Read The Memory Collector Online
Authors: Meg Gardiner
The Memory Collector (48 page)
Saturday they die.
But Ian Kanan had lost the ability to know what day it was.
But Ian Kanan had lost the ability to know what day it was.
“Misty, he thinks you’re dead.”
“Oh, God,” Misty said. “We have to do something.”
The airfield was a void between the Tahoe and safety. The runways were more than two miles long. The terminals were almost half a mile away. Attempting to cross to them would knock
How nuts?
out of the park.
How nuts?
out of the park.
The white landing lights of a descending airliner lit the sky. The jet screamed over the runway threshold and touched down. It roared past at well over a hundred miles per hour, thrust reversers roaring.
Behind her, the headlights of the pickup brightened. She inhaled. Throwing the wheel, she cut across an access ramp and toward the west runway.
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.
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
K
anan 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.
anan 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.
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.
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.”
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.
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