Triggers

by Robert J. Sawyer

  Her eyebrows went up, but she nodded. He led her across the room, over to near the door with the Hulk on it.

  “Yes?” she prodded.

  He took a deep breath, then: “There’s a women’s shelter in Bethesda. They’ll take you in, give you counseling, protect you. And I’ll help you get a lawyer.”

  She started slowly shaking her head. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t what? Can’t leave him? Jan, I know he hits you. I know what happened last night.”

  “Eric—Dr. Redekop—it’s none of your business.”

  “I wish that were so, but I can’t stop reading your memories.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to change things,” she said.

  Eric tilted his head. “I’m not trying to change things; I’m trying to help.”

  “I don’t need help,” Jan said.

  Another memory of Tony yelling at her came to him: You think you can just leave me? You’re a fucking addict! I tell them that, and you’ll never work as a nurse again.

  “He can’t ruin your career,” said Eric. “There are treatment programs—you know that. I’ll see you get the help you need.”

  Jan was trembling. “You should go,” she said softly.

  “No,” said Eric. “We should go. Jan, please, let me help.”

  Luckless came over to them. “Everything all right?” he asked, then, looking at Eric: “Who are you?”

  Eric looked at him, pissed off, but Jan’s memories came rushing in. Luckless knew all about Tony’s treatment of Janis. He was interested in her—hell, all of the guys here were interested in her—but although Janis had literally cried on his shoulder more than once, Luckless had never taken advantage of her being despondent; Eric had to give him points for that.

  “I’m Eric Redekop.”

  Luckless’s eyes went wide. “You’re the guy who saved Jerrison.”

  “I work with Jan,” Eric said simply.

  “Whatcha doing here?”

  Eric looked at Janis, then back at Luckless. It wasn’t violating a confidence; Luckless knew Tony was abusive. “I want to take her to a women’s shelter.”

  And suddenly he knew things about Luckless, including why he was called that: it didn’t just have to do with his unerring ability to get the wrong numbers to come up on the dice, but also with his sad history of going to work for small computing companies that folded almost as soon as he’d been hired; he had been out of work for eight months now.

  Luckless looked at Jan. “You should do it,” he said.

  Someone was knocking on the outside door. The same fellow who’d opened the door earlier for Eric opened it again and—

  Oh, shit.

  Eric’s stomach knotted, and he tasted bile at the back of his throat.

  He’d never seen him in the flesh before, but he knew him at once. Hair buzzed short, jug ears, brown eyes, and a long, thin face. There was no doubt: it was Tony. But what the hell was he doing here?

  Eric never paid any attention to clothing; without looking down, he couldn’t say what clothes he himself was wearing right now. But Jan did, and what Tony was wearing now was doubtless what he’d also been wearing earlier this morning when he’d left the house. Eric concentrated on the clothes: a red plaid work shirt with a sky-blue T-shirt underneath visible through the open collar of the other shirt, and denim jeans, but brown not blue, and—

  And it came to him: Jan’s memories of this morning. A tense conversation with Tony over breakfast. Tony saying the job site he was going to be at today was only a few blocks from the Bronze Shield, so he’d drop her off…and come by to join them for lunch. What Tony presumably hadn’t seen, because Jan had fought so hard to hide it, was her disappointment at this. She’d wanted to say please don’t come; she’d wanted to say it was her one time out a month; she wanted to say they were her friends; she even wanted to say that none of them liked him—because, of course, most of them had previously seen the way she deflated in his presence. But she hadn’t said any of that; she’d just nodded meekly and gone back to eating her Rice Krispies—a taste that came now to Eric, one he himself hadn’t experienced since childhood.

  Eric thought about leaving; after all, there’d be other opportunities to get Jan to the shelter. But seeing Tony triggered more memories.

  Of him screaming.

  Of him throwing a can of soup at her.

  Of him berating her for the house being a mess.

  Of him choking her during sex.

  And he was going to drink again tonight; he was doubtless going to get drunk.

  Meaning he would hit her again tonight.

