Triggers

She’d heard dozens of eulogies over the years, for family, for friends, for neighbors. And they all had said some version of what Lincoln had observed, although rarely as eloquently. They’re not really dead—so long as we remember them.

In that sense, at least, the events of the last two days had given her a new lease on life. Darryl Hudkins would remember her. He shifted a bit in his seat next to her, and Bessie smiled at him.

A short while later, the military jet started its nighttime approach toward Andrews Air Force Base. Bessie was grateful for the darkness; she’d rather not see the ruins of the White House off in the distance.

But she did see one building that she recognized—indeed, that she imagined everyone recognized, although its form could really only be appreciated from the air.

The Pentagon.

It sat there like a monstrous snowflake. And on the other side of South Washington Boulevard from it was a vast black area, and she knew, because he knew, what it was: Arlington National Cemetery, where 30,000 souls were trying to rest in peace.

The site of the Pentagon focused her attention, bringing back memories of…

Peter Muilenburg, the secretary of defense, meeting with President Jerrison and first proposing Counterpunch.

And, to his credit, Seth reacting with horror, and outrage and shock.

Yes, Seth had said, they’d attacked Philadelphia, destroying the Liberty Bell, and so much more.

Yes, they’d bombed San Francisco, taking out the Golden Gate Bridge.

And, yes, the tallest tower in Chicago had been brought tumbling down.

But this couldn’t be contemplated, this was unthinkable, this was un-American.

But Muilenburg had continued to make his case, to outline his plan, to show how it could be done with negligible American casualties, to show that it would work…

And, at last, Seth Jerrison, the history professor turned president, had said, “Do it.”

Bessie could feel the air pressure changing as the plane descended. She took out her hearing aid to help things equalize.

She was in a tizzy, still not clear what she should do. Should she tell Darryl about Counterpunch? Ah, but he worked for President Jerrison and—it came to her: he was one of two Secret Service agents that Seth still trusted.

Besides, even if she told people, would anyone believe her? Back in Pascagoula, she’d seen how folks looked at Mabel Simmons, laughing at her stories of seeing aliens and ghosts, calling her “that crazy old bat” and “Unstable Mabel.”

But no. It had been in the press: memory linkages at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital. And there’d been much speculation about who, if anyone, was linked to President Jerrison.

The press.

She thought back to her hotel room at the Watergate, and about what that building was famous for.

The press. The people who could blow the lid off things—even those things the president of the United States was desperate to keep secret.

She looked out the window and took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. And, at last, she found the strength she needed. She knew what she had to do.

All those reporters in front of the hospital: they’d doubtless still be there, waiting for any update about the president’s condition. And as soon as she arrived, she’d run up to them, and she’d tell them, with their cameras rolling, that she was linked to President Jerrison, and she’d let them know all about the horrible thing that he was planning to do.

Jan was sitting on the white couch in Eric’s living room. The ornate wall clock sounded a chime; she’d discovered that it did that every hour on the hour.

Jan was reading the just-published new edition of Time on his iPad. The cover image showed separate maps of the west and east coasts of the United States, with pillars of black smoke coming up from San Francisco, Chicago, Philadelphia, Washington, and, harking back to 9/11, Manhattan. Above that in stark black letters was the text, “Will it ever end?”

The door to the penthouse opened, and Eric came in. She went over to greet him—and there was an awkward moment during which she wasn’t sure how to greet him. And so she did nothing: no hug, no physical contact at all. But she did ask, “How was the press conference?”

Eric took off his jacket—which was wet; he must have walked the few blocks back from LT—and hung it on the doorknob so that it would drip on the marble instead of inside the closet. “It was all right, but I hate doing stuff like that. Doctor-patient relations are supposed to be confidential. I know we get VIP patients to sign consent forms, but it still makes me uncomfortable discussing a procedure with anyone who isn’t a colleague.” He stepped into the living room. “I mean, I get that he’s the president and all, but still, it feels wrong.”

They continued on into the kitchen, and he opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of microbrewery beer. “Want one?”

“No, thanks.”