Triggers

Chapter 40

At 4:54 P.M., Eric’s phone emitted a strange double tone. Jan had heard his phone ring earlier, when Dr. Griffin had called, and it had made a normal sound, but—

Ah! It must be one of those Enterphone things, like at Rodger’s place; Rodger was Tony’s best friend. She picked up the handset. “Hello?”

“It’s Nikki Van Hausen. I’m downstairs.”

“Ah, okay. Um, damn, I don’t know what to do to let you in.”

“Press six,” said Nikki—like she’d been here a million times before, like she fucking lived here.

Jan did so. She heard an electric whine through the handset and then that connection, at least, broke. She straightened her hair in the mirrored door to the entryway closet, then looked through the peephole in Eric’s front door, and saw—

It was like the tunnel vision she’d had when Josh Latimer was dying. She saw a woman, impossibly small, impossibly far away, coming toward her, closer and closer and—

And Jan opened the door. There’d been a picture of Nikki on her website. In it, Nikki had reddish hair, but now she had light brown hair with blonde streaks—and she was a few years older; she looked to be in her mid-thirties.

“Sorry I’m late,” Nikki said. “Weather’s getting hairy out there.” But then she stopped and just stared at Janis. “Wow,” she said softly.

“What?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s strange seeing you. Eric’s memories of you are flashes, you know? Your smile, your teeth, you tossing your head a certain way, the tattoo—he loves the tattoo. But to see it all brought together is…”

“What?”

“He remembers you as being beautiful, of course. But, well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and…” She shrugged a little. “And, well, it’s interesting to see, that’s all.”

“Oh?” said Janis, a little defensively.

Nikki lifted a hand. “Sorry, I’m not saying this right. What I mean is, you are absolutely lovely. I can see why Eric fell for you so hard.”

Jan’s heart skipped a beat. “Fell for me?”

“He’s crazy about you,” Nikki said. “But he knows you’re vulnerable, and he doesn’t want to take advantage. Plus, there’s the age thing.”

“Who cares about that?” Jan said.

“He does. It really bothers him.”

“It shouldn’t.”

They were still standing in the entryway. Jan took Nikki’s coat and motioned for her to go into the apartment proper. As Nikki walked ahead, Jan said, “Can I offer you a drink? Coffee?”

“I’m fine,” Nikki said, entering the living room—but she came to a stop so suddenly that Jan actually bumped into her from behind.

“Sorry!” Nikki said. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…”

Jan moved to stand beside her and saw the wonder on Nikki’s face. “Yes?”

“It’s like I know this place,” Nikki said. “Like I’ve been here before.” She began walking again, looking around the living room. When she came to the bookshelf with the “Champ” medallion on it, she gently picked it up.

“What’s it for?” Jan asked.

“Hmmm?” said Nikki. “Oh. He got it at the hospital, five years ago. He brought in the most donations for the Christmas charity drive.”

Jan half smiled. That was Eric, all right: forever trying to help those in need. But the smile quickly faded. This woman would always know him better than Jan ever could. “It’s cruel,” she said.

“What?”

“This—this thing that’s happened to us. Why couldn’t it have been reciprocal? Why couldn’t you be linked to the same person that’s linked to you?”

“I don’t know,” Nikki said. “It is what it is.”

“Yeah,” said Jan, very softly.

“Why did you want to see me?”

Jan looked at her, then looked away. “I’m sorry, it was stupid. I just didn’t know what to do. I, um, you—you know everything Eric knows, and, well…”

“He really does care about you, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

Jan did manage to meet her eyes. “Actually, no. I don’t have any doubts about that.”

“But you keep asking yourself, how can he like me when he knows this about me, or that about my past, or that I did whatever, right?”

Jan nodded.

“Different people react differently, I guess,” said Nikki. “I know comparable stuff about Eric. But he and I didn’t know each other before the linkages, so, um, like…okay, you ever read People?”

“What?”

“People, the magazine. Or Us. Or any of those. The magazines that tell you all about the private lives of celebrities.”

“Sometimes in my dentist’s waiting room, I guess,” said Jan.

“Well, Eric is like that to me. He’s like Angelina Jolie or Johnny Depp or some other celebrity that I don’t know personally, but I know everything about. Yes, I know his dirty secrets—minor though they are—including all kinds of stuff I’m sure he wishes really was private. But so what? It doesn’t affect me, and it’s not like I’m going to do anything with the information.”

“I know, but…” Jan blew out air. “Sorry. I have no idea how to deal with this.”

“But surely you must be going through the same thing, no?” asked Nikki. “You must be linked to somebody else, right?”

“I was,” said Jan, softly. “He died.”

“Oh!” said Nikki, and Jan saw her eyes flicking left and right rapidly as she assimilated Eric’s memories related to that. “Oh my God—just this afternoon. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m trying not to think about it.”

“Sure, of course. Sorry. But, Jan, it’s like that with me and Eric. I don’t like to dwell on my own past, let alone anyone else’s.”

Jan. Every little thing Nikki did reminded Jan of just how much Nikki did know about her private life. “I know, but it’s like he’s gossiping about us, like he’s talking about me behind my back.”

