The Memory Collector

by Meg Gardiner

  She ran a finger over the screw, found the groove, and inserted her handmade screwdriver. Her fingers slipped. The screwdriver popped from her fingers. She heard it ping against the floor and bounce into the darkness.

  “Damn it.”

  She sank against the door. Her shoulders jerked.

  Whiskey padded to her side and nuzzled her shoulder. He whimpered. The sound was feeble. He was hungry and dehydrated.

  She balled her fists and pressed them against her eyes. Screw these bastards, who’d let a dog die of thirst.

  “It’s okay, boy. I’ll get us out of here.”

  She got to her knees and felt along the floor.

  Whatever’s at hand, use it, Ian would say. “A fork, a pen, a lightbulb. Nothing’s ever just what it seems.”

  “I’m just a school nurse,” she’d told him.

  “No, you’re not. Not ‘just.’ Not ever.” And he took her hand. “You can’t be. That’s not the way the world works. And I won’t always be here.”

  Be prepared. The man was half-psychic, half-Boy Scout, all threat repulsion.

  The bedroom was cold, but she was damned if she’d put on any of Riva’s expensive clothing. Do that, and she’d be begging people to take one look at her—her long sleek hair and the figure she worked her ass off to keep—and say, sadly, “Yes, that was Riva Calder.”

  Looking like Riva had been great, back when they were in college. Borrowing Riva’s I.D. so she could buy beer or fool dumb bouncers at local clubs—that had felt harmless. But now the idea of swapping identities didn’t seem so festive.

  Karma was remorseless.

  She pressed her fingers along the floor in the dark. Her hand brushed the wire. She wiped her fingers on her blouse, picked up the screwdriver, and felt for the slot in the screw. Whiskey whimpered again and pushed his nose under her chin.

  “It’s okay, boy. I’m going to get you home to a big bowl of water. And a T-bone steak. And Seth.”

  Saying her son’s name, her voice cracked. She turned the screwdriver and felt the screw loosen. Yes. She spun the screwdriver and the screw fell out. She got to her knees and worked the doorknob loose.

  Now came the tricky part. She bent the wire into a hook and began probing the innards of the lock. Ian had taught her this one, too.

  She whispered to Whiskey, “Finally, I get the profits of his misspent youth.”

  And Riva had sniped that if she married Ian, the sex would be hot but there wouldn’t be any profit-sharing. Soldiers made no money.

  With a click, the lock turned. Half-disbelieving, she stood and opened the door.

  It creaked open to reveal the living room. The lights were off and it was dark outside. She held in the doorway, listening for the men. The house was quiet. It smelled rank. Outside the living room window she saw overflowing trash cans and weeds.

  And headlights.

  They swept the yard and a vehicle pulled into the driveway.

  “Oh, shit. Whiskey!”

  She ran across the living room toward the cramped and filthy kitchen. Whiskey bolted by her, passed the kitchen, and ran down a hallway where the rest of the bedrooms were located. He rounded a corner, claws ticking on the parquet floor.

  She clapped her hands. “Whiskey.”

  The kitchen door was locked. Outside, the vehicle idled on the driveway. She heard the garage door going up.

  She heard Whiskey put his paws on another door. He barked and began scratching wildly. She whistled, flipped the dead bolt, and threw open the back door. Whiskey barked, pawing the door down the hall like he was going to dig a hole through it. She heard a thumping sound. She froze.

  She wasn’t alone. Somebody else was locked up in the house.

  From the back seat of the Tahoe, Jo watched the garage door drone up. They were at a run-down ranch house in Mountain View, not far from San Antonio Road. The lawn was ratty with weeds. Trash cans overflowed next to the porch.

  The garage door opened. The Tahoe’s headlights shone on a single chair inside, sitting on the concrete under a bare lightbulb. Murdock hopped out and jogged into the garage to move it.

  “Nice place you’ve got here, Riva,” Jo said. “Didn’t know you were a slumlord.”

  Calder shot her a look, half Who told you? and half What are you trying to pull? Sarcasm, Jo thought, had its uses.

  Vance eased the SUV inside the garage and the door began cranking down again. He opened the door to get out.

  “Wait,” Calder said. “Swap seats with Beckett. She’s going to drive.”

