The Murderer's Memories Read online

  Once dressed, he walked to the door of his hospital room and opened it. Two uniformed officers were standing outside. Cole didn’t recognize either of them but he was relieved that the crowd was gone. He understood the urgency of his mission, but at the same time, he couldn’t afford any distractions. He knew that memories could come at any time. Cole could never be sure what would trigger one of the new memories in his head—a smell, a face, the sound of a person’s voice—and once they were triggered, he needed to be able to focus on them utterly and completely. If he was going to help stop the next bombing, he couldn’t afford to miss any details. Once a memory came, he could never be sure that he could trigger it again. And even if he was able to, a memory was a tricky thing, and he could never be certain that he hadn’t accidentally altered it. The first time was always the most pure, the most trustworthy. Cole looked at the two cops standing outside his door. “I’m ready,” he said to them.

  One of the two officers nodded. He was a tall black man with a deep, gravelly voice. Cole stared at him for a second, waiting to see if anything would come to him. “They’ve got a room set up down the hall,” the cop informed Cole. “I’ll take you there.”

  “Okay,” Cole answered and began to follow him. It was a short walk down the hallway before the uniformed cop stopped in front of a closed door. He rapped on the door with a single knuckle. Cole continued to watch him carefully.

  “Come on in.” Cole recognized the commissioner’s voice. His escort reached down and opened the door. Then he motioned with his head for Cole to go in.

  Chapter 3

  FOUR WEEKS EARLIER

  The sea was still churning, alive with thundering, cresting whitecaps, when Bernard saw the first dorsal fin. All of the muscles in his body were sore. He could hardly tell if his skin was covered in sweat, mist from the ocean, or a combination of both. With the gray clouds still covering the sun, he had no way of telling how long the storm had lasted. If he had to guess, he would have guessed three hours but, at the height of the storm, when the waves were twice as high as his boat was long, each moment stretched out for ages, so it could have been as short as an hour or as long as five. He’d spent the entire storm above deck, fighting to keep the boat’s keel in the water by steering into the waves, fighting to keep the water out of the hold. He’d lashed himself to the base of the boat’s wheel and fought the raging sea with a bucket.

  There were moments when Bernard was sure that he was going to die. During those moments, when he steered his boat into a wave as steep as a wall and as tall as a church steeple, he was afraid. He didn’t want to die. He had much to live for, so much that he still wanted to see, still wanted to experience. And when the boat crested those waves and tore down the other side like a child’s sled down a snowy mountain, he screamed with joy. The fear and the joy, Bernard loved them both. He could taste the salt water in his mouth as the spray from the violent sea smacked him across his face, and he loved that taste. He’d been a fool to be out alone on a sea like that, black and violent. His boat had no right staying afloat in those waters. Bernard could have radioed for help when the storm began, when the radio still worked. He didn’t even consider it. This was his game. His fight. What did he have to lose? Surely not as much as he had to gain. Then the storm passed over him and he felt more alive than he had ever felt in his life.

  Bernard could still see the storm as it moved toward the horizon, dark and ominous. His boat continued to bounce over the waves. The swells were probably three to five feet. He still had to be careful but now they seemed like nothing. He untied the rope around his waist and retied it to the wheel in an attempt to keep the boat pointed into the ever-pressing ocean. He picked up the bucket again and began to bail more water back into the sea.

  By the time Bernard got most of the water out of the boat, he could barely move his arms. He was exhausted, ready for a long, deep sleep. The water was still churning, though the farther away the storm moved, the calmer the sea became. Then he saw the first dorsal fin pop out of the water alongside the boat. In that first moment, he wasn’t sure what he had seen. It was only a gray flash, spotted out of the corner of his eye. He was nervous at first. He still hadn’t had a chance to make sure that there had been no damage to the hull. Bernard could have accepted dying fighting the storm. But he had no desire to survive in a slowly sinking boat only to be eaten by sharks. Then he saw the second fin. They were coming from in front of him, swimming in the direction of the waves, letting the waves push them and surfing down their face. Bernard was looking for them now. He saw another, its fin breaking the water, followed by the top of its slick gray body. Then another, this one close enough that Bernard could hear the sound as it blew air and water out of its blowhole. It sounded like a small cannon being shot into the endless sea. Then he heard another, this one on the other side of the boat. He turned to look and saw three dolphins swimming side by side, leaping out of the water in unison.

