Triggers (28 page)

“What? When? When’s that memory from?”

“Today. Sometime since I left Josh—so, the past fifteen minutes.”

“What room are they in?”

“I don’t know. I met Josh in the waiting area over there, but his room is somewhere on this floor.”

Susan spoke into her sleeve. “Dawson to Central. I need to know the room number for Josh Latimer, a patient here at Lima Tango.”

“Two secs, Sue,” said the voice in her ear. Then: “Room 411.”

“I need backup in that room,” Susan said as she started running. She read the room numbers: 419, 417, 415, 413, and—

She unholstered her SIG P229, holding it in two hands vertically beside her face, then kicked open the door to 411.

“Drop it!” Susan barked, taking in the scene. Latimer must have heard the pounding footfalls: he had his left arm around Tarasov’s neck, pulling him back against himself in the classic hostage-taking stance. The gun—a.38, Sue saw—was aimed at Tarasov’s right temple.

“I said drop it!” Susan said again. If Latimer had been aiming at a protectee, there’d be no question; she’d have already taken him out. But she thought she might be able to talk Latimer out of this. Susan was blocking the only exit. She could hear sounds of panic in the corridor; her entry into Latimer’s room had not been subtle. She stepped fully into the room and, with a backward kick, sent the door swinging shut behind her. A voice in her earpiece said, “Backup is on the way.”

“You’re not giving me any choice, Mr. Latimer,” Susan said. “Drop the gun.”

“And what?” said Latimer.

“We just forget about all this.”

“Forget,”
repeated Latimer, as if it were the punch line to a joke. “That’s the whole fucking problem, isn’t it? Nobody can forget anything.”

“Just put down the gun,” Susan said.

Ivan Tarasov had been motionless, a statue, during all of this, although Susan could see that his forehead was glistening, and his eyes were showing white all around.

“Everything was going fine,” Latimer said. “I’d found my daughter.”

And then Tarasov spoke. Susan thought he was going to plead for his life, but he didn’t. “You know what he did,” Tarasov said to Susan. “I told you.”

“Tarasov!” Susan snapped. “Shut up!”

“He
molested
his daughter,” Tarasov said. “You know that.”

“You don’t know
anything,”
Latimer said. “You can’t prove any of it.”

“She may not remember, but I do,” said Tarasov. “I’ll testify against you.”

“Shut up!” Susan barked. “Latimer, it’ll be okay. No one is going to accept linked memories in court; there’s no case law to support using them as evidence. Put the gun down, and we all walk away from this.”

“He’s going to tell Dora,” Latimer said. “He’s going to ruin
everything.”

Tarasov twisted now against Latimer’s grip. “She deserves to know.”

“Don’t!” said Latimer and Susan simultaneously, and Susan added, “Damn it, Tarasov, shut up and let me protect you.”

“Like you protected Jerrison?” Tarasov said. “You have no idea what I’m seeing right now!
Right now!
The horrible things that little girl saw—the things that he did to her!”

Before this, Latimer had relaxed his grip a bit and had let the gun lower slightly, but now, in that slow motion that happens in times of real crisis, Susan saw him lifting the pistol, closing his grip, and moving his finger, and—

Blam!

Susan felt herself being slammed backward—

Oh my God!

—by the recoil of her own gun.

There’d been no way to hit Latimer in the chest; Tarasov’s torso was covering it. And so she’d shot Latimer just above the right eye, blowing that side of his head open, blood and bone flying.

Latimer’s blood splattered across the side of Tarasov’s face. The security guard looked as though he was unsure who’d been hit, and Latimer—

Latimer’s eyes were still open—wide, wide open—and tracking; his mouth opened as if to say something. Susan looked for an opportunity to get another shot off, but then Latimer collapsed, falling backward to the floor.

Tarasov wheeled around and recovered his gun.

Susan’s heart was pounding ferociously. She had trained for this, and trained for it, and trained for it—but she’d never killed a man before. Her hand was shaking as she reholstered her own weapon.

Tarasov moved partway across the room and found a chair; he dropped himself into it and put his blood-spattered head in his hands.

Susan lifted her arm to speak into her wrist microphone, but it wasn’t necessary. The door to the room was kicked open, and two agents, guns
out, appeared at either side of it. They quickly surveyed the situation, then entered.

“Sue,” said one of the agents, while the other one rushed over to Latimer’s fallen form. “What went down?”

