He came in through the door. Anne was home already, files in her lap. She looked up. “Martin!”
Holtzmann smiled, and then shots rang out from the screen. He looked over in time to see a video of his nightmare – two Secret Service agents clobbering Steve Travers. He caught his breath, reflexively waiting for the moment when the screen exploded with chaos, when the explosion hurled him through the air, took the life of Joe Duran standing just inches from him.
The screen went blank instead, as Anne clicked it off.
“I’m sorry, Martin,” she said. “Didn’t mean to make you watch that again.” She was up and had her arms around him, was kissing him on the side of his face.
Holtzmann was frozen stiff, his whole body suddenly racing with adrenaline.
Anne frowned.
“You know what frustrates me?” she asked.
Holtzmann shook his head, mutely, his mind trapped in that endless moment six months past.
The Secret Service man’s gun came out out out, and fired, and fired. Human missiles leveled the shooter, and Holtzmann turned, looking for the President. Joe Duran screaming in his ear, “How did you know, Martin? How did you know?”
Anne was speaking, saying something. “Stockton was losing until the PLF tried to kill him,” she said. “He’s going to win because of the assassination attempt, and now Chicago.” She shook her head. “They could’ve at least been better shots.”
He grabbed hold of her, suddenly panicked. “Don’t say that, Anne! Don’t ever say that!” They were watching him. A stranger in the car. Nakamura raising his hand for the killing blow…
She looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “It was a joke, Martin! It’s still OK to make jokes in this country!”
“Just please,” he pleaded. “Please don’t ever say that.”
They slept on opposite sides of the bed. Anne seemed annoyed, put off by his behavior. She drifted off to sleep without their customary “I love you.”
Holtzmann lay there on his back. He was close to something. Some realization was working its way through his mind. He’d been close to it that night after Nakamura had surprised him, and then he’d been distracted, had dropped it. Bits of memories and conversations went through his head.
The Secret Service man’s gun came out out out, and fired, and fired. Human missiles leveled the shooter. The gun flew from his hand.
Anne talking to him. “They could’ve at least been better shots.”
Wait. Wait. That made no sense. Travers had missed because the other Secret Service agents had hit him before he could fire. They’d thrown off his aim. Or he’d flinched as they approached. That was why.
But in his nightmares Travers fired first, and then the other agents hit him. In his nightmares, the man never flinched.
He was wide awake, suddenly. His head felt free of opiate buzz, free of the awful feeling of anxiety and craving. His stomach was knotted but his head was clear.
He brought up a window in his mind, navigated his file system. He’d saved the memories of that morning. He’d archived them. There. That was the folder. There were the files.
He pulled the memory up. Sensations engulfed him. He was back in that sweltering July day. Sweat beaded on his brow. Daydreaming as the President droned on. He wanted to yell at his old self, scream at his younger self to get up, to cry out about what was going to happen, but there was no going back, no way to stop it. The past was read-only.
He moved the slider along, fast-forwarded through his own memory, and there. The encrypted radio traffic. He’d craned his head. Spotted Travers, just another nameless Secret Service man to him then, and the awful intuition had come to him. In the memory he was up on his feet now. His heart was pounding, in the memory and in the present.
His past self was shouting now that that man had a gun. Holtzmann cranked down the play speed, and as he watched, Travers pulled the huge pistol out of his jacket in a long, slow motion, no expression on his face. It arced around at a quarter speed and snapped into place, perfectly steadily, and hung there as still as the man’s face for a fraction of a second. Then its muzzle flared and a huge boom filled Holtzmann’s ears. The muzzle of the gun jerked up, came down again in slow motion, and then its muzzle flared again and a second boom exploded in his ears. And only then did a twin blur slam into Travers and take him away. Throughout it all, the man’s expression never changed.
Holtzmann’s heart was pounding. Travers had fired calmly and coolly. He’d fired before he was hit. And his expression never betrayed a single flinch, a single hesitation. And why should it? The man had been turned into a Nexus robot, after all. His arm was controlled by software, not human instinct. His aim was controlled by software.
So why had he missed?
Nakamura’s voice answered him. “To find the cause of an event… who had the most to gain?”
There was a hand on Holtzmann’s chest. Anne was shaking him. “Martin. Martin. You were screaming. Are you OK? Another nightmare?”
Holtzmann opened his eyes, looked over at his wife. And now he was terribly afraid, not just for himself, but for her as well.
“A nightmare,” he said. “A nightmare.”
Anne Holtzmann rolled back over in the bed she shared with her husband, troubled. What was wrong with Martin? Why was he acting so strangely?
She lay there, thinking, finding no answers, until she heard his breath change as he fell back into sleep. Then sleep took her as well.
32
SEPARATION ANXIETY
Saturday October 27th
Sam watched as the two vehicles from the Mira Foundation made their way up the winding road to the place she’d called home these last three months. The children around her felt anxious, sad and frightened to be leaving Sam, uncertain about what lay ahead, but happy that Jake was coming with them.
Sam smiled, did her best to project calm resolve. This would be a wonderful new adventure. They’d meet new friends. They’d have a larger home. Jake would be with them. Sam would rejoin them soon.
But inside she felt a gaping loss.
Jake took her hand, squeezed it, gratitude and longing coming through their connection. She squeezed back, grateful for the contact.
Khun Mae and her two girls stood with them, silent. What were they thinking, Sam wondered. Were they sad to see their wards go? Were they relieved? Their faces were masks. No tears were being shed there.
The vehicles pulled through the open gate. They’d brought two – a van big enough for all the children, and a closed-top jeep driving behind.
Sam’s practiced eye picked up subtleties of the vehicles. The way the thickness of the windows distorted light a bit more. The distinctive shape of run-flat tires. The ruggedness of the chassis. These were armored vehicles, designed to blend in with normal traffic, to arouse no suspicions, but also to stand up to small arms fire. To take fire and keep on moving.
They’re careful, she thought. Can I blame them?
The vehicles stopped and four Mira Foundation staff emerged. Two men from the jeep. A man and a woman from the van. The woman moved like a model. The men moved like soldiers. Nexus emanations radiated from all four of their minds.
She stood paralyzed as they loaded the children’s things into the van, paralyzed by jealousy and loss and fear. Khun Mae and one of the men stepped back inside the house. She could see the other two men watching her now. She forced a smile, forced happy thoughts, and stepped forward to hug the children goodbye, to kiss Jake for the last time…