  And Eric could not let that happen. He took a deep breath, then: “Jan, let’s go.”

  “Go where?” demanded Tony, crossing over to stand near Jan.

  Eric looked him straight in the eyes—in the small, mean-spirited eyes. “To where she’ll be safe.”

  Jan’s gaming group had formed a sparse semicircle around them now, and people at the other tables, where games were still being played, had started looking up.

  Jan looked at Eric with pleading eyes. “Please, Eric. Go home. You’re just making things—”

  He turned to her. “Worse? How could they possibly be worse?” He felt his arms shaking. Damn it! He truly hated confrontations although normally he could handle himself well enough during them. But every time he looked at Tony, he had another flashback to him humiliating or abusing or ignoring Jan, and it was making him livid. He spread his arms a bit, indicating the people around them. “I don’t want to violate Jan’s privacy, but—”

  “But what?” demanded Tony.

  “But I’m linked to Jan; I know what she knows. And I know everything you’ve ever done to her.”

  Tony narrowed his eyes. “Linked?” He wheeled on Janis. “That shit that was on the news? You didn’t tell me you were part of that.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Janis said meekly.

  Tony looked at Eric, but he was still speaking to Jan. “He can read your mind?”

  “My memories, yes,” said Jan, staring down at the hardwood floor.

  Tony’s eyes were tracking left and right, as if reviewing his past with Janis. His mouth dropped open a bit, showing yellow teeth.

  Eric crossed his arms in front of his chest. “That’s right,” he said. “Her memories—of you.” Eric watched Tony’s face with a mixture of interest and disgust. It was almost as if Tony had discovered that what he’d thought had been done in private had really been recorded by security cameras. He briefly looked like a trapped animal. But then he rallied some inner strength. “None of that matters,” he said defiantly. “She’s my wife.”

  “Only if she wants to be,” said Eric, trying to keep his tone even.

  “She’s my wife!” Tony said again, as if that were sufficient justification for everything he’d done.

  Eric couldn’t take looking at him any longer. He shifted his gaze back to Jan. “Come with me,” he said.

  “If you do,” Tony said to Janis, “you know what’ll happen.”

  “No,” said Eric. “It won’t. We’ll get her help for that. She’ll keep her job.”

  Tony’s face did an odd dance of expressions—he was still coming to grips with the notion that Eric had some special insight; Tony had clearly intended his threat just now to be a private one.

  Jan looked at some of the other faces—the gamers, her friends, her hapless brother, the people she saw once a month. And as Eric followed her gaze, memories of them came to him, too. Tony didn’t show up often, it was true, but most of them had met him before. Of course, what they’d said to Jan might not be what they really felt; Eric himself had made plenty of polite noises over the years about friends’ and colleagues’ spouses, and—

  And Optimus Prime spoke up. He was thin, pencil-necked, in his late twenties, with pale white skin and reddish blond hair. “Go with him,” he said, indicating Eric with a movement of his head.

  Jan shook her head, ever so sligh
tly, and Tony snapped, “Shut up!”

  But Optimus Prime stood his ground. “Jan, it’s your turn—and it’s your best move.”

  “Stay out of this, asshole!” Tony said.

  It was Jan’s move, Eric knew, but he couldn’t keep quiet. “Jan,” he said, “choose to be safe.”

  “You’re going to regret this,” Tony said through clenched teeth.

  “No,” said Eric. “She’s not.” He looked at her. “Jan?”

  The tableau held for perhaps fifteen seconds, although Eric’s pulse, pounding in his ears, was too accelerated to be a reliable timekeeper. And then Jan took a deep breath and started walking toward the door.

  Tony surged forward and grabbed her arm, the one with the intricate tattoo of a tiger. And that did it—contact, the grip, right where he’d bruised her before. “Don’t!” snapped Jan. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

  Tony’s eyes went wide. No memories came to Eric; Janis had never spoken to her husband like that before. She continued marching forward, and Eric fell in next to her. He still had his coat on, and she grabbed her coat and her purse, both of which were by the door.

