The Syndrome (16 page)

After she’d participated in a couple of his neighborhood patrols, they’d become—well, friendly. Eddie helped Mrs. Spears with minor repairs from time to time, and he’d even helped Adrienne fix the windshield wipers on her ancient Subaru (or, as he called it: “the Japmobile”).

She called up her address book on the computer, found the number, and left a message on Bonilla’s answering machine. He had a pager and a mobile phone as well—Eddie had every gadget in the book—but she didn’t bother. He was famous for checking his messages.

Forty-five minutes later, he called back.

“What’s up?” he asked, as if he were her only phone call of the day.

“I was just wondering,” she said, abandoning a textbook on civil engineering.

“Yeh?”

“Yes. I was wondering if … if you could do some work for me.”

A short silence. And then: “Like what?”

“Well, it’s about my sister—”

“Oh yeah, I heard about that—that was a helluva thing. I meant to tell you how sorry I was, but … What do you have in mind? Is it the will, or—”

“No, it’s not that. It’s—well, there are a couple of things.”

“Such as what?”

In the ten days since Nikki had died, Adrienne had used what little spare time she had, or could steal, to put her sister’s affairs in order. And very quickly, it had become apparent that rather a lot of money was missing.

“You do asset searches, right?”

“Yeah,” Bonilla said. “You lose something?”

“Actually? About half a million dollars.”

“Ouch.”

“My sister had an accident. (A few years ago—in Germany.) And there was a settlement.”

“And you can’t find it?”

“I haven’t had a lot of time to look—I’ve been so busy. But … no.”

“What about her bankbooks?”

“She had a checking account with about two thousand dollars in it, and a savings account with … I think there’s fifteen K—but that’s it. Maybe she had another account—she must have had another account—but I don’t know where to look.”

“So how do you know she had this money? I mean, half a mil …?”

“She told me about it. It’s what she lived on. She didn’t have a job. And I was thinking, maybe she had it in stocks, or life insurance—an annuity. Could you find that out, if she did?”

Bonilla clicked the tip of his tongue against his palate, making a sort of clicking sound. Finally, he said, “Yeah. I could do that. No sweat.”

“Oh, that’s great—”

“You said there were
two
things …”

Adrienne hesitated for a moment, and then plunged in. “The other thing is: I’m thinking of bringing suit against her therapist.”

Bonilla’s grunt had a skeptical tone.

“There are malpractice issues—” Adrienne began, but Bonilla cut her off.

“I gotta be honest with ya, Scout. Sometimes, people get caught up in what they call ‘the grief process,’ y’know? And they go looking to blame somebody—”

“I’m not
looking
to blame anyone, Eddie. Her fucking therapist killed her.”

“Well, ‘killed her’—”

“The ‘memories’ Nikki ‘recovered’? There wasn’t anything to them. It was all a fantasy. I
know
, because I was there.”

Another grunt. “What kinda memories?” Bonilla asked.

Adrienne wasn’t sure how to put it. “Crazy stuff.”

“Like what?”

She took a deep breath. “Nikki thought she’d been abused.”

Adrienne could hear Bonilla thinking about it. Finally, he said, “So? It happens. Even in the best of families.”

“By Satanists.”

“Oh.” When she didn’t say anything, he asked, “You mean, with hoods and stuff?”

“Yeah. Hoods and candles and I don’t know what—goats’ heads.”

“Jeez …”

“It was supposed to have happened to me, too, but—believe me, you’d remember this stuff.”

“And you don’t.”

“No,” Adrienne replied. “I don’t.”

“And you think her therapist—”

“—invented it all.”

“Hunh! And why do you suppose he’d do that?”

“I don’t know. But it happens.”

“Yeah. That’s what I hear,” Bonilla said. And then: “I could see how maybe you wouldn’t want to
tell
, I mean if it was your old man or something—you’d probably get pretty bent out of shape, on account of the perversion and all. But not
remembering
—I got trouble with that. The way I see it, something like that happens, you got trouble
forgetting
it, not the other way around.”

“Exactly, and—”

“The thing is: what’s in it for this guy?” Bonilla asked. “The therapist, I mean. What’s
he
get out of it?”

