The Syndrome (46 page)

By now, Adrienne knew the lions’ names:
Patience
and
Fortitude.
And she also knew where to go to find a computer that she could use to log onto Nexis. Sitting down at an open terminal in one of the library’s computer rooms, she went to the Nexis Web site and entered Slough, Hawley’s user-ID and password. When the appropriate page came up, she hit the
Search
button, and then
News.
Finally, she entered
McBride’
s name in the panel for search terms, then added,
San Francisco
, 1996 and—just to be certain—
1995
and
1997.

Thirty seconds went by before a list of documents materialized on the screen. All in all, there were 204 that mentioned someone named McBride in the context of San Francisco during the relevant years. These included—indeed, were dominated by—trivial references that had nothing to do with anything. There were P/R releases announcing the promotions and retirements of executives who happened to be named McBride. Richard McBride. Fred McBride. Delano McBride. There were half a dozen stories about the Prep Football Top 25 (whose number included a wide receiver named Antwan McBride), as well as articles about a geriatric
judge, a popular restauranteur, and a Bay area restaurant reviewer who—like the others—was named McBride. And more.

But there was nothing in any newspaper published in America in the last ten years that reported a murder, or a double murder, perpetrated by a man named Lew McBride—or Anything McBride—in San Francisco during the 1990s. Adrienne expanded her search, substituting California for San Francisco, and came up with half a dozen hits. Closer scrutiny, however, revealed that none of these were relevant. A man named McBride had killed a convenience store clerk with a shotgun in Fresno in 1996. Another McBride had been charged with vehicular homicide in a drunk driving incident that left two dead (the family wanted him charged with murder, but he wasn’t). And so on.

And so forth.

She was tempted to return to the Mayflower, call Shaw and tell him that Duran’s most recent identity, like his last, was an illusion. But because she was a lawyer—and prided herself on touching all the bases—on
being prepared
—she went through the original list.

Which wasn’t so bad, really. The KWIK Search feature highlighted the words in which she was interested as they appeared in each of the stories. So it wasn’t as if she had to read them all—just skim them.

And that’s what she did, going backwards from 1997 until she came to Article No. 138, which appeared in the
San Francisco Examiner
on June 16, 1996:

Cap Haitien (Reuters)—San Francisco resident Lewis McBride, 26, was feared dead today when rescuers called off their search for his missing plane in the rugged mountains west of this city.

McBride was the only passenger in a chartered Cessna that disappeared in a storm Tuesday evening. Haitian air
controllers in Port-au-Prince report that no urgent or emergency broadcasts were received from the plane.

The area in which the Cessna is believed to have gone down is uninhabited, mountainous jungle. Efforts to search for the plane have been inhibited by continuing bad weather.

A Stanford University graduate, with a doctoral degree in psychology, McBride had been traveling on a foundation grant for the last two years. Professor Ian Hartwig of Stanford expressed his shock and sadness at the “tragic loss of this fine young man.”

McBride leaves no survivors.

Graphic: photo (McBride)

Adrienne sat back in her chair and thought about it. Was Duran really McBride? Or was this just another stolen identity? What if he had a whole series of identities, a nesting set like a matrioshka doll—and this one, Lew McBride, was still several shells away from the innermost one? What was this business about beating his family to death? There was nothing in the papers about it—and, clearly, the Reuter’s article meant it never happened. If McBride had killed someone, the story would have mentioned it—and the Stanford professor would not have described him as a “fine young man.”

Nexis generated text, not images, but if a photograph appeared with a story, that information was included in the printout. Graphic: photo (McBride). So that meant when she found the article on microfiche, there’d be a picture, too. A picture of McBride.

When Charlie Dorgan got to work, Ray Shaw was waiting for him on the couch in the reception area outside his office. Seeing his old pal, Dorgan lowered his head, nodded to his secretary—“Pearl”—and marched into his inner sanctum.

With Shaw hard on his heels, closing the door behind them.

