The Syndrome (5 page)

“There’s a light breeze on your cheeks. It lifts your hair and bends the grass …”

As she was told, she opened a small white gate and walked down several flights of lichen-covered steps, descending through a dappled shade to a secluded pool. There, she sat on a fallen trunk of a moss-encrusted oak, watching the sunlight “sift through the trees and dance on the water.” Nico’s left hand rolled over the side of the couch, trailing against the rug, dipping into the cool water.

She was in her “safe place,” where nothing and no one could hurt her. Duran watched her chest rise and fall as he began to regress her. “Let’s go back,” he said. “To when you were a girl.”

“I
am
a girl.”

“A
little
girl. Twelve … eleven … ten. Do you remember?”

She shifted uncomfortably on the couch, and nodded. Duran was a few feet away, leaning forward in a wing chair, amazed at the way her face had changed, the wised-up and guarded neutrality giving way to a look of sweet and energetic innocence. She was a child again, and even her voice was childlike.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“South Carolina.”

“At your foster parents’?”

“Umm-hmmm. In our house. It’s a big white house, way out in the boonies.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You
know.”

“Tell me again.”

Her brow furrowed. “It has columns. Big old white columns. Like rich people. Only the paint’s all peeling and you can see they’re not really solid—just slats of wood, glued together. And now they’re coming apart. So maybe—maybe it’s going to fall down.”

“What is?” Duran asked.

“The porch.”

“Okay … what else?”

“Trees.”

“What trees?”

“There are
trees.
Live oaks. The house is at the end of a little road—”

“A long driveway,” he corrected.

“‘A long driveway,’ with life oaks on both sides.”

“Live
oaks,” he corrected.

“Right. That’s what they call them—except they don’t really look alive. They look old and dead. And everybody thinks they’re wonderful. Except me.”

“You don’t like them?”

“No. I’m scared of them!”

“Why?”

“Because …”

“Because of what?”

“They’re creepy.”

“‘Creepy’? What do you mean, they’re creepy?”

“On account of the cobwebs.”

“You mean the Spanish moss,” Duran told her.

“Unh-huh.”

“And what else?” he asked.

Nico’s brows furrowed as she thought about it. Finally, she shook her head.

“Didn’t Deck do something with the moss?” Duran asked.

Once again, she shifted on the couch. After a moment, she nodded. “Mmmm-hmmm.”

“What did he do?”

She turned her head toward the cushions. “He put it in his hair on the shadow-nights.”

Duran nodded. “‘And it was like’—what was it like?”

“Cobwebs.”

He leaned closer to her. “Tell me about Deck,” he said.

“I don’t
like
Deck,” she exclaimed. Suddenly, her eyes flew open, and she started to sit up. “But—you can’t
tell
him!”

“I won’t.”

“Promise!”

“I will. I do. Now, lay back. Close your eyes. You’re safe here.” Duran could see that she was beginning to hyperventilate. “It’s just you and me, and the wind and the stream and … Okay?”

She nodded.

After a while, he returned to the subject. “Why don’t you like Deck?”

She was silent for upwards of a minute, her chest rising and falling. Duran waited patiently for the answer, his eyes on her lips. Finally, she blurted out the words: “Because of what he does!”

“And what’s that?”

Nico squirmed. “He pretends we’re going to church with our friends, but it isn’t a church that we go to—it’s just a tunnel under the basement—”

“And what happens there?”

Nico’s body became very still. Then she shook her head.

“Didn’t you make movies, sometimes?”

She nodded.

“Tell me about the movies,” Duran said.

Nico frowned, then rolled over onto her side, so that she was facing away from Duran, with her eyes on the back of the couch. “I can’t,” she said.

“You can’t?”

She shook her head.

“Why not?” Duran asked.

“Because I just can’t.”

“You can’t remember
any
of them?”

Once again, she shook her head.

“But … I remember one,” Duran told her. “Wasn’t there one where … where you got married?”

Reluctantly, Nico nodded and, as she did, Duran saw her stubbornness dissolve into a mix of apprehension and unhappiness.

