Triggers

And: My God, is that blood on his sleeve? Well, there you have it! Been in a knife fight or something. Probably over drugs…

He found his head shaking, and he felt furious. He wanted to say that it was the president’s blood, that he’d gotten it on him trying to save the man’s life, that she was so totally full of shit.

Bessie still had the gun aimed at him, and still looked terrified because…

…because he was black. Because he was colored. Because he was a—

That fucking word again.

Jesus!

She looked back over her shoulder now, but of course there was no way she could outrun him; he was a third her age.

“Mrs. Stilwell,” he said, “please lower the gun.”

She looked down, as if surprised that the little pistol was in her hands. Darryl actually hadn’t put away his ID since showing it to the desk clerk; it was still in his left hand, and he flipped it open and held it out in front of him as he slowly started closing the distance. “I just need to ask you a few questions.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I thought you were…I thought…”

“Well, I’m not,” said Darryl. He considered suggesting they go into her room to talk, but he realized she’d freak if he did that, so instead he said, “Would you mind coming back to the hospital with me? There’s a small matter we need to clear up…”

“You really are a Secret Service agent?”

“Yes, ma’am. And I think you should give me that gun.”

She thought about it for a moment, then handed it to him. He escorted her down to the lobby and brought her back to the hospital in a cab; the cabbie was not thrilled about such a short trip, but Darryl tried to make up for it by telling him to keep the change from the twenty-dollar bill he handed him. He and Bessie re-entered the hospital through the ambulance-bay doors, and then he walked her to the conference room on one, told her to have a seat in there, called Susan Dawson to come do the questioning, and went off to wash his hands.

Fortunately, he thought, there was lots of disinfectant in a hospital.

Chapter 24

Susan Dawson entered the conference room. Its only occupant was sitting in a chair, staring off into space. “Mrs. Stilwell?” Susan said.

No response. Susan tried again, speaking more loudly. “Mrs. Stilwell? How are you?”

The old woman turned in her chair. “Still breathing,” she said. “At my age, that’s about all you can hope for.”

Susan smiled. “I understand you were here earlier today to visit your son, is that right?”

Mrs. Stilwell nodded. “He had a heart attack a couple of days ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Susan said.

“Works too hard. I wish he’d come back to Mississippi with me, but he’s like his father that way. Stubborn.”

“Will he be all right?” Susan asked.

“So they say.”

“It was nice of you to come visit him.”

“You never stop being a mother,” Bessie said, “no matter how old your children get.”

“I imagine so,” said Susan.

“You don’t have children?”

Susan shook her head.

“Are you married?”

In a normal interrogation, Susan would say, “I’ll ask the questions, ma’am,” but she had a hard time being disrespectful to the elderly. She shook her head again.

“A pretty young thing like you?” said Bessie. “There must be lots of men who are interested.”

“You’d be surprised, ma’am,” Susan said. She thought about leaving it at that, then, with a small shrug, added: “Many men are intimidated by strong women. When they find out what I do for a living, they tend to get scared off.”

“You’re a Secret Service agent, too?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-four, ma’am.”

“And you don’t feel the old biological clock ticking?”

“I feel it,” Susan said, simply. Then: “Mrs. Stilwell, I need to ask you a few questions.”

“All right.”

“There’s something strange going on here at the hospital, ma’am. People are reading other people’s memories.”

Mrs. Stilwell frowned. “What nonsense.”

“I can understand your thinking so, ma’am. It does seem odd. But it has to do with an experiment that went awry here. As it happens, I’m linked to the experimenter; there’s no question about it. And one of the other Secret Service agents—Darryl Hudkins—is linked to you; that’s how he knew where to find you.”

“That colored man?”

Susan felt her eyebrows going up. “Um, yes.”

Bessie frowned again. “I don’t think I like that.”

Susan let that go. “And so you should be linked to somebody, too. Do you have any strange memories?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. This is all nonsense.”

Susan decided to try another tack. “Do you know the ZIP code for the White House?”

“Gracious, Miss Susan, I don’t even know my own ZIP code. I always have to look at where I have it written down.”

“What about the name of the president’s hometown, do you know what that is?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

“Are you sure? It’s in northern California.”

“No idea.”