Triggers

by Robert J. Sawyer

  The aristocratic white man behind the front desk looked askance at Darryl, who was breathing hard, but Darryl whipped out his ID and said, his voice ragged, “Secret Service. What room is Bessie Stilwell in?” but then it came to him before the man answered: room 534. “Give me a passkey.”

  The desk clerk hesitated for a second, but then programmed a keycard and handed it to Darryl, saying, “She just got back, actually.”

  Darryl took the plastic card and dashed to the bank of elevators. He stabbed the up button and caught his breath as he waited. Then he rode up to the fifth floor, and—

  —and that must be her, down near the end of the corridor, moving slowly away from him; there was no one else in the carpeted hallway.

  “Wait!” he called.

  She slowly turned around, and Darryl came bounding down the corridor, and she was fumbling to open her purse, and—

  —and suddenly he realized how it must look to her: late in the evening, all alone in a long corridor, a large, sweaty black man, huffing and puffing, running right at her.

  She soon had a tiny pistol in her hand. Darryl stopped dead in his tracks; he could have easily drawn his own gun and blown her away—he had no doubt his reflexes and aim were better than hers—but instead he raised his hands a little.

  “Mrs. Stilwell,” he said, hoping the fact that he knew her name would calm her a bit. She peered at him; there were maybe twenty feet between them. Darryl noted the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door next to him. “I’m a Secret Service agent. Maybe you saw me today at the hospital?”

  And saying that triggered him to recall her seeing him for the first time. She had indeed noticed him at the hospital, and—

  What’s that—

  Darryl was stunned as the rest of the thought tumbled into his consciousness: What’s that nigger doing over there?

  And: Up to no good, I suppose.

  And: My God, is that blood on his sleeve? Well, there you have it! Been in a knife fight or something. Probably over drugs…

  He found his head shaking, and he felt furious. He wanted to say that it was the president’s blood, that he’d gotten it on him trying to save the man’s life, that she was so totally full of shit.

  Bessie still had the gun aimed at him, and still looked terrified because…

  …because he was black. Because he was colored. Because he was a—

  That fucking word again.

  Jesus!

  She looked back over her shoulder now, but of course there was no way she could outrun him; he was a third her age.

  “Mrs. Stilwell,” he said, “please lower the gun.”

  She looked down, as if surprised that the little pistol was in her hands. Darryl actually hadn’t put away his ID since showing it to the desk clerk; it was still in his left hand, and he flipped it open and held it out in front of him as he slowly started closing the distance. “I just need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “I thought you were…I thought…”

  “Well, I’m not,” said Darryl. He considered suggesting they go into her room to talk, but he realized she’d freak if he did that, so instead he said, “Would you mind coming back to the hospital with me? There’s a small matter we need to clear up…”

  “You really are a Secret Service agent?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And I think you should give me that gun.”

  She thought about it for a moment, then handed it to him. He escorted her down to the lobby and brought her back to the hospital in a cab; the cabbie was not thrilled about such a short trip, but Darryl tried to make up for it by telling him to keep the change from the twenty-dollar bill he handed him. He and Bessie re-entered the hospital through the ambulance-bay doors, and then he walked her to the conference room on one, told her to have a seat in there, called Susan Dawson to come do the questioning, and went off to wash his hands.

  Fortunately, he thought, there was lots of disinfectant in a hospital.

  CHAPTER 24

  SUSAN Dawson entered the conference room. Its only occupant was sitting in a chair, staring off into space. “Mrs. Stilwell?” Susan said.

  No response. Susan tried again, speaking more loudly. “Mrs. Stilwell? How are you?”

  The old woman turned in her chair. “Still breathing,” she said. “At my age, that’s about all you can hope for.”

  Susan smiled. “I understand you were here earlier today to visit your son, is that right?”

  Mrs. Stilwell nodded. “He had a heart attack a couple of days ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Susan said.

  “Works too hard. I wish he’d come back to Mississippi with me, but he’s like his father that way. Stubborn.”

  “Will he be all right?” Susan asked.

  “So they say.”

  “It was nice of you to come visit him.”

  “You never stop being a mother,” Bessie said, “no matter how old your children get.”

  “I imagine so,” said Susan.

  “You don’t have children?”

  Susan shook her head.

  “Are you married?”

  In a normal interrogation, Susan would say, “I’ll ask the questions, ma’am,” but she had a hard time being disrespectful to the elderly. She shook her head again.

  “A pretty young thing like you?” said Bessie. “There must be lots of men who are interested.”

  “You’d be surprised, ma’am,” Susan said. She thought about leaving it at that, then, with a small shrug, added: “Many men are intimidated by strong women. When they find out what I do for a living, they tend to get scared off.”

  “You’re a Secret Service agent, too?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-four, ma’am.”

  “And you don’t feel the old biological clock ticking?”

  “I feel it,” Susan said, simply. Then: “Mrs. Stilwell, I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “All right.”

  “There’s something strange going on here at the hospital, ma’am. People are reading other people’s memories.”

  Mrs. Stilwell frowned. “What nonsense.”

