hospital—there’s a cafeteria in the lobby—but we’re not letting anyone leave.”
“LESHIA , it’s Darryl. Are you okay?”
“I’m…I’m fine. God, Darryl, are
you
all right?”
“Yes.”
“You heard about the White House? My God…”
“Awful. Just…awful.”
“They say no one was hurt, but…”
“But
everyone
was hurt.”
“I saw you on TV just now. They were showing what went down at the Lincoln Memorial. I’m so proud of you. Where are you now?”
“Still at LT.”
“How’s—how’s the president doing?”
“He’s stable, but Sue has locked the hospital down. Leshia, listen, something super-unusual is going on here. It’s happened to me, and it’s happened to other people. We’re—we’re reading each other’s memories somehow.”
“What?”
“I know it sounds crazy, baby. It
is
crazy. But it’s happening. So I need you to go online and change the PINs for our bank accounts and things like that.”
“But—”
“Just do it. Don’t you see? Somebody else knows them now; I don’t know who. But we’ve got to change them before they clear us out. Do it, and don’t pick anything I’d easily guess.”
“Darryl, um, are you
sure
you’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I know it sounds insane, baby, but do it—do it right away. Okay, look, I gotta go. Love you!”
THE cab dropped Secret Service agent Dirk Jenks at Reagan. He paid the fare in cash, didn’t wait for his change, and didn’t ask for a receipt. He checked the departures board and saw that there was a flight to LaGuardia in sixty-five minutes. In the wake of the explosion at the White House, FBI agents were already swarming the airport, but so far there’d been no sign that flights were going to be suspended as they had been back on 9/11.
There was a line at the Delta ticketing counter, but Jenks flashed his Secret Service ID at people and moved to the front.
“The next flight to LaGuardia, please,” he said.
“One-way or round-trip?” asked the woman behind the counter.
“One-way.”
SUSAN Dawson headed from the psychiatric ward to Professor Singh’s laboratory, which, she knew, was six doors down the third-floor corridor from his office. As she entered the lab for the first time, it was, as Yogi Berra had famously said,
déjà vu
all over again.
Singh was talking on his phone. He quickly finished his call.
“Who were you talking to?” Susan asked.
“My wife. Why?”
“Did you tell her about the memory linkages?”
“Of course. It’s fascinating.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” she said. “We should keep this quiet.”
He gestured at his computer monitor, which was showing Twitter.
“You tweeted about this?”
“No, no. I just searched Twitter for ‘Luther Terry’ while I was talking to my wife, and those came up.”
Susan loomed in. There were several about Jerrison being brought here after the shooting and five about the lockdown. But there was also one that said, “Weird things going on at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital.” Another declared, “Memories being linked at Luther Terry Hosp in DC.” Someone else had chimed in with, “I’m at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital. Anybody know anything about telepathy?” Twitter was helpfully informing Ranjip that there were now four new tweets that matched his search. Instead of clicking on the link for those, though, he put in a new search: “LTMH.” Two tweets came up: One said, “Saw a woman freak at #LTMH, berating the surgeon who saved the prez. She must have been a Democrat.” And the other said, “Heard craziest story at LTMH just now about reading memories. Anybody else?”
“God damn it,” said Susan. “We should put a lid on contact with the outside world.”
But Ranjip shook his head. “There’s been a terrorist attack here in the city, Agent Dawson. People need to keep in touch. They need it on a human level; they need to know their loved ones, wherever they are, are well—and to let them know
“LESHIA , it’s Darryl. Are you okay?”
“I’m…I’m fine. God, Darryl, are
you
all right?”
“Yes.”
“You heard about the White House? My God…”
“Awful. Just…awful.”
“They say no one was hurt, but…”
“But
everyone
was hurt.”
“I saw you on TV just now. They were showing what went down at the Lincoln Memorial. I’m so proud of you. Where are you now?”
“Still at LT.”
“How’s—how’s the president doing?”
“He’s stable, but Sue has locked the hospital down. Leshia, listen, something super-unusual is going on here. It’s happened to me, and it’s happened to other people. We’re—we’re reading each other’s memories somehow.”
“What?”
“I know it sounds crazy, baby. It
is
crazy. But it’s happening. So I need you to go online and change the PINs for our bank accounts and things like that.”
“But—”
“Just do it. Don’t you see? Somebody else knows them now; I don’t know who. But we’ve got to change them before they clear us out. Do it, and don’t pick anything I’d easily guess.”
“Darryl, um, are you
sure
you’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine. I know it sounds insane, baby, but do it—do it right away. Okay, look, I gotta go. Love you!”
THE cab dropped Secret Service agent Dirk Jenks at Reagan. He paid the fare in cash, didn’t wait for his change, and didn’t ask for a receipt. He checked the departures board and saw that there was a flight to LaGuardia in sixty-five minutes. In the wake of the explosion at the White House, FBI agents were already swarming the airport, but so far there’d been no sign that flights were going to be suspended as they had been back on 9/11.
There was a line at the Delta ticketing counter, but Jenks flashed his Secret Service ID at people and moved to the front.
“The next flight to LaGuardia, please,” he said.
“One-way or round-trip?” asked the woman behind the counter.
“One-way.”
SUSAN Dawson headed from the psychiatric ward to Professor Singh’s laboratory, which, she knew, was six doors down the third-floor corridor from his office. As she entered the lab for the first time, it was, as Yogi Berra had famously said,
déjà vu
all over again.
Singh was talking on his phone. He quickly finished his call.
“Who were you talking to?” Susan asked.
“My wife. Why?”
“Did you tell her about the memory linkages?”
“Of course. It’s fascinating.”
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” she said. “We should keep this quiet.”
He gestured at his computer monitor, which was showing Twitter.
“You tweeted about this?”
“No, no. I just searched Twitter for ‘Luther Terry’ while I was talking to my wife, and those came up.”
Susan loomed in. There were several about Jerrison being brought here after the shooting and five about the lockdown. But there was also one that said, “Weird things going on at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital.” Another declared, “Memories being linked at Luther Terry Hosp in DC.” Someone else had chimed in with, “I’m at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital. Anybody know anything about telepathy?” Twitter was helpfully informing Ranjip that there were now four new tweets that matched his search. Instead of clicking on the link for those, though, he put in a new search: “LTMH.” Two tweets came up: One said, “Saw a woman freak at #LTMH, berating the surgeon who saved the prez. She must have been a Democrat.” And the other said, “Heard craziest story at LTMH just now about reading memories. Anybody else?”
“God damn it,” said Susan. “We should put a lid on contact with the outside world.”
But Ranjip shook his head. “There’s been a terrorist attack here in the city, Agent Dawson. People need to keep in touch. They need it on a human level; they need to know their loved ones, wherever they are, are well—and to let them know
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