Triggers (25 page)

And it was closed! The front door was locked; he almost snapped the fingers off his hand in the cold yanking on the handle. He looked at the business hours; they didn’t open until noon on Saturday. He blew out air, watching it form a cloud in front of him.

And then it hit him, a memory—the memory he needed. The
store
opened at noon, but the gaming room opened at 10:00
A.M.
, with players coming and going by the back door.

He looked left and right, recognized left, and headed that way, and—ah!—there it was, a door painted in a pinkish beige that his old pencil-crayon set had called, back in the days of easy racism, “flesh.” He closed the distance and pulled, gingerly this time, on the handle. But, crap, this door was locked, too.

Another memory came to him: you had to knock. He did.

About ten seconds later, a guy in his twenties with long, greasy hair, wearing a T-shirt depicting Robot Chicken (Jan knew it, even if he didn’t) pushed the door open. Eric was prepared to have to explain himself, but the guy just held the door until Eric stepped into the large back room, which had five long tables set up with people seated around them, and—

And there she was: Janis Falconi.

Her back was to him, but there was no mistaking the tiger tattoo covering her left shoulder and continuing down her arm.

It was odd to be in a room that he’d never been in before and yet to
know
it. The washroom was over there, behind the door with the poster of The Incredible Hulk taped to it. The vending machine, next to it, was famous for running out of Diet Coke.

The guys sitting at Jan’s table all had nicknames: Luckless, Bazinga (in truth, her brother Rudy), and Optimus Prime; even Jan didn’t know the real name of the last of those.

She was laughing—he could hear her, and see her shoulders going up and down. He changed his position slightly so he could get just a glimpse of her profile; it was so good to see her being happy. He wondered if any of those she was playing with knew that this one day a month was just about the only time she
was
happy when she wasn’t at work.

All the players seemed absorbed in what they were doing. At one table, they had boxes of donuts spread out. At another, some boisterous discussion was going on about something that had just happened in the game.

There were other chairs—metal-frame stacking ones with gray carpetlike upholstery, the kind you bought at Staples—stacked against the pale green wall. Several more tables whose legs had been folded up were leaning against the wall. Eric removed a chair from the stack and sat down, waiting for Jan’s game to end; everyone was so intent on what they were doing, they simply ignored him. He pulled out his iPhone, flicked until the screen displaying the Kobo app was shown, tapped on it, and opened the new book he’d bought recently, the latest Jack McDevitt novel, and tried to lose himself in it, but—

But it all seemed so…so familiar. Granted, it was another installment in McDevitt’s Alex Benedict series, but…

But that wasn’t it. He’d read this already, and—

No, no.
Jan
had read it. He scrolled through his list of books, looking for something else to read.

Suddenly, the D&D game at Jan’s table was over. Bazinga was leaning back in his chair, chatting animatedly with Luckless. Optimus Prime was putting away all the polyhedral dice and lead miniatures. Jan stood and picked up her chair, ready to add it to a stack against the wall, and, as she turned, she saw Eric, and her eyes went wide, and her mouth dropped open into a perfect O. She came over to him. “Eric, what are you doing here?”

Others were milling about as they put chairs away. Bazinga and Luckless came near, carrying the table they’d been using over to the wall.

He didn’t know if this was the right moment—didn’t know if there’d ever be the right moment—didn’t want to shatter the happiness she seemed to be feeling just now. “Umm, Jan, can I speak to you for a moment?”

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 slightly, 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.

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.