The Memory Collector (26 page)

Seth pressed the Scotch tape around the bridge of his glasses to hold them together. He’d seen the men today. He tried to keep them distant in his mind, to put them in a corner of his memory like cockroaches, but they just swelled back up and took over his thoughts. Sneering, making wet sounds, jeering, threatening him. He had a feeling that something had happened today. Vance, the rapper wannabe, had followed him around. Vance had been edgy, like he had bees swarming around him.

“You’re safe,” Vance had said. “You want to stay that way, you play nice. You say
please
and
thank you, sir.
”

Safe. What did that mean? Safe as in protected? Safe as in everything else was dangerous? Seth had the feeling that bad things had happened in Vance’s world today. And the way the guy looked at him, it was like Vance thought his dad was the one behind it all, putting Seth in danger. That made no sense. That made his stomach burn.

And Murdock had stood behind Vance, staring over his shoulder at Seth like burning holes with his eyes would make Ian Kanan appear on the spot.

“Play nice,” Vance had said. “Keep quiet so Mommy doesn’t hear any complaints from you. Otherwise her and your dog could find theirselves getting the torture treatment at baby Gitmo.” Then he made pathetic barking, whimpering sounds.

Seth had turned his back on him.

Yeah, something had gone wrong for Vance and Murdock. They were all of a sudden in a big hurry. And he was a pawn they would be only too happy to sacrifice to get whatever it was they wanted.

He needed a weapon.

Something sly, something unexpected. He turned to the bed. He scooted the mattress back from the edge of the frame. He began working on the spring, bending it back and forth, back and forth.

He didn’t know how long it would take. But he did know that not all metal was the same. He knew that from shop class and chem class. And from his dad and Uncle Alec telling him about sword-making, metallurgy, scimitars and daggers. And about Damascus steel.

He kept working, back and forth. This spring wasn’t Damascus steel. But it was galvanized, and when it broke, it would be brittle and sharp.

 

 

 

 

 

Jo locked her front door behind her and followed Gabe down the hallway to the living room. He walked like Mr. Kicked Back, a guy without a worry in the world. But his gaze swept the living room, the hall, the stairs, the kitchen, and the view of the back yard. She turned on a table lamp, crossed to the bay window, and closed the shutters.

They had talked to the police at the scene outside Ti Couz. But Kanan had disappeared, and so had Alec Shepard. His Mercedes remained outside the restaurant and he wasn’t returning her messages.

And Gabe had held his counsel while he drove her home. She turned and faced him.

“Tell me, or forget about it and kiss me, but open your mouth, Quintana.”

His gaze finished its slow sweep of the house. He looked at her, fierce and quiet, as cool and centered as a stone in the middle of a flowing stream.

“Ian Kanan served ten years on active duty in the army. I don’t have official confirmation, but my air force contact told me some things that jibe with my own impression. Kanan was Special Forces.”

“ ‘Impression’? Does that mean rumor or hard facts?” she said.

“Off-the-record verification. Plus your description of Kanan. Lean and whippy, that’s how the Special Forces like ’em.”

If Kanan had been in special ops, his service record would be buried in a hole. “Honorable discharge?”

“Far as I know. Contact military records—maybe Amy Tang can shove through the request. You might get some information in a couple of weeks.”

She put her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “And after he left the army?”

“He went to work for a private security contractor.”

“Blackwater?”

“Another outfit, similar deal. Cobra.”

“Because
Daisy Hill Security
wouldn’t instill esprit de corps.”

“Or fear,” Gabe said. “Kanan spent four years with them. Baghdad, Ramadi, and two tours in Afghanistan.”

“So he’s a soldier of fortune.”

“Contractors earn their keep, and the military loves them for it. They handle security and logistics, they take the heat, and they take the pressure off the army.”

“They’re mercenaries who double as chauffeurs and event planners.”

“And bodyguards, marshals, private Secret Service. They even handle security at the Iraqi parliament.”

“So they’re the bigwigs behind the scenes,” she said.

“And until recently, they’ve had immunity from prosecution. There’s been absolutely no way to hold them accountable for things they do wrong.”

“What did Kanan do for Cobra?” Jo said.

“Kept visitors to Kabul alive. From the moment they touched down at the airport to the moment they were wheels-up again, he was in charge of security. At their hotels, on the road, in meetings with government and NGOs—he isn’t anything close to just a corporate babysitter.”

“Why is it worse than you thought?”

“Guy I know who was active, served in the Afghan theater, remembers a run-in with Cobra in Kabul.”

“Between U.S. air force personnel and private security?”

“Over nothing. A traffic jam. Everybody honking at some chaotic downtown intersection. The Cobra people pulled their weapons on the airmen.”

“Kanan did? Your guy saw him?” she said.