  For a second, it seemed that Vance would protest. But even he appeared to know his driving skills at the rendezvous had been piss poor.

  “Tie her to the steering wheel,” Calder said.

  Vance opened the back door. Jo climbed out and got in the driver’s seat. Her ribs were throbbing and it hurt to draw a deep breath.

  Calder got back on the phone. “Larry, it’s Riva Calder. Yes, confirming the flight. There’ll be three passengers.”

  Murdock went to a cabinet in the garage and came back with a handful of plastic zip ties. He leaned into the SUV and cinched Jo’s hands to the wheel. Then he nodded to Vance and the two of them headed into the house.

  The SFPD officer walked toward Stow Lake. The beam of his flashlight swung back and forth but found only fog. The bridge remained elusive.

  Then, from the soup, he heard splashing. He sped up. A weak cry curled through the mist. He broke into a jog and saw the brickwork of the bridge.

  The splashing continued, feebly, like a piece of cloth lapping against the side of a bathtub. He ran onto the bridge and aimed his flashlight at the lake.

  He saw an arm batting at the water and a waxlike face sinking beneath the surface.

  “Hang on, buddy,” he said. “I’m coming.”

  Misty froze with her hand on the kitchen door. Down the hall, Whiskey was moaning like his foot was caught in a wolf trap.

  She felt like she’d grabbed a live wire. Whiskey would only go mad like that for one person.

  She heard the SUV pull into the garage. The engine revved and the garage door began going down. Whiskey let out a mournful howl.

  She ran down the hall and around the corner. Whiskey was pawing a bedroom door. She flipped the lock and threw the door wide.

  “Seth,” she said.

  Her son lay on the floor, hands and feet bound by plastic handcuffs. He’d been kicking the door. A sock was stuffed in his mouth, tied with a rag. His eyes popped.

  The windows were boarded up. And if Seth couldn’t run, they were trapped.

  Misty dashed back to the kitchen, grabbed a pair of scissors from the knife rack, and raced down the hall again. She heard the door from the garage bang open. She hurried inside and shut the bedroom door.

  Whiskey was wagging his tail, licking Seth in the face and moaning so wildly he was practically singing. Misty knelt and began sawing at the plastic handcuffs that bound Seth’s feet. They were zip ties, thick and incredibly tough. Hands shaking, she snapped them clean through.

  “Get up,” she said breathlessly.

  Seth scrambled to his feet. Out in the house, men’s voices filled the living room. Keys dropped on a table.

  Across the house, a man said, “Hey, the door. Murdock, the knob on the wife’s door is . . .”

  Misty grabbed Seth, ran out the door and straight across the hall into another bedroom. This one had curtains on the window, not boards. She jammed the scissors in the back pocket of her cords. She climbed on the bed, opened the window, and punched the screen out.

  “Climb. I’ll boost you,” she whispered.

  Seth couldn’t talk with the gag. He looked terrified. But he nodded to her and mumbled what she knew meant “You first.”

  “No. Go, Seth.”

  He turned to the window and put his bound hands on the sill. The door burst open behind them.

  Misty spun. Murdock filled the doorway. A pistol hung in his hand.

  “Seth, go!”
she shouted.

  But she saw Seth’s face, and her heart sank. Scared though he was, he looked torn, desperate not leave her there.

  Murdock let his wet gums and little teeth show. “Seth, don’t go.”

  Vance appeared in the doorway, out of breath. He adjusted his do-rag. “Shit, the kid got his feet loose again.”

  Misty felt a watery moment of panic. Then, slowly, she pulled her blouse down over the back pocket of her cords.

  Murdock grabbed Whiskey by the collar and simply put the barrel of the gun against the dog’s head. His eyes looked like a shark’s, blank and avid. His mouth stretched. Revoltingly, he was smiling.

  “Your mom will be second,” he said to Seth. “And you couldn’t live with your mom getting killed all because of you.”

  Seth climbed down.

  Jo twisted her wrists against the plastic handcuffs, trying to loosen them. She couldn’t. Her hands were bound to the steering wheel at ten and two, like she was about to have a lesson at the Dick Cheney School of Driving and Interrogation. In the passenger seat, Calder tucked her hair behind her ear and sent another text message. Her tough-cookie face looked strained and drawn. And blistered.

