The Syndrome (21 page)

Ace Johnson’s deposition was delayed for hours, as the opposition’s lead counsel cooled her heels at LaGuardia, waiting for the weather to clear so that she could take the Shuttle to D.C. They might have moved the depo to the following week but it wasn’t practical. Slough was going out of town in the morning, and Johnson was set to have a hernia operation on Monday.

It was agreed, then, that they’d begin deposition as soon as possible—which, in the event, was 4:15 that afternoon. By the time they were done, it was almost nine, and everyone was exhausted.

Though the give-and-take had gone about as well as could
be expected (from the client’s point of view), it would not be accurate to say that Adrienne had covered herself in glory. On the contrary. Her role in the proceeding was essentially one of support, which is to say that she was there to anticipate Curtis Slough’s every need. In this, however, she had more or less failed. She’d misplaced a memo that her boss had hoped to introduce and, soon afterward, had been chided for daydreaming midway through her own witness’s testimony.

“Daydreaming” was Slough’s word. In point of fact, she’d been thinking about Duran’s panic attack of the day before. It had almost panicked
her
to see him like that, recoiling from the idea that she might be the cause of so much dread. But maybe Bonilla was right. Maybe Duran had been faking it. Maybe he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a psychopath like …

Ted Bundy.
Ted Bundy had been good-looking, too. And didn’t he have some kind of fake cast for his arm, slipping it on so that he could ask people for help? Wasn’t that how he’d lured them—with his neediness? It put his victims off guard, so that the predator seemed vulnerable rather than dangerous.

She really wanted to go home, curl up in bed and sleep, but Slough made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. “Let’s get something to eat,” he told her. “It’s been a helluva day.”

“I thought Johnson did rather well,” Slough enthused, as he washed down a bit of mesclun with a sip of martini.

Adrienne shrugged. “All he really had to do was remember that he couldn’t remember. It was literally a no-brainer.”

Slough chuckled. “Even so …” Then he sat back, and cocked his head, as if deciding what to do with her. Finally, he leaned forward and, in a confidential tone, suggested that, “You seemed a little stressed this afternoon. Is it still that thing with your sister?”

Still …?
It had only been about three weeks. And
that thing?
As if Nikki was something shameful, something you didn’t mention in polite company. “I’m sorry,” Adrienne
replied, “I was just … out of it.” She shook her head. “It won’t happen again.”

His face burst into a little blister of concern. “If you need some time off … I mean, I noticed you were gone yesterday afternoon.”

“I—”

He raised his hand. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t mean to pry. But, if you need a little time …?”

Adrienne shook her head reflexively.

“Well, just let me know.” He gave her a pat on the arm.

A little time’? Uh-oh
, Adrienne thought,
this is one of those moments.
With a soft sigh, she caught her lower lip in her teeth, then let it go and smiled at him. Crinkled eyebrows.
Big
smile.
Sincere
smile, much practiced while “in care.” Nikki used to make fun of her earnest, big-eyed smile, trotted out in times of crisis.
‘Oh it’s Orphan Girl,’ she’d say, ‘with her Please Please Please adopt me smile.’
Only this time the smile’s message
was: forgive me.

“I’ve been a little distracted,” she said. “You know, Nikki …” She looked at her hands, then back up at Curtis Slough. “She was … ummm … the last relative I had.” Then, as if she’d confessed too much, she hurried to add: “Not that we were that close—”

“You don’t have any other family?!” Slough asked. “No
parents!?”
His eyes were wide, his tone suggesting that he found her situation as freakish as it was sad.

She shrugged. “No. I’m it: end of the line.”

“Jesus!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, well,” she said in a deadpan voice, “he was the end of his, too.”

Slough didn’t get it at first. It took him a second. Then he threw back his head in a well-rehearsed laugh, and wagged a finger at her. “There’s that speed you’re famous for. Let’s see more of that.”

It was 11:15 when she finally got home, having had to wait
twenty minutes for a bus so that, by the time she got to Mount Pleasant, she was out on her feet.

