The Memory Collector Part 13

Ron Gingrich carried the last two bags of crushed ice to the aluminum bucket on the terrace near the pool. He split them open and dumped them in.

From the house, Jared called, "Don't forget to light the tiki torches."

Gingrich sent him a salute. Since getting off the flight from London he hadn't had two minutes to himself. He strolled to the garage, flip-flops slapping, got a case of Stella Artois from the stack, and schlepped it back to the terrace. His ponytail batted in the wind. The clouds had blown off and the evening was chilly and sparkling clear.

He pushed his fists into the small of his back. And he wondered yet again how he'd ended up working as a gofer for a twenty-six-year-old kid, a boy genius computer game designer who considered himself a rock star for the twenty-first century.

Ron shoved beer bottles into the ice in the king-size bucket. The previous day and a half seemed like a blur. Jet lag really was a b.i.t.c.h, especially at his age. Sure, he knew how to make things happen on the road and off. He'd managed tours for heavy metal bands for twenty years, gone on the road once with the Grateful Dead, before coming over to Jared's Silicon Valley start-up as a jack-of-all-trades, the get-it-done guy. Buy the boss twenty black T-s.h.i.+rts, and the right brand saggy jeans, and Crocs to match whatever color the cool CEOs were wearing down the road in Sunnyvale.

He was willing to put up with plenty of s.h.i.+t. He wasn't too proud to work hard, he liked to tell people.

He gazed past the pool and down the hill past the cypresses, toward the bay. From up here in this ten-million-dollar neighborhood, the water was an iridescent gray-blue in the sunset. The Sausalito ferry chugged for harbor. He could see planes taking off from SFO. From this distance they looked like silver ants crawling the sky.

What was he supposed to be doing?

He looked at his hands. He was holding two warm beers.

Ice bucket. The party. Right. He stuck the beers in the pail.

From the house came voices. People were arriving. Young tech hipsters-the guest list was mostly game designers, overgrown teenage boys who'd hit the jackpot and found a way to rake in the bucks playing video games. Plus some of the venture capitalists who funded them. And a few people from the CGI end of the film industry. Maybe even one or two folks from Industrial Light & Magic.

Jared stuck his head out the patio door. "Ron, the tiki torches. And get rid of that stack of tools by the pool shed. Somebody might trip over it, and I have lawyers coming."

"Sure, boss."

"And don't call me boss."

"Sure." a.s.s.

Jared shouldn't mind being called boss. Jerry Garcia hadn't minded when Ron called him boss. G.o.d, he missed the Dead.

He took his iPod from his pocket, stuck in the earbuds, and scrolled through his playlist. When "Attics of My Life" rolled into his ears, he smiled.

He got his lighter and lit the tiki torches around the pool. A chilly wind was blowing, but the boss wanted atmosphere. His gaze wandered and he saw jets taking off from SFO.

That guy going nuts on the flight from London-talk about a freak-out. When the man ran up the aisle to the emergency exit, Gingrich thought for a second that the plane was on fire. But the flames were only in the dude's head. Gingrich had watched him, thinking, WTF? Then he and Jared looked at each other and knew that if they didn't do something, it wouldn't get done. They jumped up and wrestled the wacko away from the emergency exit.

He rubbed the cut on his arm where the man's belt buckle had scratched him in the scuffle.

"Ron?"

Jared sounded perplexed. Gingrich turned.

The sun was down, the tiki torches flickering on the terrace. The noise from the party was bombastic.

"Where have you been?" Jared said.

"Going to put away those tools, like you asked."

Jared looked at him c.o.c.keyed. "And lock up the pool shed. The electricians didn't finish with the pool lights. There's live wiring going to the pool. We have to keep the power off. I don't want anybody accidentally mistaking the garden lighting switches for the pool."

"Sure."

Jared continued looking at him strangely. "You all right, Ron?"

"Tired. The London trip kicked my b.u.t.t."

Jared nodded, let his gaze linger a bit longer, and headed back to his guests.

Gingrich wasn't tired. He was b.l.o.o.d.y exhausted, as the Brits would say. His legs felt stiff, as if he'd been standing there by the side of the house for hours. For... c.r.a.p, he was cold. When had the sun gone down?

He glanced at his watch. "Whoa."

Eight P.M. How had an hour slipped away?

He ran a hand over his goatee and slapped his cheeks to wake himself up. The pool shed. Get the tools inside. Yes, boss. Then he could finally go home and hit the sack. He walked around the side of the garage.

