Triggers

Susan made a face. The problem was obvious: Mrs. Stilwell wasn’t even trying to remember things. She didn’t narrow her eyes, or wrinkle her brow, or take even a second before answering. It was all foolishness to her; she had no reason to think she knew the answer, and so wasn’t making any effort to see if she did.

“I really need you to try,” Susan said.

“How old are you, Miss Susan?”

Susan frowned. “Um, I’m—”

But Bessie raised a hand. “Yes, yes, I know I just asked you that—but I don’t remember your answer. See? You get to be my age, you don’t remember much of anything. And it’s no fun being reminded of that. So, if you’ll forgive me…”

Susan thought about letting her get away with it. Maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t a security risk even if she were the one linked to the president. And, she thought, Jerrison actually was lucky—well, as lucky as a man who recently got shot could be!—in that, even if the linkages turned out to be permanent, Bessie Stilwell would pass away sometime in the next few years, while Susan might be stuck with Kadeem Adams reading her memories for the rest of her life.

But that would never satisfy Director Hexley—or Prospector. She had to know for sure, and—

Her earpiece bleeped. She lifted her arm. “Dawson, go.”

“Sue, it’s Darryl. I’m with Singh. We’ve questioned the other two possibilities, and it’s neither of them. Mrs. Stilwell must be the one.”

“Copy that,” said Susan into her sleeve. “Out.” She turned to the old woman. “Mrs. Stilwell, you’re it—there’s no doubt. You’re linked to President Jerrison.”

“I tell you, Miss Susan, I’m not.”

“Think about the question I’m about to ask you, ma’am. Really think about it. It’s important, okay?”

The old woman nodded.

“All right, now. Think about this. What is today’s dayword?”

“ ‘Dayword’? I don’t know what that means.”

“Just ask yourself, Mrs. Stilwell, what is today’s dayword? And really think about it.”

She pursed her thin lips. And then she lifted her frail arms in exasperation. “I don’t know!”

“Guess,” said Susan. “Say the first word that pops into your mind. Today’s dayword is…”

“Oh, for Pete’s—all right, all right. Um, ‘potbelly.’ ”

Susan’s heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t today’s word, which Prospector would have memorized this morning; it was the one from three days ago. Still, if this woman was somehow reading Susan or Darryl, she could be accessing the dayword from their memories rather than the president’s.

“All right,” Susan said. “One more question: what high school did President Jerrison attend?”

“Land’s sake, I don’t know these things!”

“Guess. Just guess. Please, ma’am.”

Maybe that final bit of courtesy did the trick, because Bessie stopped protesting and frowned in concentration. “Nordhoff High,” she said, then, after a second, she added, “Go, Rangers!”

Susan pulled out her BlackBerry, went to the president’s Wikipedia page, and checked; the old lady was correct. She put away the phone and spoke into her sleeve. “Dawson to Hudkins. You’re right, Darryl. I’m here with our threat to national security.”

Now that they’d found the person reading President Jerrison’s memories, Agent Dawson conceded that there was no longer any legal basis for continuing the lockdown. Still, before they would be allowed to leave the hospital, each of the affected people was individually briefed by LT’s director of risk management, by Professor Singh, and by one of the hospital’s psychiatrists. They were all advised that they were welcome, nay encouraged, to stay at the hospital, as no one could predict what impact or side effects the memory linkages might have.

They were also told that, if they stayed, they would be admitted for free, and they’d be kept under observation and have immediate access to whatever care they might need. Still, those who did want to leave—which turned out to be just about everyone except Joshua Latimer and his daughter Dora Hennessey, who’d had their transplant operation rescheduled for Monday—were required to sign Refusal of Care Against Medical Advice forms. Also, everyone’s contact information was collected and verified, and follow-up medical examinations were booked for five days hence.

While that was being done, Mark Griffin sat down in front of the large microphone attached to the public-address system, took a deep breath—and paused; his throat was still raw from being throttled by David January. He swallowed, coughed, then tried speaking into the mike again. “Your attention, please. Your attention, please. I have an important announcement to make. Your attention please.”

He waited for a couple of seconds, then: “This is Dr. Mark Griffin, and I’m the chief executive officer here at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital. As doubtless most of you know by now, President Seth Jerrison was shot this morning, and he was brought here for surgery. I’m delighted to tell you that his condition is stable.”

There were always lawsuits following any lockdown; the next paragraph had been carefully crafted to hopefully at least somewhat reduce their number.