Triggers (21 page)

“Mr. President, what can I do for you?” Singh said, upon arrival.

“I take it you’ve worked out all the linkages, right?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve got a chart.”

“So, I can read Kadeem, Kadeem can read…Susan, is it?”

“Yes, that’s right. And Agent Dawson can read me, and I can read Dr. Lucius Jono, who helped save your life. Dr. Jono can read Nikki Van Hausen, a real-estate agent. And so on.”

“And Darryl?

“Agent Hudkins? He’s the one who can read Bessie Stilwell’s memories.”

“No, I mean, who is reading him?”

“Maria Ramirez—the pregnant lady.”

“Good, okay.” A pause, then: “How do you remember all that?”

“I wouldn’t be much of a memory researcher if I didn’t know various
tricks for memorizing things. A standard method is to use ‘the memory palace.’ Take a building you know well and visualize the things you want to remember inside that building in the order you’d encounter them as you actually walked through it. In this case, I think of my own house back in Toronto. There’s an entryway, and I picture myself there, making me the starting point. In the entryway, there’s a door to the garage. I picture Lucius Jono—who’s got crazy red hair—in a clown car in there, with a bunch of other clowns, but he’s trying to get out, because it’s dark in the garage, and he wants to be in the light; ‘Lucius’ means ‘light.’ Next to that door is a small washroom. Lucius Jono can read Nikki Van Hausen, and—well, forgive me, but I think of rushing to the washroom in an emergency, and making it in the nick of time. A play on her name. Next to the washroom is the staircase leading up to my living room. Nikki can read the memories of Dr. Eric Redekop, the lead surgeon. I picture bodies stretched out on each of the four steps, and him operating on all four of them simultaneously, scalpels in each of his hands, and also, monkeylike, in each of his feet, as well.”

“Good grief!” said Jerrison.

“The more bizarre the image, the more memorable it is.”

“I suppose,” Seth said. “Anyway, I need your help. There’s something important I have to recall but can’t.”

“One of your own memories, or one of Private Adams’s?”

The question would have been nonsensical just twenty-four hours ago, Seth thought. “One of my own.”

“Well, I understand they’ve located the woman who was linked to you—Mrs. Stilwell, I believe. Perhaps she can recall it?”

“No. I already thought of that. She can’t. So I was wondering if your equipment could help either her or me to dredge it up.”

“What was the memory?”

“A conversation I overheard.”

“Forgive me, but can you perhaps be more specific?”

Seth considered how much to tell Singh. “I overheard one end of a phone conversation—Leon Hexley, the director of the Secret Service, talking on his cell.”

“Well,” said Singh, “if it had been me, that’d be an easy memory to isolate—because an encounter with such a high-ranking official would be a remarkable thing. But for you, sir? An everyday occurrence. My equipment would have a hard time pinpointing it.”

“Damn. It’s crucial that I recall what he said.”

“Recall is a tricky thing, sir. It requires something to bring it to mind.”

“I suppose.”

“People always get frustrated when other people can’t remember things. In fact, my wife was mad at me a couple of weeks ago because I couldn’t remember something that had happened on our honeymoon. She’d snapped, ‘But it’s important! Why can’t you remember?’ You know what my reply was?”

Seth managed a small shake of his head.

Singh exploded in mock-anger.
“Because I was loaded, okay?”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Seth couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “I used to love that show.”

“Me, too,” said Singh. “But, actually, I’m not making a joke. Not that I was loaded—I don’t drink. But declarative memories are best recalled under the same circumstances as they were laid down. Memories formed while drunk—or underwater, or at a hotel—come back best when drunk or underwater or back at that hotel.”

“Damn,” said Seth.

“What?” replied Singh.

“The conversation took place in the Oval Office—and that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Ah, I see,” said Singh. But then he smiled. “Still, perhaps there
is
a way.”

KADEEM
Adams didn’t have a room at LT; he’d come to the hospital yesterday morning as part of his work with Professor Singh and was staying in a small hotel Singh had arranged. But although the lockdown was now over, he’d hung around, hoping for a call from Susan Dawson,
who had said the president was sleeping intermittently. Kadeem was sitting in Singh’s little office on the third floor, doodling on a pad of paper.

