Robert Sawyer - Triggers

That wasn’t so bad.

It was a start.

Dr. Eric Redekop parked his Mercedes out front of the Bronze Shield, which was a much larger building than he’d expected it to be; Jan was used to its size, he guessed, and so her memories hadn’t really encoded it as remarkable. He knew in a vague way that gaming was big business, but it still surprised him that the store was so large, and—

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—