Part 1 (1/2)

THE MEMORY COLLECTOR.

Meg Gardiner.

A Jo Beckett Novel.

For my brother and sisters:.

Bill, Sue, and Sara.

* 1 *

Later, Seth remembered cold air and red light streaking the western sky, music in his ears, and his own hard breathing. Later, he understood, and the understanding stuck in his memory like a thorn. He never heard them coming.

The trail through Golden Gate Park was rutted and he was riding with his earbuds in, tunes cranked high. His guitar was in a backpack case slung around his shoulders. Crimson sunset strobed between the eucalyptus trees. When he reached Kennedy Drive, he jumped the curb, crossed the road, and aimed his bike into the shortcut through the woods. He was a quarter mile from home.

He was late. But if he rode hard he could still beat his mom back from work. His breath frosted the air. The music thrashed in his ears. He barely heard Whiskey bark.

He glanced over his shoulder. The dog was at a standstill on the path fifty yards behind him. Seth skidded to a stop. He pushed his gla.s.ses up his nose, but the trail lay in shadow and he couldn't see what Whiskey was barking at.

He whistled and waved. ”Hey, doofus.”

Whiskey was a big dog, part Irish setter, part golden retriever. Part sofa cus.h.i.+on. And all heart, every dumb inch of him. His hackles were up.

If Whiskey ran off, chasing him down could take forever. Then he'd totally be late. But Seth was fifteen-in a month, anyhow-and Whiskey was his responsibility.

He whistled again. Whiskey glanced at him. He could swear the dog looked worried.

He pulled out his earbuds. ”Whiskey, come.”

The dog stayed, fur bristling. Seth heard traffic outside the park on Fulton. He heard birds singing in the trees and a jet overhead. He heard Whiskey growl.

Seth rode toward him. It might be a racc.o.o.n, and even in San Francisco racc.o.o.ns could have rabies.

He stopped beside the dog. ”Hey, boy. Stay.”

He heard a car door close, back on Kennedy. Boots crunched on leaves and pine needles. Whiskey's ears went back. Seth grabbed his collar. Tension was vibrating from the dog.

The birds weren't singing anymore.

”Come. Heel,” Seth said and turned around.

A man stood on the trail in the dusk, ten feet ahead. Surprise fizzed through Seth all the way to his hair.

The man's shaved head ran straight down to his shoulders without stopping for a neck. His arms hung by his sides. He looked like a ball-park frank that had been boiled all day.

He nodded at Whiskey. ”He's a handful. What's his name?”

The sun was almost down. Why was the guy wearing sungla.s.ses?

He snapped his fingers. ”Here, dog.”

Seth held Whiskey's collar. The fizzing covered his skin, and he had a bright, thumping feeling behind his eyes. What was this guy after?

The hot dog in shades tilted his head. ”I said, what's his name, Seth?”

The brightness pounded behind Seth's eyes. The man knew who he was.

Of course the man did. Seth was lanky and had coppery hair that stuck up like straw and pale blue eyes that could shoot people the look, the one his mom called the thousand-yard stare. Just my luck, she said sometimes. You look exactly like your father.

Seth gripped Whiskey's collar. Just his luck. His bad luck. His bad, bad, oh, s.h.i.+t-this had to do with his dad.

What was this guy after? This guy was after him.

He took off. He jumped on the pedals and bolted like a greyhound, ninety degrees away from Oscar Mayer man, riding like a maniac into the woods.

”Whiskey, come,” he yelled.

There was no trail, just b.u.mpy ground covered with brown gra.s.s and dead leaves. He gripped the handlebars and pedaled harder than he thought his legs could turn. His gla.s.ses bounced on his nose. His earbuds swung down and bucked against the bike. Tunes dribbled out.

Behind him, Whiskey barked. Seth felt too scared to look back.

Oscar Mayer wasn't the only one. Whiskey had been growling at something on Kennedy Drive, and Seth had heard a car door slam and footsteps on the trail. His throat felt like it had an apple jammed down it. Two guys were here to get him.

He had to warn his mom.

His cell phone was in his jeans pocket, but riding like a psycho, he couldn't reach it. A moan rose in his throat. He fought it down. He couldn't cry. The trees had darkened from green to black. Ahead, a hundred yards away through the branches, he glimpsed headlights pa.s.sing on Fulton Street.

He had to get home. His mom-G.o.d, what if these guys went after her, too?

Ninety yards to Fulton. Headlights glared white through the trees. Seth's hands were cramping on the handlebars, his legs burning. The guitar bounced in the backpack case. The bike slammed over a rut. He held it, straightened out, and kept going. There'd be people on Fulton. The headlights drew closer.

Behind him, Whiskey yelped.

He looked over his shoulder. His dog was bounding after him through the brush. Behind the dog came Oscar Mayer.

”Whiskey, run,” Seth yelled.

His legs felt shaky but he dug in again, flying toward the street past an old oak tree.

The second man was waiting behind it.