The Syndrome

The tremors were stronger now, a real shaking. And then, to Adrie

And the blood was coming faster now, a steady drip that fell to the floor and spattered her shoes—so that, instinctively, she jumped back. And by that movement, broke whatever spell had been upon her. With a gasp, she slapped the buttons on the answering machine until the sound stopped.

“Jesus,” Duran said in a dazed voice. “Look at that.” He was swaying slightly, and staring at the blood on his shirtfront. “I got a nosebleed,” he told her.

Now it was Adrie

Duran gave her a puzzled look, then turned his face to the ceiling. “Whatever… “ he mumbled, keeping his head back. “Who was that, anyway?”

“You don’t remember?”

He shook his head, still facing the ceiling. “No.”

An idea occurred to her. “Well… let’s just see.” Lifting the handset on the telephone, she dialed *69. Then she grabbed a pen, and began to write on a Post-it, as an electronic voice revealed that: “The last number to call your telephone was 202-234-8484.” Hanging up, she showed the number to Duran, but it didn’t mean anything to him.

“We can still use your computer,” she told him, sitting down in front of the monitor.

“What for?” he asked, watching as she double-clicked on the AOL icon.

“There’s a reverse telephone lookup at anywho dot com. You give them the number, they give you the address.” Duran watched over her shoulder as she filled in the appropriate windows, providing the telephone number and area code that *69 had given her. Together, they watched and waited as the hourglass floated in the center of the monitor.

Waiting for reply. Transferring document: 1% 2% 3% 26% 49%. Query result. The words Residential listing appeared, and under them the following information:

Barbera, Hector

2306 Co

Apt. 6-F

Washington, D.C. 20010

Adrie

Duran stared at the information for a long moment, then held up a hand, and whispered, “We’re in 6-E.”

It only took a moment for Adrie

“No one’s home,” he told her.

She nodded, suddenly relieved.

“You know how to pick a lock?” he asked.

She grimaced in reply.

“Doesn’t matter,” Duran told her. “Wait here.”

“Where are you going?”

“Health Club.”

“What?” She was about to ask him if he was out of his mind, but then, it occurred to her that she already knew the answer to that question. Of course he was: that was the whole point. “Why?”

But he was gone and, for the moment, she was alone in the apartment. Alone with the refrigerator’s hum, and with the changing light as clouds drifted across the sun. And not just that—there was another sound that she couldn’t quite place, and could barely hear, a low tone. Room noise, she decided. Or something.

Then Duran was back, carrying a twenty-five-pound dumbbell in his right hand. “Stay with me,” he said.

“But—”

He glanced down the hall to make certain it was empty, then strode to the doorway of Apartment 6-F. Standing about three feet from the door, he drew the dumbbell back, then came around like a discus thrower, slamming twenty-five pounds of chromed steel into the door just above the lock, splintering the jamb.

As the door flew open on its hinges, Duran stepped inside—and what he saw took his breath away. The wall between his apartment and Barbera’s was covered with a gray, wire mesh. In front of the mesh was a long table stacked with electronics equipment: there were oscillators, amplifiers, and receivers, and a cumbersome looking device that reminded Duran of a dental X ray. This last machine was pointed directly at the wall, and was warm to the touch, with a green diode that glowed brightly.

Glancing around, Duran saw that the apartment was not for living. The wooden floor was bare of rugs, the walls empty. The only furniture was a matte-black Aeron chair and a cantilevered desk lamp with a Halogen bulb. A telephone. And that was it.

Except for the objects that Adrie

“He’s got the air-conditioning on,” Duran told her, crossing the room to her side, dumbbell in hand.

For a moment, they stood next to one another, gazing at the steamer trunks.

“I want to go,” Adrie

Duran didn’t answer at first, just shook his head from side to side, more in wonderment than reply. “I don’t know,” he told her. “But it’s somebody.”

They left the Towers at a racewalk, uncertain what to do or where to go. Adrie

“All right,” he said, playing the devil’s advocate, “so what if we go there? What do we tell them?”

“About the trunks.”

“Okay. And then what?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean, what do you think they’ll do? Do you think they’ll go to the apartment and search it?”

Adrie

“Right,” Duran told her. “That’s what I think.”

“Then let’s go to my place,” she said. “At least we can get my car.”

Once again, he shook his head. “You might as well shoot yourself,” he told her. “There isn’t a chance in the world they aren’t watching it.”

“But I need stuff,” she said. “I need clothes. Makeup. Things!”

“Then you’ll have to buy them,” he told her. “Until the police start looking for Bonilla… I don’t think you want to go home.”

So they took the Metro to National Airport and rented a car, then drove to the Pentagon City mall, where Adrie

On the way back to the Comfort I

When he finally located the knob that activated the windshield wipers, he turned to Adrie