The Syndrome (2 page)
Authors: John Case
And the aerosol? What was that
?
He tried to raise his head—tried to sit up—but it wasn’t possible. He was strapped to a gurney, flat on his back, and soaked in lassitude. A tranquilizer, then, and by the feel of it, a powerful one. Thorazine, maybe. He closed his eyes, thinking,
I should be frightened … it would be healthier to be frightened.
They must have been riding for an hour or more, and never once did the driver use the siren—just the lights. Every so often, McBride’s eyes fluttered open, and there they were, rotating over the ceiling:
Red … yellow … red …
It was so strange. Wherever the ambulance was, wherever they’d been, there wasn’t any traffic. The ambulance cruised at a comfortable speed that seldom varied—as if they were on a highway, or driving through the country. Which didn’t make sense. There were lots of hospitals in Zurich—so why leave town? If it was an emergency—and it
had
to be an emergency, because … if it wasn’t …
The tranquilizer was beginning to wear off, and as it did, he could feel the first stirrings of anxiety, deep within his chest.
Then they were there—wherever “there” was. The ambulance crunched to a stop on what sounded like gravel, and the lights winked off on the ceiling. Then the car door slammed, and the walls trembled. People talking in Swiss-German, and the rear doors opening with a yank. A rush of fresh air, and then the gurney began to move underneath him.
“Where’m I?” A funny building, barely glimpsed—but modern. Then a face, looming in front of his own.
“Not to talk.”
And then they were inside. Down a long hallway, and into a brightly lighted room. Where he was left for nearly half an hour, his mouth getting drier and drier as he stared at the clock, high up on a glazed, ceramic wall.
“You’re very brave.”
The voice came from the end of the gurney. It was
Opdahl’s voice under Opdahl’s eyes, staring at him over the edge of a surgical mask.
The tranquilizer was history by now, and McBride found himself able to speak without much difficulty. “What’s happening?” he asked. And then, when no reply was forthcoming: “What are you
doing
?”
“Vec,” Opdahl said—but not to him.
A needle appeared—McBride saw it for the best part of a second, then felt the sting just below his elbow. Instantly, everything began to slow down. His heart seemed to start and stop, as if he’d been punched in the chest. And, suddenly, he couldn’t get his breath. He was suffocating, and the realization made him panic. And as the panic rose inside him, he lunged, lunged reflexively against the straps that bound him. He was determined to stand. If he could stand, he could breathe. But the straps wouldn’t budge, or—not that. It wasn’t the straps. It was him. He was paralyzed, as immobile as a butterfly under glass.
Opdahl leaned closer to him, so close that McBride could feel the older man’s breath on his face. Then the point of a scalpel touched his throat, just above the breastplate, and he felt the knife cut through the skin. “Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh,” Opdahl whispered, though McBride had not made a sound. “It’s going to be all right.”
But it wasn’t.
He was dying. He might as well have been underwater, encased in concrete, or buried alive. Airless and frantic, he felt something enter the wound in his throat. Whatever it was, it tore at the tissues in his neck as Opdahl worked it into him. Then a machine began to pump from somewhere behind him and, suddenly, he was breathing again—or the machine was breathing for him. He couldn’t tell.
The older man checked the pupils of McBride’s eyes, shining a penlight into the back of his head, oblivious to McBride himself. Then McBride felt himself being cranked into what was almost a sitting position. A moment later, a large machine was rolled to the side of the operating
table, even as a second machine—itself about the size of a refrigerator—whirred into operation. McBride recognized the first device as an operating microscope, and guessed that the second was a fluoroscope, capable of generating live X rays throughout an operation.
Opdahl hove into view again, as someone wheeled a television monitor up to the operating table. It rested on a little stand, glowing brightly, and McBride’s eyes were drawn to it. With a sickening sensation, he realized that the man on the screen with a trache tube in his throat was himself.
“You’re going to be all right,” Opdahl promised. “Not to worry.” Then he reached for one of the surgical instruments that lay in a steel tray at his side. “We’ve given you eight milligrams of Vecuronium—that’s why you can’t move. It’s a paralytic.” He paused. “But not, I’m afraid, an anaesthetic.”