“Charlie—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Dorgan told him, raising a hand as if he were about to swear an oath. “I can’t talk about this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean we can’t talk about it. I mean that you will
not
receive a report about the little item you sent—so stop asking me, or you’re going to ruin a beautiful friendship.” With that, the physicist collapsed into the chair behind his desk, swiveled around and turned his eyes toward the ceiling.

Shaw made a helpless gesture. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s classified,” Dorgan said.

“What is?”

“The device. It’s a neurophonic prosthesis. Made of bioglass.”

“So it’s invisible to the body’s immune system.”

“Right.”

It was Ray Shaw’s turn to sit down. Settling onto the arm of a leather chair, he thought about what the physicist was saying.

“You should have told me how sensitive this was,” Dorgan complained.

“I didn’t know—”

“I was showing the Goddamn thing to anyone who’d look at it! And Fred—you know Fred—he goes way back—he takes a look, and
he
says, ‘We used to play with these in grad school.’ And I said, when was that—the Stone Age? And he laughs, and says, ‘Yeah, it was—everyone in the lab had his own lava lamp.’ Very funny. So I asked him: what is it? And he says, ‘Well, Charlie, it’s a neurophonic prosthesis—now I have to kill you.’ Ha ha, I say. And he gives me a funny look. A funny look!”

“You’re kidding.”

“The hell I am: he gives me a funny look, and says, ‘Seriously,’—
seriously
—’you shouldn’t have that thing. It was a government program. Very hush-hush. One of those programs that never happened. An experimental program.’”

Shaw’s face darkened. “This wasn’t an experiment,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I removed it from a patient.”

Dorgan blinked several times. Got his breath back. And asked: “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“No.”

The physicist pursed his lips, and took a deep breath. “The next thing you know, I’ve got
visitors
.” He paused for emphasis.

“Who?” Shaw asked.

“‘Who?’ Who do ya think? The Smoking Man and his evil twin—the Other Smoking Man.”

Shaw chuckled.

“I’m not kidding,” Dorgan insisted. “These guys were straight out of Central Casting. Big trench coats, and no sense of irony.”

“They say who they’re with?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact—it came up. They said they were with the Pentagon,” Dorgan replied, “only I notice their business cards have a 301 area code.”

“Which means …?”

Dorgan shrugged. “NSA?”

Shaw frowned. “So what was the point of the visit?”

“They wanted to know how I’d ‘come into possession of the device.’”

“And you
told
them?” Shaw asked, his face a mask of disappointment.

“Of course I told them! What was I supposed to do, Ray? They scared the shit out of me.”

“So …”

Dorgan hesitated. Finally, he said, “I don’t know. Maybe you should expect a visit.”

She had been sitting in the reception area for nearly twenty minutes when the door to Shaw’s office swung wide, and two men in black trench coats emerged, looking grim. Crossing the room to the hallway, they let themselves out without a word, while Shaw himself lingered in the doorway with a worried look on his face.

Tossing the
New Yorker
onto the table beside the couch, Adrienne got to her feet, and cleared her throat.

The psychiatrist turned to her with a distracted air. For a moment, it seemed as if he didn’t recognize her. Then he did, and, waking suddenly, exclaimed “Adrienne! Migod, come in.”

She followed him into his office, and took a seat in front of his desk. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

The psychiatrist looked worried and confused at the same time. “I’m not supposed to mention their visit,” he told her.

“Whose visit?”

“The men who were just here.”

“Oh,” she said, uncertain what he meant.

Shaw frowned. Looked her in the eyes. “You haven’t told me everything, have you? About our friend.”

She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “No,” she admitted. “Not everything.”

“Because, now … well, now there’s trouble.”

She was stricken at the thought that she’d drawn this kind and generous man into the mixing bowl of her own problems. And Duran’s.
McBride’s.
Nikki’s. “I thought, the less you knew …”

“They asked me for his medical file. I refused to give it to them.”

“Who?”

“The men who were here.”

Adrienne thought about it. “And who are they?”

The psychiatrist shook his head. “They said they’re with a government agency.”

“What agency?”

“They didn’t say.”

