* * * *
“All right,” said Susan, after Kadeem had finished saluting the president. “That's enough. Private Adams, you're under arrest.” She'd not only have to lock him up, but also sedate him to make sure he didn't try something similar again.
To his credit, Kadeem lifted his hands slightly. “Yes, ma'am.”
But the president stirred on his bed. “No.”
“Sir, he assaulted you.”
Jerrison managed some more strength. “I said no, Susan.”
“Sir, we can't let him debilitate you at will.” She indicated that Kadeem should move toward the closed door.
“No,” said Jerrison again. “Private Adams stays, but I want the rest of you out of here. All of you: Alyssa, Sheila, Susan, Professor Singh, Agent Michaelis, and you, there, the photographer. Out.”
“Sir!” said Susan.
“Do it. And find Maria Ramirez, the pregnant woman, if she hasn't yet gone home. I want to speak to both of them.”
“But, Mr. President, I—”
“Right away, Agent Dawson.”
Susan nodded. “Yes, sir.”
* * * *
Seth Jerrison found it odd to be talking with Kadeem Adams. They'd only just met, but he had all the young man's memories. Normally, Seth didn't have much patience for people telling him things he already knew, but listening to Kadeem go on about his life in Los Angeles was actually relaxing; as soon as Kadeem started to tell a story, the episode came to Seth's mind, just as it had come to Kadeem's, although he doubtless was reconstructing it differently. And so while Kadeem spoke, Seth let his mind concentrate on the problem at hand.
Agent Dawson opened the door to the president's room; she looked relieved to see him simply lying there, listening to Kadeem.
“Mr. President,” she said, indicating a young woman with long brown hair, “this is Maria Ramirez. You're in luck; she was still waiting for her husband to come pick her up.”
“Thank you,” Seth said weakly. “That will be all, Susan.”
She blew out air, clearly unhappy, then looked meaningfully at Kadeem. “I'll be just outside.”
Seth waited until she'd left, then indicated for Maria to take a chair; Kadeem was already sitting in the one closest to the bed.
“Maria, thank you for making time for me.”
“It's an honor, Señor Presidente.”
“I understand you and your husband are expecting a baby.”
“Si.”
“Congratulations. That's wonderful.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I have a favor to ask of you, Maria.” Seth turned to Kadeem. “I need a favor from you, as well, please; I need help from both of you.” He caught his breath, then went on. “Professor Singh tells me that you're linked to Susan Dawson, Kadeem. And, Maria, I'm told you're linked to Darryl Hudkins, the other Secret Service agent who was affected by all this.”
“Yeah,” said Kadeem, and “Si,” added Maria.
“What I'm about to tell you very few people know so far. The person who shot me was named Gordon Danbury. He was a Secret Service agent. Agents Dawson and Hudkins know this—can you find it in their memories?”
Kadeem looked astonished, but he nodded. But Maria said, “I already knew this. Agent Susan asked me about it.”
“Really?” said Seth.
“Yes. She wanted to know if she could trust Agent Darryl.”
“Ah. Yes, well, that's what I want to know, too. Whether I can trust him—and whether I can trust Susan. If the two of you search your memories, you can tell me if Agent Dawson or Agent Hudkins are compromised. Just ask yourselves if you knew anything in advance about a plot to kill the president—because if they knew about it, you'd know about it, too. Kadeem?”
The young man frowned. “Nothing, sir.”
“Maria?”
“No. Like I told Agent Susan, Agent Darryl is not involved.”
“Secret Service agents use my code name: Prospector. Any memories of a plan to kill—or assassinate—or take out—Prospector? Or to eliminate POTUS? That's P-O-T-U-S: president of the United States. Anything?”
“Well, there's all kinds of stuff about the investigation since that guy shot you,” Kadeem said. “Sue's been getting constant updates. But I'd swear she didn't know about it beforehand.”
“You're sure?”
“Mr. President, I know her like I know myself. I'm sure.”
