The Syndrome

by John Case

  No, no and maybe, with half of the people they asked too stoned to remember. But the DJ at Rumplestiltskin helped them out by writing down a list of discotheques where “trance” was played, or failing that, a close relative—“house music.” But no one at any of the places they visited knew Henrik de Groot by name or description.

  “We could sleep in the train station,” Adrienne suggested. “Or in the car. I’m whacked.”

  McBride nodded. “Okay, but just a couple more.”

  By the time he’d drawn a line through three more clubs on the DJ’s list, the night was shading toward dawn and the discos were closing, disgorging rowdy clusters onto the streets, their laughter piercing the cold morning air. He was about ready to pack it in—and so was Adrienne who, game and uncomplaining, was nevertheless dazed by fatigue, so tired that occasionally she failed to pick up a foot and stumbled.

  “One more,” McBride said, “and then we’ll get some coffee.”

  And that’s when he saw it:

  TRANCE KLUB and beneath those words, a circular sign displaying a dizzying pattern of silver and black concentric circles in the center of which a neon eye winked on and off. Chase lights zoomed around the circles like Pac-Men run amok. McBride stared so long and hard that when the eye blinked off, its afterimage floated on the inside of his eyelid.

  “Hey,” he said, heading toward the sign at a trot, pulling Adrienne along with him.

  “What?” Adrienne asked.

  “He used to come here.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He had a matchbook. On top of his cigarettes. Menthol cigarettes. I remember seeing it—when I was Duran.”

  She gave him a funny look.

  Inside, the waitresses and bartenders were sitting at the bar, cashing out over cigarettes and coffee. “Geschloten,” one man said, a silver barbell bobbing on the end of his tongue. He gestured toward the dingy expanse behind him. A dark-skinned older man with a ponytail ran a huge vacuum cleaner over a grubby black floor stenciled with disintegrating silver stars.

  “I’m looking for someone,” McBride said. A spiky-haired waitress with silver lipstick opened her mouth, and McBride cut her off. “No jokes. I’m looking for a Dutchman. Big guy. Blond hair. His name’s Henrik.”

  “Sure,” the waitress said. “I know Henrik. He’s here a lot—unless he’s traveling.”

  “Was he here tonight?”

  “Yeah. He left an hour ago.” She frowned. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “I’m his therapist,” McBride told her.

  She nodded, as if this made perfect sense. “Well, you got that right—Henrik is one sick fuck.”

  “You know where he’s staying?” Adrienne asked.

  The waitress gave them an evaluating look. “Maybe… is he in trouble?”

  McBride made a sort of hapless gesture. “I wouldn’t be here at seven in the morning if—”

  “He’s in the Alpenrösli flats—on the way to Klosters.”.

  The man with the barbell in his tongue looked surprised. “And how do you know that?”

  “Fuck off,” she replied.

  The Alpenrösli condominiums were in a half-timbered building on a hillside just out of town. The structure housed four self-catering flats that were rented out by the week or the month, and a caretaker’s flat below.

  “We are complete,” said the gray-haired woman who lived on the lower floor.

  “We’re looking for Mr. de Groot,” McBride told her.

  The woman shrugged. “Of course. Number 4—but he doesn’t come home yet. All night, he’s dancing, and then I think he goes to work.”

  “And where is that?”

  The woman shook her head. “I don’t ask.”

  They sat in the car in the parking lot outside the Alpenrösli and waited, turning the heater on and cranking it up whenever they couldn’t stand the cold any longer or the windows steamed up. They took turns napping (there was nothing else they could do), and Adrienne went out for sandwiches at noon, walking halfway into town. By two P.M., the sky had darkened to the color of a deep bruise, and there was still no sign of de Groot. An hour later, the mountains were rumbling with thunder, and a soft snow had begun to fall.

  “Maybe it’s time for Plan B,” McBride suggested.

  “And what is that?” Adrienne asked.

  McBride shook his head. “I dunno—I was hoping you did.” In fact, Plan B was the police. It was their only option. But after what had happened at the clinic, no one was going to listen to them. By now, they were almost certainly the objects of a massive manhunt. If taken into custody, there’d be a million questions about the slaughter at the clinic, before anybody was going to listen to their theory about Jericho. And by the time they did listen, it would be too late.

