Robert Sawyer - Triggers

The press.

She thought back to her hotel room at the Watergate, and about what that building was famous for.

The press. The people who could blow the lid off things—even those things the president of the United States was desperate to keep secret.

She looked out the window and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. And, at last, she found the strength she needed. She knew what she had to do.

All those reporters in front of the hospital: they’d doubtless still be there, waiting for any update about the president’s condition. And as soon as she arrived, she’d run up to them, and she’d tell them, with their cameras rolling, that she was linked to President Jerrison, and she’d let them know all about the horrible thing that he was planning to do.

Jan was sitting on the white couch in Eric’s living room. The ornate wall clock sounded a chime; she’d discovered that it did that every hour on the hour.

Jan was reading the just-published new edition of Time on his iPad. The cover image showed separate maps of the west and east coasts of the United States, with pillars of black smoke coming up from San Francisco, Chicago, Philadelphia, Washington, and, harking back to 9/11, Manhattan. Above that in stark black letters was the text, “Will it ever end?”

The door to the penthouse opened, and Eric came in. She went over to greet him—and there was an awkward moment during which she wasn’t sure how to greet him. And so she did nothing: no hug, no physical contact at all. But she did ask, “How was the press conference?”

Eric took off his jacket—which was wet; he must have walked the few blocks back from LT—and hung it on the doorknob so that it would drip on the marble instead of inside the closet. “It was all right, but I hate doing stuff like that. Doctor-patient relations are supposed to be confidential. I know we get VIP patients to sign consent forms, but it still makes me uncomfortable discussing a procedure with anyone who isn’t a colleague.” He stepped into the living room. “I mean, I get that he’s the president and all, but still, it feels wrong.”

They continued on into the kitchen, and he opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of microbrewery beer. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.”

“It’s like 9-1-1 calls,” he said. “I hate it when you hear one of those go public. I remember a bunch of years ago when William Shatner’s wife drowned; his call to 9-1-1 was all over the news. That’s just wrong.”

Jan nodded. “Yeah, I agree. I think it makes people reluctant to call.”

“How was your afternoon?” asked Eric. They headed to the living room, and Eric sat on the leather couch. Jan sat next to him, and she saw on his face that he was pleased by that. She was about to answer his question when he answered it himself. “You had Nikki Van Hausen over.”

She nodded.

“How is she?” Eric asked. “She was pretty messed up when I first met her; the memory linkage was freaking her out.”

Jan knew she didn’t have to answer; Eric now knew what Jan remembered of the afternoon, and—

And suddenly he was averting his eyes. Ah, of course: he was probably recalling Nikki telling Jan how he felt about her.

“I had to know,” Jan said gently. “I mean, this is all happening so fast, and, well, I needed to know if you were everything you seemed to be.”

He did meet her gaze now. “And?”

She got up, stood in front of him, and reached down to take his hands, pulling him to his feet. “And let’s go give Nikki Van Hausen a memory she’ll never forget.”

The Air Force jet landed at Andrews. It was dark, and Bessie couldn’t see much of the surroundings, but she was glad to be getting off the plane. Although the flight had been smooth, it had also been long, and apparently most soldiers didn’t have hemorrhoids; the chairs were uncomfortable. She’d had the window seat, so Darryl had to get out first—and, she realized, it had probably been a pretty uncomfortable flight for him, too, given how long his legs were.

Darryl took Bessie’s arm as they went down the metal staircase that had been parked at the side of the plane, and she was grateful for it; the last thing she needed was to fall and break her hip.

Andrews was fifteen miles southeast of Luther Terry, Bessie knew—because Seth knew it. On a Saturday evening, it should be an easy drive up Branch Avenue to the Suitland Parkway and then along I-295.

As they entered one of the buildings, they were met by a man in a green Army uniform. He was six-six and muscular. “Agent Hudkins?” he said. “And Mrs. Stilwell?”

“Yes,” said Darryl, and “That’s right,” said Bessie.

“I’m Colonel Barstow,” he said. “I’m an aide to the SecDef.”

“The what?” asked Bessie, but it came to her from Seth’s memories even before Barstow answered.

“The secretary of defense, ma’am. The two of you have been placed in my custody.”

“Custody!” exclaimed Darryl.

“Yes, sir.” Barstow looked at Bessie. “If I may, ma’am, you might want to visit the ladies’ room before we head out.”

“I’m fine,” Bessie said. “It’s a short trip.”

“No, ma’am, it isn’t,” said Barstow.

Darryl raised his eyebrows. “We’re going back to Luther Terry.”

“No,” Barstow said, and his hand went to his sidearm. “You’re not.”

Jan and Tony Falconi had had blackout curtains in their bedroom; Tony sometimes worked nights and needed to sleep during the day.

Eric might have had blackout curtains, too, for all Jan knew, but they’d tumbled into bed without having drawn them; no one could look into Eric’s bedroom, which was on the top floor of the condo and looked west over the Potomac. She couldn’t see the sun, which was rising on the other side of the building, but the brightening sky had awoken her.

It was Sunday morning, and neither of them had to be back at work until Monday. Oh, he was on call in case anything happened to Jerrison, but that’s why God invented the BlackBerry. She lay there, looking at him, his eyes closed, his mouth open a bit, and she listened to the soft sound of his breathing. She felt something she hadn’t felt for a long time. She felt safe.

And yet—

And yet, Washington was not a safe place these days. In the last forty-eight hours, there’d been an attempt on the life of the president, and a terrorist bomb had destroyed the White House.

Of course, she thought, nowhere was safe. There’d been the bomb in Chicago before that, and San Francisco—a city she’d always wanted to visit—and Philadelphia, where her uncle lived, not to mention terrorist attacks in London and Milan and Cairo and Nairobi and Mexico City, and the list went on and on.

Eric stirred a bit, and his eyes opened. “Hey,” he said.

Jan smiled and touched his cheek. “Hey yourself.”

“What do you want to do today?” he asked.

She looked out the window; it wasn’t snowing, and the sky looked cloudless; a nice change from yesterday. “Let’s go for a walk on the Mall.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “See the monuments, the Smithsonian.” She lifted her shoulders slightly. “I think I need to be reminded of America’s greatness.”

Eric and Jan left his apartment just before 10:00 A.M. Under her coat, Jan was wearing the spare set of clothes she’d retrieved from LT yesterday, as well as a Harvard sweatshirt that belonged to Eric, and she had on her bright red ski mittens, which had been tucked in her coat pockets. Rather than hike the six blocks to the Mall, they took a cab over; Jan was pleased to see that Eric was a generous tipper.