“And Maria? What about Agent Hudkins? Again, any inkling that he might have known in advance, or been involved in any way?”
“No, sir. Nothing like that.”
“All right,” said Seth. “Thank you. I'm glad to know I can trust Agents Dawson and Hudkins. There's already one other agent who has come under suspicion, a man named Jenks. But if Danbury and Jenks were part of a larger conspiracy, and if that conspiracy involves others in the Secret Service, well, I . . .”
“You be fucked,” said Kadeem. “Sir.”
“Yes, exactly, Private Adams. I be fucked.”
* * * *
Chapter 28
Agents Dawson and Michaelis stood outside the door to President Jerrison's room, along with Dr. Snow and Sheila the nurse; Singh had gone back to his lab. Susan looked left and right down the corridor, nodding at the other Secret Service agents she could see at either end.
At last, the door opened and she looked at the two people who were emerging: Private Kadeem Adams and Maria Ramirez.
“It's cool, Sue,” said Kadeem, lifting his hands a bit. “Big man's fine—but he wants to see you.”
Susan nodded and spoke into her sleeve mike. “Dawson to Hudkins. I'm returning to Prospector's room.”
“Copy,” said Darryl's voice in her ear.
She went in and closed the door behind her. The president did indeed look no worse for wear.
“Sir?” Susan said.
“You knew Gordon Danbury, right?” asked Jerrison.
“Sure. Of course.”
“You said he was called Gordo by the other agents?”
“Yeah, most of the time.” She shrugged a little. “Off duty, we get a bit informal. The Susanator—that's what they call me. Darryl Hudkins is sometimes called Straw; you know, after Darryl Strawberry, the baseball player. And Gordon Danbury, he was Gordo.”
Jerrison managed a slight nod. “Leon Hexley was talking on his BlackBerry on Wednesday in the Oval. He said, ‘Tell Gordo to aim . . .’ but I don't remember what came after that. But if it was related to what happened—well, it means there's a conspiracy and it goes pretty high up.”
“But you've known Mr. Hexley for years,” said Susan.
Seth managed a philosophical movement of his shoulders. “What I've discovered today is that I don't know anybody—well, anybody except Kadeem Adams. I mean, seriously: you and I work together practically every day, Susan, and I know almost nothing about you—where you live, what hobbies you have, whether you're seeing anyone, what you were like as a little girl.” He paused and caught his breath. “I've long been acquainted with Director Hexley, but I don't know him. And yet there are forty-four hundred sworn members of the Secret Service, and Hexley knew Danbury well enough not only to be on a first-name basis with him, but a nickname basis.”
Susan frowned; that was curious. “But you don't remember what Mr. Hexley said?”
“No—because it didn't make sense at the time, and I had other things on my mind. I've racked my brain, but . . . no. It was weird, what he said, I remember that. But I just can't recall it. I do remember he shut up and turned off his phone the moment he realized I had entered. Didn't even say goodbye.”
“Forgive me, sir, but that's not necessarily suspicious. People are conscious of how busy you are. You don't make the president wait while you finish a personal call.” She paused. “A thought, sir. Did you have the Oval Office set up to record conversations the way Nixon did? And were they maybe backed-up off-site?”
Seth shook his head. “Didn't work out so well for Nixon, that.”
“True enough.” Susan replied. “So now what?”
“First, I need you to get Hexley's cell-phone records.”
“Will do—but they're almost certainly encrypted and scrambled. After Obama insisted on getting to keep his BlackBerry, all sorts of extra security was instituted on the units issued to high-level government officials. I suspect it'll take days to decrypt them, if it can be done at all.”
“Damn,” said Jerrison.
“Is there anything else, Mr. President?”
“Yes,” he said. “I want to send Mrs. Stilwell on a little trip in the morning.”
* * * *
“It's so strange,” Jan Falconi said, as she sipped her second beer, “having a man's memories.” She shook her head. “And, I gotta say, Josh Latimer is pissed.”
“About what?” asked Eric.
