrestled him onto his back, wrapped his thighs around the man’s head, and squeezed him in a crazed wrestling lock.

  “San Antonio Road Mountain View,” he said.

  He pulled out a drawer. Junk poured across the floor. He grabbed a marker with his left hand. Meiring grunted and fought for purchase with his feet. Kanan squeezed his legs around Meiring’s neck and pulled off the cap of the pen with his teeth. Meiring groaned, dug his heels into the floor, and arched his back. His fists windmilled, batting at Kanan’s legs.

  Kanan pressed the marker to the fiberglass floor. Wrote San An—

  With a strangled roar, Meiring broke free from the headlock. Kanan brought up the gun but Meiring elbowed him in the face and thumped to his feet and fled up the stairs.

  Hold on to the words, hold on—Christ, he needed Meiring, alive and talking, because he would forget. Meiring knew everything and he was getting away.

  Kanan scrambled to his feet. Up top, Meiring stuttered across the deck. His foot clipped a cleat. He lost his balance. Lurching for the edge, he tried to jump for the dock. He missed.

  With a shout, he fell from sight.

  Kanan heard a splash. He stared out the cabin door at the empty deck and the blue sky. The sunlight stung
his eyes. Gulls shrieked overhead. He put a hand against the cabin wall for balance.

  Where was he?

  He held still and oriented himself. He was aboard Somebody’s Baby.

  He had an HK pistol in his hand. The cabin door was jimmied open and a drawer had been dumped on the floor. He was out of breath and his shoulder hurt, maybe from breaking open the door. He didn’t recognize the pistol, but if it had been in the drawer, it would do. He ejected the magazine. It was full. He inserted it again and cleared the chamber.

  He heard splashing outside, and a fearful cry.

  He ran up the stairs to the deck. Bending over the rail, he saw a man in the water below, desperation on his face.

  The guy was heavyset, and his forehead was bleeding. He struggled to the boat and slapped the hull, trying to get purchase. He sank under the surface and came up spitting.

  Like goddamned Chuck Lesniak in the Zambezi River, clawing to get back aboard the jet boat.

  “Hang on,” Kanan said.

  He hesitated, then pulled off his denim shirt, stuck the HK and his phone in the sleeves, and set it on the deck. He knelt, reached down, and snagged the collar of the man’s shirt.

  “Calm down. I got you.”

  To his shock, the man shouted, grabbed his arm with both hands, and pulled him overboard.

  Kanan hit face-first and plunged into water so cold that it burned. He came up gasping and saw the man’s face. It looked like an out-of-control freight train.

  The man was one of them.

  He grabbed Kanan’s hair and scythed his elbow around Kanan’s neck like a wrecking crane swinging its claw arm. They went down together.

  Knees, elbows, fingers, enormous strength quickening around Kanan’s windpipe. They sank and twisted, legs locking. The man’s grip was crushing.

  The light dimmed. Below the surface the water was the color of coal slag. His lungs and bones and skin screamed at him. Air.

  He fought the panic, brought up his knee, and reached into the side of his boot. His arm felt sluggish in the water. The night came at him from the edges of his world, gray and then black around the corners of his eyes, a tunnel, telescoping to a single point at the center of the big man’s belly. He pulled the dagger from his boot.