The Memory Collector (11 page)

“No,” she said. “Agh.”

Ferd’s head bobbed along, half-visible, his eyes never leaving her. He tripped. Dropped from sight. Popped back up and kept walking. He had holly in his hair.

Gabe said, “Want me to stand behind the door and growl like a rabid poodle when he knocks?”

“Thanks, but I can handle it.”

“In that case, I’m out of here.” He grabbed his coffee, pulled his keys from his jeans pocket, and headed for the front door.

“Chicken,” Jo said.

He turned around. His hair was the color of a coal seam. He was as lean as a jaguar and walked with the self-possession of a big cat as well. He had an unself-conscious and steady grace.

He was giving her time, she knew. They’d been seeing each other since November—sporadically, because he’d been away, she’d been away, and because he didn’t want to rush her.

Gabe knew only too well how grief had torn through her life. He was the one who had told her that Daniel was dead. But she wondered if he knew how strongly he affected her. That if he stepped toward her again, she might detonate like an unstable stick of dynamite.

Ferd knocked on the front door. Urgently and repeatedly.

“You dare me to stay?” Gabe said.

She didn’t care for the gleam in his eye. “No.”

His smile widened. “I’ll just stay a few minutes.”

“You’re evil, aren’t you? Inherently, I mean.”

“I bought your soul with a doughnut. What do you think?”

The knocker clacked again. Capitulating, Jo went and answered it.

Ferd filled the doorway, bouncing on his toes. “Have you seen the news?”

Talking to Ferd was like containing weasels in a box. If she didn’t mind her words, his anxieties could slip free, sending him on flights of misery or hypochondria.

“I’m avoiding the news. I don’t want to spoil my day,” she said.

He bounced. He wasn’t overweight, but he dressed in such baggy clothing that Jo suspected he’d been heavy as a teenager. The computer-store name tag pinned to his shirt said HI, I’M FERD.

“Monkey virus,” he said.

Ferd was a long-term house sitter at the faux mansion next door. The owners were away in Italy, and Jo doubted they knew about Ferd’s little housemate, Mr. Peebles—a capuchin but not a friar.

“Hadn’t heard anything about it,” she said.

He glanced surreptitiously down the steps. “Can I come in? I don’t want the neighbors overhearing.”

Despite her training as a therapist and her talk about maintaining boundaries, she didn’t tell him to get lost. He was a cast-iron pain, a spectacular neurotic, but he was a watchful neighbor and had helped her out when her house was damaged in an earthquake the previous October. She let her good mood and the strong coffee and the memory of Gabe’s kisses overwhelm her urge to send him away.

He walked straight down the hall and into the kitchen. He saw Gabe, stopped, and stood rubbing his hands together like a mad scientist.

“Ferd,” Gabe said, holding out the doughnut sack.

“No, thank you,” Ferd said.

Jo came in behind him. Gabe sipped his coffee, looking like he had all the time in the world. For a man qualified far beyond paramedic level, a man trained for trauma evac under battlefield conditions and who had more parachute jumps under his belt than some members of the 101st Airborne, he knew how to project the image that life’s a beach. Nothing but flip-flops and good surf and a cold bottle of beer. But Jo had spent enough time with him in the past few months, and before that, in the direst of circumstances, to know that his passions and his pride and a fierce killer instinct ran deep.

He was staring at her notes on Ian Kanan.

Ferd stepped between them. “This virus has been documented in the Congo. I read about it on the World Veterinary Association web-site. Several species in the interior highlands have been affected.”

Jo slid past him. “Glad the vets are on the case.”

A pebble of annoyance lodged in her mind. Gabe was reading her notes and looking at the photocopies of Kanan’s passport and driver’s license. She gathered them up and closed her laptop.

“I’m monitoring the situation,” Ferd said. “But I don’t know the latency period for the virus.”

“Sure you don’t want a doughnut?” she said.

“How long can these diseases incubate?”

Jo put her hands on her hips. “Dude. Mr. Peebles didn’t come from the Congo. He came from a pet shop in San Mateo.”

Mr. Peebles was the monkey Ferd had managed to obtain as an emotional assistance animal. But the little creature was every bit as suspicious and overanxious as Ferd and acted out its compulsions without inhibition. It escaped from his house with semi-regular efficiency. It had a look in its eye like it was getting instructions via a Secret Service earpiece—for a hit. And it knew how to fling shit with deadly accuracy.

With his miniature doppelgänger living in the mansion, Ferd seemed closer to panic than ever.

He eyed Gabe. “These viruses can rage like wildfire. It could make
Outbreak
look like a picnic.” He turned to Jo. “Don’t worry, I’m on top of things.”

“Good to know.”

He stood smiling at her, head slightly tilted, eyes defocusing.

“Ferd.” She didn’t want him daydreaming that he had rescued the Elf Princess Johanna and saved the hobbits from doom.

His head snapped back up. “I’m wondering. You know, about the symptoms.”

“A vet would know,” Jo said.

God exists and will punish you for ruining the life of a local veterinarian
, her conscience muttered.

“The abstracts only mention physical signs,” Ferd said. “Not psychological symptoms.”

Jo shook her head. “Nope.”

“But—”

“Mr. Peebles is eighteen inches tall and weighs four pounds. He’s small enough. He doesn’t need a shrink.” And especially not her.

“He’s ...”

Gabe looked up from his coffee. “Write it all down. Keep a log.”

Ferd nodded. “That’s not a bad idea. I’m just worried that—”

“Keep it quiet for now. You don’t want to start a panic.”

