Triggers

“No,” she said. “No, I’m sorry I hit you, Jurgen.”

Sturgess’s eyebrows went up. “How did you know my name?”

How the hell did she know his name—or Eric’s?

And then it came to her: she knew Jurgen’s name because Eric knew it. They were old friends, although Eric found Jurgen a tad brusque and a bit too humorless for his taste. She knew…well, everything Eric knew.

“It’s all right,” Eric said, motioning for the guards to halt their approach. “Nurse Enright here will look after you. We’ll get you help.”

But that was even worse: suddenly a flood of memories came to Nikki: recalcitrant patients, patients screaming obscenities, a heavyset man throwing a punch, another man breaking down and crying—a cascade of disturbed patients Eric had dealt with over the years.

“I—I’m not like that,” Nikki stammered out.

Eric narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”

Christ, she was a real-estate agent, not some fucking psychic. Her sister believed in that shit, but she didn’t. This was impossible—she must be having a stroke, or hallucinations, or something.

“Come with me,” said Heather Enright. “We’ll get you taken care of.”

“Eric, please!” implored Nikki.

But Eric yawned and stretched, and he and Jurgen started walking away, talking intently about the surgery Eric had just performed. She resisted Heather’s attempts to propel her in the opposite direction until Eric had turned the corner and was out of sight.

But not out of mind.

Chapter 7

The secretary of defense continued to study the wall-mounted deployment map; it had flickered off for a few seconds but now was back on. The aircraft carriers were mostly on station, and, as he watched, the Reagan moved a little closer to its goal.

“Mr. Secretary,” said an analyst seated near him, looking up from her workstation, “we’ve lost the White House.”

Peter Muilenburg frowned. “If primary comm is down, switch to aux four.”

The analyst’s voice was anguished. “No, sir, you don’t understand. We’ve lost the White House. It’s—it’s gone. The bomb they found there just went off.”

Muilenburg staggered backward, stumbling into a table. As he flailed to steady himself, he knocked a large binder onto the floor. His eyes stung, and he tasted vomit.

An aide burst into the room. “Mr. Secretary, they’re asking if we should evacuate the Pentagon as a precaution.”

Muilenburg attempted to speak but found he couldn’t. He gripped the edge of the table, trying to keep on his feet. The Oval Office, the Roosevelt Room, the Press Room, the Cabinet Room, the State Dining Room, the Lincoln Bedroom, and so much more…could they really be gone? God…

“Mr. Secretary?” the aide said. “Should we evacuate?”

A deep, shuddering breath; an attempt to regain his equilibrium. “Not yet,” Muilenburg replied, but it was doubtless too soft for the aide to hear. He tried again. “Not yet.” He forced himself to stand up straight. “Have them continue to sweep for bombs here, but we’ve got a job to do.” He looked again at the deployment map and found himself quaking with fury. “And no one can say they don’t have it coming.”

Bessie Stilwell looked down at her wrinkled hand; the skin was white, loose, and translucent. She was gently holding the hand of her adult son, which was smoother and not quite as pale.

Bessie had often imagined a scene like this: the two of them in a hospital room, one lying in bed and the other providing comfort. But she’d always expected it to be her in the bed, waiting to die, and Mike sitting next to her, doing his duty. After all, she was eighty-seven and he was fifty-two; that was the way the scene was supposed to be cast, their parts ordained by their ages.

But she was well, more or less. Oh, there was a constant background of aches and pains, her hearing was poor, and she used a cane to walk. But Mike should have been vigorous. Instead, he lay there, on his back, tubes in his arms, a respirator covering his nose and mouth.

His father had made it to sixty before having the heart attack that took his life. At least the coronary Mike had suffered hadn’t killed him—although it had come close. The stress of a Washington job had doubtless been a contributing factor; he should have stayed in Mississippi.

Mike had no family of his own—at least, not anymore; his marriage had ended over a decade ago. He was a workaholic, Jane had said when she left him—or, at least, that was the story Mike had conveyed to Bessie.

“Thanks for coming, Mom,” Mike said, each word an effort for him.

She nodded. “Of course, baby.”

Baby. She had always called him that. It had been five decades since he’d been as helpless as one, and yet he was again.

She moved over to his bed and leaned in—painfully, her back and knees hurting as she did so—and kissed him on the top of his bald head.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” she added.

“Thanks,” he said again, and closed his eyes.