  “I can understand your thinking so, ma’am. It does seem odd. But it has to do with an experiment that went awry here. As it happens, I’m linked to the experimenter; there’s no question about it. And one of the other Secret Service agents—Darryl Hudkins—is linked to you; that’s how he knew where to find you.”

  “That colored man?”

  Susan felt her eyebrows going up. “Um, yes.”

  Bessie frowned again. “I don’t think I like that.”

  Susan let that go. “And so you should be linked to somebody, too. Do you have any strange memories?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure. This is all nonsense.”

  Susan decided to try another tack. “Do you know the ZIP code for the White House?”

  “Gracious, Miss Susan, I don’t even know my own ZIP code. I always have to look at where I have it written down.”

  “What about the name of the president’s hometown, do you know what that is?”

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  “Are you sure? It’s in northern California.”

  “No idea.”

  Susan made a face. The problem was obvious: Mrs. Stilwell wasn’t even trying to remember things. She didn’t narrow her eyes, or wrinkle her brow, or take even a second before answering. It was all foolishness to her; she had no reason to think she knew the answer, and so wasn’t making any effort to see if she did.

  “I really need you to try,” Susan said.

  “How old are you, Miss Susan?”

  Susan frowned. “Um, I’m—”

  But Bessie raised a hand. “Yes, yes, I know I just asked you that—but I don’t remember your answer. See? You get to be my age, you don’t remember much of anything. And it’s no fun being reminded of that. So, if
you’ll forgive me…”

  Susan thought about letting her get away with it. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t a security risk even if she were the one linked to the president. And, she thought, Jerrison actually was lucky—well, as lucky as a man who recently got shot could be!—in that, even if the linkages turned out to be permanent, Bessie Stilwell would pass away sometime in the next few years, while Susan might be stuck with Kadeem Adams reading her memories for the rest of her life.

  But that would never satisfy Director Hexley—or Prospector. She had to know for sure, and—

  Her earpiece bleeped. She lifted her arm. “Dawson, go.”

  “Sue, it’s Darryl. I’m with Singh. We’ve questioned the other two possibilities, and it’s neither of them. Mrs. Stilwell must be the one.”

  “Copy that,” said Susan into her sleeve. “Out.” She turned to the old woman. “Mrs. Stilwell, you’re it—there’s no doubt. You’re linked to President Jerrison.”

  “I tell you, Miss Susan, I’m not.”

  “Think about the question I’m about to ask you, ma’am. Really think about it. It’s important, okay?”

  The old woman nodded.

  “All right, now. Think about this. What is today’s dayword?”

  “‘Dayword’? I don’t know what that means.”

  “Just ask yourself, Mrs. Stilwell, what is today’s dayword? And really think about it.”

  She pursed her thin lips. And then she lifted her frail arms in exasperation. “I don’t know!”

  “Guess,” said Susan. “Say the first word that pops into your mind. Today’s dayword is…”

  “Oh, for Pete’s—all right, all right. Um, ‘potbelly.’”

  Susan’s heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t today’s word, which Prospector would have memorized this morning; it was the one from three days ago. Still, if this woman was somehow reading Susan or Darryl, she could be accessing the dayword from their memories rather than the president’s.

  “All right,” Susan said. “One more question: what high school did President Jerrison attend?”

  “Land’s sake, I don’t know these things!”

  “Guess. Just guess. Please, ma’am.”

  Maybe that final bit of courtesy did the trick, because Bessie stopped protesting and frowned in concentration. “Nordhoff High,” she said, then, after a second, she added, “Go, Rangers!”

  Susan pulled out her BlackBerry, went to the president’s Wikipedia page, and checked; the old lady was correct. She put away the phone and spoke into her sleeve. “Dawson to Hudkins. You’re right, Darryl. I’m here with our threat to national security.”

  • • •

  NOW that they’d found the person reading President Jerrison’s memories, Agent Dawson conceded that there was no longer any legal basis for continuing the lockdown. Still, before they would be allowed to leave the hospital, each of the affected people was individually briefed by LT’s director of risk management, by Professor Singh, and by one of the hospital’s psychiatrists. They were all advised that they were welcome, nay encouraged, to stay at the hospital, as no one could predict what impact or side effects the memory linkages might have.

  They were also told that, if they stayed, they would be admitted for free, and they’d be kept under observation and have immediate access to whatever care they might need. Still, those who did want to leave—which turned out to be just about everyone except Joshua Latimer and his daughter Dora Hennessey, who’d had their transplant operation rescheduled for Monday—were required to sign Refusal of Care Against Medical Advice forms. Also, everyone’s contact information was collected and verified, and follow-up medical examinations were booked for five days hence.

  While that was being done, Mark Griffin sat down in front of the large microphone attached to the public-address system, took a deep breath—and paused; his throat was still raw from being throttled by David January. He swallowed, coughed, then tried speaking into the mike again. “Your attention, please. Your attention, please. I have an important announcement to make. Your attention please.”