  Lights began to flicker on across the valley at 4:15 in the afternoon. Cramped and cold, McBride felt as if his legs were about to fall off at the knees, even as a carbon monoxide headache gathered at the back of his head. And then, quite suddenly, he was there—de Groot was there, head down, trudging up the street, wearing jeans, boots and a shearling jacket. In each hand, a plastic supermarket bag. “There he is,” McBride said, suddenly sitting up behind the wheel.

  They watched the Dutchman through a screen of falling snow, as he pushed open the gate to the Alpenrösli and tramped up the exterior stairs. Then he was out of sight, presumably inside Apartment 4—which was on the top floor in the back.

  “Stay here,” McBride ordered, pushing the button that unlocked the trunk, and opening the driver’s door.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Adrienne demanded. “I’m not going to stay here!”

  He leaned toward her, and brushed her lips with his own. “Watch my back.”

  Not waiting for an answer, he got out and grabbed the shotgun from the trunk. Then he followed de Groot’s footprints through the snow to the exterior stairs, and climbed to the top. There, he paused at the door to Number 4, took a deep breath, and rapped softly on the door. Then he stood back and waited with the shotgun in his hands, the barrel pointing at the floor. But nothing happened. He rapped again. Still no response. Frustrated, he pounded harder on the door, which swung open of its own accord.

  Still carrying the shotgun, he stepped inside the doorway, casting his eyes left and right, listening hard. To nothing. If de Groot was in the flat, he must be standing stock-still, McBride thought, and holding his breath. And if he wasn’t in the flat…

  Entering the living room, McBride noticed a table with half a dozen lightbulbs scattered across it. Little lightbulbs, and all of them broken. Nearby, an electric drill and a glue gun. What the fuck?

  A few steps took him into a truncated hallway—with one door on the left, and another on the right. Opening the door to the left, he found himself looking into de Groot’s bedroom. Which was not so much a place to sleep as it was a sort of quacked-out racist diorama, with crude collages plastered to the wall. Pornographic pictures of black men and young blond women. Desmond Tutu’s head on a chimpanzee’s body. Some UFO photos, and a poster of Nelson Mandela with a circle drawn around his head in Magic Marker, the whole bisected by a diagonal red bar. Nearby, a third collage, consisting of Thabo Mbeki’s head amid a bonfire of worms, with the nightcrawlers rising around the South African president’s cheeks and ears like flames. On the floor beside the bed, a pile of strange and unpleasant zines: The Odinist, Contre le Boue, Der Broederbond Report. And on the far wall, facing the collages, simpy and idolatrous portraits of Adolf Hitler and Swiss ufologist Billy Meier.

  It’s a stageset, McBride thought. Prima facie evidence that the occupant’s a “lone nut.” But there was nothing imaginative about it. Like de Groot’s screen memory, the scene in front of him was crude and trite, reminiscent of a cheap television show—a second-rate producer’s idea of a racist’s inner sanctum. If he looked around a bit, McBride was sure he’d find a diary filled with Freudian slips and parapolitical mumbo-jumbo. Maybe a picture or two, with de Groot ho
lding a gun and a copy of The Turner Diaries.

  But where was the actor himself? Where was the star? Heart thudding, McBride returned to the hallway and, holding the shotgun level at his waist, pushed open the door to what turned out to be the bathroom.

  “Henrik?”

  With the shotgun’s barrel, he drew the shower curtain aside. But there was nothing. And no one.

  Confused, he made his way back to the living room—and there he was, standing behind Adrienne, holding a gun to her head.

  The Dutchman smiled. “Dr. Duran! I’m so glad to see you—”

  “Look, Henrik, there’s no need to—”

  “Welcome to Davos! Really, it’s a great place! Now, if you’ll just put your gun down… I don’t want to hurt you or your pretty friend.”

  McBride set the shotgun on the floor, never taking his eyes from de Groot. “Just let her go. She isn’t—”

  “Shhhhhh,” de Groot said, finger to his lips. “We’re with the Worm.” He angled his head in the direction of the sofa. “Over there,” he ordered, and gave Adrienne a gentle push. McBride joined her and, together, they sat down. The Dutchman stooped to the floor, picked up the shotgun, and removed the magazine. Tossing it into a corner of the room, he ejected the rounds that remained in the weapon’s chamber, and threw it onto a nearby chair.

