The Memory Collector by Meg Gardiner Read Free Book Online Page A

offered her hand. “I’m Dr. Beckett. You suffered two seizures and have a severe head injury. It’s affecting your memory.”
    “What are you talking about? My memory’s fine.”
    “Do you recognize me?”
    His gaze slid smoothly up her body. It took in her athletic physique, her dark eyes, her long brown curls. It stopped at the laminated hospital I.D. clipped to her sweater.
    “No. Should I?” he said.
    “I’m a psychiatrist. I brought you here from the airport. I’ve been with you for nearly two hours.”
    “I don’t remem—” His face dropped. In the sudden quiet, a lash of rain hit the window. “I have amnesia?”
    “Yes.”
    Simioni said, “A particular kind called anterograde amnesia. You haven’t lost old memories. But something has damaged the part of your brain that forms new ones.”
    “‘Something.’ What?”
    “We’re investigating that.”
    “Don’t you know?”
    “Not yet. We need your history. Talk us through what you were doing in Africa and the Middle East.”
    Kanan held back, his face registering disbelief at not yet . Finally he said, “Business trip.”
    “What do you do, Mr. Kanan?”
    “Ian. I’m a security consultant for a tech company in Santa Clara.”
    Jo had guessed right. “What does your job involve?”
    “I help the company keep hold of its equipment and its people.”
    “How?”
    He raised a hand. “Stop. You’re saying I have a head injury and keep forgetting everything?”
    “Yes. And help us. You just came back from the developing world. What does your job involve?”
    He hesitated and then seemed to calm himself. “When company personnel head overseas, I go along to scout dicey situations. I ride herd on engineers and executives. Make sure absentminded programmers don’t leave their laptops on a train and that nobody plays away from home in a way that could get them hurt.”
    “Excuse me?” Simioni said.
    “I keep executives from getting so drunk they get rolled by prostitutes or reveal trade secrets to foreign competitors.”
    Simioni crossed his arms. “You do any industrial health and safety work?”
    Kanan’s smile was brief and wry. “I’m a babysitter.”
    Jo and Simioni exchanged a glance, puzzled. The possibilities were numerous and awful and none of them made immediate sense. A blow to the head. Viral encephalitis. Brain surgery performed with a Black & Decker drill. Tapeworm larvae burrowing into Kanan’s brain.
    Jo forcibly ignored that image. Kanan’s eyes were bright. He was handsome and lucid and in deep trouble.
    “You’re saying something’s wrong with me?” he said.
    “Something serious, yes,” Jo said.
    Simioni held out the MRI photos. As Kanan examined them, his face paled.
    There was little point breaking it to him gently. There would never be a good time to explain things to him—anything—ever again. Whatever he learned, he could never assimilate. He could only be reminded of it, endlessly. A melody poured through Jo’s thoughts. Red Hot Chili Peppers, “Strip My Mind . ”
    Simioni asked Kanan a list of questions. Fever? Drinking unfiltered water or eating suspect food from a Zimbabwean food stall? No, no, and no.
    Kanan stared relentlessly at the images. “I’ve never heard of this.”
    “It’s extremely rare,” Jo said. “Did anything strange happen on your business trip? Anything at all out of the ordinary?”
    “No.” He looked up. “What’s the treatment?”
    “We’re working on that,” Simioni said.
    Kanan’s voice sharpened. “Don’t you know?”
    “We won’t even have a chance to treat it unless we can figure out what’s causing it.”
    Kanan looked rigid, like a spring pressed down, ready to blow. “Prognosis?”
    “The part of your brain that processes information and sends it to long-term storage is damaged,” Jo said. “It means information won’t be transferred to memory. It will slough off.”
    He jabbed a finger at the MRI printout. “You’re saying this part of my