The Memory Collector

by Meg Gardiner

  “What’s going on?” Tina hissed.

  Jo clasped her sister hard, shaking, knowing she was about to cry. “What are you doing here? How did you get out?”

  “I called the computer store and left a message for Ferd and then I wondered if you’d caught the monkey,” Tina said in a blistering whisper. “So I followed you out the back door and I heard men in the house, and it scared the shit out of me, so I climbed over the fence like you did and . . . and . . .” Eyes down. “Knife? Who? Jo . . .”

  “You have a cell phone?”

  When Tina nodded, Jo pulled Alec Shepard’s business card from her jeans pocket. “Call.”

  Tina dialed, waited, said, “Voice mail.” She handed Jo the phone.

  “Alec, watch out. Two men have broken into my house. I’m worried they may go after your sister-in-law and nephew. If they’re carrying out a vendetta, one side takes out somebody from the other side. Even family. Call me.”

  She found a basket of keys on the kitchen counter. She grabbed it and pulled Tina toward the door to the garage.

  “Where are you going?” Tina said.

  “We’re going.” She opened the door and flipped the light switch. Fluorescents buzzed, flickered, and lit the garage. In the corner a motorcycle was parked under a tarp.

  “Come on,” Jo said.

  They hauled the tarp off. The bike was a Ducati, sleek and gleaming.

  Jo nodded at a pegboard on the wall. “Get those helmets.”

  She set the knife on a workbench and fumbled through the keys. Her hands were still shaking. Tina handed her a helmet. She put it on, swung a leg over the seat, and stuck the key in the bike’s ignition. She kicked the kickstand back.

  “Hit the door opener. And pray those assholes didn’t bring friends.”

  Putting on a helmet, Tina ran and pushed the switch. The door began rumbling up. Jo turned the ignition.

  The bike growled to full-throated life. Exhaust shot from the pipes. The door opened, exposing the driveway.

  Tina jumped on and wrapped her arms around Jo’s waist. “I didn’t know you could drive a motorcycle.”

  “Me neither.”

  She twisted the throttle and gunned the bike out of the garage.

  23

  Chilly fog was descending on the Kanans’ neighborhood. Jo’s hands were bone-cold on the handlebars of the bike. Streetlights glowed from within the mist like dandelion fuzz. So did the flashing lights of the police car parked outside the Kanans’ home.

  The lights spun lazily, red and blue, sweeping across the female officer who stood knocking on the front door. Jo pulled into the driveway, killed the bike’s engine, and climbed off.

  The officer approached her. “Mrs. Kanan?”

  She pulled off her helmet. “Jo Beckett. I phoned nine-one-one.”

  Tina took off her helmet and immediately made a phone call. Jo’s legs felt wobbly after the rattling ride on the bike.

  “Nobody’s home. House looks secure,” the officer said.

  Jo felt a glimmer of relief. “I don’t have my cell phone or Mrs. Kanan’s number. Let’s leave her a note telling her to get in touch.”

  The officer handed Jo a notepad. Jo scribbled a note to Misty and stuck it in the doorjamb like a writ.

  Turning to the officer, she said, “Two men broke into my house. Can you find out whether they’ve been apprehended?”

  “Of course.”

  The cop walked to the patrol car and picked up the radio. Tina climbed off the Ducati and walked over.

  “Dokie’s on his way,” Tina said. “He’ll be here in two minutes.”

  Dokie was this week’s boyfriend. Tina collected guys like charms on a bracelet.

  She hugged herself, shivering. “I’m an icicle.”

  Jo put an arm around her and rubbed her shoulder.

  The cop looked up. “No word yet, Dr. Beckett.”

  “I’m not going home until I know those men are in jail,” Jo said.

  The cop spread her hands. She couldn’t offer Jo any certainty. Jo sighed.

  In rock climbing, uncertainty provided the kick. On a difficult pitch, uncertainty—that you could reach the next hold or power your way over an overhang—was inspiring. It was called a challenge. But uncertainty as to whether the two home invaders had been captured caused nothing but a cramp in her stomach.

  “You have someplace to go?” the cop said. “I’ll have the department call you.”