  “Jan,” said Tony, pleading now. “I—I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. Things will be different.”

  Janis turned around, and for a second Eric thought she was changing her mind, but then he realized the truth: she wanted to see Tony like this, remember his face at the moment he lost her—a memory to savor, a memory for all time. No words were necessary, and she said none. Instead, she just turned, and Eric opened the heavy door for her, and they headed out into the November day. Eric was so pumped with adrenaline that he didn’t feel the chill at all, but Jan soon started shivering—as much, he suspected, from emotional turmoil as from the cold. This time he did put his arm around her shoulders, and they walked toward his car.

  CHAPTER 32

  SECURITY at LAX was the most stringent Darryl had ever seen—after all, it had only been eleven days since an al-Sajada operative had been arrested in a parking lot here with one of those hexagonal bombs in his trunk. Still, as a Secret Service agent, Darryl could see dozens of holes in the procedures.

  Once they got out of the secure area, they were greeted by a uniformed limousine driver holding a sign that said “Hudkins”—which was a first for Darryl, who was much more used to running alongside limos than riding in them.

  Bessie and Darryl sat in the back, separated from the driver by a pane of smoked glass. Darryl suspected Bessie was thinking that in the good old days, it would have been the black man driving the white man, not the other way around. And speaking of the other way around, why did it have to be him reading her—or why couldn’t Obama have still been in office, if she were destined to read the president’s memories?

  The limo took them through the Los Angeles traffic all the way out to Burbank. It had been years since Darryl had visited L.A., and he’d forgotten how horrible the congestion was, but Bessie was thrilled to catch a glimpse of the Hollywood sign high above the city. When they arrived at their destination, they had to go through more security—this with even more holes—handing photo ID through the car window to the gate guard. Darryl was stunned at how time-consuming and inefficient the process of getting in here was; he thought of five easy ways he could have gotten past the guards.

  He’d never been on a studio lot before, and he hadn’t known much about corporate mergers, but apparently Disney owned ABC Studios, and so, in addition to traditional Disney fare, lots of sitcoms and adult dramas were produced here. The soundstages were giant cubical buildings the color of cheese with huge billboards for ABC or Disney programming on their sides—who knew that Chadwick’s Place was still in production?

  The driver hopped out of the car and held the rear door open for Bessie. Darryl got out from his side, and a brown-haired white woman in her mid-twenties came driving up to them in a golf cart; the driver had called her to let her know they’d arrived.

  “Hello,” the woman said. “I’m Megan; I’m the assistant to Jessika Borsiczky. Won’t you come with me?” She drove them down a series of paved paths between buildings and past some giant trucks until they came to the entrance to one of the stages. A sign on the door said, “Do Not Enter When Red Light Is Flashing.” But it wasn’t—and so they did.

  They walked along a narrow space between the wall of the stage and the plywood backs of whatever set was on the other side. Giant black cables ran along the floor, and they occasionally had to squeeze against the wall to let people pass in the other direction; it was a long, arduous journey for Bessie. Finally, they came to the end of the plywood, and Megan turned. Craft-services tables—Darryl was pleased with himself for knowing that term—were spread out in front of them, covered with coffee urns, plates of sandwiches and pastries, and wicker bowls full of packaged snacks. A couple of people were standing by the table, chatting softly. They walked on, and came to more plywood, but this wall was curved…

  They continued around to the other side, and there it was:

  The Oval Office.

  Granted, it was a reconstruction, but except for the fact that it had an overhead grid of lights instead of a ceiling, it was perfect. And, Darryl supposed, it pretty much had to be: over the years, most Americans had seen countless pictures of the real Oval Office and had a good sense of what it had looked like before it had been destroyed. The Secret Service agent in him thought it ridiculous that the room the president had spent most of his waking hours in had been so publicly documented: its location, its exact dimensions, its every nook and cranny. But it had been, and this was a near-perfect duplicate. He wasn’t surprised, though; lots of people in Washington loved Inside the Beltway, calling it the most accurate White House drama since The West Wing.

