Triggers

Chapter 16

“Thanks, Darryl,” Susan said to Agent Hudkins, as he deposited Orrin Gillett in the office she was using.

Darryl nodded and left, closing the door behind him. Susan turned to the lawyer. “Mr. Gillett, you were in quite a hurry to leave earlier.” She was still sitting in the roller chair behind the kidney-shaped desk; Gillett had taken the seat opposite her.

“Yes, as I said, I had a meeting to get to.” He looked her in the eye and added, defiantly, “An important meeting.”

“I do apologize,” Susan said, in a tone that she hoped conveyed that she didn’t really; she was still pissed at this clown. “Still, let me ask you a few questions. Can you tell me what you were doing here at the hospital?”

“I was visiting a friend, a partner in my law firm. He was in a car accident yesterday.”

“And where were you when the lights went out?”

“In the corridor. I’d just left my friend’s room.”

“And tell me, Mr. Gillett, have you had any unusual experiences since 11:06 A.M. this morning?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “I had a Secret Service agent pull a gun on me.”

Susan had to admire the man’s moxie. She allowed herself a half smile. “Besides that, I mean.”

“No.”

“No unusual thoughts?”

Gillett narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Just that: any unexpected visions, or memories, or…?”

“That’s a very strange question,” Gillett said.

“Yes, it is,” replied Susan. “Do you have a very strange answer?”

Gillett spread his arms. “What would you have me say?”

“Well, President Jerrison is in the building, and—”

“Yes, I know.”

Susan was about to let that pass; after all, there were lots of TVs in the hospital, and hundreds of smartphones that could have been used to look at news reports, not to mention doctors and nurses buzzing about what was going on. But something in the way Gillett had said “I know” struck her. “How?” she asked. “How do you know?”

He looked like he was at war with himself, trying to decide how much to share. She asked again: “How exactly do you know?”

Finally, Gillett nodded. “All right, okay. You mentioned visions. Well, I was—it was like I was in the corridor, as the president was rushed into surgery. I was—I had a gun, but I swear to you, Miss Dawson, I had nothing to do with what happened to the president. There were these two people on gurneys, an older man and a younger woman, and there was a nurse—a, um, forgive me, but a stacked nurse—and…”

Susan thought for a moment. There’d been a security guard with the two people in the corridor; she’d since learned the two people had been scheduled for a kidney-transplant operation, and she guessed the guard had been summoned in case they got unruly at being bumped to make room for Prospector. She consulted her notes for the security guard’s name. “Ivan Tarasov—does that name mean anything to you?”

“Yes,” said Gillett. Then, more enthusiastically, “Yes! I don’t know how, but I know all about him. He’s been a guard here for four years, and he’s got a wife named Sally and a three-year-old daughter named Tanya.”

Susan asked him a few more questions, just to be sure he really was linked to Tarasov. When she was done, Gillett said, “So, can I leave the hospital now?”

“No,” said Susan. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to stay a while longer.”

“Look, unless you’re going to charge me with something—”

“Mister Gillett,” Susan said sharply. “I don’t have to charge you with anything. This is a national-security matter. You’re going to do what I say.”

Eric Redekop walked along a hallway at LT, wanting nothing more in the world than to go home. He was exhausted, and…

And, damn it all, he kept accessing Janis Falconi’s memories. He didn’t want them. He didn’t want them at all. Yes, it was flattering—and surprising!—to know that she found him attractive. But he felt like a stalker, like he was invading her life, like a total fucking creep. That they both worked at LT just made matters worse: so many things here triggered him to recall her memories. That painting on the corridor wall: he’d never really noticed it before, but she’d stopped and looked at it repeatedly. Of course: she was an artist in her own right, he knew. And that orderly, there, walking toward him, whose name he’d never known before, was Scott Edwards, who had hit on Jan repeatedly.

He didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need to know any of it. But he knew it all; for any question he wondered about, the answer instantly came to him. How much she made, when and where she’d lost her virginity, and—Christ—what her menstrual cramps felt like. He hadn’t wondered about that—what man would?—but seeing the wall calendar, there, had brought to mind that her period had just ended, and that had led to the recollection of the pains.

He tried not to think about anything intrusive, but that was impossible. Telling himself not to wonder about her sex life had the same effect as wondering about her sex life: it immediately brought memories to mind of her and her husband Tony, and—

Damn it.

Tony pushing into her, even though she wasn’t wet.

And his inability to keep from ejaculating almost at once.

And his rolling off her, and lying on his side, his back to her, ignoring her after he was done, leaving her sad and frustrated and unfulfilled, and—

Damn it, damn it, damn it! He didn’t want any of this, and—

And he was passing a woman’s washroom now, and—

Oh, Christ, no.

But it came to him.

Her, in there.

At night.

No one else around.

And—

And Janis was a nurse, and she had access to all sorts of drugs, including ones designed to make pain go away, and she’d been in so much pain because of Tony for so long now. He saw her tattooed arm, recalling it in much greater detail than he could have on his own, knowing the pattern of stripes on the tiger, the deployment of its claws, the glint in its eyes. He knew it like—well, yes, the cliché applied—like the back of his own hand. But that arm was holding a syringe, and Janis was injecting herself.

For once, he did try to search her memories, looking for any sign that she was a diabetic, but—

But no. He knew what he was seeing, what he was recalling. She was shooting up. To make life bearable, to get her though the day.

He was sympathetic. He knew drug addiction was common among nurses and doctors, but he did not wish to know her secrets, damn it. And, for God’s sake, he was obligated to report this, but—

But what would he report? That he thought he remembered her shooting up? She hadn’t willingly shared that with him, and he hadn’t stumbled upon evidence. It was just in his head.

He continued to walk the corridors of the hospital, hating himself for invading her privacy and wishing it would all come to an end.