  Going into the kitchen, he returned a moment later with a roll of duct tape. Tossing it to McBride, he ordered him to bind Adrienne’s hands and feet, and tape her mouth. Seeing his reluctance, de Groot approached the couch and, without warning, hit McBride flush in the mouth with the butt of his revolver.

  Stepping back, he watched with satisfaction as his erstwhile therapist did as he’d been told, tearing off a strip of tape to place across the terrified young woman’s mouth.

  “Now it’s your turn,” de Groot said, removing his shearling coat and hanging it on the back of a chair. Around his neck was a laminated ID, hanging from a beaded chain.

  “Listen, Henrik—”

  The Dutchman frowned. “Not to talk,” he ordered.

  At that moment, the house shook with a sudden gust of wind, the lights flickered, and the gate below banged. Distracted, de Groot went to the window and looked out. “Storm,” he said.

  “Henrik, it’s really important that you listen to me.”

  “I can’t listen to you both.”

  “‘Both’?”

  “The Worm,” Henrik explained.

  “I know what you’re going to do, Henrik. And it’s a very bad idea.”

  “Oh? And just what is it that I’m going to do?”

  “You’re going to shoot Mandela and the others.”

  De Groot shook his head. “Put six loops around your feet—tight.” He paused. “I’m not going to shoot anyone.”

  “You’re not?” McBride was confused.

  “No. Now bind your feet, Dr. Duran. Around your ankles. Six loops.”

  McBride bent to his task, unspooling the tape and winding it slowly around his ankles.

  “There won’t be any firearms,” de Groot promised. “Just fire.” A snort of laughter jerked from his mouth.

  McBride finished with the tape, and looked up. “What are you talking about?”

  The Dutchman ignored the question. “Now, put your hands behind your back,” he ordered. When McBride complied, de Groot grabbed the duct tape and began to bind his wrists. McBride’s eyes swept the room, looking for a way out, something he could use. But there was only Adrienne—who seemed as if she were about to faint—and the table with the lightbulbs, drill and glue gun.

  “What are the lightbulbs for?”

  De Groot finished the taping, and came around to the front of the couch. Glanced at his watch. Shrugged, and sat down in a leather easy chair. “The Worm is clever. He knows it’s impossible to get at them with a gun. Even me, having a pass, working there. There’s no way.”

  “Where? Where are you talking about?”

  “The Fribourg. I’ve been upgrading the fire suppression system. Replacing the halon—because it’s killing the ozone, you know? And with all the Greens in town, the hotel wants to make a gesture. It wants to be compliant, okay?”

  McBride didn’t know what to say. Didn’t get it. “So what? What’s that got to do with all the lightbulbs?”

  “It’s a retrofit. I’ve done lots. It’s what I do.”

  “What is?”

  “Getting rid of the halon. In the sprinkler system. Overhead, you know?” The Dutchman raised his hand above his head, and waggled his fingers. “You replace it with a mix of inert gases, and it doesn’t cause any problems for the ozone.”

  “That’s great, Henrik, but—”

  “Only this time, the gas isn’t inert. It’s just gas.”

  “What?”

  “It’s petrol,” de Groot told him. “I replaced the halon with petrol, so when the fire starts—”

  “What fire? When?”

  De Groot checked his watch. “In half an hour, unless they’re running late. Don’t worry, you’ll be able to see it from here. The whole place will go up like a rocket.”

  “What place?”

  “I’ve been telling you! The Fribourg. There’s a gala for the South African delegation. Big banquet, lots of speeches from the schwartzes.” McBride shook his head. He still didn’t get it. “What about the lightbulbs?” he asked. “What the fuck are the lightbulbs for?”

  The Dutchman giggled, and McBride realized that he was on some kind of drug. “I keep forgetting… You see the bulbs over there—the little ones. They’re for the podium. Or one of them is. When the speaker goes to the podium, he’ll turn on the light behind the stand—so he can see his notes. Because it’s dark in the ballroom. Very romantic.”