“He isn’t. And I don’t know your details, you know. I know what he remembers, not what you remember. But I do know he really does like you. And, yeah, there is the age difference, obviously. And, sure, people are going to gossip about that. They’re going to say he’s having a midlife crisis—but you know what? He already did, five years ago. Ask him about it; it’s no big deal, and he’s over that; it’s in the past. He’s not attracted to you because of your age; he’s attracted to you despite your age, and—”

Nikki fell silent.

“Yes?” said Jan.

“He wants to have sex with you.”

Jan looked away. “Oh.”

“But it’s not because he’s horny—although he is. It’s because he’s scared. You’re thirty-two; he’s fifty. He’s afraid you’re going to be turned off by his half-century-old body.”

“What? That’s silly.”

“Maybe. But that’s what he thinks.”

“How do you know? I thought all you could do is read his memories, not his thoughts?”

“That’s all I can do. But he told someone that, and I can recall the conversation.”

“He was gossiping about me?”

“More like seeking advice. He’s at Luther Terry now, right? He ran into—well, I know him, too; I met him earlier and went a little nuts, I have to say. He’s been talking with Jurgen Sturgess, another doctor there.” Nikki shook her head then went on. “It’s funny; I shouldn’t even care. All of this is really none of my business.”

“So what did Dr. Sturgess say?”

“He wasn’t one to give advice. He mostly just listened. But, well, I guess I have a vested interest in seeing Eric be happy. No point in my having to share a bunch of unhappy memories, after all. So let me give you some advice: don’t let me stand in the way of you being happy with Eric. He’s a good guy. Believe me—I know.”

At Seth Jerrison’s insistence, they’d set up a computer for him in his hospital room. A forty-two-inch LCD monitor had been mounted on a small table at the foot of his bed, and he’d been given a Bluetooth ergonomic keyboard with a little trackpad attached. Despite lying on his back with his chest only propped up slightly, it was actually pretty comfortable to use, although he had to slide his bifocals way down his hooked nose to get the screen in focus.

Seth had always been a news junkie, and while Nurse Kelly watched him attentively from her seat, he used the computer to read about the assassination attempt. It was fascinating, in a macabre way, and it gave him a small taste of what the coverage might have been like had the attempt succeeded—although he supposed if he had died, the Huffington Post would not be grousing that “You’d think Jerrison would know how to give a speech in a presidential way instead of sounding like a tenured academic who doesn’t have to worry about job security. The RNC would do well to hire him a media coach.”

Damn it all, he had a media coach. And he really had tried to pay attention to her. She’d gone over everything with him time and again, including the way he held his head, when to use a hand gesture for emphasis, and the speed at which he should read from the teleprompter. He’d initially spoken much too quickly, she’d said, clocking him at 11,000 words per hour. He’d told her that was a holdover from his days at Columbia; there was an awful lot of history to cover, and only so many classroom hours to cram it into. She said a dignified pace, and one that most people could comfortably follow, was more like 8,500 words an hour, and he’d practiced slowing down. For instance, the speech he’d been giving at the Lincoln Memorial was 1,734 words, and when he’d rehearsed it, he’d come in bang at twelve minutes, not counting time for applause. Of course, he hadn’t gotten far into it when, as an article on MSNBC said, “the crack of a would-be assassin’s rifle split the cold November air, and—”

And a thought came to him. He opened the document containing his speech and highlighted everything from the beginning to the point at which he’d been shot; he’d seen the clip repeatedly now on the news (and found it oddly compelling to watch—Kadeem had seen the news coverage before he had, and so Seth remembered it the first time he saw it; it felt an awful lot like he was viewing it from outside his own body). He searched the menus until he found the word-count command. “Words: 281” appeared on the screen along with some other statistics. Oh, well. It had been a good thought, but—

But he’d marked it from the beginning, including the title and other things. He scrolled back to the top of the document and redid the highlighting starting after the words “Speech to be delivered by POTUS at Lincoln Memorial re the Chicago bombing. Check against delivery.” Then he issued the word-count command again. “Words: 247.”

Tell Gordo to aim for 2-4-7…

He went down to the end of the marked block and read aloud the last sentence he’d said before the bullet hit: “If my students could take away only a single lesson, I always hoped it would be the famous maxim that those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

Repeat it. Like an echo.

Tell Gordo to aim for 2-4-7 for the echo…

Lots of people had access to his speeches before he gave them; it would have been easy for Secret Service Director Hexley to have seen the text in advance and have gotten copies to other people, including Gordo Danbury—copies marked up with each word numbered so they could plan precisely. Hexley had been telling someone to convey to Danbury that the perfect echo—the perfect blast from the past—would be to take down the current president, as he was standing in front of a statue of the first president to have been assassinated, while he was reflecting on history repeating itself.

And, Seth thought, history almost had.

Just then, Susan Dawson entered. “Good afternoon, Mr. President. Bessie Stilwell and Agent Hudkins are in the air. They should be at Andrews by 10:00 P.M.”

“Andrews?” asked Seth. “Not Reagan?”

“No, Mr. President. They’re taking an Air Force jet back.”

“I said they should travel on a civilian plane.”

Susan’s eyebrows went up. “Um, sorry, sir—what you actually said was they should fly out to L.A. on the next commercial flight. You didn’t say anything about the return, and Darryl figured you wanted Bessie to be protected as much as possible, so they’re coming back on an Air Force plane.”

“Damn,” said Seth.

“What’s wrong, sir? I apologize if—”

“No, no. What’s done is done. But…damn.”