“He was supposed to receive a kidney transplant this morning, and the surgery was canceled after it had begun, to make room for the president. He and his daughter—she's the donor—were being dealt with in the corridor outside your O.R. while you were working on Jerrison; I was tending to them.”
“Good Christ,” said Eric. “I saw them there when I went in, but I didn't know what it was about.”
“He's thinking about suing.”
“I can't say I blame him, but . . . well, most kidney transplants aren't time-sensitive, and the president had to be treated immediately.”
“Still,” said Jan, shaking, “the last thing I need is someone being angry inside my head.”
“I know,” Eric said gently.
Jan clearly wanted to change the subject. “Somebody must be reading your memories, too.”
“Yeah,” Eric replied. “Her name's Nikki Van Hausen. She's a real-estate agent.”
Jan smiled. “That's funny.”
“It is?”
“Sure. Her name is Van Hausen and she sells houses. It's like a dentist named Payne or . . .”
“Or Larry Speakes,” said Eric—and then he realized the name didn't mean anything to her. “He was the White House spokesman for Ronald Reagan.”
She smiled. “Exactly. There's a name for that. It's called—” and as she said it, it came to Eric, but not from his memory—he'd never heard the term before—but from hers: “nominative determinism.”
“Cool,” he said, making an impressed face.
“They talk about it in New Scientist all the time,” she said.
“You read New Scientist?” And then: “Oh, so you do. You subscribe.”
“I adore it,” she said. “Great magazine.”
He looked at her in the dim light of the bar. She was absolutely lovely but she was eighteen years younger than him. Which was crazy. Which was nuts.
The waitress appeared. “Another round?”
Eric gestured at Jan; it was up to her.
“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”
* * * *
“Hi, Darryl,” Susan said as she entered the conference room on the first floor, just down the corridor from Trauma.
Darryl Hudkins was sipping a coffee. His shaved head was showing a faint stubble, and his face was showing even more. “Hey, Sue.”
“The president wants me to send you on a trip tomorrow morning.”
“Somewhere warm and exotic, I hope.”
“Well, it'll be warm, anyway. And he wants you to take Bessie Stilwell with you.”
“Oh,” said Darryl, sounding not at all enthusiastic now. “Does it have to be me?”
Susan looked at him. “You're the one linked to her so, yeah. There's no one who knows her mind better than you do. After all, she's still a security risk.”
“Lucky me,” said Darryl.
“Look, I think I have an inkling of what's eating you,” Susan said, “but there'd be no respite for you in just staying here if we sent her somewhere else. You'd still be linked. Singh says—well, okay, he didn't say it, but he knows it: quantum entanglement works even across light-years of separation.” She tried to lighten his mood. “All those geeks at the Pentagon who have been working on remote communication are going to love this.”
But Darryl shook his head. “The problem is that when I see the way she looks at me, it triggers me to remember her past—and her feelings.”
Susan smiled sympathetically. “I'm sorry, Darryl, but it's got to be you.”
* * * *
Chapter 29
Saturday
Tony Falconi came home drunk. Again.
Janis sat on the couch, afraid to say a word. Anything could trigger his anger, and—
And he was looking around the living room. Janis's pulse quickened. She knew what he was doing: seeking something—anything—to find fault with. Something that she hadn't cleaned properly, something that hadn't been put away, something that hadn't been done to his satisfaction. It didn't matter that she'd been locked up at the hospital until late, it didn't matter how much she'd done right; he'd find the one thing she'd done wrong, and—
“I thought I told you to get rid of that chair,” he said, pointing.
Janis's stomach was churning. What he'd actually said was he was thinking they should get rid of that chair—it was an old kitchen-table-style chair and had a rip in the vinyl upholstery; it wasn't worth repairing. But she knew contradicting him would be a mistake.
But so, apparently, was silence. “Didn't I?” he snapped. And then, without waiting for her answer, he said, “So why the fuck is it still here?”
“I'm sorry,” Janis said softly.