  “So?” McBride asked.

  “It took me almost a dozen bulbs to get it right.”

  “Get what right?”

  “Drilling a hole through the glass,” de Groot explained. “Without breaking it.”

  “And why did you want to do that?”

  “It’s tricky. The glass is so thin—you need a special drill bit, or it shatters. Even then, the filament is fragile, so it kept breaking.” The Dutchman sighed. “But I got it right—eventually.”

  “I still don’t understand,” McBride said. “What’s the point of the hole?”

  “For the starter fire,” de Groot told him. “I fill the lightbulb with phosphorus and kerosene, so when it’s turned on, the circuit’s completed, and the mixture explodes. But it’s just a small fire. Probably the speaker’s shirt goes up, and maybe his hair—especially if he’s using some kind of mousse.”

  “Then what?” McBride asked.

  “Then? Well, there’s a fire extinguisher on either side of the dais. One of the security guards will use it to put out the fire. Only…”

  “What?”

  “They’ve been altered, too.”

  “With what?” McBride asked.

  “Butane.”

  McBride felt faint. “So when they try to put the fire out…”

  “They make a bigger fire. Then the sprinklers come on, and the hotel—well, you’ll see it from here.”

  “Henrik—”

  The Dutchman tore a length of tape from the roll, and leaned toward McBride so he could place it over his mouth. McBride fell back, and out of the way.

  “Henrik, listen to me. I want to tell you something about the Worm.”

  “No. There is already too much talk.” Moving to the couch, he sat down beside McBride, the strip of tape in his hands. Suddenly, the lights flickered, then brightened so intensely McBride thought they’d blow. A power surge, he told himself, until the flash of light was followed by a boom of thunder, a crack of noise so loud that even de Groot jumped at the sound.

  Then there was another flash of lightning, and another. McBride could feel the electricity in the air, the fine hairs at the back of his neck lifting away from his skin. The air shuddered with light. McBride couldn’t remember experiencing a
thunderstorm in the midst of a snowfall. The windows were opaque with snow, and the effect was extraordinary, an oscillation of light that was almost like a strobe.

  De Groot sat there with the tape in his hand, poised to strap it over McBride’s mouth, but blinking now, like a deer in the headlights.

  It’s the flicker, McBride realized. He’s conditioned to it, entrained by it. Instinctively, McBride began to speak in the low, mellifluous tone that he used in his office when putting a client under. “Listen to me, Henrik. I want you to pretend that you’re on an elevator… and it’s taking you to your safe place. Deep in the earth.” Another boom shook the walls, and McBride could see the lightning in de Groot’s eyes. “The doors open. You step inside. The doors close. And now we’re going down, deeper and deeper, to the safe place.” The room flickered as lightning flashed, seriatim, beyond the window. “There’s no Worm here, Henrik. Just a feeling of perfect peace.”

  De Groot’s eyes were half-open, and seemingly unfocused.

  “Now, we’re sitting together on a rock, far from anywhere we’ve ever been,” McBride confided, working hard to keep the strain out of his voice. “In a little harbor that no one else can see. Just you and me, the waves, and the birds. And a light wind that smells of the sea. Can you smell the sea, Henrik?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re in a wonderful place, Henrik, but… my hands are tied. Do you think you can cut me free?”

  The Dutchman didn’t answer. And for a long while, he didn’t move, but sat there in the flickering light, silent and blinking. Though his face was impassive, McBride knew that a battle was raging deep inside the Dutchman, in a part of the brain so primitive that words had no meaning.

  Then the paralysis gave way, and de Groot got to his feet. Going into the kitchen, he returned with a boning knife in his hand. Looming above McBride, with a look of desolation and regret, he mumbled something unintelligible, leaned over, and cut the tape from his therapist’s wrists.

  Adrienne squirmed, but McBride held his hand out toward her until de Groot sat back down. He suggested to de Groot that he was exhausted and, soon, the Dutchman began to yawn. He probably was tired, McBride thought. He’d been up all night. He suggested that de Groot close his eyes and try to sleep. When he awoke, he was to contact the police and tell them about the Worm. Then he’d feel wonderful. Soon, de Groot was snoring quietly on the couch, his head thrown back, mouth open.