The pool shed was toasty inside. Jared kept the pool heated like a hot spring, because he had grown up in some dusty house by the freeway in Daly City and hated dirt and loved the clean, chlorinated smell of pool water. Jared swam every day, wallowing in his wealth and just maybe, Gingrich thought, was.h.i.+ng off the stench that stuck to him from his computer games. Stuff designed for people who were bored with Grand Theft Auto and needed something a bit more stimulating. Marketed to eighth grade kids, too.

Gingrich turned on the light. It was harsh, a single bulb overhead. Moths flew around his head. The heater and pumps and filter motors chugged away.

That flight from London-what had been wrong with the wack job? The shrink who came aboard didn't think the guy was crazy. Gingrich had seen him on the floor after the cop Tasered him, in some sort of trance, turning like he was being spit-roasted. The memory made him shudder.

He could hear noise behind him at the party. Fifty party-hearty, greedy, talented, demanding guests, drinking beer and talking deals and celebrating the release of Jared's new game. It was so hot in this shed. He stared at the circuit breakers on the wall.

The pumps hummed almost hypnotically. He blinked.

Man, his legs felt stiff. He felt like he'd been standing forever. He looked at his watch. It was nine thirty P.M. People would want to swim. He should go light the tiki torches. Get some beers from the garage and pack them in ice in that big aluminum pail.

Jared would want the pool perfect. He always swam, every day. Gingrich looked at the machinery in the shed. The door had swung shut behind him. It was d.a.m.ned hot and musty in here. He heard the humming of the pumps, and "Brokedown Palace" in his earphones.

Why was he standing in the pool shed? He didn't remember coming in. Obviously he had a reason, but...

The circuit breaker box was open. That was weird.

He looked inside at the switches. Four of them, three for the circuits on the gaudy garden lights that illuminated the gardenias and rhododendrons, and one in the center for the underwater pool lights. That breaker was flipped to off.

Jared must have asked him to come in and flip it on. Jared must want to go swimming. What time was it?

He looked at his watch. "s.h.i.+t."

Ten o'clock? Man, he was so tired he was completely losing track of time. Jared must want to swim in his beautiful pool in the dark, pretending he was a dolphin swimming in the deep. Maybe Jared even had a date. And the guy couldn't manage to come flip the switch himself.

He reached out for the breaker box. Stopped himself.

Something felt wrong.

Jared. Lazy genius. Grew up in a heated shack near 280 and was now too precious to turn the lights on in his own pool. Was that it?

His hand lingered in the air. Man, he needed a new job.

Then he shook himself. He was being ridiculous. This was work. He was just jet-lagged. He had a cushy job. He was in the cream.

Jared wasn't a bad kid. Gingrich had, if anything, encouraged the guy to let him take care of everything. How else did you make yourself indispensable?

He turned on his iPod. The Who, that was the ticket. "Teenage Wasteland"-he hadn't heard it in ages.

He flipped the big breaker. Wiped his forehead. It was hot in this shed, stuffier than h.e.l.l. Moths were flying around. The pumps were so noisy, really annoying.

He shut the breaker box, turned off the light, stepped outside, and shut the door. It was fully dark outside. The night was loud. The music pounded in his ears, Daltrey wailing. The party was really hopping. Some of that new music the younger generation liked-what did they call it, emo? Screamo. That was it. Heart-rending teenage songs, overlaid with a pouty singer screaming into the mike. And around the corner by the pool, it seemed like Jared's friends were singing along.

He didn't get that music. It wasn't like the Dead, not cla.s.sic stuff. The night was cool, but he felt like he'd been standing next to a dusty furnace for hours. He wiped sweat from his brow.

The people at the party, the game designers and screamo fans, they weren't his people. He needed to get home and crash. And tonight he needed it bad, with this unbelievable jet lag. By the pool the lights were off, but in the light of the tiki torches everybody was running around. Jared was having another crazy party. These kids. Playing tag around the pool even though they were adults. But he guessed that was what you did when you sold games for a living.

He walked around the side of the house. His flip-flops slapped on the sidewalk. He had a beer in his hand. He popped the top and drank. Ah, that was better.

He decided not to interrupt the party. He didn't need to say good-bye. He just needed to get home. The boss would understand.

He unlatched the gate and walked out to the driveway and ambled on down to the street. In the night, the stars were pinpoint-clear. He stretched his hands over his head and glanced back at the house. The front door was open. He saw people inside, racing around. They were yelling, running in and out, some of them in swimsuits. One of them sprinted past him down the street, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Gamers. Playing capture the flag, maybe. He looked to see where the guy was going.