  The door from the house opened. Murdock and Vance came through, leading a woman and a boy in his early teens. Vance kicked at a big shaggy dog. The dog jumped and circled, head low, ears pulled back. It immediately put itself between the kidnappers and the boy.

  What kind of people took a boy and his dog?

  Seth’s mouth was gagged and his hands bound with plastic handcuffs. He blinked as though the garage light hurt his eyes. His T-shirt hung loose from coat-hanger shoulders. He had a head of coppery hair and his father’s ice-chip eyes. He looked at his mom.

  Misty Kanan was Riva Calder’s doppelganger. She was compact and lithe. Her caramel hair fell across her face in a sheet. Though she looked wrung out, her eyes were large, dark, and brimming with alarm. She seemed to have a kind of crazed determination. Her gaze swept the garage. She was looking for an out, for an escape. And she was keeping herself between the kidnappers and her son.

  Murdock shoved her toward the Tahoe. She shrugged him away with disgust on her face, as if his hand were slimy. Then she registered that the SUV was her own car. She saw Calder in the passenger seat, face bruised and burned.

  Compassion and worry overtook her. “Oh, no.”

  Misty’s gaze turned to Jo. Her eyes seemed to record Jo’s every feature, for a police Identi-Kit drawing or for future revenge. A Beanie Baby could have read the message in her stare. Die, bitch.

  Murdock pulled Misty toward the back of the Tahoe. Seth deliberately bumped into him, throwing a shoulder like a power forward driving downcourt. He was trying to get Murdock away from his mom. Jo felt a hitch in her breathing. Brave, reckless boy.

  Murdock shoved him. Misty practically spit at him. “Don’t touch my son.”

  Brave, reckless woman.

  The men opened the tailgate of the Tahoe and bundled the Kanans inside. Vance kicked the dog away from the vehicle and swung the gun at him.

  Seth screamed behind his gag and lunged at Vance.

  “No, Seth.” Misty scrambled out of the Tahoe.

  Murdock picked her up and tossed her back in. He shook his head at Vance. “Don’t, dumbshit. No gunfire.”

  Vance was holding the gun sideways, like he was a character in a movie. He lowered it reluctantly. Then he kicked viciously at the dog. Jo heard his boot connect with the dog’s ribs. The dog yelped and ducked away from him, stumbling toward the corner of the garage.

  “Stop being stupid,” Murdock said. “Put the gun on the wife.”

  Sullenly Vance stood outside the tailgate while Murdock grabbed rags and zip ties from the garage cabinet.

  Misty turned toward Calder. “Riva, are you okay? God, what’s going on? How did they get you . . .” Her gaze bounced toward Jo. She saw the plastic handcuffs tying Jo’s hands to the wheel. “What . . . Riva, what’s—”

  “Shut up, Misty.”

  Misty’s eyes went electric with shock. Murdock brought the zip ties and rags, grabbed her, gagged her and bound her hands, and shut the tailgate.

  The men got in the back seat. Vance turned his gun on the Kanans. Calder leaned across Jo and hit the power lock, making sure neither the doors nor the tailgate could be opened from the inside. She pushed the remote and the garage door began whining up. She put the Tahoe in reverse.

  “Drive,” she said.

  Jo backed down the driveway into the street. She looked at the dashboard clock. It was ten P.M.

  “Where are we going?” Jo said.

  Calder got on her phone again. She put the SUV in drive. “San Jose airport.”

  35

  Ian Kanan turned right. His gaze swept the street.

  He was in a residential neighborhood. It was full dark. The road signs were in English. His heart was pounding.

  Had he just outrun somebody? He checked the road behind him. Nobody was on his tail. Was he chasing somebody? He checked the road ahead. Nobody was making tracks.

  A rosary swung from the rearview mirror. On the dashboard was a plastic bobblehead Jesus, wearing shades and holding a soccer ball. Whose truck was this?

  He pulled down the sun visor and found the registration. Nikita Khrushchev Diaz.

  His confidence swelled. Nico had his six. If he was driving Diaz’s truck, it meant he’d been gaining ground. But Diaz wasn’t here, and neither was his family.

