The Memory Collector Part 25

"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 a.s.sembles 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 G.o.d. 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 ap.r.o.n 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 G.o.d.

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 basketb.a.l.l.s and fis.h.i.+ng 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 *

Jo 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 l.u.s.t 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 G.o.d knows what those Jesuits at USF have put in your head about women."

"You want to disabuse me of my misconceptions?"

Despite herself, she felt a smile forming. "It might be necessary."

Her shoulders dropped another inch. Outside, the sun was gold and sharp, etching cool shadows across her garden beneath the blue sky.

She turned around and laced her fingers with his. "What you did this afternoon was incredible."

The light in the living room was low. His eyes were dark. And hot, like a slow-burning fire. She didn't know how to read his look.

He turned her hand and examined the abrasion on her palm. "Let's get that cleaned up. Where do you keep your first aid kit?"

A red line of heat rolled down her chest. "Upstairs."

Holding loosely to his hand, she led him up the stairs.

They had been taking things slow. She believed he was giving her time to adjust to the idea of a new relations.h.i.+p, her first since she'd buried Daniel. But Gabe was a P.J. He might look like a cool drink of water, but pararescuemen-like rock climbers-were adrenaline junkies. They hated running in first gear. If he was throttling down, it was because he was keeping his natural instincts in check for her sake.

But she didn't know for certain. He was enigmatic. She wondered what really went on in his heart. And she couldn't shake the feeling that something was eating at him. She wondered what he was holding back, and why.

His hand was cool against her palm. At the top of the stairs she turned into her bedroom, led him to the bathroom, and got the first aid kit from the cabinet.

"I could do this myself, you know," she said.

He took the kit from her. "But you know what they say."

"Yes. h.e.l.lo, doctor. Meet your patient, the fool."

They stood side by side at the sink. He cleaned the abrasions and carefully bandaged her hand. His work was thorough and economical.

He set down the medical tape. "That'll hold for a few days."

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "Thank you."

His hands slid around her waist. He leaned down and kissed her.

And kissed her again. He drew her close and held her, with an a.s.surance and ease that seemed more than hope, that seemed like being home. She held there a second, eyes on his. Taking his hand, she led him to the bedroom.

Outside, sunlight skidded across rooftops. She put a hand to his chest. His heartbeat came back at her, strong and regular and fast.

This was new, and not. Her first time, and not. Familiar, and strange. A man she wanted, but not the man she had moved into this house with, into this bedroom with.

Just breathe.

She slipped her fingers under his unb.u.t.toned work s.h.i.+rt and began easing it off his shoulders, slowly. He let go of her and did it faster. Then he pulled her sweater over her head. She walked into his arms and ran her fingers into his hair, kissed him, hard, wrapped her arms around his neck, felt his hands untucking her T-s.h.i.+rt from her jeans.

Lips still close to his, breathless, she said, "Shoes. Hold on."

She tried to get the left one off by stepping on the heel with her right foot but lost her balance. Gabe pulled the T-s.h.i.+rt up to her shoulders. She turned in a circle and bent and fumbled with her shoelace. Her arm was stuck in her sleeve. Gabe hoisted her off her feet and swung her toward the bed. She wrapped her legs around his waist and they toppled as one onto the thick red comforter.

He rolled on top of her and kissed her mouth, her cheek, her neck, the hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse throbbed. She grabbed for his T-s.h.i.+rt but he was pressed against her. She felt the planes of his back and shoulders, lean and strong and smooth. His hands were warm. Her skin felt hotter.

She felt like a gong that had been rung. She held on to him, holding back some part of herself. She was afraid if she let everything go, she would uncoil like a whip and begin to scream, or sing, or bite.

This was what happened when it had been too long. Tears stung her eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut so he couldn't see. She didn't want to think, or remember, or see. She wanted to feel.

She told herself: Shut up, brain.

She worked her hands to his waist and fought with the top b.u.t.ton on his jeans. He got to his knees and pulled his T-s.h.i.+rt over his head. He wrestled her T-s.h.i.+rt up off her and pounced on her again. Skin against skin, they grappled on the bed. Every inch of her felt electric, so charged that she thought she might short-circuit.

He was ripped, he was intense, very intense, really focused. The only sounds in the room were their breathing and her own heart, thundering in her ears.

They fumbled for b.u.t.tons. On his jeans, her jeans. Their fingers were fast and awkward and if this had been a rock ledge high above a valley floor, or a triage case where dexterity was necessary, they'd have been in big trouble.

Big trouble... "Gabe, do you have..."

He pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He dug through it and a twenty and a supermarket receipt fell out, and then he pulled out a foil packet. Jo was yanking her socks off as though they were on fire. She looked up, waiting for him to tear the foil. And she saw his scars.

They rode the curve of his right hip, white and smooth. Old scars, half a dozen at least. They were the marks of violence. Something sharp, or explosive, had ripped through him.

She reached to touch them and stopped. Gabe tore open the condom foil with his teeth. She looked up at him. Eagerly, he looked back.

He wasn't smiling, but he was happy, in a crazed way, and then in a fraction of a second he readjusted. He saw something on her face. Her surprise. Her brakes-on, What-the-h.e.l.l-is-that? look.

Her fingers hovered near his hip. Her eyes asked the question.

"Old news," he said.

"Gabe?"

"I mended."

These scars hadn't come from tripping over a trash can. They weren't surgical or superficial. They had gone messy and deep. They had gone with a trainload of pain.