He knew he might never have a chance like this again. The linkages had persisted for hours now, but no one knew if they were permanent. And, even if they
were,
he hoped—he prayed—Professor Singh would finish what he’d started in treating him. But for now—for right now—he had something that people jockeyed for, fought for, bribed for, begged for: he had the attention of the president of the United States. It was an opportunity not to be wasted, and, if Singh did figure out how to break the linkages, an opportunity that wouldn’t come again.

Kadeem understood how it worked: the president didn’t think the same thoughts at the same time as he did, but he could recall anything that Kadeem knew, just as Kadeem could recall anything that Susan Dawson remembered.

And so he knew, because he’d been pondering the question, that Sue had indeed pushed for him to be allowed to visit the president. And, at last, the call came. He told Agent Dawson where he was, and she came to get him, escorting him down the stairs. His footfalls and hers echoed in the stairwell; she was behind him. They exited on the second floor and headed along the corridor. A photographer—a Hispanic man of maybe forty—was waiting; he had two big cameras on straps around his neck. The three of them continued on into the president’s room. Two Secret Service agents stood on either side of the closed door. They nodded curtly at Agent Dawson, and one of them opened the door, holding it while first Kadeem, then Susan, entered.

It was shocking to see Jerrison like this. He was looking haggard and wan. It was almost enough to make Kadeem stop, but—

But no. He
had
to do this; he owed it to the others.

As he looked at the president, more details registered. He was surprised, for instance, at how much white there was in the president’s hair. Kadeem remembered him from the campaign, mostly, when his hair had been mixed between gray and sandy brown. He imagined that being leader of the free world aged you more rapidly than just about any other job.

Kadeem glanced at the nurse sitting across the room, then looked again at Jerrison. The back of the president’s bed was elevated so that he could sit up a bit. He was wearing Ben Franklin glasses, but they had slid down the considerable length of his nose. He looked over them, smiled, and managed a small wave. “Come in”—
flash!
—“young man!”—
flash!
—“Come in!”

The photographer jockeyed for position, now getting shots of Kadeem. Kadeem was surprised to hear his voice crack; it hadn’t done that since he was thirteen. “Hey, Mr. President.”

The president extended—
flash!
—his hand—
flash!
—and Kadeem closed the distance—
flash!
—and shook it—
flash!
Jerrison’s grip was weak; it was clearly an effort for him to shake hands at all.

“Please,” the president said, gesturing now to a vinyl-covered chair next to his bed. “Won’t you have a seat?”

Kadeem sat down, which put his head and the president’s at roughly the same level. “Thank you, sir.”

“So, Miss Dawson tells me you’re in the Army?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your rank?” But then he smiled. “Private, first class, right? Serial number 080-79-3196, isn’t it?”

“That’s it, sir.”

“It’s so strange, having your memories, young man.”

“It’s strange to me, sir, knowing you have them.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure. I’m not deliberately snooping, you know. I’m not saying to myself, ‘Gee, I wonder what Kadeem and Kristah’s first date was like?,’ or—” Then he frowned. “Oh. Well, I’m with you. I thought
Tropic Thunder
was a funny film, even if she didn’t.”

Kadeem felt his head shaking slowly left to right; it was amazing.

“Anyway, sorry,” said the president. “The point is that I’m
not
deliberately doing stuff like that. You’re entitled to your privacy, young man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So you were overseas?”

“Yes, sir. Operation Iraqi Freedom.”

To his credit, the president’s gaze didn’t waver. “But you’re home
now,” Jerrison said in a tone that Kadeem was sure was meant to elicit gratitude.

Kadeem took a deep breath, then: “Not exactly, sir. My home is in Los Angeles. But I’m being treated here.”

Jerrison frowned, perplexed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were injured.”

And perhaps he
had
already recalled what Kadeem was about to tell him—but had simply forgotten, what with the mountain of other things he had to think about. Kadeem sighed slightly. If only everything could be so easily forgotten. “I’ve got PTSD.”

The president nodded. “Ah, yes.”

“Professor Singh’s been helping me. Or he was, until we got interrupted; he’s still got a lot of work to do.”