  More were coming, so many more. Bernard abandoned what he was doing and sat down facing the bow, staring into the oncoming waves. The waves were alive with dolphins. He could hear them clicking now and whistling to each other. They parted around the boat like it wasn’t even there as they danced inside those gray waves. For a few moments, Bernard tried to count them. There were too many and they were moving too quickly to count by ones so he tried to count them in groups of three. When he got to sixty, he gave up. He didn’t want to miss a moment. They kept coming, emerging from the water and diving back in again. Bernard had never seen anything like it before. Hell, Bernard had never even imagined anything like it before.

  Then he heard the sound of an engine. It was still far off but it was coming toward him. Even though the engine was still a good distance away, he knew he couldn’t waste any time. The storm, the waves, the dolphins, they would be there for him again. They were always there for him in his memory, but only if he could stay away, only if he could keep from being captured. Because if they caught him, that memory wouldn’t be his anymore. They’d take it from him, along with all of his other glorious memories, and they’d inject them into the brain of someone else. None of his memories would be his anymore. That was the deal. Bernard knew what he’d signed up for. He didn’t argue it, but he wasn’t going to simply turn himself in either. He knew his memories were worth millions of dollars to some stranger. They were worth even more than that to him, though he would never have enough money to pay for them. So instead, he ran. He ran so that he could keep his own memories and so that, if he was lucky, he could keep making more. He’d already been on the run for two years. They’d nearly caught him more than once. They weren’t about to give up the hunt. His memories were too valuable for that. Besides, if they gave up, it might encourage others to run and they couldn’t have that. But even if others ran, they couldn’t run like Bernard could. He was fast and he was ready.

  Bernard stood up and looked out the window of his hotel room onto the street. He couldn’t even say how he knew that it was them, coming for him. He just felt it. Other cars and scooters passed by on the street at times and he ignored them. They sounded different. The street below his hotel was dark and empty. He’d been in Ubud for almost three weeks now, in Bali for almost two months. The air outside his hotel was hot and still. He hadn’t noticed it because of the ceiling fan whirring over his head as he meditated on his million-dollar memory. His hotel room wasn’t much. He had a window, a bed, and the ceiling fan. There was a communal bathroom at the end of the hall. At night, he could hear cockroaches running across the floor. Life was a lot different for him now, ever since his time ran out and the Company stopped refilling his bank account. He’d broken the deal and now not only had they cut him off, but they were after him. The deal was simple: We’ll give you ten years of the most extravagant life you can imagine, fully paid, and, once those ten years are up, you give us the memories that we paid for. Of course, giving up those memories meant giving up everything else too. Donors didn’t survive memory transfers.
He’d known for a long time that he was going to break the deal. He’d spent years skimming as much as he could, but he had no idea how long he had to make that last. He’d been poor before, before he even was Bernard, back when he was just another runaway on the streets of New York. He didn’t mind being poor again. He had more to live for than money.

  The sounds of the engine were getting closer. Bernard stuck his head out the window and looked in both directions. He still couldn’t see anything but he realized that it wasn’t one engine. It was two, two scooters coming for him, bearing down fast through the night. He turned back into his room and grabbed his backpack. It was all he had and he always kept it packed. He swung it onto his shoulders and headed for the door.

  Bernard headed for the back staircase. He went down the stairs as quickly as he could, skipping steps, sometimes two at a time. He reached into the front pouch of his backpack as he ran. He kept only his keys in that front pouch, so he could grab them when he needed them. His own scooter was stashed in the alley behind the hotel. He had two keys on the key ring in his hand, one for the scooter and one for the chain he used to lock the scooter up. He knew that the lock would slow him down, but an unlocked scooter in this part of town was equivalent to no scooter at all so he had to risk the extra few seconds.

