“I did?”
He nodded. “When you came to my office the first time.”
She tried to remember.
“We were having a session,” Duran reminded her. “Big guy. Blond hair.”
Adrienne leaned over to the tape recorder, and adjusted the volume. She frowned, unable to recall Duran’s client.
“You yelled at him—remember? Said he should wake up.”
“Ohhhh… right.”
“And you called me a—”
She nodded. “I was upset. Now, shhhh—I want to listen.” She rewound the tape for a bit, then turned up the volume.
Duran: Concentrate on your breath. Thaaaaat’s it. I want you to breathe with me… good! That’s really good. Can you feel the peace, Henrik? It spreads all the way through us, all the way to the edge of our skin. And when we exhale—it just increases the feeling. Like that. Yes, just like that. I want you to feel the air, coming and going. Do you know where we are, Henrik?
Henrik: In the safe place.
Duran: Right. We’re in the safe place. On the rock. I can hear the little waves lapping, just below us. And there’s a breeze on the water. Can you feel it in your hair?
Henrik: And a seagull. Overhead.
Duran: Right. There’s a seagull, turning in the sky above our heads, riding the wind.
Henrik: It’s nice.
Duran: Now, I want you to remember the night when you were driving… you were driving in your car… and you were on your way to Watkins Glen. Do you remember that, Henrik?
The reels of the microcassette unwound slowly.
Henrik: It was late in the afternoon—a clear day. I was walking past the sweet shop—
Duran: No, I don’t think so. I don’t think you were walking. Perhaps you were riding in a car. Do you remember being in a car? At night?
Henrik: Yes.
Adrienne glanced at Duran, who unfolded his legs, and sat forward, listening harder now.
Duran: And whose car was it?
Henrik:… I… I don’t remember.
Duran: Perhaps it was your parents’ car?
Henrik: Yes. It was.
Duran: Excellent. And then what happened?
Henrik: There were lights.
Duran: What kind of lights?
Henrik: I’m thinking: these are headlights, but—
Duran: No. I’ve told you before, Henrik: that’s what your father thought. You were seven. You didn’t know what to think. And then the light was everywhere. You were bathed in it, remember?
Henrik: Yes. Yes, of course.
Duran: It was like—can you tell me what it was like, Henrik?
Henrik: I don’t know.
Duran: It was like a searchlight, wasn’t it?
Henrik: Yes! In my chest. It was like… a searchlight in my chest!
Adrienne shut off the tape recorder, and stared at Duran, who was himself on the edge of his chair, looking shocked. “You’re making it up,” she told him.
He nodded.
“It’s like a script,” she said.
“I know.”
“That’s supposed to be ‘therapy’?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s… something else. I don’t know what it is.”
“And this guy thinks… what? What’s his problem?”
Duran cleared his throat. “He’s completely delusional. He thinks he was abducted by a flying saucer. He thinks there’s a worm in his heart that gives him orders.”
Adrienne’s laughter came in a short, angry burst, then stopped as suddenly as it began. “What are you doing to this man?”
Duran was speechless for a moment. Then he cleared his throat for a second time, and said, “Well, it sounds like I’m driving him crazy.”
“Like Nico, only with a different story.”
He didn’t know what to say.
Leaning over, she pressed the Play button, and listened as Duran led his client deeper and deeper into madness. Half an hour later, when the session had come to an end, she hit Stop and looked at him. “I don’t get it,” she told him. “Why are you putting all this… crap in people’s heads?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s like you’re training them for the Jerry Springer Show! I mean, my sister thought the Devil was screwing her when she was ten, and this guy—Henry—”
“Henrik.”
“Whatever! This guy thinks he’s got a tapeworm in his head—”
“Heart.”
“Don’t! I’m not one of your patients!”
“I know that, but—”
“What’s up, Doc?”
He shook his head, searching for the words. Finally, he said, “I’m not sure. I mean, it’s not me—that’s not me.”
“What?!”
“Well, it is, but… I wouldn’t talk to a client like that.”
“You can hear yourself.”
“I know, but—”
“What? It’s you? It’s not you? Which is it? What?”
He was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, “Yeah. Like that. Just like that.”
That evening, Duran went out for dinner, returning half an hour later with a rotisserie chicken, plastic tubs of potato salad—and a chilled bottle of Chardonnay. They ate in the kitchen, in silence, at a gray formica table whose metallic edge reminded Adrienne of the kitchen table in Deck and Marlena’s house.
Finally, she stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “I’m going out for a while,” she told him.
“You want company?” Duran asked.
“No. I need to think.”
The night was cool, the air fresh. But she was having a hard time dealing with the thought of Duran coaxing Nikki into madness, just as he’d cajoled the German (or whatever he was).
And then, just as she was starting to like him (he had a nice sense of humor, after all, and the good habit of rescuing her from harm)… Just as she was starting to like him (he was really quite good-looking, when you got down to it—tall and lean, with even features and cobalt-blue eyes)… Just as she was starting to like him, it was becoming more and more apparent that he was like… Rasputin.
She walked to the end of the boardwalk and thought about turning back, but instead took the wooden steps down to the beach. She’d get sand in her shoes, but she didn’t care. It was a gorgeous night, the stars so luminous they looked wet, the moon a cold clean sphere beaming a path of pure silver onto the black water. The tide was out. The surf rolled in with a soft roar, and receded with a chatter of pebbles.
Duran, she thought. What was he doing? He was as fragile, in his own way, as Nikki had been—or, at least, as disconnected. Taking off her shoes, she carried them in her hand as she walked along the waterline, flirting with the little waves. Why such crazy ideas? she wondered. They weren’t even original, or particularly interesting. Aliens and Satanic abuse. It was ridiculous. No one took that sort of thing seriously—not anymore, not if they ever did.
And a worm? In the heart? Pleeeze.
It would be absurd if it weren’t murderous—and it was murderous. Bonilla was dead, and so was the partner of the man who’d killed him. And the guy in the Comfort Inn stairwell, as well. And her, too, if it wasn’t for… Duran.
She muttered to herself, and shook her head. It didn’t make sense. Why did Nikki have a gun—and that gun? What was that… stuff in the apartment next to Duran’s? And what were they looking for in her apartment?