  A smile broke out on Darryl’s face. Here he was thinking about the set, when right there in front of him, sitting behind a flawless reproduction of the Resolute desk, was Courtney B. Vance, who starred as President Maxwell Doncaster. Vance was one of Darryl’s favorite actors; Darryl had been thrilled when he’d won an NAACP Image Award earlier this year. He was looking off in the distance, apparently waiting for something.

  “They’ll be breaking for lunch in just a minute,” Megan said.

  “Can we do one more, Courtney?” asked a woman’s voice; from this angle, Darryl couldn’t see the speaker.

  Vance nodded. He picked up the phone on the desk and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Get me the Russian president right away,” he said, “and if he’s not awake, wake him!” He slammed the phone down, and, in what the scriptwriters had doubtless written as “off the president’s determined expression,” the shot came to an end.

  “Perfect,” said the woman’s voice. “All right, everyone, that’s lunch!”

  “Is it okay if we go onto the set now?” Darryl asked Megan.

  Bessie, who looked more excited than Darryl had ever seen her, said, “And can I meet Mr. Vance?”

  Megan smiled. “Of course.” Vance was just getting out from behind the desk. “Come with me.”

  Bessie looked like she was going to burst. Darryl followed her.

  “Courtney,” said Megan, after they’d closed the distance, “this is Mrs. Stilwell and Mr. Hudkins—Mr. Hudkins is a real Secret Service agent.”

  Vance was gallant. He took Bessie’s hand gently in his, and said, “A pleasure to meet you, ma’am.” Darryl smiled: two handshakes from African-Americans in one day; it probably was a record for Bessie. Vance then took Darryl’s hand and shook it much more firmly. “Agent Hudkins, what an honor, sir.”

  “Thank you,” said Darryl.

  “Are you here consulting on the show?” Vance asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Well, I hope you enjoy your visit.”

  Megan must have heard a cue in that. “Mr. Vance has only a short time for lunch, and he has to do a wardrobe change before he comes back, so if you’ll forgive him…”

  Vance smiled and moved off. Having an African-American president had be
come a cliché in movies and TV before Barack Obama had ever come to office. Darryl had enjoyed the joke that had been everywhere when Obama had been elected: “A black president? Crap, that means the Earth is about to be hit by an asteroid!” But he could tell that Bessie had been genuinely thrilled to meet Vance; then again, blacks as entertainers had always been welcomed, even by bigots.

  Although he’d shown it to her repeatedly before, Darryl again fished out the picture he’d been carrying of Leon Hexley, the director of the Secret Service. The print was a still frame from security-camera footage taken on the day in question; Hexley had on a dark blue suit and a tie much more colorful than any he would have let his subordinates wear.

  Bessie squinted as she studied it, then she nodded, and started to explore the set. There were cameras they had to walk around, but the rest of it was uncannily like the real thing. The lighting wasn’t quite right, though—it was brighter than the real Oval. And the translight visible through the window was not exactly the view one got from the president’s window—which, of course, made sense: the photographer who had taken the image probably had done so from out on the Ellipse.

  Darryl was fond of the movie Working Girl, and particularly liked the ending, because he loved Carly Simon singing “Let the River Run.” When he was young, you could count on seeing that movie every few months on TV, but nobody showed it anymore; Melanie Griffith’s character had worked in the World Trade Center, and the movie ended with a pullout of her in her office fading into a loving long shot of the Twin Towers—it was just unbearably sad to watch now.

  He wondered how the writers for Inside the Beltway were going to deal with the loss of the White House; would it continue to exist in their series? That, too, would probably be unbearably sad to see.

  Darryl watched as Bessie slowly circumnavigated the room, looking at things that might jog her memory: the portrait of George Washington over the mantel at the north end flanked by potted Swedish ivy (a tradition that went back to the Kennedy administration), the bronze horse sculptures, the grandfather clock, the Norman Rockwell painting of the Statue of Liberty, the two high-back chairs in front of the fireplace, the coffee table, and the presidential seal in the carpet.