Triggers (9 page)

“You wouldn’t normally have run into him, sir,” Susan said. “He was one of the sharpshooters deployed on the roof of the White House.”

“The bomb,” Jerrison said.

Susan nodded. “Yes, it seems likely he was the one who planted it.
He’d have had easy access to the White House roof—although how he got a large metallic device through security to get up there, I don’t know.” She listened to her earpiece again, then: “Anyway, they’re sending investigators to his house; see what they can find.”

They were all silent for a time, until Agent Michaelis spoke. “This is crazy.”

Susan thought he was referring to Danbury. “Yeah. You think you know a guy…”

“Not that,” said Michaelis, “although that’s crazy, too. I mean this memory stuff.”

“Are you experiencing any outside memories?” Susan asked.

“Me?” said Michaelis. “No.”

“Professor Singh’s memories are coming more easily for me all the time,” Susan said. “His phone number, his employment history. I even think, if I thought about it hard enough, that I could speak a little Punjabi—not to mention some bad Canadian French.” She paused. “Why would the president and I have been affected and not you? We were all pretty close together. You were just outside the O.R., right?”

“Yeah,” said Michaelis.

“Did you leave that area at any point?”

“No. Well, no, except to go the washroom. In fact, that’s where I was when the lights went out.”

“And you stayed there through the blackout?”

“Sure. It didn’t last long.”

“No, it didn’t,” said Susan. “I’m no scientist, but—”

“The blackout?” said the president.

“Um, yes, sir. There was an EMP when the bomb went off at the White House—same as what happened in Chicago and Philadelphia.” She turned to Michaelis. “How far was the washroom from the O.R.?”

“Halfway down the corridor. Maybe fifty feet.”

“Did anybody take your place outside the operating-room door?”

“No. I signaled Dougherty, who was on my right, and Rosenbaum, on my left, that I was going off station for a moment; they had line of sight to each other, so…”

Susan nodded, then: “Singh’s lab was more or less above the operating room. So the effect probably was limited in radius—and you’d stepped outside it at the crucial moment.”

Singh came into the room, accompanied, coincidentally, by Agent Dougherty, whom Michaelis had just mentioned.

“Well,
that’s
interesting,” Susan said to Singh. “I can even access your most recent memories, including new ones since the power surge.”

“Really?” said Singh.

“Yes. I know all about what just went down between you and Private Adams.”

“Fascinating,” Singh said. “That means it wasn’t a dumping of memories—you didn’t just get a copy of my memories transferred to you when the power surge hit; you’re still somehow connected to me on an ongoing basis.” He frowned, clearly thinking about this.

“Anyway, it’s interesting what Private Adams said to you just now,” Susan said. She gestured to indicate it was all right for Singh to move closer to the president.

“Thank you,” Singh said, coming further into the room. “Mr. President, those gentlemen you recall playing basketball with: you said one of them was named Lamarr. Please think about him, and see if you can conjure up anything else about him.”

Seth’s eyebrows rose. “Oh. Um. Sure, Lamarr. Lamarr…um…” The president seemed to hesitate, then: “Lamarr Brown.”

“And his skin color?”

He took a moment to breathe, then. “He’s…oh, well, um, okay. Yes, he’s black. I’ve got a mental picture of him now, kind of. Black…short hair…gold earring…a scar above his right eye.”

“His right eye?”

“Sorry, my right; his left.”

“Private Adams described the same man, and added another detail. Something about Lamarr’s smile.”

The president frowned, concentrating. “Big gap between his two front teeth.” He paused. “But…but I don’t…I’ve never met…”

“No, you haven’t. And you don’t play basketball, either.” Singh tried
to inject a little levity. “It’s not actually true that white men can’t jump, but you, a
particular
white man, can’t, because of your foot injury, isn’t that right?”

“Right.”

“And when you first recalled these men, you saw them as white,” said Singh. “Now you see them as black.”

“Um, yes.”

“My patient upstairs, as you’ve doubtless guessed, is African-American. And, unlike you, he knows all three of the gentlemen—who also are African-American.”

Seth said nothing.