“Two things. First, Nikki left him money in her will. For
helping
her, right? Second, I did some searches on the Web.
There’s actually a false memory group—parents, mostly, and family members—who say the accusations against them are nonsense, that therapists
want
clients to believe this kind of junk—”

“Why?”

“Because—it means more
therapy.
I want to take this guy to court—make an example of him.”

“And I’m gonna help you … how?”

“I want you to investigate him, find out if there are any complaints on file—that kinda thing.”

“So, we’re talkin’… what? Basic stuff. Credentials, credit rating? Like that?”

“Exactly.”

Bonilla was silent for a moment, and then said. “I can do that. But—”

“Nikki left me a little money. I can tap into it.”

“That’s not the point.”

“But it is! Of course I’ll pay!”

“Yeah, but—”

“Really, Eddie, I insist!”

He waited a few seconds, and then he said, “What I was gonna ask was: do you have a budget?”

“Oh.” She thought about it, suddenly embarrassed. “Would a thousand dollars—”

Bonilla laughed. “I’m pullin’ your leg! I’ll do it for expenses.” Once again, Adrienne began to protest, but he cut her off. “So whatta you have on the guy?”

She told him. Name and address. Telephone number.

“You got a Social?”

“No,” she replied, “but—I saw his diplomas.”

“You
what
?”

“I saw his diplomas.”

“You
went
there?”

“… uh-huh.”

A sad sigh on the other end of the line. “What’d you do that for? So you could scream at him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay,” Bonilla replied. “So where’d this turkey go to school?”

“Brown. And then a doctorate from Wisconsin. Clinical psychology.”

“What years?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Doesn’t matter.” The line was quiet for a while. Finally, Bonilla said, “Gimme a coupla days.”

And then he hung up.

Duran felt the air flex just before the phone rang, and thought,
The phone.
Then it rang—and he jumped, despite himself. Pushing the mute button on the remote control
(Oprah
was on), he lifted the receiver.

“Mr. Duran?”

The voice was a woman’s, polite and removed. A telemarketer, perhaps, but restrained—not gooey.

“Yes?”

“It’s Adrienne Cope.”

Oh.
His shoulders sagged, and he thought,
The woman’s unstable. Don’t take it personally.
“Oh, hello.” And then, after a short silence, he asked, “What can I do for you?”

“Well,” she said. “I’d like to come and see you—if you’d do me the courtesy.”

The courtesy?
He recalled her voice as she raged through the door—with de Groot in the other room:
You son of a bitch! You killed her!
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“It would only take a few minutes,” she promised. “I thought we could talk about Nikki.”

Duran winced inside himself. “It’s just that … I’m not sure there’s anything to be gained.”

“Please.
It wouldn’t take long, and—it would really help me.”

Duran thought about it, the silence thickening. Maybe she wanted to apologize for her behavior. Maybe she wanted to ask him about her sister’s problems. Talking to him might bring her to closure. It was never easy, he thought, for the people who were left behind. They often blamed themselves, and needed reassurance.

“It would only take a couple of minutes,” she suggested.

Duran heaved a sigh. “Fine.”

“Great. When would be good for you?” she asked, her voice suddenly crisp and efficient.

“Let me take a look,” Duran replied, and opened his appointments book. Finally, he said, “I could see you tomorrow afternoon. Two o’clock?”

That evening, he timed the arrival of his dinner (a four cheese pizza with artichoke hearts from Pizzeria Luna), so that he could eat it during a PBS documentary about the America’s Cup.

Watching the program, Duran felt an almost physical connection to the crew, lowering his head as the boat crested a buoy and came about. The crew’s movements seemed spectacularly fast and fluid on a vessel that was heeling over so sharply that water was pouring over the combings.

His pizza sat on the plate untouched as the sight of the boats held him. The spume of spray kicked up by the jutting prow, the way the sails slapped, slack, and then bellied full as the boat took hold of the wind—this sent an arrow of longing
through him so sharp that he could not have spoken if he had to. It was very peculiar. Without intending to, he found himself mimicking the motions of the sailors, tensing in synch with the on-screen crew, anticipating its motions with small, shadow actions.
Like a dog
, he thought,
moving its paws in a dream.

