The Memory Collector Part 15

"You're a shrink?" she said. "Please tell me what's wrong with him."

Gingrich was sitting in a beanbag chair by the bay window in the living room, wearing gym shorts and a Metallica T-s.h.i.+rt. His ponytail was greasy. His eyes, watching pro wrestling on the television, were bright.

Clare and the dogs approached him. "Ron, sweetie, the doctor's here to see you."

Gingrich looked up pleasantly. "Hey, it's the shrink from the plane." He stood. "Man, that was weird. Did you end up sectioning the guy?" He offered his hand to Tang. "I'm Ron."

Tang's mouth tightened. "We met a few minutes ago."

A dust bunny of confusion scooted across Gingrich's face. "Sure. You guys here to interview me about the fight on the plane?"

"No," Jo said. "About Jared."

"Just give him a call. He'll be happy to talk. He's rich and all, but you don't need to go through me. He's approachable."

Tang s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably and cut her eyes at Jo.

"Want coffee? Clare, baby, we got some of that Colombian?" Gingrich smiled and headed into the kitchen. "We haven't eaten-you gals want to stay for breakfast?"

Clare's face was frozen. "He ate three eggs, toast, and bacon half an hour ago. He ate three more eggs fifteen minutes ago."

Whistling, Gingrich pulled out a skillet and turned on the stove. "How you like 'em, ladies?"

Jo avoided Tang's scowl and walked into the kitchen. "Ron, hold on a second."

"No eggs for you?"

"I need to ask you about Jared."

"Sure, but why so serious?" His eyes were red but untroubled. "What's going on?"

"It's about the party at his house last night."

"Last night?" He smiled, but his expression was vague. "I don't think so."

"Did you flip the electrical switch in the pool shed?" Jo said.

"Doctor, I think you're confused. I just got back from London."

"Ron, Jared's dead."

He stopped cold, holding an egg in his hand. For a moment, it looked like he'd taken a two-by-four between the eyes. Then he sagged back against the stove. He groped for balance and crushed the egg against the counter.

"No. How did it... ? Oh, Christ." He looked at his girlfriend. "Clare-Jared's... oh, G.o.d."

Gingrich slid down the counter into a wretched crouch and burst into tears.

Jo saw the red slice on his forearm. It looked like it had been gouged with a dull nail.

"Ron?" she said.

He thrust his head into his hands.

Jo turned to Clare. "He needs to get to the hospital."

She took out her phone and called neurologist Rick Simioni.

Kanan swung the maroon Navigator into the marina. The bay was stippled with whitecaps. Alcatraz s.h.i.+mmered in the morning haze. He cruised toward the forest of sailboat masts, scanning for threats.

He was operating on a simple principle: To stay alive, a.s.sume the worst. Expect an ambush. He'd once seen a sign tacked to the door at a U.S. Marine firebase: HAVE A PLAN TO KILL EVERYBODY YOU MEET TODAY. It was pertinent advice.

He cruised along, checking for vehicles or people who seemed out of place. Two Post-it notes were stuck to the dashboard. The first read: Vehicle, Weps, Alec, THEM. The word vehicle was crossed out. He was driving it. The second note said, Somebody's Baby.

The voice of the GPS system said, "Make a U-turn."

He looked up. He was at the San Francisco marina, staring out the winds.h.i.+eld at the Golden Gate Bridge.

He turned around, drove back to the boats, parked, and got out. The sky was a happy, mocking blue, but the pines shuddered in a melancholy wind. He pulled up the collar of his denim s.h.i.+rt and walked toward the mooring slip.

He felt the dagger jammed in his boot. Felt a rock where his heart should be, dense and so heated that for a moment he could barely inhale.

Suck it up, he told himself. Go past the betrayal, finish the job, and get them.

The marina looked full-only a few sails were visible on the bay. The people who moored their boats here were at work in the financial district or Silicon Valley, humping sixteen-hour days to pay for their hundred-thousand-dollar toys.

Ahead he saw Somebody's Baby. Her fibergla.s.s hull gleamed in the suns.h.i.+ne. He hopped aboard, descended the stairs, and jimmied the lock on the cabin door.

Ken Meiring sat in the black van and watched the Navigator cruise past him, twice, three times-Jesus, how many times was this guy going to circle the parking lot? Finally the Navigator U-turned and drove back. Ian Kanan got out and headed for the boats.

Meiring got out and followed.

Inside Somebody's Baby, the cabin was sleek and quiet. n.o.body was aboard. Kanan went to the galley, got a set of keys, and unlocked a cabinet built into the bench seat along the cabin wall.

"d.a.m.n it."

No weapons. No handgun, no shotgun, not even the boat's flare gun. Someone had taken them. He stared in dismay.

The boat rocked and shoes squeaked on the deck above.

Quietly, Kanan retreated to the galley. He pulled its half door partway closed and crouched behind it. The squeaking shoes came down the stairs. They sounded heavy, like rubber-soled boots. They stopped.