Singh went on. “With due respect, Mr. President, let us not dance around the issue. If I ask you to picture a man—any man, an average man—you picture a white face, no doubt. It might interest you to know that a goodly number of African-Americans, not to mention Sikhs like myself, picture white faces, too: many of us are acutely aware that we are a minority in our neighborhoods and workplaces. Your default person is white, but my patient on the floor above grew up in South Central Los Angeles, an almost exclusively black community, and
his
default person is black.”

“So?” said the president, sounding, Susan thought, perhaps slightly uncomfortable.

“The point,” said Singh, “is that in storing memories of people, we store only how they
differ
from our default. You said one of the men was fat—and my patient described him the same way. But then you volunteered that the other two were thin, which might mean scrawny, which is why I asked you to clarify. If these people were notably thin, that detail might have been stored: scrawny is noteworthy; normal is not. Likewise, for my patient, his friends’ skin color was not noteworthy. And when you are reading his memories, all you have access to is what he’s actually stored: distinctive features, such as the gap between Lamarr’s teeth, or the scar above his eye, interesting items of clothing, and so on. And out of those paltry cues, your mind confabulated the rest of the image.”

“Confabulated?”

“Sorry, Mr. President. It means to fill in a gap in memory with a fabrication that the brain believes is true. See, people think that human memory is like computer memory: that somewhere in your head is a hard drive, or video recorder, or something, with a flawless, highly detailed record of everything you’ve seen and done. But that’s just not true. Rather, your brain stores a few details that will allow it to build a memory up when you try to recall it.”

“Okay,” Susan said, looking at Singh. “And you’re linked to this Lucius Jono fellow, right—and he might be the one linked to the president?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your most recent memory of him?”

“It’s hard to say,” said Singh. “No, wait—wait. He is—or quite recently was—down in the cafeteria, eating…um, a bacon cheeseburger and onion rings.” He paused. “So
that’s
what bacon tastes like! Anyway, it’s got to be a recent memory; he’s talking about the destruction of the White House and the electromagnetic pulse.”

“All right,” said Susan. “I’m going to go speak to him. If we’re lucky, the circle only contains five people.”

The president said something, but Susan couldn’t make it out. She moved closer. “I’m sorry, sir?”

He tried again. “We haven’t had much luck so far today.”

She looked out the large windows and saw smoke in the sky. “No, sir, we haven’t.”

SECRET
Service agent Manny Cheung hadn’t recognized Gordon Danbury after his fall in the elevator shaft; it was, as the female agent who had first looked at his body on the roof of the elevator had said, not a pretty sight. But Danbury’s fingerprints had been intact, and running them had quickly turned up his identity. Cheung had known “Gordo”—as he was called—pretty well, or so he’d thought, although he’d never been to his house.

That was being rectified now. Although the Secret Service protected
the president, it was the FBI that investigated attacks on him. But the two FBI agents dispatched to Danbury’s home had asked Cheung to join them since he’d been familiar with the deceased. Gordo lived an hour’s drive southwest of DC, in Fredericksburg, Virginia—far enough away that his place hadn’t been affected by the electromagnetic pulse.

It didn’t take long to find what they were looking for. Danbury had an old Gateway desktop computer, with a squarish matte-finish LCD monitor, an aspect ratio that was hard to get these days; both were connected to a UPS box. He’d left them on, with a Microsoft Word document open on the screen. The document said:

Cheung glanced around; there was no sign of a printer. “He expected to die today,” he said. “And he knew we’d find this.”

The FBI agents were both white, but one was stocky and the other thin. The stocky one said, “But he ran.”

“If he hadn’t, he’d have been gunned down,” said Cheung. “Sure, Gordo was a sharpshooter, but he’d have been facing a swarm of armed Secret Service agents; they’d have had no trouble taking him out, and he had to know that. Once he shot the president, he knew he’d be neutralized.”

“Did you know he was religious?” asked the thin FBI man, whose name was Smith, as he pointed at the glowing words.

“No,” said Cheung. “Never heard him mention it.”

“‘Praise be to God,’” Smith said. “Odd way to phrase it.”

Cheung frowned, then gestured at the computer. “May I?”