But where does it come from?
he wondered. It was all so familiar: the gurgle and slosh of the water, the flash and movement of the crew, the lines, the sails, the salt tang and sparkling sky. He was a sailor. He could feel it. He knew exactly what the crew was doing, and what they were
going
to do, even before they did it. He was able to anticipate every shift in tack, the precise moment when the hull’s momentum changed, when the wind filled the sails and the ship surged ahead.
And yet …

He had not a single memory of sailing a boat—or of being in a boat under sail. Still, he could feel that he was a sailor: it was hardwired into him, and there was no mistaking it. And no remembering, either. When he tried to recall even a single moment at sea, his mind went “into irons” as surely as a ship turning into the wind. The sails went slack, and the boat came to rest, dead in the water, luffing, still.

That’s me
, Duran thought.
My head’s in irons.
And for a moment, he wondered, half seriously, if perhaps he hadn’t been reincarnated. For how else could he have gained such knowledge, if not from a previous life?
Reincarnation would explain a lot of things
, Duran thought,
but … not this.
If true, it might explain life after death, but it could never answer the simpler and even more devastating question that Duran was asking himself:

How is it that I’ve become so alone in the world, so utterly disconnected from myself, that I can’t even recall if I know how to sail, or what it was like to be held by my mother. It’s as if I’ve become a sort of rough sketch of myself …

Frustrated by the Jacob’s Ladder of his own identity and feelings, he changed channels. There was a “Real World
Marathon” on MTV, and he didn’t have a client for a couple of hours.

When Nico’s sister appeared in his doorway the next afternoon, Duran was surprised to see that she was not alone.

A retro little man was at her side, bouncing on his heels. He seemed to be just this side or that of 50, with laser-trim sideburns and beady eyes. Even without looking, Duran could tell that his fingers were yellowed by nicotine.

“Hi,” Duran said, as he opened the door and stepped aside to let them in.

Adrienne tossed him a glance, and entered with her friend right behind her. It was amazing how much she looked like Nico, and yet … It was a Snow-White/Rose-Red kind of thing, with Adrienne definitely playing Snow-White. The last time Duran had seen Nico, she’d been wearing a tiny skirt and a skintight top. But her sister was having none of that. She wore a demure green dress that came to midcalf, with a rolled collar that crowded her chin. It was like looking at Nico playing dress-up, pretending to be her kindergarten teacher.

Duran closed the door, and turned to his guests. The man handed him an envelope. Duran looked puzzled. “What’s this?”

“You’ve been served,” the man told him.

“I’ve been what?”

“Served.”

“With what?”

A chuckle from Sideburns, who cast a sidelong glance at Adrienne. “Whattaya think?” he asked.

Duran turned to Adrienne, whose cheeks were bright red, though he couldn’t tell if embarrassment or venom had put the color there.

“I’m suing you,” Adrienne said.

“For what?” Duran replied.

“For the intentional infliction of emotional distress—and fraud.” She nodded toward the envelope in his hand. “That’s
the complaint,” she explained, “and a summons to appear in court. You have twenty days to respond.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Duran exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“There’s more,” Adrienne went on. “We’ve been to the police. They want to talk with you.”

Duran shook his head. “Look,” he said, “I know what grief can do to people, but … your sister was a very troubled woman.”

“And you’re a very troubled man,” Sideburns said. “Or you will be—because you’re going to the joint, ‘Doc’”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Duran said.

“There’s nothing ‘ridiculous’ about it. You’re a fraud,” Adrienne told him.

“And we can prove it,” Sideburns said.

Duran closed his eyes, and shook his head. Then he opened his eyes, and looked directly into Adrienne’s. “I did everything I could for your sister.”

“Actually,” Sideburns said, “that might be true—but it’s not the point. The issue is: you’re a quack. You broke the law.”

“What law?”

“You got a pencil? Write this down: Chapter 33, Section 2, 3310 dot 1. Check it out.”

“Check
what
out?” Duran asked.