  Notes on the dashboard. Slick’s in the backpack. CHECK YOUR WATCH.

  He looked. It was ten o’clock.

  The outer band was set for a few minutes ahead. Why?

  He unzipped his backpack and saw the battery. He checked the truck. Behind the seats he had an armory. God bless Nikita Khrushchev and all bobblehead messiahs.

  A vibration in his pocket startled him. His phone had just gone active.

  That had to mean he was on some kind of countdown. The watch-band setting might mean he was due to go to an appointment.

  He took the phone from his pocket expectantly. Then he saw the display. “Shit.”

  Riva Calder.

  She was the last person he wanted to talk to. Dealing with her at work was enough of a strain. During a crisis, especially one he didn’t understand—no way.

  The phone vibrated again. He hesitated.

  Why would she be calling him so late in the evening? Even Riva never phoned him at ten P.M. She was too smart for that. She couldn’t hide the crazy lust she harbored for him, but she knew that calling him late on a Friday night would be self-defeating.

  Except she was doing it. He didn’t get it—but he didn’t get Riva. A successful, bright, driven woman, she had a thing for him like an abscess, some wound that went deep and dirty. Some lesion that she liked to dig at, like popping stitches before they could ever heal. She was lucky Misty hadn’t taken a baseball bat to her head years back. But Riva never called him after hours on his cell. She knew he wouldn’t answer.

  Unless something was wrong. He answered. “Riva?”

  “Ian, thank God. I’ve been trying to get you for hours.”

  Her voice came out in a rush, like she’d been running. “Your house was broken into. Misty and Seth are missing.”

  A thought brushed past his mind, thin as smoke. A woman was involved with the kidnapping . . . it was just the shadow of something that had been snatched and stolen. And like that, the thought swirled away again.

  “I know. I’m going to get them back,” he said.

  “Ian, oh, Christ—we’re running out of time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The kidnappers couldn’t reach you. Have you had your phone off?”

  “Who did they contact?” he said.

  “Chira-Sayf. They tried to get Alec and when they couldn’t, they sent a crazy message through the switchboard. Security called me.”

  He sat up straighter. “What message?”

  “Meet them at ten fif
teen.”

  “Where?”

  “San Jose. Half a mile north of eight-eighty on Coleman Avenue, west of the airport.”

  “Did they say anything about my family?”

  “‘The Kanans will be arriving home from their trip. Pick them up there. And bring the luggage.’ Ian, did they mean a ransom?”

  “Wait.” He grabbed a Sharpie. On the back of his left hand, in big letters, he scrawled, 10:15 p.m. SJC. GO. He dropped the pen in the center console. “On my way.”

  “Ian, what’s—”

  He hung up, dropped the phone on the passenger seat, and jammed Coleman Avenue into the GPS. A smooth female voice filled the car, sounding as if she had all the time in the world.

  “In one hundred yards, turn right.”

  A route appeared on the screen, an arrow leading him to his family. He put the truck in gear.

  Jo sat behind the wheel of the idling Tahoe, parked in an empty office parking lot just off the 101 in San Jose. Through the windshield she saw Calder hang up her phone. Calder ran across the parking lot and jumped back in the Tahoe.

  She put the SUV in drive for Jo. “Go.”

  Calder’s cheeks were flushed, her pupils dilated. She looked like she’d just gotten a jolt of sugar. From watching the woman on the phone, and seeing her rub the dolphin necklace, Jo guessed she’d been talking to the intoxicant called Ian Kanan.

  Jo pulled back onto the freeway and continued south through San Jose. She couldn’t honk, couldn’t put down the window and yell at other drivers. She could speed or wreck the Tahoe but knew that if she started swerving, Murdock would turn somebody’s face into an exit wound. She stayed in her lane and drove at the speed limit, rolling toward the San Jose airport under the yellow glow of sodium streetlights. In the far back of the SUV, fixed under the barrel of Vance’s pistol, Seth and Misty held still.

  Two minutes later, Jo saw the airport. The perimeter fence practically abutted the freeway. The end of a runway lay just on the other side of it. Despite everything, she felt a burst of optimism. Heading to the airport had to mean Riva was planning a getaway. And an airport was as stupid a place to kill hostages as Jo could conceive of.