Triggers

“Anything?” called Darryl. “Think about Jerrison in that room, walking through that door, finding Leon Hexley standing here, his back to the president at first, talking on his BlackBerry, and saying…what?”

“I don’t know,” said Bessie. “There are so many memories of this place, and of meetings here with Mr. Hexley. To find the precise one you want…”

“It was Wednesday, about four in the afternoon. Hexley said, ‘Tell Gordo to aim’…?” He let the unfinished sentence float in the air, hoping she’d fill in the rest.

She shook her head but repeated, “Tell Gordo to aim” out loud five times, each time in a slightly different way—and finally her voice brightened. “He said, ‘Tell Gordo to aim 4-2-4-7-4 the echo.’ ”

Darryl scrambled for a pen and paper. There was a pad with the presidential seal on the desk, and a fountain pen in a fancy stand. He desperately hoped it was a real pen, and not a nonfunctional prop—and it was. He quickly wrote out what Bessie had said.

“Are you sure?” he said. “Are you positive?”

“That’s what he said, all right,” Bessie replied. “He must have heard the president then because he stopped talking and turned around. What does it mean?”

Darryl shook his head. “I don’t know. But let’s hope to God someone does.”

Chapter 33

Eric Redekop and Janis Falconi got into Eric’s maroon Mercedes, out front of the Bronze Shield. He buckled up and waited for her to do so, then gently said, “You’re doing the right thing, Jan. The shelter is open even on weekends. We’ll have no trouble getting you in.”

“No,” replied Jan softly.

Eric had his hand on the ignition key. “Sorry?”

“Don’t take me to a shelter.”

“You need help, Jan. You need support.”

“Tomorrow, maybe. But not today. You can’t just abandon me.”

Whatever they were going to do, sitting outside the gaming store wasn’t prudent. Jan’s husband might come after them, after all. Eric turned the key and drove, heading nowhere in particular. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get some lunch, then. Do you like—” But merely thinking the question was enough to know the answer. She loved Italian food; memories of her at various restaurants popped into his head. “There’s a great Italian place not far from here.”

“Thanks,” Jan said.

They drove in silence for a time; the roads weren’t busy on a normal Saturday and were even more sparsely filled today.

“You’re recalling my memories,” Jan said. “Right now. Aren’t you?”

Eric nodded. He was trying not to do it, but they came anyway.

“You know I like you,” she said. He was keeping his eyes on the road but was aware that she had turned her head and was looking at him.

“Yes,” he said softly.

“And I thought, before all this craziness,” she said, “that perhaps you liked me.”

“Yes,” he said again, signaling a turn.

“But that was before,” she said. She was quiet for another block, and so was he, but then she asked, “What about now?”

And that was the question, Eric realized. It was one thing to know someone on the outside, but to know them on the inside! He’d never known anyone but himself this well before. He knew what her childhood had been like. A memory came to him of her at maybe eight years old, unable to sleep, coming down to the kitchen in her family’s little house and telling her mother that she was scared about dying, and her mom comforting her and saying that everyone dies eventually, but it would be a long, long time before either of them did.

And he knew what she’d been like at college, including the one and only time she’d cheated on a test, desperate to get into nursing school.

And he knew what she’d been like on her wedding day, walking down the aisle, thinking, This is the biggest mistake of my life—but being too afraid of making a scene to put a halt to the whole damn thing.

He knew it all. And she was right to wonder what effect that had on his perception of her.

The car rolled on; shops and restaurants passed by.

And the answer came to him. Not from his mind and not from hers—but from his heart.

He did still like her.

He liked her a lot.

But…

“Jan,” he said. “I’m a doctor. I can’t…”

“Can’t what?” she replied. “Get involved with a patient? I’m not your patient, Eric.”

She was right. “True.”

“And, yes, you’re older than me, but I like older men.”

He thought about this; she did indeed. “Ah.”

“Or,” she said, “is it that you can’t get involved with a nurse? Because, like, this would be the first time in history that has ever happened.”

He smiled and drove on.

Susan Dawson was waiting down in the lobby of Luther Terry for Paul to show up. They’d been dating for six months, and he’d had a key to her place for the last three. He had kindly gone there to pick up a change of clothes for her.

And there he was! She ran over and hugged him, holding on tighter than usual; she surprised herself by how much she needed the contact, needed the stability.

When they separated, he gently swept her hair away from her face. “You managing okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “You?”