The Syndrome by John Case Page B

expensive business suits did nothing to conceal. And, somehow, that made his illness seem all the more tragic.
    Henrik was humming to himself as he came in. It was the same tune the Dutchman always hummed and Duran had long ago discerned its melody: “Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho.” He’d inquired several times if the song had some special significance. Had de Groot, for instance, been especially religious? A churchgoer in his youth? That might have explained quite a bit, but de Groot denied it. “Church?” He’d frowned, pronouncing the word as if it were foreign to him and slightly distasteful. “No.”
    Escorting the Dutchman to the easy chair that he preferred to the couch, Duran put his client in a light trance, and softened him up with guided imagery. “We’re sitting together on a rock,” he said, “in a little harbor that no one else can see. There’s just you and me, and the waves, and the birds. And a light wind that smells of the sea. It’s our safe place, Henrik.”
    “Yes.”
    “And nothing can hurt you here. Nothing and no one.”
    De Groot nodded. “No one,” he repeated.
    “Now, I want you to tell about the Worm,” Duran suggested. “Tell me about the Worm.”
    “The Worm is boss,” de Groot mumbled.
    “We know that, Henrik, but—how did you come by it?”
    De Groot frowned, and shook his head. “This is not to be discussed.”
    “Of course it is,” Duran replied. “That’s why we’re here. And, anyway, we’ve spoken of it before—many times.”
    “No … I think not.”
    “There was a light,” Duran reminded him. “A bright light. Remember? You were driving….”
    The Dutchman’s expression changed from a look of defensive certainty to apprehension. “No,” he said, “not today.”Suddenly, he began to lean forward and sit up, as if he were about to get out of the chair.
    Duran laid his fingertips on de Groot’s wrist, restraining him with the softest touch. “It’s okay, Henrik,” he said. “You’re with me. We’re in the safe place.”
    His client sagged, and touching his tongue to his palate, made a soft
tsk.
“All right,” he said. “I remember.”
    “What do you remember?”
    “There was a light—on the road—”
    Duran shook his head. “There was a light—in the
sky.”
    “Yes … of course,
it was in the sky
, but … I was driving. I was on a farm road.”
    “In America?”
    “Yes—here, in America!”
    “Where?” Duran asked.
    De Groot shrugged. “Watkins Glen.”
    “And then what?”
    “The light was in the road,” the Dutchman said, suddenly agitated. “It was all around me. So brilliant! And blinding—like a flash that doesn’t go away. I can’t see!”
    “But you can, Henrik. You
can
see. I want you to see.”
    “It’s absorbing me!” De Groot shuddered, his body flattening into the chair.
    “What do you mean?”
    “It’s like a sponge. The light is like a sponge! I’m pulled into it.”
    “And what color is the light?”
    De Groot shook his head, fiercely.
    “Isn’t it blue?” Duran asked. “Blueish?”
    “Yes,
blue!
And I’m
bathed
in it. Inside and out. It passes through me—like a ghost.”
    “What do you mean, ‘like a ghost’?”
    “Like a ghost, moving through a wall.”
    “That’s good, Henrik. That’s very good. Now, I want you to do something courageous. I want you to remember what happens when the light goes through you. Can you do that?”
    “No!”
    “It’s your safe place, Henrik. Remember that. You’re
safe
here. Now, breathe in. Slowly.
Verrry
slowly. In … and out. In and … out. Again! In … and out. In … riiiight. That’s it. Now, let your breath expand all the way to the surface of your skin. I want it to fill you up, so you can let it go.” Duran watched the Dutchman breathe for a while. Then he prompted him. “Okay … when the light passes through you …”
    “It takes me up. I go up in the light.”
    “What do you mean?” Duran asked.
    “The light pulls me into