  Jo gave her Tina’s number. The officer got back in the patrol car, turned off the flashing lights, and drove away into the thickening fog. As her taillights faded, a rustbucket Nissan came toward them up the street, its headlights blurry in the mist. Waving, Tina stepped to the curb. Dokie pulled up and got out, all fawn’s eyes and silver facial piercings and gleaming zippers on his leather jacket. He was Tina’s latest shiny thing. He kissed her.

  Tina turned to Jo. “Let’s get coffee and go to my place.”

  At the end of the street, another vehicle turned the corner from Fulton. From the sound of the motor and the height of the lights, it was an SUV. Jo’s anxiety zinged and she tried to see whether it was the red Navigator. Misty Kanan’s Chevy Tahoe materialized from the fog.

  Jo glanced at Tina. “I’ll catch up. I need to talk to this gal first.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. Twenty minutes, tops.”

  Tina turned to go, and turned back. “At Ferd’s house . . .” She half laughed and blinked back emotion. “You were going to rescue me with that humongous knife? Awesome.”

  Jo squeezed her hand. She felt herself smile.

  Tina grabbed her in a rabid hug. “I was so scared.”

  “So was I.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jo smiled. “I love you, too.”

  Tina shot her a winsome grin and ran to the car. In a cloud of white exhaust, Dokie pulled away.

  The Chevy Tahoe slowed, engine rumbling, and turned into the driveway. The driver’s window came down.

  Misty Kanan’s eyes were wide and wary. “Is it Ian? Have you found him?”

  “Afraid not. I came to warn you. Two men broke into my house and rifled my files. They may have obtained your name and address.”

  Misty turned off the engine and climbed out. Her face was tight. “You mean they grabbed the information you’ve gathered on Ian?”

  “Possibly. And I don’t know if they’ve been caught.”

  Misty gave her a strong look, unblinking. “You presume this break-in has something to do with Ian. With me. Us.”

  “I can think of no other reason two men would invade my house and rummage through my case notes and computer files.”

  Misty stormed to the porch. She unlocked the door, headed in ahead of Jo, and flipped on a light.

  “Why do you have it in for us?” she said.

  Jo stepped back mentally. She recognized a paranoid question when she heard one.

  “I’m here to alert you, not to grill you. Some dangerous people may have obtained your name and address. I think you should get out. Take Seth and go someplace safe until these men are under arrest.”

  The house was cold. Only the single hall light was on. Misty stood between Jo and the rest of her home, arms crossed, keys clenched in her fist. Perhaps she was drawing into a shell to protect herself psychologically from chaos and fear. But with every second that passed, Jo grew more suspicious.

  “I know you’re terribly worried about Ian. But people are dying.”

  “Dying? Who?”

  “Two people who were aboard his flight yesterday have been killed, and at least one other passenger has the same brain damage as Ian. Whatever injured your husband may be contagious.”

  Misty drew back, frowning in disbelief. “No.”

  “And a man was stabbed to death in the marina this morning. They found him floating beside Somebody’s Baby.”

  “What?”

  “The police have issued a warrant for Ian’s arrest.”

  “Th
e police think Ian killed a man? No—that’s . . . but he’s sick. He can’t be held responsible for his actions.”

  Wow, Jo thought. Misty didn’t deny that her husband might have stabbed a man to death. She didn’t even try to deny the possibility.

  “If it was him,” Jo said.

  “Yeah. If it was him.”

  The odor of sour milk wafted from the kitchen. Misty’s attitude smelled every bit as bad.

  “Who was the victim?” Misty said.

  “Man named Ken Meiring. Ring any bells?”

  Misty stared blankly for a moment. She blinked and tilted her head to one side as though trying to crack a balky vertebra. “No idea who that is.”

  “Really?” Jo said. “You sure? Ian stole his brother’s Navigator this morning. It was spotted at the marina after that. And he chased me with it this afternoon.”

  Misty’s bearing changed. For a second Jo thought she was going to lunge at her.

  “You saw Ian this afternoon?” she said.

  “I saw the car he stole, coming at me down Valencia Street. Then he took off after Alec.”