Kanan peered around the half door. A man stood, his back turned, in the center of the cabin. He was in his late thirties, white, built like a freezer. Fat circled his waist like sculpted shortening. His neck was inflamed with the grotesque acne that resulted from steroid abuse. His right hand held an HK automatic pistol.

Kanan's skin p.r.i.c.kled with adrenaline. A stranger with a gun. One of them?

He estimated his chances. The man looked slow. He had turned his back without first searching the galley. If he was a pro, he was not at the top of his game.

But neither was Kanan. This block of lard had been lying in wait, and he hadn't spotted him.

The man was three steps and half a second away, confined in a narrow s.p.a.ce. Kanan bunched, threw the door back, and sprang.

The man heard him and began to turn. Kanan swept the man's left knee with his right leg and hit him in the spine flat-handed between the shoulder blades. The man pitched forward. His head cracked the edge of the bench seat and he hit the floor like a pot roast. Kanan stomped on his right hand and took the gun.

He dropped a knee onto the man's back and put the barrel to his skull. "Who are you?"

Sounding shocked, the man said, "This is my boat."

"It isn't. What do you want?"

The man gave up the pretense. Through clenched teeth, his voice roughened. "You're in trouble. You haven't delivered and the deadline's coming."

Kanan slid his knee up to the back of the man's neck and pressed his weight against it. "Where are they?"

The man's face grew red. "Deliver the stuff."

"You want to walk out of this alive? Tell me."

"The stuff. Or go f.u.c.k yourself." The man raised a hand to his throat. "Air... get off."

Kanan pulled his arm back like a batter winding up and swung the pistol across the man's forehead. The man's skin split and his eyes unfocused. A skid mark of blood pulsed from the cut. His head flopped against the floor.

Kanan rifled the man's pockets. He found a driver's license and cell phone. The man's name was Ken Meiring. He scrolled through the phone's call register.

Murdock.

Vance.

A 650 number.

Kanan stopped. He knew that number. What the h.e.l.l?

He scrolled further. The number appeared again, and again, and again.

"Oh, G.o.d," he said. He had wondered who was behind everything. But not... "Christ."

Beneath him Meiring bunched and groaned. Drool slipped from his mouth. Kanan pressed the weight of his knee against Meiring's neck. As he did, his hand hit the phone's camera function. A stored photo popped on-screen.

It was a snapshot of Seth.

Kanan gaped at it. A snapshot of Seth on his bike, riding to school.

The dense rock in his chest seemed to burn. "You stalked my son? You brought him into this?"

Meiring struggled beneath him, lips pulled back, groaning and trying to squirm away. "We can all still go home winners. Don't f.u.c.k this up."

Seth. His boy. Kanan could barely see. His voice cracked like a ruined china bowl. "Tell me where they are. Or I will kill you."

Meiring kicked out and tried to grab Kanan's arm. "Kill me and you're screwed."

Kanan pressed the barrel of the pistol against Meiring's temple. "Forget going home a winner. You want to go home? Tell me."

Meiring's eyes flicked to the pistol's safety, which was off, and the trigger, which had Kanan's finger on it.

"Don't-Christ, okay, I'll... they're down the peninsula."

"Where?"

"I'll take you."

"Where?"

"No way."

Like a bell had begun ringing, Kanan made the connection. The familiar number in Meiring's cell phone. Down the peninsula. Jesus Christ.

"Off San Antonio Road in Mountain View," he said flatly.

Meiring's eyes widened.

s.h.i.+t. That was the address. An old ranch house, supposedly used as a rental-but these people were using it for a safe house. That's where everything began and ended.

A terrible urgency filled him. He had to get there. And he had to write it down before he forgot it.

"San Antonio Road in Mountain View. San Antonio Road..."

He looked around for something to write with. He stretched and reached for a drawer. Beneath him Meiring roared. Bucking like an animal, he threw him off balance. Kanan fell against the bench. Meiring rolled and began punching like a madman. Kanan wrestled him onto his back, wrapped his thighs around the man's head, and squeezed him in a crazed wrestling lock.

"San Antonio Road Mountain View," he said.

He pulled out a drawer. Junk poured across the floor. He grabbed a marker with his left hand. Meiring grunted and fought for purchase with his feet. Kanan squeezed his legs around Meiring's neck and pulled off the cap of the pen with his teeth. Meiring groaned, dug his heels into the floor, and arched his back. His fists windmilled, batting at Kanan's legs.

Kanan pressed the marker to the fibergla.s.s floor. Wrote San An- With a strangled roar, Meiring broke free from the headlock. Kanan brought up the gun but Meiring elbowed him in the face and thumped to his feet and fled up the stairs.

Hold on to the words, hold on-Christ, he needed Meiring, alive and talking, because he would forget. Meiring knew everything and he was getting away.

Kanan scrambled to his feet. Up top, Meiring stuttered across the deck. His foot clipped a cleat. He lost his balance. Lurching for the edge, he tried to jump for the dock. He missed.

With a shout, he fell from sight.

Kanan heard a splash. He stared out the cabin door at the empty deck and the blue sky. The sunlight stung his eyes. Gulls shrieked overhead. He put a hand against the cabin wall for balance.