“You’re in good hands, I’m sure,” said Jerrison. “We always try to look after our boys in uniform.”

The comment seemed sincere, and although Kadeem indeed hadn’t voted for Jerrison—he hadn’t voted for
anyone
—he again had second thoughts about what he intended to do. No one should have to go through this.

But he had; Kadeem had. Hundreds of times now. And if the pleas of service moms hadn’t succeeded, if the sight of flag-covered coffins hadn’t done it, if the bleak news reports out of Baghdad hadn’t been enough, maybe, just maybe,
this
would be.

“Thank you, sir,” Kadeem said. The president was hooked up to a vital-signs monitor like the one Kadeem had been connected to before; it was showing seventy-two heartbeats per minute. Kadeem imagined his own pulse rate was much higher. The president of the United States! Kalil and Lamarr would never believe this. But then Kalil and Lamarr had stayed in South Central; they probably didn’t really believe—or, at least, didn’t fully appreciate—the stories Kadeem had brought back from Iraq.

But the president could be made to believe.

To appreciate.

To
feel.

“Mr. President, I have to say it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. My mamma, sir, she’ll be amazed.”

The president gestured toward the photographer, who quickly snapped three more shots. “We’ll send her pictures, of course.” And then the president’s eyebrows went up. “Your mamma—she’s a nice lady, isn’t she?”

“She’s the best, sir.”

He nodded. “This is so strange. Tanisha, isn’t it? I see you love her very much.”

“I do, sir. She done her best by me.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure. And—oh!—it’s her birthday next week, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Won’t you give her my regards?”

Kadeem nodded. “She’d be thrilled, sir.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Agent Dawson looking at her watch. He doubtless didn’t have much time left, and—

And even the mere thought of what he was going to do set his stomach to churning, and he could feel perspiration breaking out on his brow.

“Well,” Kadeem said, “I’m sure you’ve got matters of state”—a phrase he never thought he’d utter in his whole life—“to attend to.” He stood up, and the chair’s four legs made a scraping sound against the tiled floor as he pushed it back a bit. He took a deep breath and swallowed, trying to calm himself, then, finally, he blurted it out: “But I hope you’ll think about babies after I leave, sir.”

The president looked at him, his eyebrows pulled together. “Babies?”

“Yes, sir. Crying babies.” Kadeem felt his own pulse racing, and he reached out to steady himself by holding on to the angled part of the president’s bed, which caused Agent Dawson to surge forward. “Crying babies,” Kadeem repeated, “and the smell of smashed concrete.”

The president made a sharp intake of breath, and although the volume on his vital-signs monitor was turned almost all the way down, Kadeem could hear the heartbeat pings accelerating.

It happened with astonishing quickness: footfalls outside the door, then a woman came in—black, elegant—ah, one of Sue’s memories: it
was Alyssa Snow, Jerrison’s private physician. “Mr. President, are you okay?” she asked.

All the eyes—the photographer’s, Agent Dawson’s, Kadeem’s, the nurse’s, and Dr. Snow’s—were on Seth Jerrison. There were whites visible all around his irises, as if he were seeing something horrific.

And he
was.
Kadeem had no doubt. Yes, just because they were linked didn’t mean their recollections were in synch, but the flashback trigger would have had the same effect on the president as it was having on him. They might be experiencing different parts of it just now—Kadeem was seeing the half-track rolling over a corpse; the president might be seeing another wall shattering under mortar fire. But they were both
there,
Kadeem for the thousandth time, and Seth Jerrison for the very first.

“Mr. President?” asked Dr. Snow, desperately. “Are you okay, sir?”

The president was shaking his head slowly left and right, a small arc of what looked liked disbelief, and his mouth had dropped open. Dr. Snow was now standing on the opposite side of the bed from Kadeem and using two fingers to check the president’s pulse.

Kadeem staggered backward and ended up leaning against the wall for support.

Fire.

Smoke.

Screams.

He could barely see the real world, the hospital room, the president, but he turned his head and tried to make out the great man’s expression. His face showed not shock and awe, but shock and horror. The doctor was moving now to wipe the president’s brow.

Explosions.