  When Bernard finally hit the ground, he could hear the sounds of the two scooters getting closer. They were muffled now by the two-story hotel standing between him and the main street, but Bernard knew not to take any comfort in that. They were only a few blocks away and now, from nothing more than a feeling in his gut honed by two years on the run, Bernard was certain that they were coming for him. He ran toward his scooter, slid the smaller key into the chain lock, and freed his machine. With the sound of the oncoming engines getting ever closer, he climbed on the scooter, keeping the thick chain in his hand. He knew that they would likely one day catch him, but he was not planning on going easy. Not now. Not ever.

  Bernard turned the key to the scooter and the engine revved. He’d bought this scooter special. The prior owner had replaced its engine with one from a dirt bike. It moved. Man, did it move. Bernard left the headlight off and steered the scooter into the alley, slowly at first. He let his revving engine quiet for a moment so that he could listen. They were no more than a block away now, following a tip from God knows who. Bernard had two options. He could drive straight away from them and hope that his modified scooter could outrun them, or he could try to surprise them. He felt the heavy chain in his hand and thought of those dolphins, hundreds of dolphins, surfing down the face of the waves, coming toward him out of nowhere and swimming past him into the abyss.

  Bernard revved his engine one more time. Then he lifted his feet off the ground and was off. Hundreds of stars were visible in the sky above Bernard’s head as he rode toward the men who were chasing him. Other than the sound of the scooters, the town was mostly quiet. The palm trees stood still and motionless along the side of the road. Bernard still held the chain. He wrapped it once around his hand for a better grip. He guessed that they could hear him now too, though he didn’t know if they would realize it was him. He didn’t know if they would believe that the sound was coming toward them or if they would think it was a trick of echoes from the rice-paddy-filled hills surrounding the town.

  Bernard still didn’t turn on his headlights. As he turned out of the alleyway, he could see the road well enough by the light of the moon and the stars. Then he saw the headlights of the two scooters as they came for him. They were riding fast, side by side in the street. Bernard aimed for them and gunned it. He was steering with one hand, holding the hand with the chain close to his chest. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He merely wanted to be left alone. Still, it would be an utter lie if he didn’t admit to getting a perverse joy out of flying through the near empty streets at night heading straight for the people who were chasing him. Few things made a man feel more alive than fighting for his life. Both of the other riders were wearing helmets with visors. Good, Bernard thought, then they’ll probably live. It was all going so fast. The distance between Bernard and the oncoming headlights was quickly shrinking. He dropped the hand holding the chain down at his side and let the chain dangle next to him.

  Bernard kept his scooter aimed at the gap between the oncoming headlights even though he knew how big a risk it would be to try to slip between them. He couldn’t afford to miss. His million-dollar memories were too valuable to take too many chances. But Bernard wasn’t planning on slipping between them. He only wanted them to believe that’s what he was going to do. He knew that if he aimed for that slot, they’d close, squeezing themselves closer together. The headlights on the scooters looked like the two shining eyes of a monster in the night, inching closer and closer to each other. The only sound now was the sound of the three engines, screeching in unison. Bernard hunched down and held on to the scooter with one hand. He was almost upon them. Then, with a gap of only ten feet between them, Bernard cut sharply to his left. He almost lost his balance for a moment but stayed upright. Just as he was about to pass his pursuers, he flung his right arm out, whipping the chain across the bodies of both men. For a moment, it wrapped around the shoulder of the far rider and Bernard yanked the chain back, pulling the far rider into the closer one. Then Bernard let go of the chain, not wanting to get himself pulled into them.

