Triggers

Seth managed a small nod.

Singh’s eyebrows climbed toward his turban. “Fascinating. Mr. President, do you know the name of the person whose memories you’re accessing?”

“No.”

“Think about it.”

“Nothing is coming to me.”

Susan and the other Secret Service agent were watching intently, as was Sheila the nurse.

“All right,” said Singh. “Try this: everyone is made fun of at school. My last name is Singh, and the students at my school in Toronto called me ‘Singh-Song.’ And my first name is Ranjip, but the mean boys at high school always called me ‘rancid’—although I took some pleasure in the fact that some of them didn’t even know what that meant. What did they call you?”

The president frowned. “Fairyson.”

Singh tried to suppress a smile. “Any other names you were called?”

“No.”

“Nothing is coming to you?”

“Nothing, but…”

“Yes?”

“ ‘Firstman’ just popped into my mind. Like ‘First Man,’ but all run together.”

“ ‘Firstman,’ repeated Singh, excitedly. “Adam, no? Does the name Kadeem Adams mean anything to you?”

“No. Oh, wait. Yes—yes! Sure, Kadeem Adams—that’s him.”

“Well, that was easy,” said Singh, turning to Susan. “He’s reading the memories of my patient, Private Kadeem Adams.”

“Is that the guy who is reading me?” Susan asked.

“Yes,” said Singh.

“So he’s not the person reading the president?”

“What’s that?” said Seth. “Somebody’s reading my memories?”

Susan nodded. “We think it’s possible, sir. We’ve locked down the hospital because of it. Don’t worry—no one is getting in or out.” She turned to Singh. “But it isn’t this Adams who is reading the president, right?”

“He certainly has given no indication of that,” said Singh. “We don’t have a lot of data yet, but it seems the links are not reciprocal. Rather, they appear to form a chain. The president is reading Kadeem Adams; Kadeem is reading you, Agent Dawson; you are reading me; and I’m reading Dr. Lucius Jono.”

“So then this Jono is the one reading the president?” Susan asked.

“Let us hope,” said Singh. “We don’t know how long the chain is, or whether it closes into a circle. However, from what I’ve seen, the linkages are first-order, shall we say? That is, you can remember what I remember, but you can’t remember through me to what Dr. Jono remembers, isn’t that right?”

Susan frowned. “Yes, I guess that is the case. I can’t recall any of this Jono person’s memories.”

“And, Mr. President, is it safe to say that you recall what Private Adams recalls, but not what Agent Dawson remembers, even though she is the one Private Adams is reading?”

Jerrison considered, then: “Yes, that’s right. Even looking at you, Susan, I can’t recall your memories.”

“Okay, good,” said Singh. “At least we don’t have a cascade.” A pause. “I would like to speak to Private Adams and see how accurate the president’s recollections are. If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes…”

Susan nodded, and she moved aside so he could leave the room.

Seth was grateful for a chance to stop talking—it was all so much to take in, and he was more exhausted than he’d ever felt in his life. Sheila came over and adjusted one of the drip bags attached to his arm. He looked over at Susan and saw her touch a finger to her earpiece. “Copy that,” she said at last. She then looked at Seth. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. We didn’t tell you yet that the would-be assassin is dead. But they’ve positively ID’d the body now, and—” Seth saw her glance at Roger Michaelis, who looked shocked; he’d presumably just heard the same thing Susan had through his own earpiece.

“Yes?” Seth prodded.

“It was Gordon Danbury,” Susan said. “He was one of us—a Secret Service agent.”

Chapter 11

Once he’d left nurse Janis Falconi, Eric Redekop went by his office and got his Bose noise-canceling headphones. He’d originally bought them for long flights, but now used them at the hospital when he needed to sleep. Eric liked to sleep on his side, and he’d thought there’d be no comfortable way to wear the headphones when doing so, but the hospital had a supply of donut-shaped pillows for people with broken tailbones or hemorrhoids to sit on, and he’d found that the hole nicely accommodated the large earpiece.

He headed down to the staff sleep room on the first floor, turned the headphones on, turned off the lights in the room, and lay down on one of the cots. He’d hoped to fall right to sleep, but…

But being here, on his side, in a semifetal position, made him think of…

…of lying next to a man like this, turned away from him, trying to pretend the man wasn’t there, and—

And it was Tony Falconi, Janis’s husband. She lay like this every night, trying to ignore him, hoping he wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t initiate the ninety seconds of pounding away that was his idea of sex, wouldn’t leave her unfulfilled.

Damn it, damn it, damn it. He did not want to know any of this. He had no idea what the hell was going on, but—

But there had to be a rational explanation.

He was so tired—the surgery on the president had been grueling.