Free The Memory Collector by Meg Gardiner

“Please, doctor. I’m at your disposal. Meet me at that coffee place down the hill from your house. I can give you ten minutes, because I’m a living doll.”
    Tang sounded as though she didn’t need any more caffeine, but Jo said, “I’m on my way.”
    Fifteen minutes later, she managed to find a parking spot two blocks from Java Jones. The coffeehouse sat on a funky side street at the bottom of Russian Hill near Fisherman’s Wharf. Jo wrangled her scarf over her head, turned up the collar on her jean jacket, fed quarters into the meter, and dashed along the sidewalk. The plate-glass windows at Java Jones were steamed over. The lights inside had the amber glow of a fogged-in Parisian café, circa 1870. It looked like a Monet painting. She pushed through the door, half-drenched.
    The come-and-get-it smell of espresso welcomed her. Fall Out Boy was playing on the stereo, “Hum Hallelujah.” Lieutenant Amy Tang stood at the counter, fingers tapping double-time, waiting for her order.
    Tang was a sea urchin, small and prickly. She wore a black peacoat, black slacks, black boots. Spiky black hair. Jo knew that beneath the barbs, she had a heart—a cautious, well-guarded heart. But reaching it could result in cuts and bruises. She liked Tang enormously.
    With chilled fingers, Jo fumbled to remove her sodden scarf. It had gotten wrapped over her hair and half her face.
    Tang eyed her. “You trying out for ninja school?”
    “You auditioning for The Matrix ?” Jo unwound the scarf like a mummy removing its wrappings and shook water from her brown curls.
    Behind the counter, Jo’s sister Tina was pouring Tang’s order. “Jo’s into the whole woman warrior, Bushido, take-no-psychic-prisoners thing. Me, I take after our Irish ancestors. We’re poets and musicians.”
    “More like pranksters and subversives.” Jo held up her phone. “You hijacked this. Please delete the ringtone you installed.”
    “But ‘Psychosocial’ is a sick ringtone.”
    “Ironic, I got it. But the screaming scares small children and grown police officers.”
    The ratty day wasn’t denting Tina’s mood. She resembled Jo, minus ten years and a couple of inches, plus enough silver in her ears and on her fingers to be confused for a magnet. She was so effervescent that Jo wondered what would happen if she walked past an open drawer of cutlery on a particularly dynamic day.
    Tina took the phone. “I’ll change it on one condition. Tomorrow night—Jo, don’t give me that look, you’ve been promising for months, and you back out every time. Come on.”
    “If you want me to go on a girls’ night out, you have to give me a hint. What will we be doing? Popsicle-stick crafts? Krav Maga?”
    Tina stuck out her bottom lip and made puppy eyes.
    Jo raised her hands. “Fine, I give up.”
    Tina clapped her fists together like a delighted kid. She handed over Jo’s coffee with a grin.
    Jo laughed. “I just walked into a trap, didn’t I?” She took her coffee. “Thanks. I think.”
    Tang led her to a table. “I talked to the officers from the airport division. Nasty run-in you had with this Kanan character. You okay?”
    “No harm, no foul. But he said he’s going to find me,” Jo said.
    “How would he do that?”
    “He grabbed my hospital I.D. Let’s say he could take it from there. He seems resourceful.”
    “So he’s a possible stalker. With brain damage. What else?”
    “I think he’s gone out to kill somebody.”
    “How’d you reach that conclusion?”
    “He has a list of names and the words They die scrawled on his forearm.”
    Tang set down her mug. “From the top, please.”
    Jo told Tang the story: the siege on the 747, the Tasering, the seizures. The bizarre MRI results, Kanan’s rage and determination to leave the hospital. His aggression against her in the elevator.
    “He said he’s on the job, and he’ll finish it, and he’s ‘going to get them.’ And he said he has nothing to lose. Add in They die and