Ferd frowned. Venting his worries aloud was his modus operandi.

“Picture driving down Geary Boulevard with Mr. Peebles in the passenger seat, when the city’s scared witless about infected monkeys,” Gabe said. “A mob would put a trash can through your windshield.”

Ferd put a hand to his stomach. “But . . . I just can’t help worrying about the way he’s acting. He—”

“You’d be lucky to get out with anything besides your socks on.”

Jo said, “Just keep an eye on things.”

Ferd straightened and nodded sternly. “If he shows symptoms, I’ll alert you.”

“Please.” Jo began inching him toward the door.

He called over his shoulder. “Have a good day at school, Gabe. I’m going to work.”

Jo got the door closed and walked back to the kitchen. Gabe was pacing near the kitchen table, arms crossed. She gave him a look.

He nodded at her notes. “That a new case you’re working on?”

She stuck her hands in her back pockets and waited for him to apologize. He didn’t.

“That’s confidential information,” she said.

“The notes were open on the table. I didn’t mean to pry.” His eyes were a warm brown, but his gaze was cool. “The man involved, Kanan—he grabbed you and threatened you?”

“I’m fine. The police are looking for him.”

“Kanan’s a security consultant for an outfit in Silicon Valley?”

“Gabe, you don’t need to worry about this.”

His shoulders tightened. “Is he?”

She relented. “Yes.”

“He doesn’t sound like a corporate sheepdog. He sounds like a security contractor.”

She didn’t think she was hearing him right. “You think he’s a mercenary?”

“Describe the guy for me,” Gabe said.

“You saw his photo.”

“Passport head shot. It’s not enough.”

“Midthirties. Your height. Dressed casually, but obviously in shape. Lean. Carries himself . . . alertly.”

“Ripped?”

“Yes,” she said.

“‘Alertly.’ You mean high-level situational awareness?”

“Aside from his memory loss, yes.” She recalled thinking that Kanan held himself like a gunslinger. “Go on.”

“It’s just a suspicion. But the kind of people corporations hire to shepherd their employees on trips to third world countries aren’t school crossing guards.”

His seriousness shook her. “I’ll check it out,” she said.

“Good. Mind if I do as well?”

“You don’t need to.”

“Do you mind?”

“You’re not involved.” She saw no change in his expression. “No, I don’t mind. Depending on what you plan to do.”

“Find out who he worked for before signing on as in-house security for Chira-Sayf. I can ask people I know. See if he worked for a security contractor with military ties.”

“Okay.” She felt uncomfortable accepting his offer of help. She wasn’t a damsel in distress. “Gabe, this is generous of you, but overcautious. Kanan doesn’t scare me.”

Even then, his face didn’t change. She saw only a flicker in his eyes before he stepped forward and put his hand on her hip.

“He should.” He kissed her again. “I’ll call you.”

9

S
eth had lost track of time again. He couldn’t keep his mind focused. He tried to think about school, about algebra, but couldn’t concentrate. Today was one more day when he hadn’t turned in any homework. He tried to think about the band but kept hearing his guitar crack and sproing when he fell off his bike and landed on it. The fear swallowed everything.

He looked at his plate. It was chipped. His hot dog sat there, lukewarm.

He knew the men were out there. He was being watched. The whole house was. And if he tried to leave. . . . He smelled the hot dog. His stomach rumbled. His mouth watered. He grabbed it and ate it in three bites.

Whiskey still cried now and then. Did dogs remember traumatic events? It gave him a hairy lump in the throat.
Stop that,
he told himself. Whiskey was alive. They hadn’t killed him.

He still couldn’t figure out why they wanted him. Except that it couldn’t be anything besides his dad, and his dad’s work.

He knew more than he’d ever let on around his folks. He knew they didn’t want to talk about too much in front of him.

That usually got either a shrug or a brush-off. Once it had gotten a bit of truth: “I keep people out of trouble.”

When his dad said that, his mom had looked across the room with concern. Seth got the feeling they had some secret deal not to tell him about his dad’s work, and that his dad had just violated it.

Like Dad was a criminal. And Seth was a baby.

“Your dad’s home nowadays,” his mom had said.

Mostly,
Seth had thought. His dad didn’t have overseas deployments anymore, but he still went on business trips. Seth would see him packing his passport in his jacket pocket.

I keep people out of trouble.
But now Seth was in trouble, and it was because of his dad. Where
was
his dad? Did he know about this? It had been six days. Seth might keep losing track of time, but he knew that much. Six bowls of Rice Krispies. Six Hot Pockets. Now six hot dogs. Later he’d drink a bottle of Gatorade and then it would get dark and the house would get locked down tight and he would feel the fear because the men were
out there.

He had heard them talking, when they grabbed him in the park. The human hot dog told the man with acne that security was going to be useless. “The returns are going to be
huge
. Through the roof.”

How long was this going to go on? When was his dad going to get here?

Because he would. Seth knew it. He knew it like he knew the way home through the park in the dark. Like he knew the entire back catalogue of the Foo Fighters and the guitar riff for “The Pretender.” Dad would get here. The men might have threatened him, told him if he didn’t behave he’d never see his dad again, but he didn’t believe them. No matter how scared he got of his dad—and he did, because he knew his dad wasn’t like other fathers, didn’t install electrical wiring in apartment buildings or put braces on people’s teeth. He kept people out of trouble.

Seth was in trouble. His dad would help. Seth could count on that. He could tell his dad anything, no matter how hard it was—even this. He just had to be patient. But for now, right now, he had to get out of here.