“No, but the Cobra people were Kanan’s men. Either he was there or they were following his rules of engagement.”

“So Kanan possibly has a temper and poor impulse control.”

“Jo, he’s a mercenary. He’s a full-on pro. He’s armed at the very least with a knife. If he doesn’t have guns at home, he knows plenty of people in the Bay Area who can supply him.”

“If he can remember to contact them.”

“If he assembles a posse, he won’t need to. They’ll remember for him.”

The traffic light in front of Kanan turned green. His right turn signal was blinking. The street sign swinging from the traffic standard said DOLORES. He put his foot on the gas and turned right. He was in the Mission District in San Francisco. The radio was playing. The sun was fading toward the west. A car coming the other way flashed its lights at him. He turned on his headlights.

What was he doing here?

The street was busy. On the radio a chirpy deejay said, “Welcome to Friday drive time.”

Kanan reached to turn up the radio, and as he stretched, he saw letters written on his arm. His throat caught.

He blinked and tried to breathe normally.
Holy mother of God.
Was he really doing this?

Yes. He was alone, and this was Alec’s Navigator. It was Friday, and evening was coming on.

He pulled over. Post-it notes were stuck to the dashboard.
Check phone pics.
He took out his cell and scrolled through the photos he figured he must have taken. They looked like this neighborhood, but earlier—with the sun high in the sky. A restaurant, Ti Couz.

He looked out the window. The restaurant was right across the street. As he peered through its windows, a waiter in a white apron opened the door, stepped outside, and stood staring at him.

His skin cooled. He could think of no reason for the waiter to do that, unless he’d been driving around the block, or stopping in front of the restaurant, for a while. Maybe all afternoon. Either that, or people were looking for him.

He was running out of time. Panic rilled through him, a feeling that everything was fading, sliding out of his control. On his right arm he saw the words
Memory loss.

He needed help.

He thought about it for a moment and punched a search query into the GPS unit. The answer popped up within seconds. Thank God.

He got a Post-it, wrote
Diaz,
and stuck it to the dashboard.

Nico Diaz had been in his unit. He was the man who’d introduced him to the people who ran Cobra.

Diaz ran a sporting goods store. Friends of Diaz knew that his inventory extended beyond the basketballs and fishing rods on the shelves. He had been a scout sniper in the army. Diaz was a useful friend to have.

The GPS unit pinged. An arrow pointed straight ahead. An address in Potrero Hill popped up. Diaz’s store.

Kanan drove toward it. Get Diaz on board—Diaz would be able to hold everything in his head at once. Diaz wouldn’t forget what was going on.

Diaz would ride shotgun when he went after Alec.

21

J
o stood for a second, facing Gabe, tension winding her up like an alarm clock. “I need to call Amy Tang. She can start digging up the names of Kanan’s contacts in the Bay Area.”

“You okay?” he said.

“Hundred percent.”

“That means no.”

They were four feet apart. She thought if she moved, she might spring like a jack-in-the-box and hit the ceiling.

“This case is driving me nuts. I can’t put it together. Kanan. The brain injury. What poisoned him? Was it a nanoparticle? Did he steal it from Chira-Sayf? Did it also contaminate Ron Gingrich? And what’s going on with his family, and that freaking company?”

Gabe shook his head. “Let it go. Let your mind work on it at another level. The answers will come to you.”

“I can’t. Kanan’s got a hit list and a deadline written on his arm. And I’m missing a huge part of the puzzle. Something is tearing Kanan up.”

“Yeah. Greed. And a lust for revenge.”

“No. Something deeper.” She ran her hands through her hair.

She got her phone, called Tang, left a message. Pacing in a circle, she called Alec Shepard and got voice mail.

“He’s not answering.” She found the television remote control. “Maybe there’s something on the news.”

She turned on the T.V. A cartoon bloomed on the screen, yellow sea creatures with eyes bugging on stalks. She switched channels. Gabe came up behind her. He put his arms around her waist, pulled her back against him, and bent his head to her ear.

“Let it go,” he said.

She leaned her head back against his cheek. He took the remote from her and set it on the coffee table. She held on a second longer, and then, centimeter by centimeter, eased her shoulders down. Eased herself against him, tried to soften.

“I’m not usually like this,” she said.

“Define
usually
,” he said. “And
this
.”

“Are you saying I’m mercurial?”

“I mean I’m still figuring you out.”

“Ditto, dude.”

“Me?” There was real surprise in his voice. “I’m a simple guy who likes kids and jumping out of airplanes. And a certain forensic psychiatrist.”

“Don’t give me simple. Two dozen jump missions for the air national guard? ‘Moral Theology, a Contemporary Catholic Approach’? And God knows what those Jesuits at USF have put in your head about women.”