Triggers

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.”