Susan looked at them then and at the ruined side of Josh Latimer’s head, lying now in a widening pool of blood. She found herself unable to speak as she groped for a chair.

AFTER
they’d had lunch, Eric Redekop had taken Janis Falconi to his luxury condo, which was just a few blocks from LT, overlooking the Potomac. Jan was amazed. She knew top surgeons made a lot of money, but she’d never quite realized how much; Eric’s place was gorgeous, with a sumptuous marble entryway. He gave her a quick tour: separate kitchen and dining room, two full bathrooms, and four bedrooms. He used one as an office, another as a TV room, and a third was set up as a bedroom for when his son Quentin visited; Quentin was twenty-one, and was studying genetics at UC Berkeley. They came out to the living room, which opened on a wide balcony and had pristine white walls, a white leather couch, and a matching chair. Janis opened her mouth to say something complimentary, and—

And she heard a deafening sound, like a car backfiring right beside her, and she had a brief flash of—well, of light, and she saw the face of a woman. An
“Ooof!”
came out of her as she staggered backward.

“Jan?” said Eric wheeling around.

Agony. More pain than she’d ever felt—ever thought she
could
feel.

Jan reached out with her right arm, flailing for something to grab on to, but found nothing. She tumbled backward, falling to the hardwood floor.

“Jan!” shouted Eric, dropping onto one knee next to her. He touched her wrist, feeling for a pulse.

The pain continued to shoot through her; it wasn’t localized—it was
everywhere.
She couldn’t focus or turn her head. She thought—as much as she could think
anything
through the agony—that perhaps she was having a heart attack.

“Jan, what is it?” asked Eric. “Where does it hurt?”

With a massive effort, and although it felt like her neck was snapping to do so, she managed to turn her head to face him, but—

But her vision was receding into a long tunnel, andthe person at the end of the tunnel was—well, she didn’t know
who
it was, but it wasn’t Eric. The face she saw there, in the distance, was terrified, and—

She felt herself being lifted up in Eric’s arms, and he carried her a short distance and set her down—ah, it must be on the white leather couch she’d been admiring a few moments before. But she couldn’t see it; all she could see was the tunnel—and it was narrowing. And yet she knew she wasn’t dead: her pulse was pounding in her ears.

Eric was holding her hand and feeling her forehead. The tunnel was constricting even more, and there were colored forms running past her peripheral vision. People. Faces. An old man. An even older woman. A little girl.

Events. Snowboarding. Riding a dirt bike. Scuba diving. None of which she’d ever done…

And—thank God!—the pain was abating, fading, dissipating. The images were being replaced by a pure, bright, brilliant light, absolutely white, brighter than the sun but not at all uncomfortable to look at.

Her pulse was fading in her ears now. Everything except the light was fading.

“Jan!” Eric, sounding a million miles away. “Jan!”

The light was so enticing, but…

“Jan!”

But she wanted to be with Eric. She struggled mightily to open her eyes—and finally succeeded. She was indeed in his living room, looking up at the stippled plaster of the ceiling. “Eric…”she said, but her voice sounded faint to her.

He loomed in and held up his key fob, which had an LED light on it. He pointed it first into her left eye, then her right; the bright light she’d seen at the end of the tunnel hadn’t hurt at all, but
this
did.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice raw.

“We’ve got to take you to the hospital, find out what’s wrong with you.”

“I’m fine,” she said again and closed her eyes, part of her hoping the pure white light and the calming euphoria would come back.

REPORTERS
were still camped out in front of Luther Terry Memorial Hospital when Eric and Jan tried to enter. Eric kept his head down, and they’d almost made it to the staff entrance when a female journalist called out, “Wait! Wait! You’re Eric Redekop, aren’t you?”

“I’ve got no comment,” Eric said. He cupped Jan’s elbow and propelled her toward the doorway.

“What was it like performing surgery on the president?” called the same reporter, and, “Any update on Jerrison’s condition?” shouted another.

Eric and Jan kept walking, but then another reporter called out, “Dr. Redekop, what about these memory linkages? They say
you
were affected.”

“And that woman!” called another reporter, pointing now at Jan. “Is that who you’re linked to? What’s it like?”

Eric pushed the door open, and they entered the building.

“Jesus,” said Jan.

“It’ll be okay,” Eric said. He led them to the elevator, and they headed up to Singh’s lab on three. When they got there, they found Singh in his room, working at his computer. Susan Dawson was also there, sitting with her face in her hands.

