Triggers

Ivan was devastated by today’s terrible events—but also couldn’t help being upset that his daily routine had been interrupted. He should have been here hours ago to watch Wonder Pets with Tanya; it was their ritual every day when he got home from work. Of course, he’d planned for such contingencies; their DVR was set to record Wonder Pets. He found the remote and started it playing. He briefly spared a thought for the person who was linked to him—some lawyer named Orrin Gillett—who now must also know the plots of all forty-two episodes by heart, not to mention every trivial fact about Linny the Guinea Pig, Turtle Tuck, and Tanya’s favorite, Ming-Ming Duckling.

He looked at his daughter and—

God.

He shook his head, looked away, but—

But the images were still there.

Horrific images.

Images of…

No. No. He did not want to see this!

But…

God. God. God.

The sight of Tanya, sitting on the couch in her little pink dress, made him think of—

No, no. It was awful. To do that to a child! To touch a little girl that way!

The image of a man came to him, but it was no one he knew. A narrow head, brown hair, brown eyes behind unfashionably large lenses.

The face loomed in at…at her, shushing her, telling her it would all be all right, telling her to never breathe a word about this, telling her that it was their little secret that he liked her so much, that she was so special, and—

He shook his head again, but the images were still there, the memories.

Memories. Yes, plural. Another time, the same man, but wearing different clothes. Or, at least, starting out wearing different clothes, until he unzipped…

No!

Ivan stood up, left his daughter, left the room, and closed his eyes, desperately trying to shut the images out.

“Mr. President,” said Susan Dawson, “this is Bessie Stilwell.”

Seth still had tubes going into his left arm, and a small oxygen intake plugged into his nostrils. But he rallied some strength and extended his right hand toward Bessie, who responded with an astonished expression.

“What?” said the president, looking at his own hand to see if it were dirty or something.

“Sorry, Mr. President,” said Bessie. “I’m—it’s just a flood of images. All the people whose hands you’ve shaken with that hand. The British prime minister. The Russian premier. The German chancellor. The Chinese president. And—” She took a half step back, as if daunted. “And the movie stars. Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp and—oh, he’s always been one of my favorites!—Christopher Plummer.”

“And now,” said Seth Jerrison, who, even in his current state, had an ability almost as good as Bill Clinton’s to make whomever he was talking to feel like the most important person in the world, “it’s going to shake your hand.” He extended his arm again.

Bessie hesitated for another moment, then moved closer and took Seth’s hand in hers. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. President.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” He turned toward Susan. “Agent Dawson, won’t you give us a moment? I’m sure I’m safe with Mrs. Stilwell.”

Susan looked like she was going to protest, but then she nodded and headed out into the corridor, closing the door behind her. Seth motioned for Bessie to take a seat. She did so; there was a vinyl-covered chair next to the bed. But she was shaking her head.

“What?” asked Seth.

“Nothing, sir. Just memories.”

“I understand, believe me. I’m recalling strange things, too, from the person I’m linked to.”

“Yes, but…”

“But what?”

Bessie averted her eyes but said nothing more.

Seth nodded. It was like the WikiLeaks scandal: all those embarrassing State Department emails. “You don’t just recall me shaking, say, President Sarkozy’s hand at the G8. You also recall what I thought of him then, right?”

Bessie nodded meekly.

Seth’s energy ebbed and flowed, but one of his doctors had recently given him a stimulant. He found he could speak at greater length, at least for the moment, without exhausting himself. “I’m a human being,” he said. “And so are all the other national leaders. So, yes, I’ve got opinions about them, and they’ve doubtless got opinions about me.”

“You really hate the Canadian prime minister.”

Seth didn’t hesitate. “Yes, I do. He’s a weaselly, petty man.”

Bessie seemed to digest this. “So, um, what happens now?” she asked, looking briefly at the president, then averting her gaze again.

“If word gets out that you’re linked to me, lots of people are going to come after you.”

“Gracious!” said Bessie.

“So, as of right now, you’re under the protection of the Secret Service.”

Seth had anticipated that she’d answer with, “Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary,” or maybe with, “Well, I hope they do a better job of protecting me than they did of protecting you,” but what she actually said was, “My son, too, please.”

“Sorry?”

“My son Michael. He’s here in the hospital; he’s the reason I’m in town. If people want to get at me, they might go after him.”

Seth managed another small nod. “Absolutely. We’ll protect him, too.”

“Thank you, sir.”