Robert Sawyer - Triggers

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.

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…”