The Memory Collector

by Meg Gardiner

  The pickup followed.

  Jo drove straight across the runway. Her hair was standing on end. She crossed the center line, lit to psychedelic primary colors by a trail of green and red lights. She pinned her gaze on the terminals.

  Checking in. No ticket, no identification. I didn’t pack my bags myself, I’m carrying a full tank of gasoline, a bunch of bullets, and did not put my hair gel or any other shit in a clear plastic bag. Ready or not, here we crazy-ass come.

  She cleared the runway and ran onto the dirt. The wheel juddered in her hands. The pickup followed.

  She could think of only one more option. “He’ll stop shooting if he knows you’re alive.”

  In the mirror Misty’s face stretched with tension. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He loves you. He’s a warrior.”

  Misty shook her head. “Why did you tell Murdock that after five minutes, Ian’s memory would be wiped clean?”

  “He has a head injury. His memory is affected.”

  Misty said nothing, just absorbed it. “Seth, stay down.”

  She got to her knees, spread her arms wide, and pressed her hands against the back window, right in his sights.

  The glass in the tailgate was salted with bullet holes. Jo had no idea whether Kanan could see, much less identify, his wife through the blistered white mess of the rear window.

  Misty pressed her hands to the glass, cruciform, turned to a silhouette by the white glare of Riva’s headlights.

  Jesus, what trust. Tears sprang to Jo’s eyes. Misty held her position. The pickup kept coming.

  “Mom . . . are you okay?” Seth said.

  Ahead, the terminals loomed brighter. Jo bounced across the dirt. The lights of the east runway grew sharper, like an electrified fence.

  She looked to the right. And saw a jet accelerating down the runway toward her, halfway through its takeoff roll.

  Kanan leaned forward and snugged the stock of the rifle against his shoulder. The pickup bounced over the bare dirt between the runways. Around him he heard the rising whine of turbofan engines.

  The pickup’s headlights caught the back window of the Tahoe and veered away again.

  Somebody was in the back.

  “Riva,” he shouted into the wind.

  The tailgate window was frosted white with bullet holes, but a woman was kneeling there, both hands pressed to the glass.

  “Shoot her,” Riva yelled.

  The noise and wind and mayhem faded away. With a clarity that made the night vanish like smoke, he saw the lifeline of a hand he had held for fifteen years. He saw the eyes he looked into at night before he fell asleep.

  He swung the barrel of the rifle aside. “It’s Misty.”

  “You’re seeing things.”

  He blinked the wind from his eyes, looked again at the Tahoe, and knew Riva was right. He couldn’t identify Misty’s palms or a brief gaze from this far away, under these conditions, even with his brain rewired and hyperperceptive.

  But he knew that nobody but Misty would step up and put herself in his crosshairs.

  “It’s her. She’s alive. Break off.”

  The truck kept barreling onward. What the hell was going on?

  “Riva?”

  He ducked down inside the cab, bringing the rifle with him.

  Riva gave him a crazed look.

  “Break off,” he said.

  White light swarmed over the cab. He turned. Grabbed the seat belt. He watched the jet roll down the runway.

  Holy God, it was a 757.

  Jesus, I hate flying. For two years Jo had avoided aircraft at all costs. She had forfeited her frequent-flyer miles. She had thrown out her copy of Catch Me If You Can. And still one of the damned things was headed straight for her. She pushed the pedal to the firewall and blew onto the runway. She heard the jet’s turbine engines howling.

  She tore across the runway. The white lights of the jet rotated skyward. The nose lifted. Its landing gear hung below the fuselage like talons. She drove onto the dirt and kept going. The jet howled behind her, wheels lifting off the runway.

  “Holy shit,” Seth said.

  The 757 growled into the air. In her rearview mirror, the headlights of the pickup reached the runway. Jo bounced onto the taxiway, turned hard, and drove toward a line of airliners parked at the terminal.

  “Oh, God,” Misty said.

  The pickup raced onto the runway behind the 757. Jet blast hit it, engines at full takeoff thrust.

  “No!” Misty cried.