“You're always sorry,” Tony said. He surged forward, grabbed her arm—the one with the tiger tattoo—and roughly pulled her to her feet. “You stupid bitch,” he said, shoving her now toward the chair, and—
—and Eric Redekop shook his head violently, trying to fling the memory away.
But he couldn't. This one or ones like it kept coming back to him.
Eric was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, as the morning sun poured in around his blinds. Janis had headed home around 10:00 p.m.—he'd paid for a cab to take her from the pub—and Tony had staggered in an hour later.
He rolled onto his side, drawing in a deep breath then letting it out slowly.
He couldn't take this. And she shouldn't have to.
The old memories of events like this would always be there. But he could at least make sure that no similar new ones were ever laid down.
It wasn't his place. It wasn't his responsibility. It wasn't his duty.
But he'd saved the president of the United States. Surely he could save this woman, too.
And suddenly it came to him. A memory from a month ago, forcing itself into his awareness, and . . .
No. Not one memory; a series of memories. Memories of . . . of every month—the . . . yes: the fourth Saturday morning of every month. Jan went to play Dungeons & Dragons at . . .
He'd never heard of it, but apparently the Bronze Shield was the largest gaming store in the capital district. It was her one day out a month; Tony almost never came—he preferred to stay home and watch TV. But Jan's brother Rudy was usually there; in fact—ah, yes—that's why she was allowed to go at all: keeping up the appearance of freedom in front of her family, lest eyebrows be raised.
And—yes, today was the fourth Saturday. Still, he asked himself if the event had been canceled in light of what had happened yesterday, but it hadn't been as far as she knew—which meant she would indeed be at the Bronze Shield this morning.
All right then. All right.
* * * *
Susan Dawson had grabbed some sleep in the conference room downstairs; she figured she got maybe five hours. When she woke up, she went to check with Ranjip Singh, who also hadn't gone home.
It was odd not having to ask him for an update; she knew what he'd been doing. Before he'd gone to bed, he'd contacted his colleagues back in Toronto, as well as those at the Montreal Neurological Institute, the Center for Cognitive Neuroscience at Penn, and the Center for Consciousness Studies a
t the University of Arizona, providing copies of his data to them, hoping someone somewhere might have an idea how to break the linkages.
And this morning, the weird happenings here at LT had finally merited some time on the news, after almost continuous coverage of the assassination attempt and the bomb explosion at the White House; Singh and a few of the affected people had been interviewed here in Singh's lab.
But the TV crew was gone now, and Singh was plugging away at his computer.
“Good morning, Agent Dawson,” he said, as Susan entered.
“Ranjip.”
At that moment, a uniformed hospital security guard entered. He had two holsters, one holding a walkie-talkie and the other a gun.
“Professor Singh?” the man said.
“Yes?”
“I'm Ivan Tarasov.” Susan remembered him from yesterday; he had been affected by Singh's equipment, and had found David January for Susan, and, later on, she'd interviewed him. She glanced at the white board: Tarasov could read Dora Hennessey, the kidney donor, and in turn was read by Orrin Gillett, the lawyer.
“You have to do something about these links,” Tarasov continued. He must be addressing Singh, Susan thought, but he wasn't actually looking at him, or at her.
Singh gestured at his computer screen. “I am trying.”
“You have to do more than try. This is driving me crazy.”
“How do you mean?” asked Singh.
Tarasov did glance briefly in Susan's direction, but, again, didn't actually meet her gaze.
“Every time I look at my daughter, I see images of a little girl being molested.”
“My . . . God,” said Singh. “You're linked to Dora Hennessey, right?”
“Yes.”
“So it's her memories of being molested?”
“I guess.”
Singh's mouth fell open. “That's . . . horrible.”
“It's disgusting. That poor little girl.”
“How old was Dora when this happened to her?”
“I think she was the same age my daughter is now. Three.”
Singh consulted a document on his computer. “Miss Hennessey is thirty-seven.” He looked up. “The person abusing her—do you know who it was?”
“I'd never have recognized him today, but yes. It was her father, Josh Latimer.”
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