Adrienne made a face. “Well, if they want his medical file, they can get a subpoena—”

Doctor Shaw shook his head, and smiled ruefully. “I don’t think that’s the way they work. They were very forceful.”

“Oh.”

The psychiatrist did his best to push the men out of his mind. “You were going to look into Mr. McBride’s story. Did you find anything?”

Adrienne was relieved to change, if not the subject, the direction it was heading in. “Absolutely!” she exclaimed. “Beginning with the fact that he is who he says he is—except that he’s supposed to be dead.”

“What?”

“And he isn’t married. No wife, no child. No indictments for murder or anything else. None of that happened.” She removed a copy of the local man feared dead article from her purse, and pushed it across the desk. “He’s got longer hair in the picture, but … you can see it’s him.”

Shaw put on his reading glasses, glanced at the photograph, nodded, and focused. After a while, the psychiatrist looked up. “How can you be sure—”

“I went through every article on Nexis that mentioned anyone named McBride and San Francisco—’95 through ’97. There were hundreds of them, and there was nothing even remotely like the fairy tale he told you. And if I missed it, somehow—which I didn’t—it would certainly have been in the story about the plane crash—
if it
ever happened.”

Shaw leaned back in his chair, contemplating the ceiling. “And if he had a common-law wife? And a baby with a different last name? And if he was never a suspect in the murders …?”

“Doc. Please. You’re reaching.”

The psychiatrist thought about it. “I suppose I am.”

They agreed to meet at the hospital the next morning. In the meantime, Shaw said that he’d instruct the nursing staff to keep McBride under restraints, but desist from any further sedation.

Returning to the Mayflower, Adrienne changed into her running clothes, slipped a $10 bill into her right shoe, and took the elevator down to the lobby. Someone was taking down the Thanksgiving decorations. Rubbing his gloved hands together, the doorman shook his head in admiration as she stepped out into the freezing cold. “If I’m not back in an hour,” she told him, “send a St. Bernard for me.”

Overhead, the bare branches of ancient oaks and sycamores framed the sky. Mounds of dung lay on the powder-soft, equestrian trails. And then, a long hill, leading to a dark pond on the southern-most edge of Harlem. Clusters of private-school kids stood together, tieless and smoking—laughing, conspiring. The slur of Rollerblades on the pavement.
Thwockk
of tennis balls in the distance. Then the Reservoir, ringed with Cyclone fencing, the sun behind it, setting. Light flickering through the fence as Adrienne ran beside it, thinking about McBride.

How do you imagine a family
, she asked herself,
imagine it so perfectly that you become suicidal in the belief that you’ve killed them? And why now—why would McBride recall an imaginary and toxic past after the implant had been removed?

It didn’t make sense. Unless, of course, that was the point: to make “Duran” commit suicide if and when the device should ever be removed, if and when he should ever recover his memory. His
real
memory.

And now the men in trenchcoats …

Adrienne arrived at the hospital the next morning, almost half an hour early, refreshed from a long and dreamless sleep. She was hoping to see McBride before Shaw arrived, but the
nurse at the reception desk rebuffed her. “We don’t allow visitors on A-4. I’m sorry, but there are no exceptions.”

To the nurse’s irritation, she insisted on waiting.

It was ten a.m. when Doctor Shaw stepped off the elevator, looking gloomy and determined. He barked at the supervising floor nurse, who objected to Adrienne following him through the heavy doors that gave entry to Ward A. Nearby, a bank of television monitors flickered with the images of a dozen, small, white rooms, each of which held a single person, none of whom were moving much.

“You know the regulations, Doctor—”

“You’re right,” Shaw told the nurse. “I do. And if we weren’t in a hurry, I’d transfer the patient to another room—but we don’t have time for that.”

We don’t?
Adrienne thought.

“Well, if you’re going to violate protocol,” the nurse began, “I should think—”

“Why don’t you just make a report?” Shaw asked, striding away. “I’ll be releasing him in short order, anyway.”

“Releasing him? Mr. McBride isn’t in any condition—”

But Shaw wasn’t listening. He was walking so fast that Adrienne had to move at double-time, just to keep up with him.