“So let’s go back to that,” Duran suggested. “The wedding. Tell me about the wedding.”

And so she did. Under Duran’s guidance, Nico recounted her older sister’s death in a pornographic film that starred the two of them, with a younger sister playing a supportive role. This was territory that Nico and Duran had visited often. It was the heart of the matter for Nico, and coming to grips with it was vital.

“I’m all in white,” she said breathlessly. “Dressed as a bride with a long train, and a bouquet of flowers.”

“What kind of flowers?”

“Baby’s breath and red roses,” she answered without hesitation. “And ferns. Rosanna is the groom—which is silly, because she’s a girl.”

“What’s she wearing?” Duran asked.

“A black tuxedo with a red carnation. She looks so beautiful! Adrienne is the ring bearer.”

“And how is Adrienne dressed?”

“She’s
not
dressed. She has a garland of flowers in her hair, that’s all.”

“And you walk down some kind of aisle?”

“Ummmhmmmn.”

“Are there candles?”

“Yes. Candles and chanting. And then the minister stands before us, asking, ‘Do you take this man …?’” Her voice faded, and she seemed to lose concentration.

Duran prompted her. “The minister asks, ‘Do you take this man’—and then what? As I recall, that was your cue—”

“Right,” Nico said.

“That was your cue to—what?”

“Kneel down.”

“And?”

“Open my mouth.”

Nico’s discomfort was palpable now, and Duran was worried that the discomfort would devolve into hysteria, as it had on some earlier occasions. So he changed tack. “Tell me about Rosanna,” he said. “Who is she?”

“The groom.”

Duran waved the answer away, as if it were a fruit fly. “Right. In the movie, she’s the groom. But … who
was
she—really?”

“You mean, outside the movie?”

“Unh-huh.”

“She was my sister. Rosanna was my big sister, and then there’s Adrienne. Adrienne is my little sister.”

“I see …”

“Because when I was ten, Adrienne was only five. So that meant I was
a lot
older!”

“You have two sisters, then.”

Nico shook her head. “No,” she said. “Just Adrienne. I don’t have Rosanna anymore.”

“Why not?”

“She died.”

“Oh … I’m sorry,” Duran told her, and fell silent for a moment. Then: “How?”

“How what?”

“How did she
die?”

“She died in the movie!” Nico whispered.

“Ohhh, that’s right,” Duran said. “She died
in the movie!
But it was just a movie.”

“Nunh-unh. It was real!”

“What was?”

“The movie!”

“How do you mean?”

“It was real! They pulled back her hair and—”

“Who?”

“A man.”

“What man?”

“The man in the red hood. He was wearing a robe, and there was a hood on it.”

“A robe?”

“Everyone
was wearing a robe—except me. And Rosanna. Adrienne and Deck.”

“What was Deck wearing?”

Nico frowned with childlike concentration. Finally, she said, “Straps.”

“What?”

“He was supposed to be the priest—a really important priest! But he wasn’t dressed like a priest.”

“What was he dressed like?”

“I don’t know,” Nico said. “He was just wearing straps. Leather straps. And the cobwebs.”

“Okay,” Duran told her, “but … you said they pulled Rosanna’s hair back.”

Nico nodded. “Unh-huh.”

“And … when this happened—where was she?”

“On the floor.”

“What was she doing?”

“She was just … on her hands and knees.”

“Why?”

“Because there was sex!”

“She was having sex?”

Another nod.

“With who?” Duran asked.

“Some men.”

“But … wasn’t she very young?”

Nico shrugged. “Twelve.”

“Okay. She was having sex, and—then what?”

“I told you. The man in the red hood pulled her hair back …”

“And?”

“He cut her.”

“Where did he cut her?” Duran asked.

She touched a finger to her throat. “There …”

“And then?”

Nico made a keening sound, and turned her face toward the cushions.

“Don’t look away, Nico. You have to face it. Just tell me what happened.”