  Calder fishtailed. Her headlights went awry, veering like a light-house searchlight. The pickup jacked sideways and flipped. In the fury of the jet blast, it caught air and lifted off the ground. Six feet, ten, truly airborne.

  It was going so fast that it landed on the dirt, halfway to the taxiway. In the rearview mirror its headlights spun like bulbs in a tumble dryer.

  “Ian!” Misty cried.

  “Dad!” Seth yelled, and turned to Jo. “Stop, stop.”

  The pickup landed sideways, bounced, and rolled, tires spinning around overhead, dust blowing in a vortex around it. Still traveling immensely fast, it bounced upright and went over again, rolling across the dirt and across the taxiway.

  Jo reached the terminal and swerved to a stop behind the tail of an MD-80. She heard Seth and Misty thud against the side of the Tahoe.

  The pickup flipped again and rolled to a stop. Debris was scattered across the tarmac behind it.

  “Dad,” Seth cried.

  “Let us out,” Misty said.

  Jo jumped out, ran to the back of the Tahoe, and raised the tailgate. In the distance, the tarmac was a mess of metal and glass. Steam boiled from the pickup’s shattered radiator. The truck lay wrecked on its side against the engine of a 737.

  From the windows of the jet, a hundred stunned faces stared out at it.

  39

  Kanan blinked and cleared his vision. His head was spinning. His chest felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. His right leg throbbed and his right arm responded sluggishly when he moved it. In front of him he saw the shattered windshield of a pickup truck.

  He heard tires, horns, his own pulse, and the roar of jet turbines at takeoff thrust. A rifle barrel lay across his shoulder. It was hot.

  He heard a woman moaning.

  Ambush. Zimbabwe. Slick.

  “Ian . . .”

  He took hold of the rifle, unbuckled his seat belt, and pushed himself up. The woman’s voice sounded familiar. He was bleeding. Through the sunroof he saw a dark sky. They were on an airport tarmac, flipped on their side, urban setting. Major mayhem. Kabul. IED. He pulled the stock of his rifle against his shoulder and aimed out the sunroof.

  “Ian, get me out of here,” the woman said.

  He turned his head. Riva Calder was hanging sideways from her seat belt in the driver’s seat. She gave him a long hard look.

  “The kidnappers are out there. Shoot,” she said.

  Have a plan to kill everybody you meet today. He turned and lowered his eye to the rifle’s night scope. His vision was blurry. Blood was running from his scalp across his face.

  Across the tarmac, by the tail of an MD-80, three people stood beside a Chevy Tahoe. He saw a woman in Western clothing. She had long dark curls. Another woman. A young man.

  “Do it, Ian,” Riva said. “Your vision’s affected. That’s them, the kidnappers.”

  The dark-haired woman turned and grabbed the hand of the woman standing beside her. They were yelling something, but the roar of jet engines obliterated their words. He blinked again. He had a clear field of fire. He focused on her and drew a breath.

  “Shoot, Ian. Shoot,” Calder said. “Look at him—you already shot him once. He’s bleeding. Ian, we’re trapped here. Don’t let them get to us.”

  Kanan focused through the night scope. He blinked and looked at the people across the tarmac.

  “You really want me to squeeze the trigger?” He raised the HK pistol in his left hand and
aimed it at Riva’s face. “Ask me again to fire at my family, and I’ll do exactly that.”

  Facing the wrecked pickup, Jo, Misty, and Seth held their linked hands aloft. They held there, breathless.

  Across the tarmac, Ian Kanan tossed his rifle through the sunroof and crawled from the wreck.

  Misty let out a cry of relief.

  Seth slumped. “He’s okay.”

  Seth’s tank finally ran dry, and his legs gave way. Jo and Misty eased him down on the tarmac and leaned him back against the rear wheel of the Tahoe. He was pale and near shock, but his eyes were filled with wonder.

  Fire trucks rolled toward them from the distant end of the runway, lights and sirens turning the night to popcorn. Misty was using a strip torn from her sweater as a pressure bandage on Seth’s shoulder. She took Jo’s hand and pressed it against the wound.

  “Keep the pressure on. I’ll be back.”

  “No.” Jo grabbed her arm. “Hold on.”

  Misty pulled loose. “Ian’s hurt.”

