The Memory Collector Read Online Free PDF

braced himself against the door so we couldn’t push it inward. He also told us to get the hell back. The second time, he didn’t say anything. It seemed he was slumped against the door.”
    “Unconscious?” Jo said, thinking, Drugs, drunk, sick?
    The flight attendant shrugged. “He didn’t respond.”
    Officer Paterson said, “What do you think?”
    “Let’s find out.” Jo knocked on the door. “Mr. Kanan?”
    She heard water running in the sink. She and Paterson exchanged a look.
    The door opened. The man inside turned to step out, saw her, and stopped dead.
    Ian Kanan was in his midthirties, five-ten, white. From the back, wearing a coat, he would have seemed unexceptional. Face-to-face with him, Jo saw the way his denim shirt ran tight across his shoulders. She saw the self-awareness that ran head to toe. She saw scratches, deep ones, on his left wrist. He was lean and whippy. His hair was short and rusty brown, the color of iron ore. His eyes were the palest blue she had ever seen. Almost colorless, and bright, like a seam of ancient ice. Jo felt as though she were staring into a crevasse.
    “Excuse me,” he said and stepped out the door.
    He saw the people gathered in the aisle, all staring at him. His eyes went to Officer Paterson and to the gun holstered on Paterson’s belt.
    “What’s going on?” he said.
    “Mr. Kanan, are you all right?” Jo said.
    He glanced out the windows. The gray sky churned and rain blew across the view. His eyes clicked to the aisle. The empty jet. The term escape plan ran through Jo’s mind.
    His eyes clicked back to her. “I wasn’t feeling well.”
    A fully formed sentence, pronounced clearly, in response to her question. That was promising. His gaze was acute, but Jo sensed something else behind it—tightly controlled confusion. Paterson’s hand hovered near his weapon.
    “I’m Dr. Beckett. Can you tell me why you don’t want to get off the plane?”
    “I’ll get off the plane. Why wouldn’t I?” he said.
    Everybody stared at him.
    “Is there a problem?” he said. His eyes said something else entirely. His eyes said, Big problem.
    “I’d like to talk to you. Shall we do that in the terminal?” Jo said.
    “Talk? Why?” Kanan said.
    In her peripheral vision, Jo saw Officer Weigel shake his head. He said, “Because you blockaded yourself in the bathroom for an hour and—”
    Jo put up a hand. Kanan’s face was dead still. His pupils looked normal size, equal and reactive. She couldn’t smell alcohol on him. He wasn’t weaving, shaking, or slurring his words. And yet she sensed that something was very wrong. Again he glanced around the jet. He seemed unsettled by the fact that it was empty.
    “You’re the last off,” she said. “The crew needs to shut down the plane. Let’s talk in the terminal.”
    He looked her up and down, a slow glance. “Sure.”
    The police officers bracketed him up the aisle, Weigel ahead, Paterson behind. Following a few yards back, Jo saw how Kanan’s hands hung loose at his sides. It seemed casual, but the way he held himself reminded her of a gunslinger. When they passed the emergency exit row, he saw the partially opened door. He frowned at it, his head clocking around as he walked.
    “Why’s the exit open?” he said.
    Jo could have sworn the temperature dropped ten degrees. Kanan kept walking. Ahead stood the two men who had tackled him. Kanan picked up his pace. Abruptly he reached into his back pocket.
    Officer Paterson said, “Hey.”
    Kanan ignored him, and then it was too late. By the time he pulled out a cell phone, Paterson was on him.
    Paterson was fast. Kanan was faster. He spun, grabbed Paterson’s hand, smashed his elbow, and drove the cop to his knees.
    Paterson cried out. The British flight attendant said, “Bloody hell.” Up the aisle, Officer Weigel turned around.
    For a fraction of a second Kanan’s face was ferocious. He stared down at Paterson. Then confusion seemed to sweep over him