Triggers (20 page)

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.”

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 fan 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…

No. No. He did
not
want to see this!

But…

God. God.
God.

The sight of Tanya, sitting on the couch in her little pink dress, made him think of—

No, no. It was
awful.
To do that to a child! To touch a little girl that way!

The image of a man came to him, but it was no one he knew. A narrow head, brown hair, brown eyes behind unfashionably large lenses.

The face loomed in at…at
her,
shushing her, telling her it would all be all right, telling her to never breathe a word about this, telling her that it was their little secret that he liked her so much, that she was so special, and—

He shook his head again, but the images were still there, the memories.

Memories. Yes, plural. Another time, the same man, but wearing different clothes. Or, at least, starting out wearing different clothes, until he unzipped…

No!

Ivan stood up, left his daughter, left the room, and closed his eyes, desperately trying to shut the images out.

“MR.
President,” said Susan Dawson, “this is Bessie Stilwell.”

Seth still had tubes going into his left arm, and a small oxygen intake plugged into his nostrils. But he rallied some strength and extended his right hand toward Bessie, who responded with an astonished expression.

“What?” said the president, looking at his own hand to see if it were dirty or something.

“Sorry, Mr. President,” said Bessie. “I’m—it’s just a flood of images. All the people whose hands you’ve shaken with that hand. The British prime minister. The Russian premier. The German chancellor. The Chinese president. And—” She took a half step back, as if daunted. “And the movie stars. Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp and—oh, he’s always been one of my favorites!—Christopher Plummer.”

“And now,” said Seth Jerrison, who, even in his current state, had an ability almost as good as Bill Clinton’s to make whomever he was talking to feel like the most important person in the world, “it’s going to shake your hand.” He extended his arm again.

Bessie hesitated for another moment, then moved closer and took Seth’s hand in hers. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. President.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” He turned toward Susan. “Agent Dawson, won’t you give us a moment? I’m sure I’m safe with Mrs. Stilwell.”

Susan looked like she was going to protest, but then she nodded and headed out into the corridor, closing the door behind her. Seth motioned for Bessie to take a seat. She did so; there was a vinyl-covered chair next to the bed. But she was shaking her head.

“What?” asked Seth.

“Nothing, sir. Just memories.”

“I understand, believe me. I’m recalling strange things, too, from the person I’m linked to.”

“Yes, but…”

“But what?”

Bessie averted her eyes but said nothing more.

Seth nodded. It was like the WikiLeaks scandal: all those embarrassing State Department emails. “You don’t just recall me shaking, say, President Sarkozy’s hand at the G8. You also recall what I thought of him then, right?”

Bessie nodded meekly.

Seth’s energy ebbed and flowed, but one of his doctors had recently given him a stimulant. He found he could speak at greater length, at least for the moment, without exhausting himself. “I’m a human being,” he said. “And so are all the other national leaders. So, yes, I’ve got opinions about them, and they’ve doubtless got opinions about me.”

“You really hate the Canadian prime minister.”

Seth didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I do. He’s a weaselly, petty man.”

Bessie seemed to digest this. “So, um, what happens now?” she asked, looking briefly at the president, then averting her gaze again.

“If word gets out that you’re linked to me, lots of people are going to come after you.”

“Gracious!” said Bessie.

“So, as of right now, you’re under the protection of the Secret Service.”

Seth had anticipated that she’d answer with, “Oh, I’m sure that’s not
necessary,” or maybe with, “Well, I hope they do a better job of protecting me than they did of protecting you,” but what she actually said was, “My son, too, please.”

“Sorry?”

“My son Michael. He’s here in the hospital; he’s the reason I’m in town. If people want to get at me, they might go after him.”

Seth managed another small nod. “Absolutely. We’ll protect him, too.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He found it slightly amusing to be called “sir” by someone a quarter of a century older than himself, but he let it pass; Mrs. Stilwell was from the South, and manners still counted down there.

“And,” he said, “speaking of the Secret Service, there’s an agent named Gordo Danbury.”

Bessie frowned. “You mean there
was
an agent by that name.”

“Exactly. Do you know who Leon Hexley is?”

Another frown, then: “The director of the Secret Service.”

“That’s right. A few days ago, I came upon him in the Oval Office, and he was talking to someone on his phone…” Seth paused to catch his breath, then: “…and I think he was talking about Gordo Danbury. Do you remember me hearing that conversation?”

“This is so strange,” Bessie said.

“Yes,” agreed Seth. “But do you remember it?”

“I don’t remember a conversation about Gordo Danbury.”

“No, Leon didn’t say his last name. Just ‘Gordo.’ He said, ‘Tell Gordo to…’
something.
Do you remember that?”

