Robert Sawyer - Triggers

Tarasov moved partway across the room and found a chair; he dropped himself into it and put his blood-spattered head in his hands.

Susan lifted her arm to speak into her wrist microphone, but it wasn’t necessary. The door to the room was kicked open, and two agents, guns out, appeared at either side of it. They quickly surveyed the situation, then entered.

“Sue,” said one of the agents, while the other one rushed over to Latimer’s fallen form. “What went down?”

Susan looked at them then and at the ruined side of Josh Latimer’s head, lying now in a widening pool of blood. She found herself unable to speak as she groped for a chair.

After they’d had lunch, Eric Redekop had taken Janis Falconi to his luxury condo, which was just a few blocks from LT, overlooking the Potomac. Jan was amazed. She knew top surgeons made a lot of money, but she’d never quite realized how much; Eric’s place was gorgeous, with a sumptuous marble entryway. He gave her a quick tour: separate kitchen and dining room, two full bathrooms, and four bedrooms. He used one as an office, another as a TV room, and a third was set up as a bedroom for when his son Quentin visited; Quentin was twenty-one, and was studying genetics at UC Berkeley. They came out to the living room, which opened on a wide balcony and had pristine white walls, a white leather couch, and a matching chair. Janis opened her mouth to say something complimentary, and—

And she heard a deafening sound, like a car backfiring right beside her, and she had a brief flash of—well, of light, and she saw the face of a woman. An “Ooof!” came out of her as she staggered backward.

“Jan?” said Eric wheeling around.

Agony. More pain than she’d ever felt—ever thought she could feel.

Jan reached out with her right arm, flailing for something to grab on to, but found nothing. She tumbled backward, falling to the hardwood floor.

“Jan!” shouted Eric, dropping onto one knee next to her. He touched her wrist, feeling for a pulse.

The pain continued to shoot through her; it wasn’t localized—it was everywhere. She couldn’t focus or turn her head. She thought—as much as she could think anything through the agony—that perhaps she was having a heart attack.

“Jan, what is it?” asked Eric. “Where does it hurt?”

With a massive effort, and although it felt like her neck was snapping to do so, she managed to turn her head to face him, but—

But her vision was receding into a long tunnel, and the person at the end of the tunnel was—well, she didn’t know who it was, but it wasn’t Eric. The face she saw there, in the distance, was terrified, and—

She felt herself being lifted up in Eric’s arms, and he carried her a short distance and set her down—ah, it must be on the white leather couch she’d been admiring a few moments before. But she couldn’t see it; all she could see was the tunnel—and it was narrowing. And yet she knew she wasn’t dead: her pulse was pounding in her ears.

Eric was holding her hand and feeling her forehead. The tunnel was constricting even more, and there were colored forms running past her peripheral vision. People. Faces. An old man. An even older woman. A little girl.

Events. Snowboarding. Riding a dirt bike. Scuba diving. None of which she’d ever done…

And—thank God!—the pain was abating, fading, dissipating. The images were being replaced by a pure, bright, brilliant light, absolutely white, brighter than the sun but not at all uncomfortable to look at.

Her pulse was fading in her ears now. Everything except the light was fading.

“Jan!” Eric, sounding a million miles away. “Jan!”

The light was so enticing, but…

“Jan!”

But she wanted to be with Eric. She struggled mightily to open her eyes—and finally succeeded. She was indeed in his living room, looking up at the stippled plaster of the ceiling. “Eric…”she said, but her voice sounded faint to her.

He loomed in and held up his key fob, which had an LED light on it. He pointed it first into her left eye, then her right; the bright light she’d seen at the end of the tunnel hadn’t hurt at all, but this did.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice raw.

“We’ve got to take you to the hospital, find out what’s wrong with you.”

“I’m fine,” she said again and closed her eyes, part of her hoping the pure white light and the calming euphoria would come back.

Reporters were still camped out in front of Luther Terry Memorial Hospital when Eric and Jan tried to enter. Eric kept his head down, and they’d almost made it to the staff entrance when a female journalist called out, “Wait! Wait! You’re Eric Redekop, aren’t you?”

“I’ve got no comment,” Eric said. He cupped Jan’s elbow and propelled her toward the doorway.

“What was it like performing surgery on the president?” called the same reporter, and, “Any update on Jerrison’s condition?” shouted another.

Eric and Jan kept walking, but then another reporter called out, “Dr. Redekop, what about these memory linkages? They say you were affected.”

“And that woman!” called another reporter, pointing now at Jan. “Is that who you’re linked to? What’s it like?”

Eric pushed the door open, and they entered the building.

“Jesus,” said Jan.

“It’ll be okay,” Eric said. He led them to the elevator, and they headed up to Singh’s lab on three. When they got there, they found Singh in his room, working at his computer. Susan Dawson was also there, sitting with her face in her hands.

“Dr. Redekop,” Singh said. “And Nurse Falconi. I thought you both had today off.”

Eric saw Susan look up. She appeared devastated over something. Jan took a step backward and her eyes went wide. “Oh my God,” Jan said softly.

“What?” said Eric and Singh simultaneously.

“It’s you,” Jan said, looking at Susan.

Eric knew that Jan had been interviewed by Professor Singh, not Agent Dawson; there was no particular reason she should recognize Susan.

“Yes?” Susan said.

“You’re the one who killed me.”

“Pardon?” said Singh.

“I mean, who killed Josh.”

Susan put her head back in her hands.

“Jan collapsed,” Eric said. “She was having some sort of horrible memory.”

“You were reading Josh Latimer,” Singh said to Jan, “and, yes, you’re right, Mr. Latimer is no longer with us.”

“Because she blew him away,” Jan said softly, looking at Susan. “But it felt like I was the one dying.”

“Can you recall Mr. Latimer’s memories now?” asked Singh.

Jan nodded meekly.

“Are you sure? Umm, did he have any pets as a child?”

“Benny,” she said at once. “An iguana.”

“And the name of the street he lived on when he was ten?”

“Fenwick Avenue.”

“Fascinating,” said Singh. “He’s dead, but you can still access his memories.”

“I guess,” said Jan.

Singh frowned again. “Then I wonder…”

“Yes?”

“Does he have any new memories?”

Eric crossed his arms in front of his chest. “He’s dead, Mr. Singh.”

“Yes, I know, but, well, if she can still access his memories from before, they must be somewhere, no? And so it’s worth asking—”

“Asking what?” said Eric. “Whether she can recall angels?”

“It’s worth a try,” said Singh. “Or if not angels, maybe…well, I don’t know what.”

Janis made a long-faced frown, as though this was the most bizarre idea she’d ever heard. But she closed her eyes—indeed, scrunched them tightly shut in concentration. “Okay,” she said after a moment, “I’m thinking about angels. Nothing. Heaven, clouds. Nothing. And—um, my God, Josh tried to kill somebody, didn’t he?”