  Bernard didn’t look back as he rode lightning fast over the dark hillsides. He heard the crash behind him. He heard the crunch as the scooters collided and the screech as they skidded along the road. He couldn’t be sure if he’d done permanent damage or if his pursuers were simply going to be able to pick themselves up, get back on their rides, and chase after him again. So Bernard rode on because he knew that there were times for looking back and times for only looking forward.

  Chapter 4

  SEVENTEEN HOURS AFTER THE FIRST BOMBING

  Cole looked around the room. He guessed that they’d taken the nurses’ break room and turned it into a conference room. Two small tables in the middle had been pushed together with chairs around them. Behind the makeshift conference table were a refrigerator, sink, microwave, and water cooler. “Why don’t you sit down?” the commissioner said to Cole.

  Cole looked around the table. The coterie of people from his room had decreased to seven. He counted them without making eye contact, worried that looking directly at them would be too much too quickly. Instead, he stared at the police commissioner. “I need them out of here.”

  “Who?” the commissioner asked.

  “Anyone who doesn’t absolutely need to be here.”

  “We got it down to as few people as we could. Everyone here is important,” the commissioner insisted. “Everyone needs to know what you have to tell us.”

  Cole shook his head. “This isn’t about what I can tell you. It’s not that easy. This is about what you can tell me. I don’t have anything yet. I need more information. If there’s anybody in this room who doesn’t have useful information about the two people whose memories I just had inserted into my brain, then they need to leave.”

  “Okay,” the commissioner said. He motioned with his head to two of the men sitting at the end of the table and one woman sitting immediately to his right. The three of them stood and began walking toward the door.

  “What about you, Commish? Are you going to tell me something that I can use?”

  The commissioner looked surprised. “You have to be kidding, Cole. This is my city I’m trying to protect.”

  “Then get out,” Cole ordered him. “That’s the best thing you can do right now. Also, call my partner. I want him waiting outside the room when this is done.”

  The commissioner stood up, his reluctance reflected in his deliberate pace. “You sure you know what you’re doing?” he asked Cole.

  “Fuck, no,” Cole answered, “but I’m trying my best.” Then the commissioner followed the others out the door.

  That left three people and Cole. “So, each of you has some
information for me?” Cole asked.

  The three of them looked around at one another, almost as if they were afraid to speak. Finally, the only woman left in the room spoke up. “We think so,” she said. “Where do you want us to start?”

  “Start with the bombing. What can you tell me about it that I don’t already know?”

  “Joe,” the woman said to one of the men, “I think that’s you.”

  “Okay,” Joe said. He stood up, and Cole finally looked at him. When he did, a chill flowed down Joe’s spine. He didn’t know if it was the intensity in Cole’s thin face and dark eyes beneath the shelf of wild white hair or if it was simply the fact that he was about to debrief someone about a bombing who had the bomber’s memories in his head. “I’m going to assume you don’t know anything,” Joe said, the sentence half a question because Joe knew that, somewhere in there, Cole knew far more than he did.

  “Go ahead. Tell me everything you think I might need to know,” Cole echoed. He already knew a lot about the bombing. He had been provided certain details. He’d been shown pictures. All of that was before he’d had the bomber’s memories, though. He was ready to hear everything again. He was hopeful that something might trigger a useful response, freeing a memory that could help them.

  Joe stood up. To calm his nerves, he addressed the whole room and not merely Cole, even though everyone else already knew what he was going to say. “The bombing occurred at 9:14 A.M. yesterday, Monday. The mall opens at 8:30 but many of the stores don’t open until 9:00. The bomber entered alone shortly before 9:00 and proceeded to walk to the center of the mall, where there was an atrium surrounded by stores and kiosks. We studied the layout of the mall. While we cannot be sure, it would appear that the bomb was detonated there in an attempt to inflict maximum damage to the most people, without targeting any one specific person. If the bomber were targeting a specific person, it would have been more efficient to detonate the bomb closer to the individual target.” Joe glanced at Cole to make sure he was following. Cole’s eyes were still fixed on him. Cole gave him a small nod.