“No.”

“Please try.”

“Gordo. That’s a funny name.”

“It’s short for Gordon. ‘Tell Gordo to…’”

“I sort of remember it,” Bessie said, “He said, ‘Tell Gordo to aim…’”

To aim!
Yes, that was right! It was one more word than he himself had initially been able to remember. But Jesus: to aim! “There was some more,” Seth said. “Some numbers, maybe?”

“That’s all I can recall,” Bessie said.

“If any more of it comes to you…”

“Of course,” she said. “But…”

“Yes?”

“I’m trying
not
to recall your memories,” she said. “I don’t like knowing your thoughts, sir. I don’t like it
at all.
I voted for you. I’ll tell you the truth: I was hoping one of the others would get the Republican nomination; you’re too middle-of-the-road for my tastes. Still, I always vote Republican—always have, always will. But a lot of what you said on the campaign trail was lies.”

“I admit it perhaps wasn’t always the full truth, but—”

“It was
lies,”
Bessie said. “In many, many cases. You said whatever you had to say to get elected. When I recall your memories, I feel ashamed.” She looked directly at him. “Don’t you?”

Seth found himself unable to meet the eyes of this woman who could see right into his mind. “It’s not an easy thing, getting elected,” he said. “There are compromises to be made.”

“It’s a dirty business,” said Bessie. “I don’t like it.”

“To tell the truth, I don’t, either. I’m not sorry I ran, though, and I’m going to do as much good as I can while I’m in office. But you’re right: I compromised to get here. And you know what? That was the right thing to do.”

“Compromises are one thing,” Bessie said. “Lies are another.”

“No one who told the truth all the time could get elected—and so we bend the truth on small matters to accomplish the important things. An evil politician is one who lies all the time; a good one picks and chooses when to lie.”

“Horsefeathers,” she snapped.

He paused. “Well, then, think of it this way, Bessie—may I call you Bessie? Think of it like this: you’re my conscience from now on, for as long as these links last. I won’t be able to lie because you’ll know that I’m lying. You’ll keep me honest.”

She responded immediately. “You can count on it.”

•   •   •

ERIC
Redekop was delighted the lockdown was over. He headed down to the staff entrance on the first floor, and—

And there was Janis Falconi; she was heading out, too.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, and he took a moment to look at her and think. The flood of her memories continued unabated. He knew now how the rest of her day had gone, what she’d had as an afternoon snack—who’d have guessed pork rinds?—and…

And she was clean, at least at the moment. She hadn’t shot up since…

Well, good for her! It’d been three days, but…

But she was dreading going home, dreading going back to Tony, dreading her whole damned life. He thought about whether she’d yet told Tony that the lockdown was over; she hadn’t.

The staff had to check out with the Secret Service, just like the visitors to the hospital, although they had a separate line down here. Jan was in that line.

“Great work, Eric,” said a doctor as he crossed the room. “Heard all about it.”

“Thanks,” Eric said, his eyes still on Jan.

Another person touched his arm as he continued to close the distance. “Congratulations, Dr. Redekop!”

“Thanks,” he said again. There were eight people behind Jan and twice as many in front. She still hadn’t noticed him, and if he just joined the end of the line, she’d get out long before he did.

Which shouldn’t matter. Which should be
fine.

But…

But…

He walked up to her. “Hey, Janis,” he said.

She turned and smiled—a radiant smile, a wonderful smile. “Dr. Redekop.”

“Hey,” he said again, disappointed by his own repartee. Then he said, “Um.” And then he turned to the man behind them. “Do you mind if I…?”

The man smiled. “You saved the president today. I think that entitles you to cut in.”

“Thanks.” He looked at Jan and lowered his voice. “So, um, I guess you’re also one of those affected by that experiment.”

She glanced around, as if this was something she’d been trying to keep under wraps, then said softly, “Yeah.”

“Who are you linked to?”

“His name’s Josh Latimer. He’s a patient here, waiting for a kidney transplant.”

“Ah.”

She looked at him. “How’d you know I was affected?”

It was his turn to look around, but the guy he’d spoken to was now talking to the person behind him, and the woman in front was wearing white earbuds; she seemed oblivious to their conversation. “Because,” he said, “I’m reading you.”

Jan immediately dropped her gaze.

“So,” said Eric, “um, are you in a hurry to get home, or…?”

She didn’t look up, but she did reply. “No,” she said. “I’m not.”

BESSIE
Stilwell left the president’s room accompanied by a Secret Service agent. Once she was gone, Seth asked for Professor Singh to be brought to his room.