As always, there was a handful of men hanging out in front of the Diaz Cantina on the corner. She liked the music that spilled from the doorway, but was always uncomfortable with the men’s stares and whispered exclamations.
Ai-iiii—que chica sabrosa!
So she tacked toward her apartment, as if the neighborhood were a lake, crossing the street, rather than moving in a straight line.

Her street, Lamont, was entirely residential, composed of substantial, turn of the century rowhouses—many of which had been carved up into apartments. The first two blocks were full of beautifully rehabbed houses, but farther down toward the zoo, where she lived, gentrification had been slow and uneven, the neighborhood retaining an urban edge that kept property values down. It wasn’t a
bad
neighborhood, but break-ins and muggings were not unknown and pedestrians—especially women—were careful. Late at night, they tended to walk down the middle of the street (as Adrienne did now), rather than on the sidewalks.

When the houses were built, it had been the custom to construct service alleys, and a network of these ran behind the houses, parallel to the streets on either side. The alleys were now lined with garages that differed wildly in materials and design—one thrown up with particleboard, another built with carriage lamps and brick.

The entrance to her basement apartment was at the rear of a federal-style townhouse, which was accessible only through the garage. To get to it, she had to go through the alley—which was fine in daylight, or when she was in her car and could use the garage door opener without having to get out. But she hardly ever drove to work—it cost her twelve dollars a day to park. And it was rare that she got home when the sun was still up (except, perhaps, in the summer). So the alley was something she had to contend with, almost daily.

And it spooked her a little, because the house was in the middle of the block, which meant that it was also in the
middle of the alley. She was always careful to take a good look before she turned into it. If there were guys drinking, as there sometimes were, she’d go to the front door, and ring for Mrs. Spears—who would let her in through the inside basement door. She hated to do it, though. Half the time, her landlady was asleep.

But there wasn’t anyone in the alley tonight. At least, she didn’t
see
anyone. Indeed, the only movement at all was a cat walking daintily along the edge of a backyard fence. Entering through the door to the garage, she crossed the tiny yard at the rear of the house, and unlocked the door to her own apartment.

It was an ugly, brown door—a “utility door”—that Mrs. Spears had tried to “brighten” with a country wreath. Adrienne hated the wreath even more than the door. It was made of braided gingham and had a twig decoration in the form of a bird’s nest that was packed with papier-mâché eggs. She’d have burned it if she’d had the gumption, but she didn’t want to hurt her landlady’s feelings, so she let the offending object hang where it hung. If she was lucky, it might be stolen.

In truth, nothing could have brightened The Bomb Shelter (as her pals at Georgetown had called it). But it was cheap and clean, and what was even more to the point, it was hers and hers alone. So she was grateful to have it, even if it was a bit musty.

And dark. And not very big.

Arriving home, she threw her coat and attaché case on the couch, then sighed when she saw the brown carrier bag standing in the corner with Nikki’s ashes inside it.
At least I could unpack it
, she thought. She removed the little wooden crate from the bag, and took the urn out of it, and then couldn’t decide where to put it. She finally placed it on the bookcase next to the door. Then she kicked off her shoes, and went into the kitchen, where her loneliness and sense of loss was given yet another boost by the sight of Jack’s bowl, empty on the floor beside the refrigerator.

Jack had only been with her for a short while, but even so,
she missed him. Though
he
was better off with Ramon, she had been better off with
him
—because he made her laugh, and took her mind off things.

Things like … what to do with Nikki’s ashes? She
had
to have a ceremony of some kind. Something private—just her and her sister—something with the wind and the water.

But not tonight.

Going into her bedroom, she put on her pjs, and picked out something to wear the next day. Then she climbed into bed between the covers and, using the remote, flicked on the tv. Nothing.
Nada.
And yet, she couldn’t sleep. She was still wired from the three cups of French Roast she’d drunk while working on the prep notes and the after-dinner espresso with Slough.

