Robert Sawyer - Triggers

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.

Bessie and Darryl sat in the back, separated from the driver by a pane of smoked glass. Darryl suspected Bessie was thinking that in the good old days, it would have been the black man driving the white man, not the other way around. And speaking of the other way around, why did it have to be him reading her —or why couldn’t Obama have still been in office, if she were destined to read the president’s memories?

The limo took them through the Los Angeles traffic all the way out to Burbank. It had been years since Darryl had visited L.A., and he’d forgotten how horrible the congestion was, but Bessie was thrilled to catch a glimpse of the Hollywood sign high above the city. When they arrived at their destination, they had to go through more security—this with even more holes—handing photo ID through the car window to the gate guard. Darryl was stunned at how time-consuming and inefficient the process of getting in here was; he thought of five easy ways he could have gotten past the guards.