“Just a minute,” said the heavier agent, Kranz. He took a series of photos of the computer as they’d found it and dusted the keyboard for
prints, on the off chance that the note hadn’t actually been typed up by Danbury.

“Okay,” Kranz said when he was done. “But don’t change or close the file.”

“No, no.” Cheung looked at the screen. The document name, showing in the title bar, was “Mom”—and since it had a name, he must have saved the file at least once. He brought up Word’s file menu, which listed recently opened documents at the bottom, and he noted which folder “Mom” was in. He then hit the Windows and
E
keys simultaneously to bring up Windows Explorer, navigated to that folder, and found “Backup of Mom.” “An older version of the file,” he said to the two FBI men, “prior to the last save.” He clicked on it, and it opened.

“Looks the same,” said Smith, then, “Oh!”

Oh, indeed,
thought Cheung. There
was
a difference: one single word, the very last word in the file. Instead of ending with “Praise be to God,” in his earlier draft, Gordon Danbury of the United States Secret Service had written, “Praise be to Allah.”

ERIC
Redekop woke with a start in the staff sleep room. The door had opened, and someone else had come in to use one of the other cots. He rolled onto his back, resting his head on the donut-shaped pillow, and looked up at the ceiling.

Eric knew that dreams were a key part of the brain’s process of consolidating memories—of determining which of the day’s events were important enough to store permanently. He only remembered his dreams when, as now, he awoke during them. But this dream was—

It was the most astonishing thing. He never recalled colors from his dreams. He’d always imagined that was because the act of dreaming predated the advent of color vision in primates. Dogs dreamed, after all, and they didn’t see in color. He’d read about the experiment that had eliminated the part of a dog’s nervous system that caused sleep paralysis—the effect that kept one from acting out one’s dreams. Not surprisingly, it revealed that dogs dreamt about running and hunting and humping.

But he had just dreamt about…well, it was hard to say. The imagery was the usual surreal dreamscape mishmash, but there was vibrant
color in it: a scarlet dress, an azure sky, someone with striking emerald eyes, someone else with copper-colored hair.

He’d heard that artistic people were more likely to have vivid dreams, and, of course, Jan Falconi had made the original tiger illustration that a tattoo artist had faithfully transferred to her skin. He guessed that he was now consolidating her latest memories, flying through them the way she herself would have: Janis and the amazing Technicolor dream float.

He opened his eyes and saw a short, thin Asian woman: Christine Lee, the anesthesiologist who had worked on Jerrison. She said something, but he couldn’t make it out; he moved one of the noise-canceling earphones off his ear. “Pardon?”

“Sorry to wake you,” Christine said. “Who’d have thought putting other people to sleep could be so exhausting?”

Eric interlaced his fingers behind his head. “That’s okay.”

“I just need to lie down,” Christine said, apologetically.

“No problem,” Eric replied. He was still tired but was grateful for the intrusion; anything was better than the craziness swirling through his head.

Christine moved over to another cot and sat on its edge, holding her head in her hands.

“Are you okay?” Eric asked. The room was dimly lit, and he couldn’t quite make out Christine’s expression.

“I guess,” she said.

Eric removed the headset and propped his head up with a crooked arm. “You did great earlier today, Christine.”

“What?” she said. “Oh. Thanks. It’s not that.”

He didn’t say anything more, but after a minute she went on. “You know David January?”

Eric did his best Peter Lorre impression. “You despise me, don’t you, Rick?”

He’d hoped for a smile, but all he got was a nod. “That’s him. Little bug-eyed man.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve known him for a few years,” Christine said. “But not well. But now I know all sorts of things about him. It’s like…”

She trailed off. Eric felt his heart pounding. He wanted to say, “It’s like you can access his memories, right?” But he couldn’t say that—that was
crazy.

Christine didn’t say anything else, and Eric stared at her, wondering what to say. He felt like he was going out of his mind, but—but—

It hit him.
God, yes.
He’d been so discombobulated by his encounter with nurse Janis Falconi that he’d forgotten what had happened earlier. But suddenly he recalled Nikki, the distraught woman who had accosted Jurgen Sturgess. She had known his name. He sat up on the cot. “Christine?”