  A flash of heat in Misty’s eyes. “What does he want with you?”

  “I don’t know. Misty, the situation is critical and deteriorating. More people could die. Please help me. Tell me anything you know.”

  “Where did Ian go? Why didn’t you tell me this right away?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “Where’s Alec?” Misty said.

  “I don’t know—we got separated. I can’t get him on his cell or at the office or home. Do you have another way to reach him?”

  “No. Wait.” She put up a hand. “Let me think.”

  Whatever Misty was hiding, she was doing a lousy job of it. The cold of the house sank through Jo’s clothes.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Alec is Ian’s brother?”

  “You should have told me you saw Ian. You should have called me.” Misty’s tone was icy.

  “I did. Check your voice mail.”

  Outside the kitchen window, the mist was roiling into a heavy fog. The streetlights had dimmed to cotton. Jo’s nerves were still throwing off sparks from the shock of seeing the intruders in her house. And if a police consultant had shown up on her doorstep and warned her to take her kid and get the hell to safety, she wouldn’t have stood around the front hall complaining about the visit. She would have hauled ass.

  “Misty, you’re a wreck. Something’s killing you. Tell me what’s going on.”

  Misty began kneading a pendant that hung from a gold chain around her neck. Two gold dolphins leaping around a blue sapphire.

  From the first, Misty’s reactions had perplexed Jo. At the E.R. she had seemed devastated by the news of her husband’s condition. But instead of staying with him, she’d left in a panic. Jo had thought she was fleeing from the bad news—trying literally to outrun Kanan’s diagnosis. But now she thought something else entirely had driven Misty to flee. She didn’t know what—simply that everything about Misty Kanan was out of kilter.

  “I just want him home. He’s everything to me,” Misty said.

  “Of course,” Jo said.

  Kneading the dolphin pendant, she turned and headed for the living room. Jo followed.

  “Why would Ian hunt down his brother?” Jo said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Frankly, I think you do.”

  Misty turned on a table lamp. The Ikea furniture looked forlorn in the dim light. The laundry lay crumpled in the basket beside the easy chair. The iron was still sitting at attention on the ironing board in the corner, patiently waiting. Misty had revved into the red zone with worry about her husband, but the rest of her life had ground to a stop.

  Misty picked up a yellow throw pillow. She fluffed it and threw it on the couch.

  “Is somebody putting pressure on you?” Jo said.

  “No.”

  “Chira-Sayf?”

  Misty gave her a scornful look. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She bustled around the living room, picking up last week’s newspapers and putting them into a pile on the coffee table.

  Jo put out her hands in a calming gesture. “Hold still for one minute.”

  Misty picked up the television remote and tossed it on the newspapers. The remote skidded across the topmost and sent them all sliding to the floor again.

  Jo put out a hand. “Sit down.”

  Misty grabbed her wedding ring and began twirling it. “Nobody’s pressuring me. And I don’t know what’s going on.” Her voice was brittle. “Alec and Ian have a difficult relationship. But that doesn’t mean Ian wants to kill his brother.”

  The wedding ring matched the necklace. Dolphins circling a sapphire.

  Seeing Jo’s gaze on it, Misty stopped. From the laundry basket she took a T-shirt. Russell Athletic, gray, a man’s shirt. She smoothed it and stared at it, seemingly with fondness.

  “Misty?” Jo said. “Where’s Seth?”

  Confusion briefly creased Misty’s brow. She put the shirt against her chest as though protecting it. “At a friend’s.”

  “Does he know what’s going on?”

  “Excuse me, but that’s none of your business.”

  Jo tried to keep her expression neutral. Misty’s jaw tightened and her shoulders inched up.

  She dropped the shirt back in the laundry basket. “Excuse me.”

  She headed to the kitchen. Jo heard her open a cabinet and get out a glass. A second later the faucet turned on.

  Jo sat listening to a clock tick. It had now been three minutes since she warned Misty to grab her son and scram. Either Misty was too stupid to feel frightened, or she was in on things.

  Jo wasn’t going to get any more useful information from Misty. Amy Tang needed to turn on the bad dog attitude. She stood up.