“Rosanna’s eyes got so big—she was so scared! Because the blood
was foaming
out of her, and she couldn’t even say anything—she just made a noise—”

“And where were you when this was happening?”

“Under Deck.”

“Okay, but … if it was just a movie—if it was just pretend—”

Nico shook her head, violently. “No,” she insisted, pushing up on her elbows, her voice swelling with panic. “It
wasn’t
‘just pretend.’ It was real. It was
really
real! Deck kept the movie in a special box—with a lock. And, sometimes, he made me watch it with him, but—you couldn’t see Rosanna anymore—except in the movie. Because Rosanna was gone. Rosanna died in the tunnel, the tunnel they said was a church …”

Duran tried to calm her, shushing softly. “Sshhhhhh … it’s okay. You’re here with
me
, now. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

Slowly, the tension seeped out of her, and her head fell back on the cushions. Duran could see that she was exhausted.

Talking quietly, he guided her slowly out of the trance, retracing the steps they’d taken through the imaginary terrain that was so familiar to them both. The path. The stream. The trailhead.

“Take a deep breath,” he told her. “The air is delicious. So sweet and crisp and cool.”

Her chest rose and fell. And rose again.

“When I count to five,” he said, “you’ll wake up, and you’ll feel relaxed and refreshed, okay?” Without waiting for a reply, he began to count: “One … two … three …”

Nico’s eyes fluttered and opened, revealing dark, unfocused pupils that dwindled in the light. Duran handed her a Kleenex.

“You’ve done some really good work, Nico. I’m proud of you.”

She blinked furiously at the light, until Duran came into focus. Then she swung her feet off the couch, sat up, and cleared her throat. Her face was flushed, but her eyes were shining and clear.

“So it was okay?” she asked.

He nodded. “Absolutely. And we’ll talk again on Friday.” With that, he helped her up, and showed her to the door, where she gave him a big smile, and a lingering kiss on the cheek.

“You really make my day, Doc.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m here,” he joked. Then he got serious. “There’s one thing, though.”

“What?”

“Your lithium—
take
it, Nico.”

She rolled her eyes, and looked away.

“Promise me,” he repeated.

Reluctantly, she nodded. “I hate it,” she said. “It makes me feel dead.”

“It keeps you grounded. And you need that. You want to be on a roller-coaster all the time?”

She shook her head.

“Then take your medication.”

When the door closed behind her, Duran went back to his desk and typed a brief summary of the afternoon’s session.

When he’d finished his summary, Duran attended to the tape recording that he’d made. Removing the cassette from the machine, he wrapped it in a length of bubble wrap, which he then secured with rubber bands. This done, he slid the package into a JetPak, and addressed it to the Mutual General Assurance Company in New York City.

Then he sat back in his chair. The nearest mailbox was a block away, a
long
block away, at the corner of Porter and Connecticut. He’d have to take the elevator down, and—

He didn’t like to leave the building.

There it was. He didn’t like to leave the building. But of course, he had to.

Package in hand, he went into the hallway and pressed the button for the elevator, thinking that the best thing to do was to think about something else.

Like SRA. (Talk about a mess …)

Nico’s story was shocking, of course—but it was wholly unoriginal. If you read the literature, there were hundreds of accounts of “organized” child abuse. And almost all of them were the same—a lurid narrative that strained credulity to the breaking point.

The elevator arrived. The doors drew apart, and Duran stepped inside. Pressed 1. Began riding down.

Depending on the therapist you talked to, or the paper that you read, SRA was either a mass delusion or something less probable, but even worse—an epidemic set in motion by a demonic underground whose perversions centered upon, and were ignited by, the ritual murder of children.

The elevator doors opened, and Duran stepped into the lobby. Looking neither left nor right, but concentrating on the monologue inside his head, he took the revolving doors to the outside and strode briskly toward the mailbox on the corner. It was one of those cool and windy days that made it seem as if the whole world was air-conditioned. Overhead, the branches of trees rocked in the gusting air, even as the windows of storefronts rattled up and down the avenue.