  “And contaminated. You can’t touch him, or you and Seth could be contaminated too. Wait for the fire crew.”

  The fire trucks rumbled up, towering yellow engines blowing diesel fumes. Firefighters jumped out. Jo jogged toward them, waving with both arms.

  “I’m a doctor and a San Francisco Police Department liaison. We need hazmat decontamination. We have a blood-borne pathogen. Universal exposure control precautions.”

  Kanan pulled himself upright. He threw two pistols on the tarmac beside the rifle and limped toward his family. He was a mess, but the expression suffusing his face, erasing all his pain, was joy.

  Jo ran halfway to him and held up her hands. “Stop, Ian. You’ve been contaminated with Slick. You can’t touch anybody until you’ve been cleaned up.”

  He halted, swaying, and stretched a hand toward his wife. “Misty.”

  Misty approached Jo’s side. Her face looked ready to crumble. “Ian.”

  “Does Riva have a weapon?” Jo said.

  He shook his head. “Negative.”

  She felt tension loosen and dissipate into the sky. Inside the terminal, people pressed against the plate-glass windows, staring and pointing. On the tarmac, ground crew and baggage handlers approached. The driver of a fuel tanker opened his door and stepped out onto the running board. In the loaded 737, passengers jostled to see what was happening. The captain jogged down the stairs from the Jetway. Cameras flashed.

  The scene was chaos, Kanan and Seth were injured, and behind the swell of jet engines she heard police sirens. She would probably get hauled to jail.

  The night felt glorious.

  It was over. Jo knew what she was feeling: primal exhilaration. She had survived.

  The firefighters pulled on gloves and protective eyewear. Jo did likewise, snapping on a pair of latex gloves and putting on plastic safety glasses. She said, “Favor?” and wangled a coat and stethoscope from them. If she assumed the trappings of authority, she might keep the police off her back temporarily.

  Kanan stretched a hand toward Seth. “Christ—you’re wounded.” He called in distress to the firefighters. “My son’s been hit. Help him. The bastards shot my son.”

  Two firefighters grabbed a medical kit and ran to attend to Seth. Another fire truck pulled up by the wrecked pickup and began spraying it with firefighting foam.

  Kanan wobbled on his feet, lost his balance, and fell to his knees. Jo followed a firefighter-paramedic to his side.

  “Hold still, buddy.” The firefighter began examining Kanan. “What’s this?”

  Under his penlight, Jo saw the message written on Kanan’s arm. It now read Saturday they died.

  Kanan stared at it, then looked at Seth, flat on the tarmac, and Misty, standing back, hand pressed to her mouth. He reread the message with horror.

  “What the hell’s been happening?” he said.

  Jo took a gauze pack from the firefighter’s medical kit and poured Betadine on it. She knelt at Kanan’s side.

  “You kept your family alive,” she said.

  She rubbed the writing off of Kanan’s skin. But though the words disappeared, he continued staring at his arm.

  He looked up at her. “It won’t ever go away, will it?”

  It broke her heart to know what he meant. “No.”

  He would never know, for more than five minutes at a stretch, that his family was safe. If they were in front of him he would feel elated and wild with relief. If they left his sight he would forget and plunge again into despair.

  “Every few minutes, you’ll reset to the last thing you recall before your injury,” she said.

  “I’ll always think they’re gone and that I’ll never get to them in time.”

  He would wake up every morning in fear and grief. It would never lessen.

  “Did I hunt down the bastards who took them?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, but his satisfaction was short-lived. “In a few minutes I’ll try to hunt them down again, won’t I?”

  The firefighter touched Jo’s shoulder. “Excuse me, doctor.”

  Jo stood and let him get to work. All Kanan’s memories—the truth, reality—would be collected, and he would be left only with the unresolved crisis.

  The emergency lights danced over the scene, turning it glaring primary colors, red and blue, adding to the white aircraft landing lights. Fourth of July in March. Kanan and Misty looked at each other. Ian’s pale eyes were full of tears.

  “Woman, you’re the best thing I’ll ever see.”

  “We’re okay, hon. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Her voice was thready. Jo put an arm around her shoulder. Misty smiled uncertainly at her.

