Triggers

Chapter 34

After leaving Professor Singh’s lab, Ivan Tarasov had intended to simply get through his day, trying to think of nothing but his duties as a security guard here at the hospital. He was good at his job, and he liked its repetitive quality: at this time, walk down this corridor, check that the doors to these rooms were properly locked, and—

And there he was. Ivan caught sight of Josh Latimer walking toward him. Seeing him, even from a distance, brought back a flood of Dora’s memories, including the awkward call, months ago, when he’d phoned her—him here in Washington, her over in London, the father who had missed all her school plays and her move to England and her wedding and even the funeral of her mother, calling up to make sure he’d tracked down the right Dora, checking that her maiden name had been Latimer, that she’d been born in Maryland, that her birthday was August 6, and then, once he was sure, explaining that he was her long-lost father, and arranging to come visit her for a face-to-face meeting. And in a little restaurant off Piccadilly Circus, after they’d each tried to compress three decades of life into an hour, he told her why he’d sought her out and what he needed from her.

Memories of what had happened after they’d parted came to him, too. Of her talking it over with her doctor, her best friend Mandy, and her minister, and ultimately deciding she had to do this; she couldn’t deny him.

Latimer was wearing a green hospital gown but blue jeans underneath. As Ivan watched, he turned and entered a room. Ivan’s own path took him by the same room, and suddenly he found himself pushing the door open, entering, and closing the door behind him.

Latimer was sitting in the chair by his bed. Across the street, through the window, George Washington University’s Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis dorm was visible. Latimer looked up, clearly startled to see a security guard entering.

Ivan felt his blood boiling; the mere sight of Latimer infuriated him. “How could you?” Ivan demanded.

Latimer frowned. “What?”

“After what you did to Dora, to ask her to let herself be cut open for you, to give a piece of her own body to you—how could you?”

Latimer groped on the table next to his chair for his eyeglasses, unfolded them, and put them on. “I don’t know you,” he said. “And you don’t know me. The person reading my memories is a woman—a nurse. Janis something.”

“Falconi,” said Ivan, nodding; he knew the names of all the nurses and doctors here. “I’m not reading you. I’m reading your daughter Dora.”

Latimer said nothing.

“You’re thinking she can’t possibly remember—because if she did, she’d never have agreed to help you. And maybe she doesn’t remember. But I do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Latimer.

That further infuriated Ivan. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, moving closer. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Latimer.

“I’m going to tell Dora,” Ivan said. “She deserves to know.”

“You can’t,” said Latimer, rising now.

“Oh?” said Ivan, turning now to exit, and—

Sound, movement, a tugging, and—

And Latimer grabbed the gun out of Ivan’s holster. Ivan spun around and saw the pistol aimed at his chest. “I’ll die without that transplant,” Latimer said. “You’re going to keep your mouth shut—about everything.”

“Or what?” asked Ivan, proud of himself for managing to briefly meet Latimer’s gaze.

“Or I’ll shoot you,” said Latimer.

“You’ll go to jail.”

“Wanna bet? I was just talking to that guy Gillett, the lawyer. He said this was the perfect time to do something crazy because any competent attorney could get you off. Scrambled brains? Other people’s memories? No one’s fault. It’s carte fucking blanche.”

“No judge is going to buy that,” said Ivan.

“No?” said Latimer, waving the gun. “You came in here threatening me. There was a struggle; I got your gun, and it went off. Simple as that…”

After leaving President Jerrison, Susan headed up to four, and was surprised to see that Orrin Gillett was still in the building. “What are you still doing here?”

“I had an appointment with Josh Latimer,” he replied.

“Oh? And does he want to prevent Singh from severing the links, too?”

“Well, no. But that wasn’t why I was seeing him. I’m representing him in his action against this hospital, related to his aborted kidney transplant.”

“I heard they rescheduled that for Monday,” Susan said.

“Be that as it may,” said Gillett. “My client has suffered enormously. And I might as well tell you that we’ll want to question you in relation to that.”

Susan rubbed her eyes. “I am so tired,” she said. “I’m tired of all of this. I just want it to be over—and you aren’t making it any easier, you and Rachel Cohen, with your demand that Singh not sever the links.”

“We do have rights, Agent Dawson.”

“So do the other people who were affected,” said Susan, “myself included. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

“This isn’t Star Trek,” Gillett said. “Individuals have individual rights.”

“Who are you linked to again?”

“A security guard here.”

“Oh, right,” said Susan. “Ivan Tarasov. Well, I can tell you that he came to see Singh earlier this morning, and he wants the exact opposite: he wants the links severed as quickly as possible.”

Gillett frowned, presumably recalling this. “So he did. And I do understand he’s having a rough time; I’m truly glad the links are only—what did Singh call it? First-order. I’d hate to be seeing what Ivan is seeing, and—fuck!”

“What?”

“I just recalled one of his memories. Ivan with my client, Josh Latimer, and—Jesus!”

“What?”

Gillett considered for a moment. “He’s my client, but—damn. I can’t let him do this. Josh grabbed the guard’s gun and has it aimed at him.”

“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.