  He waited for a couple of seconds, then: “This is Dr. Mark Griffin, and I’m the chief executive officer here at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital. As doubtless most of you know by now, President Seth Jerrison was shot this morning, and he was brought here for surgery. I’m delighted to tell you that his condition is stable.”

  There were always lawsuits following any lockdown; the next paragraph had been carefully crafted to hopefully at least somewhat reduce their number.

  “The lockdown of this building was implemented at the request of the United States Secret Service. We and they thank you for your cooperation in this time of national crisis, and President Jerrison himself has asked me to pass on his personal gratitude to each and every one of you.”

  Another pause to let that sink in, then: “We will shortly end the lockdown.” Even in this closed office, he could hear the cheers going up. “Because we may need to get in touch with you again, we will be recording your names and contact information as you leave. There are hundreds of people in the building, so we have to process you in an orderly fashion. Staff members may leave through the staff exit whenever their shifts end. For visitors and outpatients, if your last name begins with the letters A, B, C, or D, you may head down to the lobby now.”

  Griffin swallowed, then went on. “We will, of course, provide you with a free parking voucher good through the end of the night. Please calmly make your way out, and, again, many, many thanks for your understanding.”

  He paused, then began over again in Spanish: “Su atención, por favor. Su atención, por favor. Tengo un anuncio importante que hacer…” He was surprised at how fluent he sounded; he wasn’t usually this good. But then it came to him: Maria Ramirez, the young woman he was linked to, was bilingual.

  “WE found her,” Susan Dawson said, coming into the president’s room.

  Seth lolled his head slightly to look at Susan, and Sheila, his nurse, also turned to face her. “Who?”

  “The person reading your memories,” Susan said. “Her name is Bessie Stilwell, and she’s eighty-seven.”

  “Did she…ah, has she…?”

  “Revealed anything? Nothing crucial. And we’re hoping it’ll stay that way, of course. We’ll keep her away from the press and so forth.”

  Seth managed a small nod, then: “I’d like to speak with her.”

  Susan’s eyebrows went up. “Sir, if I may, I don’t think that’s wise. She’s a huge security risk. Seeing you will doubtless trigger more memories to come back; you really don’t want to have anything sensitive brought to her mind.”

  Seth looked at the Secret Service agent, wondering just how much she herself knew; she shouldn’t know anything about Counterpunch, of course, but…

  But maybe she did—and maybe Gordo Danbury had known, too.

  Gordo. Damn it, if only he could remember what Leon Hexley had been saying on the phone. “Tell Gordo to…”

  But no matter how much he racked his brain, it wasn’t coming back to him. But maybe this woman, this—what had Susan said her name was? This Bessie? Maybe she could remember the conversation. “Bring her here,” Seth said.

  “Sir, I really—”

  “Bring her.”

  Susan nodded. “As you wish, sir.”

  CHAPTER 25

  IVAN Tarasov was satisfied with his job as a security guard at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital. He was less happy about reading the memories of Dora Hennessey, the woman who’d come here from London to donate a kidney to her father. Ivan tried to keep her memories from coming to mind, but there really was no way to avoid them. Most of them were uninteresting to him. She was a guidance counselor, and he’d always preferred things involving hard science or math but had done too poorly in school to ever get a job in those areas. Today, there’d be a diagnosis for his condition, but twenty-five years ago, when he’d been in high school, they just said he didn’t work hard enough.

  Dora was a f
an of British football; he didn’t care for contact sports—years of working here at LT had left him unable to abide people purposefully engaging in behaviors that would result in concussions, hernias, damaged joints, and bruised organs. She was active in clubbing and bar-hopping; he preferred to curl up with his Kindle and read books about the Civil War—he was working through Shelby Foote’s history of it for the fifth time.

  Now that the lockdown was over, Ivan was pleased to leave the hospital. Still, he paused just outside it for a time, looking east. The whole sky was dark now, but he could make out the smoke billowing from where the White House had been.

  He got on the metro. Normally, he ignored other people, but today he found himself looking at them—looking right at them, their faces haunted, gaunt, drawn. It was the same thing on the bus: lost souls, some still softly crying.

  Finally, he made it to his house. His wife Sally came down to the entryway along with his three-year-old daughter Tanya. They knew he didn’t like to be touched, but today was an unusual day, and they needed whatever he could offer them. He accepted a kiss from Sally and then picked up Tanya and carried her into the small living room, where he set her on the couch. He then sat himself down beside her.

  Ivan was devastated by today’s terrible events—but also couldn’t help being upset that his daily routine had been interrupted. He should have been here hours ago to watch Wonder Pets with Tanya; it was their ritual every day when he got home from work. Of course, he’d planned for such contingencies; their DVR was set to record Wonder Pets. He found the remote and started it playing. He briefly spared a thought for the person who was linked to him—some lawyer named Orrin Gillett—who now must also know the plots of all forty-two episodes by heart, not to mention every trivial fact about Linny the Guinea Pig, Turtle Tuck, and Tanya’s favorite, Ming-Ming Duckling.

  He looked at his daughter and—

  God.

  He shook his head, looked away, but—

  But the images were still there.

  Horrific images.

  Images of…