Then he nodded at the small monitor next to the table. “I’m sorry you have to watch this,” Opdahl told McBride, “but it’s a part of the procedure.” With that, he turned to the nurse, and nodded. Wordlessly, she stepped behind McBride and, reaching toward him, seized his upper lip between her thumbs and forefingers. Then she pulled it back, exposing his upper gum.
Opdahl leaned in, and drew his scalpel across the bit of tissue that held McBride’s lip to the gum beneath his nose. This done, and as the paralyzed McBride stared in terror at the monitor, Opdahl began the procedure known as “de-gloving,” delicately prying the younger man’s face away from the skull, peeling the skin back to reveal a direct passage into his brain.
October 7, 2000
Florida
She was in a kind of road-trance, coasting south with her eyes on the horizon, not quite listening to the radio—that was, in any case, playing songs from her infancy. The car was a cherry-red BMW convertible, a Z-3 with new Michelins and a killer radio that seemed to be tuned to the past. Removing her sunglasses, Nico put the car on cruise-control—she didn’t want to speed—she knew
better
than to speed—and hit the
seek
button.
Easy listenin’. Country. Oldies. Salsa.
A riot of oleanders divided the highway, which unfurled across a sunbaked landscape that was flat as a pool table, seedy and glamorous, all at once. Dilapidated double-wides hunkered beside the road under canopies of live oaks strung with Spanish moss. Here and there: confederate flags and pink flamingos. Mortuaries and nursing homes. A roadside stand selling boiled peanuts, Cajun and plain.
Florida
, she thought, then shook her head and rolled her eyes behind her Ray•Bans.
What glamour there was, was in the light, and in the Dodger-blue sky. It was in the pastel promise of the Gulf coast, a few miles west, and it was in Nico, too. Like the car she drove, Nico was a masterpiece, fast and expensive.
She’d come down by train from Washington to Orlando, where the BMW was waiting for her in a parking lot at the train station. (She’d have preferred to fly—she liked to fly—but, under the circumstances, what with her baggage and all, flying wasn’t practical, flying wasn’t even an option.) Taking
the I-4 to the Tamiami Trail, she’d turned south just outside of Tampa. This was Florida, trashy side up, all strip malls and trailer camps, parking lots and gas stations.
But all that began to change when she left the Trail, heading west toward the causeway that connected Anna Maria Island to the mainland. At first, it was the same-old/same-old, a constellation of Shoney’s, Wal-Marts and Exxons. Stopped at a traffic light, she glanced to her right and saw, with a shock of surprise, an unkempt woman lounging on the pavement next to a shopping cart piled high with plastic bags of what looked like trash. Hanging from the side of the cart was a hand-lettered, cardboard sign that read:
secret service mafia scum
murdered diana—jack—adlai
dag! maser whores and elf
slaves! you too!
Once Nico pulled away from the light, she left the craziness behind—or, at least, the crazy lady—and, with it, the down-at-the-heels world of the Inland.
Her destination was a rich man’s redoubt, a barrier island just a few miles north of Sarasota, a lush sandspit dappled with turquoise swimming pools and emerald-green golf courses. This was a place where million-dollar villas and high-rise condos stood their ground on a shimmering blond beach that, seen from the sky, made the island look as if it had been outlined with a yellow highlighting pen.
Or so she thought. She’d never actually been there. At least, she didn’t
think
she had. But she’d seen the pictures and brochures. And the place was beautiful. Longboat Key—the Florida that old money dreamed of.
Seeing a sign for La Resort, Nico turned into a boulevard of palm trees, which took her to the front door of a low-slung villa with apricot walls. Killing the engine, she unfolded her long legs, and climbed out into the rapt gaze of the bellboy.
“Checking in?”
“Hope so,” she said and, tossing him the keys, bounded up the steps to the office.
Inside, a big “Hi there!” from the clerk behind the desk, who, unlike Nico, was dressed for air-conditioning: white shirt and tie, khakis, and a blazer.
“Brrrr,” she replied, with a wince of a smile.
The clerk laughed, and pushed a registration card across the desk. Like the bellboy, he was a nice-looking young man with closely cropped blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. Over the pocket on the left breast of his blazer was La Resort’s logo, a pink-and-cream orchid flanked by palm fronds.