So she picked up a book from the table beside her bed. Martin Amis’s
Night Train.
It was a short book, but she’d been reading it for weeks. Maybe she could finish it tonight. But, no. It was all about suicide:

A cop, who was an old friend of the family, was looking for the secret reason for a woman’s suicide. And as it turned out, there
was
no secret reason. The fact was, despite her wonderful job and loving family, the woman just didn’t find life worth living. Was that so terrible?

So what about Nikki? What was
her
motive? Was she driven to kill herself by the unhappiness and guilt fostered by her psychotherapist’s Satanic abuse scenario? Or did she somehow understand that she wasn’t herself, and never would be again—that Europe had broken her deep inside? Or was it something else that had caused her to tip the heater into the tub? Was it something to do with that ridiculous gun she kept? Where had it come from? Did she even know how to use it? Adrienne doubted that she did, but … it occurred to her that her sister might have killed herself to prevent herself from doing something even worse.

Like what?
Adrienne wondered. And the reply came back,
Well, she had a gun. Maybe she was going to kill people. Maybe she was going to kill a lot of people—like those kids in

Colorado. Maybe she was so unhappy, and so angry at the world, that she was dreaming of a massacre. But, in the end, was so horrified by her compulsions … that she killed herself instead.

She picked up
Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood.
It seemed a lot safer than
Night Train
, and it was beginning to look as if she was too tired to sleep.

But she couldn’t get Nikki out of her mind. The thing was … Bonilla was right. She didn’t really know much about her sister. She didn’t know what had
moved
her. She was—
had been
—a mystery.

If only the last chapters in their relationship hadn’t been so grim. Even on the night she died, Adrienne had been secretly glad when her sister hadn’t answered the door, thinking,
Great—she’s gone out, she’s forgotten about dinner.
When, of course, she hadn’t gone out at all. She was dead.

By then, the dinners were all that was left of the relationship—and they were poisoned by her sister’s sick fantasies about Satanic abuse. It was all she wanted to talk about—it was as if she was driven to go on and on about it. And it always ended in a fight, with Nikki insisting that Adrienne was in denial.
You don’t remember because you don’t want to remember. It’s so typical!

But she was wrong. Never, for a second, did Adrienne think it possible that Nikki’s recollections were real, and her own suspect. There was nothing wrong with her memory, and she certainly wasn’t in denial. Her memories were indelible, and absolute. She could still recall the way Deck slung her up in the air, to ride on his shoulders, grabbing her feet.
Here we go, Lil’Bit, hang on.
He’d walk her up and down the street, and when she asked him to, he’d swing her through the air by her wrists until she was so dizzy, she couldn’t stand. Sometimes, he’d hold her hands and let her climb up to his chest, the soles of her feet against his legs, so that she could do a backflip onto her feet. He played endless games of
Candy-land
and
Sorry
with her. And she could still hear Marlena’s
soft, low voice, singing songs as she rocked her when Adrienne couldn’t sleep. “Hush little baby, don’t you cry …”

Were these the same people who were supposed to have run around with candles and hoods, making snuff films? It would have been laughable, if it wasn’t so horrible.

And yet, because of Nikki, she had examined these memories as a prosecutor might, calling every suggestive episode into question. When Marlena said, “Let me kiss it and make it better …” Was that … something else? And when Deck bounced her on his knee and sang, “This is the way the ladies ride, Nim Nim Nim …” Was that … just a game?

Yes, she thought,
it was. It was just a game.
No matter how deeply she scrutinized these episodes, they remained innocent, Deck and Marlena blameless, their affection untainted. And Adrienne resented Nikki (and, by extension, Duran) for making her revisit her childhood through a prism of suspicion. It was a betrayal of Deck and Marlena. It was defiling.

She turned back to her book, punching up the pillows behind her. But the Ya-Yas couldn’t hold her attention. So she put a bookmark between the pages, clapped the book closed, and flicked off the light.
Sisterhood
, she thought as a car rumbled down the alley, headlights sliding up the wall and across the ceiling.

Maybe it’s time to forget about Duran. Let the police handle it.
The civil suit is probably a waste of time. Whoever Duran is—whoever he really is—he isn’t going to stick around. There isn’t anything in it for him, except exposure. He’s probably packing even now.