What do you know? A fire truck was screaming up the street.

Blue and red lights lit up the hillside, and the sirens blared. More people ran out of Jared's house. It was a regular circus.

* 11 *

A rattling wind woke Jo. She opened her eyes to see an acrylic blue sky flying high above the skylight. It was six A.M.

In her teens, Jo would have sold her baby sister to a traveling carnival for an extra hour of sleep in the morning. But medical school had reset her body clock. By her second year, she'd been able to ride across the Stanford campus in the dark, with her lab notes in one hand and a coffee mug in the other. She'd done it once at five thirty A.M., in a white coat and pajamas. Now she rarely slept past seven.

For a minute she hunkered beneath the covers. Her bedroom was full of hot colors that fought against the city's chilly weather. The bed had a lacquered black j.a.panese frame and a red comforter. Gold and orange pillows were heaped around her. Coral-colored orchids were blooming on the dresser.

She wondered where Ian Kanan was-in a hotel, or huddled in a downtown doorway, or wandering the streets. She wondered whether Misty Kanan had told their son that Ian was injured and missing. Misty struck her as defensive, quick to see her and Amy Tang as threats. Maybe Tang was right and Misty was covering up Ian's part in a botched heist. Something about the mood in the Kanans' home certainly seemed off balance. Or maybe, faced with catastrophe, Misty was simply trying to protect her own sanity.

Jo also wondered about Chira-Sayf's nanotechnology work. For all its promise, nanotech had a spooky edge. If Kanan had been poisoned, nanoparticle contamination rated investigation.

It was too early to reach anybody at Chira-Sayf. She'd left multiple messages for Kanan's boss, Riva Calder, and would try again at a civilized hour, but right then she was wide awake and buzzing. She threw back the covers, put on workout gear, and drove to the climbing gym.

Mission Cliffs filled a converted warehouse in the Mission District. The gym was a maze of artificial rock walls that soared to the ceiling, an indoor playground for grown-ups. Jo signed the lead climbers' log, stretched, and put on her climbing shoes, harness, and chalk bag. Another early bird offered to be her belay partner. She took out her lead rope and approached the head wall. It was fifty feet high, the color of the rocks in Monument Valley, studded with artificial holds in Play-Doh colors. And, in the early morning suns.h.i.+ne coming through the skylights, it was all hers.

Nothing topped the purity and challenge of rock climbing to pump her up, clear her head, make her feel alive. Except for s.e.x, on a good day. On a pitch, it was all physics and courage: thinking through the route to the top; judging force, leverage, angles, and her limits. It came down to guts and gravity.

Climbing the wall took about two minutes. She did laps up and down via different routes. She finished above it all, in the air. With nothing but a thin rope and her own strength holding her to the wall, surrounded by s.p.a.ce and light, she felt exhilarated.

Why would anybody want to fly in an aircraft, strapped in an aluminum can, when they could climb?

When she left the gym, the city was gleaming. In San Francisco, daylight s.h.i.+nes white. It reflects from the walls of Victorian houses that cover the hills like cards. It tingles from dissipating mist and leaps like fish off whitecaps on the bay. Jo put on her sungla.s.ses and drove up the road to find coffee.

After a block she changed her mind and headed to Noe Valley.

Gabe's 4Runner was parked outside a craftsman house overhung with live oaks. He answered the door barefoot in jeans and a USF T-s.h.i.+rt. His hair was confused. His bronze skin shone in the sun.

Who needed caffeine? "Morning, Sergeant."

He paused a beat. Usually he'd reply with "Doctor Beckett" or "Ms. Deadshrinker," but he just stepped aside and let her in. "You look revved up."

"I wondered if you've gotten a line on Ian Kanan's background."

"That brought you here at seven thirty A.M.?"

"Yes." She smiled. "No."

She pushed him against the wall and kissed him.

His eyes widened. "You switch from orange juice to high-octane today?"

"Got a match?"

From the kitchen, a child called, "Dad, the eggs are burning."

For a second Jo held him there. She heard a sizzle from a pan in the kitchen and the morning news on the television. Gabe's face turned rueful.

"Take it off the burner, honey," he called.

Jo exhaled and stepped back. Gabe's nine-year-old daughter, Sophie, poked her head around the kitchen doorway.

"Hey, Jo."

"Hey, kiddo."

Sophie had a bashful smile and a long braid the color of Hershey's Kisses. She was wearing a blue and gray parochial school uniform.