The Memory Collector

Table of Contents

 

 

The Dirty Secrets Club
China Lake
Mission Canyon
Jericho Point
Crosscut
Kill Chain

DUTTON

Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

First printing, June 2009

Copyright © 2009 by Meg Gardiner

All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Gardiner, Meg.
The memory collector / by Meg Gardiner.
p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-06018-6

1. Forensic psychiatrists—Fiction. 2. Amnesiacs—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6017.A725M46 2009
823’.92—dc22 2009003612

 

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

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1

L
ater, Seth remembered cold air and red light streaking the western sky, music in his ears, and his own hard breathing. Later, he understood, and the understanding stuck in his memory like a thorn. He never heard them coming.

The trail through Golden Gate Park was rutted and he was riding with his earbuds in, tunes cranked high. His guitar was in a backpack case slung around his shoulders. Crimson sunset strobed between the eucalyptus trees. When he reached Kennedy Drive, he jumped the curb, crossed the road, and aimed his bike into the shortcut through the woods. He was a quarter mile from home.

He was late. But if he rode hard he could still beat his mom back from work. His breath frosted the air. The music thrashed in his ears. He barely heard Whiskey bark.

He glanced over his shoulder. The dog was at a standstill on the path fifty yards behind him. Seth skidded to a stop. He pushed his glasses up his nose, but the trail lay in shadow and he couldn’t see what Whiskey was barking at.

He whistled and waved. “Hey, doofus.”

Whiskey was a big dog, part Irish setter, part golden retriever. Part sofa cushion. And all heart, every dumb inch of him. His hackles were up.

If Whiskey ran off, chasing him down could take forever. Then he’d totally be late. But Seth was fifteen—in a month, anyhow—and Whiskey was his responsibility.

He whistled again. Whiskey glanced at him. He could swear the dog looked worried.

He pulled out his earbuds. “Whiskey, come.”

The dog stayed, fur bristling. Seth heard traffic outside the park on Fulton. He heard birds singing in the trees and a jet overhead. He heard Whiskey growl.

Seth rode toward him. It might be a raccoon, and even in San Francisco raccoons could have rabies.

He stopped beside the dog. “Hey, boy. Stay.”

He heard a car door close, back on Kennedy. Boots crunched on leaves and pine needles. Whiskey’s ears went back. Seth grabbed his collar. Tension was vibrating from the dog.

The birds weren’t singing anymore.

“Come. Heel,” Seth said and turned around.

A man stood on the trail in the dusk, ten feet ahead. Surprise fizzed through Seth all the way to his hair.

The man’s shaved head ran straight down to his shoulders without stopping for a neck. His arms hung by his sides. He looked like a ball-park frank that had been boiled all day.

He nodded at Whiskey. “He’s a handful. What’s his name?”

The sun was almost down. Why was the guy wearing sunglasses?

He snapped his fingers. “Here, dog.”

Seth held Whiskey’s collar. The fizzing covered his skin, and he had a bright, thumping feeling behind his eyes. What was this guy after?

The hot dog in shades tilted his head. “I said, what’s his name, Seth?”

The brightness pounded behind Seth’s eyes. The man knew who he was.

Of course the man did. Seth was lanky and had coppery hair that stuck up like straw and pale blue eyes that could shoot people the look, the one his mom called the thousand-yard stare.
Just my luck,
she said sometimes.
You look exactly like your father.

Seth gripped Whiskey’s collar. Just
his
luck. His bad luck. His bad, bad, oh,
shit—
this had to do with his dad.

What was this guy after? This guy was after
him
.

He took off. He jumped on the pedals and bolted like a greyhound, ninety degrees away from Oscar Mayer man, riding like a maniac into the woods.

“Whiskey,
come,
” he yelled.

There was no trail, just bumpy ground covered with brown grass and dead leaves. He gripped the handlebars and pedaled harder than he thought his legs could turn. His glasses bounced on his nose. His earbuds swung down and bucked against the bike. Tunes dribbled out.

Behind him, Whiskey barked. Seth felt too scared to look back.

Oscar Mayer wasn’t the only one. Whiskey had been growling at something on Kennedy Drive, and Seth had heard a car door slam and footsteps on the trail. His throat felt like it had an apple jammed down it. Two guys were here to get him.

He had to warn his mom.

His cell phone was in his jeans pocket, but riding like a psycho, he couldn’t reach it. A moan rose in his throat. He fought it down. He couldn’t cry. The trees had darkened from green to black. Ahead, a hundred yards away through the branches, he glimpsed headlights passing on Fulton Street.

He had to get home. His mom—God, what if these guys went after her, too?

Ninety yards to Fulton. Headlights glared white through the trees. Seth’s hands were cramping on the handlebars, his legs burning. The guitar bounced in the backpack case. The bike slammed over a rut. He held it, straightened out, and kept going. There’d be people on Fulton. The headlights drew closer.

Behind him, Whiskey yelped.

He looked over his shoulder. His dog was bounding after him through the brush. Behind the dog came Oscar Mayer.

“Whiskey,
run,
” Seth yelled.

His legs felt shaky but he dug in again, flying toward the street past an old oak tree.

The second man was waiting behind it.

He shot out an arm as Seth rode past and grabbed the neck of the guitar, yanking Seth off the bike. Seth’s feet swung up and his arms flew wide. He crashed to the ground on top of the guitar. Heard the strings sproing and the body crack. The breath slammed out of him.

The man grabbed him. This guy was square with a gray buzz cut, like a concrete brick. He was old but covered with acne. He dragged Seth to his feet.

Seth kicked at him. “Let me
go.
”