Triggers

The headphones were doing their job—eliminating the actual background noise of the hospital. But the background noise of Janis Falconi’s memories continued unabated, and there didn’t seem to be anything he could do to shut them out.

Susan Dawson had to sit down. She’d known Gordon Danbury for years. He’d been a military sharpshooter in Afghanistan, and, upon his return to the States, had decided to try his luck with the Secret Service. That meant taking the ten-week Criminal Investigator Training Program at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Glynco, Georgia, followed by the seventeen-week Special Agent Training Course at the James J. Rowley Training Center, just outside DC.

Susan had first met Danbury at Rowley; active agents spent two weeks every two months there honing their skills. He’d seemed like a nice enough guy although he didn’t drink. Still, he was buff with a great face. Or, she supposed, he’d had a great face; apparently, he’d landed on it when he fell in the elevator shaft, which was why it took so long for anyone to recognize him.

She looked over at Agent Michaelis; he’d known Danbury, too. He was shaking his head slowly back and forth as if he couldn’t believe the news.

President Jerrison was lying flat on his back, tubes going into his arm from drip bags, a small oxygen feed tucked into his nostrils. “Danbury,” Jerrison said. “I don’t think I knew him.”

“You wouldn’t normally have run into him, sir,” Susan said. “He was one of the sharpshooters deployed on the roof of the White House.”

“The bomb,” Jerrison said.

Susan nodded. “Yes, it seems likely he was the one who planted it. He’d have had easy access to the White House roof—although how he got a large metallic device through security to get up there, I don’t know.” She listened to her earpiece again, then: “Anyway, they’re sending investigators to his house; see what they can find.”

They were all silent for a time, until Agent Michaelis spoke. “This is crazy.”

Susan thought he was referring to Danbury. “Yeah. You think you know a guy…”

“Not that,” said Michaelis, “although that’s crazy, too. I mean this memory stuff.”

“Are you experiencing any outside memories?” Susan asked.

“Me?” said Michaelis. “No.”

“Professor Singh’s memories are coming more easily for me all the time,” Susan said. “His phone number, his employment history. I even think, if I thought about it hard enough, that I could speak a little Punjabi—not to mention some bad Canadian French.” She paused. “Why would the president and I have been affected and not you? We were all pretty close together. You were just outside the O.R., right?”

“Yeah,” said Michaelis.

“Did you leave that area at any point?”

“No. Well, no, except to go the washroom. In fact, that’s where I was when the lights went out.”

“And you stayed there through the blackout?”

“Sure. It didn’t last long.”

“No, it didn’t,” said Susan. “I’m no scientist, but—”

“The blackout?” said the president.

“Um, yes, sir. There was an EMP when the bomb went off at the White House—same as what happened in Chicago and Philadelphia.” She turned to Michaelis. “How far was the washroom from the O.R.?”

“Halfway down the corridor. Maybe fifty feet.”

“Did anybody take your place outside the operating-room door?”

“No. I signaled Dougherty, who was on my right, and Rosenbaum, on my left, that I was going off station for a moment; they had line of sight to each other, so…”

Susan nodded, then: “Singh’s lab was more or less above the operating room. So the effect probably was limited in radius—and you’d stepped outside it at the crucial moment.”

Singh came into the room, accompanied, coincidentally, by Agent Dougherty, whom Michaelis had just mentioned.

“Well, that’s interesting,” Susan said to Singh. “I can even access your most recent memories, including new ones since the power surge.”

“Really?” said Singh.

“Yes. I know all about what just went down between you and Private Adams.”

“Fascinating,” Singh said. “That means it wasn’t a dumping of memories—you didn’t just get a copy of my memories transferred to you when the power surge hit; you’re still somehow connected to me on an ongoing basis.” He frowned, clearly thinking about this.

“Anyway, it’s interesting what Private Adams said to you just now,” Susan said. She gestured to indicate it was all right for Singh to move closer to the president.

“Thank you,” Singh said, coming further into the room. “Mr. President, those gentlemen you recall playing basketball with: you said one of them was named Lamarr. Please think about him, and see if you can conjure up anything else about him.”

Seth’s eyebrows rose. “Oh. Um. Sure, Lamarr. Lamarr…um…” The president seemed to hesitate, then: “Lamarr Brown.”

“And his skin color?”

He took a moment to breathe, then. “He’s…oh, well, um, okay. Yes, he’s black. I’ve got a mental picture of him now, kind of. Black…short hair…gold earring…a scar above his right eye.”

“His right eye?”

“Sorry, my right; his left.”