“Dr. Redekop,” Singh said. “And Nurse Falconi. I thought you both had today off.”

Eric saw Susan look up. She appeared devastated over something. Jan took a step backward and her eyes went wide. “Oh my God,” Jan said softly.

“What?” said Eric and Singh simultaneously.

“It’s you,” Jan said, looking at Susan.

Eric knew that Jan had been interviewed by Professor Singh, not Agent Dawson; there was no particular reason she should recognize Susan.

“Yes?” Susan said.

“You’re the one who killed me.”

“Pardon?” said Singh.

“I mean, who killed Josh.”

Susan put her head back in her hands.

“Jan collapsed,” Eric said. “She was having some sort of horrible memory.”

“You were reading Josh Latimer,” Singh said to Jan, “and, yes, you’re right, Mr. Latimer is no longer with us.”

“Because she blew him away,” Jan said softly, looking at Susan. “But it felt like
I
was the one dying.”

“Can you recall Mr. Latimer’s memories now?” asked Singh.

Jan nodded meekly.

“Are you sure? Umm, did he have any pets as a child?”

“Benny,” she said at once. “An iguana.”

“And the name of the street he lived on when he was ten?”

“Fenwick Avenue.”

“Fascinating,” said Singh. “He’s dead, but you can still access his memories.”

“I guess,” said Jan.

Singh frowned again. “Then I wonder…”

“Yes?”

“Does he have any new memories?”

Eric crossed his arms in front of his chest. “He’s
dead,
Mr. Singh.”

“Yes, I know, but, well, if she can still access his memories from before, they must be
somewhere,
no? And so it’s worth asking—”

“Asking what?” said Eric. “Whether she can recall angels?”

“It’s worth a try,” said Singh. “Or if not angels, maybe…well, I don’t know what.”

Janis made a long-faced frown, as though this was the most bizarre idea she’d ever heard. But she closed her eyes—indeed, scrunched them tightly shut in concentration. “Okay,” she said after a moment, “I’m thinking about angels. Nothing. Heaven, clouds. Nothing. And—um, my God, Josh tried to kill somebody, didn’t he?”

Ranjip nodded.

“All right, then,” said Janis. “Given that, I’m thinking of fire and brimstone. Well, not brimstone; I don’t know what that is.”

“Sulfur,” said Ranjip.

“Okay,” said Janis. “But it’s not bringing anything to mind.”

“This is bullshit,” said Eric.

“Perhaps,” said Singh. “But—”

“He’s dead,” said Eric. “He’s
gone.
And Jan felt him die. We should be worried about
her,
not him.”

“I understand that,” said Singh. “And, if there is an afterlife, I doubt that any of the symbolism from Christianity—or from Sikhism, for that matter—appropriately captures it. It may just be that the right trigger hasn’t come along to let Mrs. Falconi access Mr. Latimer’s new memories.”

“I don’t care about Latimer,” said Eric, firmly. “What caused Jan to feel this?”

“That’s a very good question,” said Singh, looking at her. “Something must have triggered you to recall Mr. Latimer’s death shortly after it happened, Mrs. Falconi. What were you doing when you had the flashback?”

“Eric was showing me around his condo. It’s just a few blocks from here.”

Singh frowned. “There was no—I don’t know—hunting rifle on the wall, or bloody roast defrosting in the sink?”

“No,” said Jan. “I was just admiring Eric’s furniture.”

“That seems unlikely as a trigger for this,” Singh said. “I wonder how long after Latimer died that the memory of it came to you.”

“Jan collapsed at 12:17
P.M.
,” said Eric. Singh looked at him. “I’m a doctor,” Eric added. “You always note when a seizure or anything similar starts and how long it lasts.”

“Agent Dawson,” Singh said, “when did you, ah, um—when did you shoot Mr. Latimer?”

Susan looked up again. Her voice was small. “I don’t know. Sometime shortly after noon, but…”

“Hospital security will know,” Singh said. “They must have recorded the sound of the gunshot; I heard it even down here.” He picked up the phone on his desk and pounded out four digits. “It’s Ranjip Singh. I need to know the time the gun was discharged this past hour. Yes. No. Really? Are you sure? Are you positive? Thank you. Good-bye.” He put down the phone. “The gunshot was recorded at 12:17
P.M.
”