  “Ian,” Jo said. “Do you remember being in contact with Slick?”

  “In Zambia.”

  “Tonight?”

  “No. Why?” And then his eyes said that he knew. “Second exposure would be fatal, wouldn’t it?”

  Jo nodded. “The firefighters are going to take you through decontamination and then get you to the hospital.”

  “Good.”

  She turned to Misty. “Don’t let Ian lose eye contact with you. Not even for a minute. Got it?”

  Sadness and fear curved across Misty’s face. “Got it.”

  Kanan raised a hand. “Don’t worry. I’m never letting them out of my sight again. That’s a promise.”

  Jo stepped away, took out Murdock’s phone, and dialed a number.

  It was answered brusquely. “Quintana.”

  She heard Gabe’s voice and her throat caught, her spirits soared, straight into a cloud of tears.

  “It’s me. I’m okay. It’s over,” she said.

  “Where are you? Where’s Kanan?” Gabe said.

  “The San Jose airport. Quintana, you don’t know how good you sound. Where are you?”

  “I just got out of police custody. I’m on the 101 halfway to Moffett. Jo, where’s—”

  The whoop of a police siren erased his question.

  “What did you say, Gabe?” She smiled. She couldn’t help it.

  “Where’s Kanan’s backpack?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked around. She didn’t see it by the pickup or in the trail of debris thrown out of the pickup in the crash.

  “His computer battery is in the backpack,” Gabe said. “It’s packed with Slick, and it’s destabilized. Jo, where is it?”

  She walked toward the truck, searching. Heard Riva rustling around inside the cab, groaning and trying to slither out the sunroof.

  “I don’t see a backpack,” she said.

  “Jo, get the hell out of there. It’s a bomb.”

  Jo Beckett, M.D., forensic psychiatrist, was no chump. So she told herself. She knew all the psychological defenses. Denial. Bargaining. Rationalization, projection, isolation, schizoid breaks, binge eating. And she told herself she had a handle on her own defenses, which meant that a crisis couldn’t blindside her. Life, and training, an
d catastrophe had whupped all surprises out of her. When it came to emergencies, she was a sprinter out of the blocks. She had world-class reaction times. Fire a starter’s pistol and pow, she’d go.

  But she stood on the tarmac and felt that Gabe’s words had come at her from behind a sheet of glass, like light, and had bounced off.

  “What do you mean, a bomb?”

  “Kanan’s computer battery contains the sample of Slick. It’s about to explode. Do you hear me, Jo? Grab your goddamned ass and run.”

  The noise of the entire world seemed to rush through the glass. And the scene spread out before her, in its shining, tangled horror.

  Kanan spent and damaged behind her. Seth bleeding on the tarmac. People in the terminal. People on loaded airliners. Ten, twelve big jets, plus fire, police, paramedics rolling up by the minute. And the truck driver hopping down from the running board to jog over and offer his help. The truck driver from the gleaming jet fuel tanker. Wings. Full of fuel. A fleet of fire waiting to ignite.

  “Oh, my God, Gabe—can . . . oh, shit. We need the bomb squad.”

  “There’s no time. The sample’s volatile, it’s eating through the container, and when it gets sufficiently oxygenated, it’ll explode. Clear the area.”

  She looked around. “We can’t.”

  “Kanan’s army buddy was with him when Kanan armed the device. He gave it seventy minutes maximum before it went up.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “Ninety-two.”

  She seemed to itch, to tingle, to feel like she was rooted to the tarmac. “Can we contain it?”

  “I can’t predict how big the explosion will be. The best you can hope is to sequester it inside a fortified steel bunker. Jo. It. Is. Going. To. Blow.”

  “Stay on the line.”

  She jammed the phone in her pocket and sprinted to the nearest police car. If Slick exploded and sent the fuel tanker and jetliners sky-high, the blast would kill everyone on the tarmac and trap hundreds in burning jetliners—bleeding, embedded with shrapnel, all impregnated with Slick.

  She grabbed a police officer. “I’m an SFPD liaison. I’m on the phone with the California Air National Guard. There’s a bomb in the pickup truck and it’s going to explode.”