Triggers

“The lockdown of this building was implemented at the request of the United States Secret Service. We and they thank you for your cooperation in this time of national crisis, and President Jerrison himself has asked me to pass on his personal gratitude to each and every one of you.”

Another pause to let that sink in, then: “We will shortly end the lockdown.” Even in this closed office, he could hear the cheers going up. “Because we may need to get in touch with you again, we will be recording your names and contact information as you leave. There are hundreds of people in the building, so we have to process you in an orderly fashion. Staff members may leave through the staff exit whenever their shifts end. For visitors and outpatients, if your last name begins with the letters A, B, C, or D, you may head down to the lobby now.”

Griffin swallowed, then went on. “We will, of course, provide you with a free parking voucher good through the end of the night. Please calmly make your way out, and, again, many, many thanks for your understanding.”

He paused, then began over again in Spanish: “Su atención, por favor. Su atención, por favor. Tengo un anuncio importante que hacer…” He was surprised at how fluent he sounded; he wasn’t usually this good. But then it came to him: Maria Ramirez, the young woman he was linked to, was bilingual.

“We found her,” Susan Dawson said, coming into the president’s room.

Seth lolled his head slightly to look at Susan, and Sheila, his nurse, also turned to face her. “Who?”

“The person reading your memories,” Susan said. “Her name is Bessie Stilwell, and she’s eighty-seven.”

“Did she…ah, has she…?”

“Revealed anything? Nothing crucial. And we’re hoping it’ll stay that way, of course. We’ll keep her away from the press and so forth.”

Seth managed a small nod, then: “I’d like to speak with her.”

Susan’s eyebrows went up. “Sir, if I may, I don’t think that’s wise. She’s a huge security risk. Seeing you will doubtless trigger more memories to come back; you really don’t want to have anything sensitive brought to her mind.”

Seth looked at the Secret Service agent, wondering just how much she herself knew; she shouldn’t know anything about Counterpunch, of course, but…

But maybe she did—and maybe Gordo Danbury had known, too.

Gordo. Damn it, if only he could remember what Leon Hexley had been saying on the phone. “Tell Gordo to…”

But no matter how much he racked his brain, it wasn’t coming back to him. But maybe this woman, this—what had Susan said her name was? This Bessie? Maybe she could remember the conversation. “Bring her here,” Seth said.

“Sir, I really—”

“Bring her.”

Susan nodded. “As you wish, sir.”

Chapter 25

Ivan Tarasov was satisfied with his job as a security guard at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital. He was less happy about reading the memories of Dora Hennessey, the woman who’d come here from London to donate a kidney to her father. Ivan tried to keep her memories from coming to mind, but there really was no way to avoid them. Most of them were uninteresting to him. She was a guidance counselor, and he’d always preferred things involving hard science or math but had done too poorly in school to ever get a job in those areas. Today, there’d be a diagnosis for his condition, but twenty-five years ago, when he’d been in high school, they just said he didn’t work hard enough.

Dora was a fan of British football; he didn’t care for contact sports—years of working here at LT had left him unable to abide people purposefully engaging in behaviors that would result in concussions, hernias, damaged joints, and bruised organs. She was active in clubbing and bar-hopping; he preferred to curl up with his Kindle and read books about the Civil War—he was working through Shelby Foote’s history of it for the fifth time.

Now that the lockdown was over, Ivan was pleased to leave the hospital. Still, he paused just outside it for a time, looking east. The whole sky was dark now, but he could make out the smoke billowing from where the White House had been.

He got on the metro. Normally, he ignored other people, but today he found himself looking at them—looking right at them, their faces haunted, gaunt, drawn. It was the same thing on the bus: lost souls, some still softly crying.

Finally, he made it to his house. His wife Sally came down to the entryway along with his three-year-old daughter Tanya. They knew he didn’t like to be touched, but today was an unusual day, and they needed whatever he could offer them. He accepted a kiss from Sally and then picked up Tanya and carried her into the small living room, where he set her on the couch. He then sat himself down beside her.