Triggers

“Look, I think I have an inkling of what’s eating you,” Susan said, “but there’d be no respite for you in just staying here if we sent her somewhere else. You’d still be linked. Singh says—well, okay, he didn’t say it, but he knows it: quantum entanglement works even across light-years of separation.” She tried to lighten his mood. “All those geeks at the Pentagon who have been working on remote communication are going to love this.”

But Darryl shook his head. “The problem is that when I see the way she looks at me, it triggers me to remember her past—and her feelings.”

Susan smiled sympathetically. “I’m sorry, Darryl, but it’s got to be you.”

Chapter 29

Saturday

Tony Falconi came home drunk. Again.

Janis sat on the couch, afraid to say a word. Anything could trigger his anger, and—

And he was looking around the living room. Janis’s pulse quickened. She knew what he was doing: seeking something—anything—to find fault with. Something that she hadn’t cleaned properly, something that hadn’t been put away, something that hadn’t been done to his satisfaction. It didn’t matter that she’d been locked up at the hospital until late, it didn’t matter how much she’d done right; he’d find the one thing she’d done wrong, and—

“I thought I told you to get rid of that chair,” he said, pointing.

Janis’s stomach was churning. What he’d actually said was he was thinking they should get rid of that chair—it was an old kitchen-table-style chair and had a rip in the vinyl upholstery; it wasn’t worth repairing. But she knew contradicting him would be a mistake.

But so, apparently, was silence. “Didn’t I?” he snapped. And then, without waiting for her answer, he said, “So why the fuck is it still here?”

“I’m sorry,” Janis said softly.

“You’re always sorry,” Tony said. He surged forward, grabbed her arm—the one with the tiger tattoo—and roughly pulled her to her feet. “You stupid bitch,” he said, shoving her now toward the chair, and—

—and Eric Redekop shook his head violently, trying to fling the memory away.

But he couldn’t. This one or ones like it kept coming back to him.

Eric was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, as the morning sun poured in around his blinds. Janis had headed home around 10:00 P.M.—he’d paid for a cab to take her from the pub—and Tony had staggered in an hour later.

He rolled onto his side, drawing in a deep breath, then letting it out slowly.

He couldn’t take this. And she shouldn’t have to.

The old memories of events like this would always be there. But he could at least make sure that no similar new ones were ever laid down.

It wasn’t his place. It wasn’t his responsibility. It wasn’t his duty.

But he’d saved the president of the United States. Surely, he could save this woman, too.

And suddenly it came to him. A memory from a month ago, forcing itself into his awareness, and…

No. Not one memory; a series of memories. Memories of…of every month—the…yes: the fourth Saturday morning of every month. Jan went to play Dungeons & Dragons at…

He’d never heard of it, but apparently the Bronze Shield was the largest gaming store in the capital district. It was her one day out a month; Tony almost never came—he preferred to stay home and watch TV. But Jan’s brother Rudy was usually there; in fact—ah, yes—that’s why she was allowed to go at all: keeping up the appearance of freedom in front of her family, lest eyebrows be raised.

And—yes, today was the fourth Saturday. Still, he asked himself if the event had been canceled in light of what had happened yesterday, but it hadn’t been as far as she knew—which meant she would indeed be at the Bronze Shield this morning.

All right then. All right.

Susan Dawson had grabbed some sleep in the conference room downstairs; she figured she got maybe five hours. When she woke up, she went to check with Ranjip Singh, who also hadn’t gone home.

It was odd not having to ask him for an update; she knew what he’d been doing. Before he’d gone to bed, he’d contacted his colleagues back in Toronto, as well as those at the Montreal Neurological Institute, the Center for Cognitive Neuroscience at Penn, and the Center for Consciousness Studies at the University of Arizona, providing copies of his data to them, hoping someone somewhere might have an idea how to break the linkages.

And this morning, the weird happenings here at LT had finally merited some time on the news, after almost continuous coverage of the assassination attempt and the bomb explosion at the White House; Singh and a few of the affected people had been interviewed here in Singh’s lab.

But the TV crew was gone now, and Singh was plugging away at his computer.

“Good morning, Agent Dawson,” he said as Susan entered.

“Ranjip.”

At that moment, a uniformed hospital security guard entered. He had two holsters, one holding a walkie-talkie and the other a gun.

“Professor Singh?” the man said.

“Yes?”