“Do you have a reservation?”
“Unh-huh,” she said. “It’s Nico Sullivan. Nicole.”
“If you’ll fill that out,” he told her, “I’ll take an imprint of your credit card—and we’ll get Travis to help you with your luggage.” Taking a brochure from a Lucite display stand, he turned it upside down, and sketched a line in ballpoint from
You Are Here
to a building marked
Flagler Tower.
Then he typed something on his computer, reached under the desk, and produced a white plastic card with Nico’s name embossed upon the resort’s logo.
“This is your key,” he said. “It’s a charge card, too. So you can use it for anything at the resort—drinks, clothes, golf lessons—you name it! Just show the key, and it’s yours.”
“Thanks!” Nico replied, reaching for the card with a bright smile. But the clerk held onto it for just a second too long, flirting with her.
“Any questions?” he asked.
Nico laughed, a musical giggle. She gave the card a little tug, and he let go. “If I think of anything,” she said, “I’ll give you a call.”
“I’d like that,” he replied.
She ran her fingers over the embossment of her name, and looked up. “This looks out over the beach, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“So it faces west …?”
The clerk nodded.
“Oh, good,” she said, “because I’m really looking forward to the sunsets.”
“Well, you won’t be disappointed,” he told her.
A moment later, she emerged from the office to find the bellboy waiting with her luggage on a trolley. Nearby, the BMW sat in the shade under an arbor of bougainvillea.
“Nice ride,” the kid remarked.
“Thanks.”
Together, they followed the sidewalk to the Flagler Building, making small talk about real estate and the weather. When they got to the elevator, they had to wait and, as they did, Nico’s wristwatch began to chime, an insistent electronic flutter that reminded her to take her medication. The bellhop smiled. “Throw it away,” he suggested.
“I wish I could!”
“Hey, this is Florida! We don’t have appointments here! You just … go with the flow.”
She laughed politely, but the truth was, she
did
have appointments. There was the appointment with her laptop every afternoon at four, and the appointment with her meds, twice a day. The meds were a lithium compound prescribed by the Clinic. Duran said they were used to treat “bipolar disorder,” or manic-depression, which meant that she had a problem with her moods. Like everyone else, she had her highs and lows except, in her case, the highs were in orbit and the lows could give you black lung. The lithium kept her on an even keel—which was good, if you liked even keels.
But she didn’t, really. She was a girl who liked to fly. And, as a matter of fact, she was feeling pretty good right now, standing next to good ole Travis, waiting for the elevator.
Which raised the question: why not do as the natives do, and just … go with the flow? Like the bellboy said. Accentuate the positive—eliminate the negative.
And only the negative.
It wouldn’t be the first time….
She touched the little button on her wristwatch, killing the alarm. A moment later, the doors slid open with a clatter, and the two of them got in. Slowly, the elevator began to rise until
it came to a shuddering stop on the eighth floor. A couple of turns down the open-air corridor brought them to a door marked 806-E. The bellboy inserted the key-card in the lock, and waited for the diode to flash green. When it did, he pushed the door open and held it for her.
“Oh, wow!” she gushed, sweeping into the living room, and doing a little turn. “It’s great!”
And so it was. The suite was large and airy, a choir of pale blues and soft pinks, with a long balcony, lots of rattan and a high-rise view across the water toward Mexico. Nico unlocked the French doors to the balcony, pushed them open and stepped into the sunshine.
“You want me to show you around?” the bellboy asked, placing her baggage on a luggage rack, just inside the door.
“That’s okay,” she said, returning inside. “I’ll figure it out.”
The bellboy shrugged, and flashed a boyish grin that had a little too much practice in it. “Whatever.” The question had been rhetorical, a way of keeping the conversation going. He knew the kinds of guests that enjoyed a tour of the amenities, and this one, cool as a popsicle in her sherbert-green sundress, was definitely not the type.
Nico smiled, pushed a fiver into his hand and walked him to the door. “Thanks for the help,” she said, as she closed the door behind him. Then she turned on her heel, and went to the computer carrying case in which she kept her meds.
Opening it, she rummaged through its interior until she found what she was looking for—sort of. There were two little orange bottles made of plastic. The first, which held a month’s supply of lithium, was almost empty.