  Newspaper sections lay scattered at her feet. Inserts had fallen out, glossy advertisements and coupon sections, and had slid partway beneath the sofa. But one of the glossy pages wasn’t from the newspaper. It was the corner of an eight-by-ten photograph. Jo bent and picked it up.

  It was a wedding photograph, embossed at the bottom with Misty & Ian, together forever. It must have fallen from the bookshelf and slipped beneath the sofa.

  The Kanans had married in a park. Ian looked young, fit, and handsome in his blue suit. His ice-chip gaze was worldly. Even at twenty he’d possessed a preternatural ability to see straight through people. He looked almost defiantly relaxed. He had his arm around Misty.

  She was smiling, bending against his side, holding a bouquet of gardenias. She was wearing a wispy wedding dress, and she was barefoot. She had baby’s breath in her hair. She looked about eighteen.

  She was not the woman in the kitchen.

  Heart knocking, Jo pored over the photo. She must be making a mistake.

  She wasn’t.

  The woman in the wedding photo looked much like the woman calling herself Misty. Amazingly like her, in fact. Same sylphlike figure, same creamy skin and sleek caramel hair. And the same pendant hanging around her neck: two dolphins leaping around a sapphire. But the woman in the photo had warm eyes and a gregarious smile, not the chill and resentfulness of the woman Jo had been speaking to. And in the photo Misty had a Celtic tattoo on her right arm.

  Outside the windows, the fog had thickened. Jo’s thoughts sharpened to a single word: imposter.

  She began seeing clearly—the fact that the house was always cold and dark, and Misty rarely around. The hesitation about details of the family’s life. The woman’s lack of interest in how Seth would cope with everything.

  Because the woman didn’t care about Seth.

  Jo’s breathing accelerated. The police had gone. Tina and her boyfriend had gone. She was on her own.

  She quietly folded the photo in half, slid it under her sweater, and tucked it in the waistband of her jeans. She stood and turned around.

  The imposter was standing six feet from her. She had the iron in her ha
nd.

  Steam hissed from it. The woman raised her arm and roared across the living room at Jo.

  Hot. The thing was blazing hot. Jo jumped onto the coffee table and leaped toward the easy chair. The woman was between her and the front door, and shit, a hot iron would brand her, melt her face off. The woman spun, swinging the iron in her hand like a bowling ball. Its long insulated cord swished behind her, the heavy plug chittering against the floor like the rattler on a diamondback.

  Jo jumped back. Behind her was a bookshelf and the wall. She needed a shield. Something big or—damn! The iron swept within a few inches of her. It smashed the lamp and sent it flying to the floor. The light in the room turned bald and glaring.

  Jo grabbed a book from the shelf, an atlas. The iron came at her. She held the atlas in front of her and took the blow with it. She heard a crisping sound and smelled burning. Her fingertips, wrapped around the edges of the book, felt a dry impossible heat.

  The woman was thinking brutally, not clearly, but she was bound to figure it out—she didn’t need to burn Jo straightaway. If she brained her with the iron, she could knock her out, lay her flat, and ablate her entire dermis from her body, till she was pressed and creased and dead.

  With a yell, Jo shoved the book at her. The woman stepped back, off balance. Jo took a wild swing and slammed her hard in the chin. The woman stumbled back, stunned. Jo ducked sideways, trying to get around her, and the woman charged at her again. Shit. She saw the woman’s eyes, dead but wild, and the iron, looming near. In desperation she grabbed the woman’s arm, threw herself backward, and rolled to the floor, as though peeling off a rock face and landing in a back somersault.

  The woman flailed, head up, and her face hit the corner of the wall where it met the hallway. Jo heard the crack. The woman’s head snapped back and she flopped heavily on top of Jo. The iron fell.

  No—Jesus, hot . . . Jo shrank from it, felt it sizzle against the sleeve of her shirt, fought down a yelp. The iron thunked to the hardwood floor.

  The woman’s forehead fell against it. She came alert with a shriek.

  Jo shoved the woman aside, skittered to her hands and knees, and crawled away. A hand grabbed her ankle.