The Syndrome

To the nurse’s irritation, she insisted on waiting.

It was ten A.M. when Doctor Shaw stepped off the elevator, looking gloomy and determined. He barked at the supervising floor nurse, who objected to Adrie

“You know the regulations, Doctor—”

“You’re right,” Shaw told the nurse. “I do. And if we weren’t in a hurry, I’d transfer the patient to another room—but we don’t have time for that.”

We don’t? Adrie

“Well, if you’re going to violate protocol,” the nurse began, “I should think—”

“Why don’t you just make a report?” Shaw asked, striding away. “I’ll be releasing him in short order, anyway.”

“Releasing him? Mr. McBride isn’t in any condition—”

But Shaw wasn’t listening. He was walking so fast that Adrie

All the rooms on the ward had large windows facing out on the corridor. The windows were made of the kind of glass that was embedded with a kind of chicken wire.

Shaw opened one of the doors, and stepped inside.

The room contained a built-in console with drawers against one wall and a bed against the other. A television was mounted on the wall facing the bed, and there was a video camera affixed to the ceiling. A small toilet in the corner. And that was that.

McBride lay in the bed, his head propped up on a pair of pillows, staring at a soap opera. He hadn’t moved when they entered the room, and now she saw that he couldn’t: his wrists were belted to the bed.

Adrie

“Soon enough,” Shaw promised, gently lifting her hand from one of the restraints. Stepping closer, he laid a hand on McBride’s shoulder. “Lewis,” he said, “I want you to pay close attention to what I’m about to say.”

No reaction.

“It’s important,” the psychiatrist insisted, “and I’m worried that we don’t have a lot of time.”

Nothing from McBride—who looked as if he’d aged ten years since Adrie

Frustrated, Adrie

McBride turned his head toward her. “Thanks,” he said. “I hate that fucking show.”

Adrie

The patient shook his head, closed his eyes. “Let me alone, Doc.” His voice had all the resonance of a stone.

“I’m going to release you,” the psychiatrist a

It took a moment for the words to penetrate the insulation in which McBride had wrapped his understanding. Then his eyes blinked open, and he turned to Shaw with a sidelong glance.

“But you have to pay attention,” Shaw told him.

He was.

The psychiatrist cleared his throat.

“You didn’t do it!” Adrie

“Let me handle this,” Shaw insisted.

Adrie

McBride shook his head. “I know what happened, kiddo. I know what I did.”

“But you’re wrong. You weren’t even married. There wasn’t any baby!” She paused. Should she tell him he was supposed to be dead? “It’s like Nikki,” she said. “They’ve given you one of these memories—”

“Who has?”

His question took her aback.

“Who has?” he repeated.

She didn’t know what to say. Looked to Shaw for help. Got none. Shrugged. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Someone.”

McBride looked away. “I can feel it,” he told them. “I can feel the bat in my hands…”

“Lew,” Shaw began—

McBride turned back to Adrie

Adrie

McBride swung his eyes toward the psychiatrist. “Okay, let’s say you’re right. Then: what’s the point? Why would anyone want to make me think I killed my wife and child?” When Shaw frowned, McBride turned angrily to Adrie

The question hung in the air, floating through the weird silence of that empty and sterile room. It was a good question, a tough question and, for a moment, Adrie

Once the restraints had been removed, and McBride had seen the clipping from the Examiner, Shaw told him that “I want to put you in a trance.”

“No, thanks, Doc. Been there—done that. If you don’t mind…”

“There’s no way that I’m going to release you,” Shaw said, “until I’m certain you’re free of posthypnotic suggestions—whatever the source.”

McBride chewed on that, a defiant look in his eye.

“Let me be honest with you,” Shaw continued. “After what you’ve been through, it’s going to take a long time for you to get well. Under any other circumstances, I’d recommend counseling and therapy—and lots of it. He paused, and heaved a sigh. “But we don’t have that luxury. As Adrie

McBride thought about it. Finally, he asked, “And you think I’ve been given posthypnotic suggestions—”

“Absolutely! That’s why I was having such a helluva time getting through to you. Anytime you came close to your past—your real past—this brutal figment, this syndrome—would begin to surface. And when it did, you’d sense it and, psychologically, you’d start to panic. Fight or flight. It’s brilliant. They created a false memory so toxic that it gave you a built-in aversion to your real self.”

Even with the restraints removed, McBride remained where he was, in a sink of depression. “Maybe you’re right,” he said in a skeptical voice. “Then again, isn’t it more likely that I just got away with it?”

“No,” Adrie

“Who’s Eddie? “ Shaw asked, his voice thick with alarm.

Adrie

“Oh, Jesus—” Shaw muttered.

“So placing your bets on the ‘more likely’ explanation is kind of stupid, isn’t it?” she asked. Then she wrapped her arms around her body, turned away, and walked toward the opposite side of the room.

“Who’s Eddie?” Shaw asked.

“You don’t want to know,” Adrie

“That’s a myth,” Shaw said, dismissing the idea. “PR from the hypnotism industry.” He gestured toward McBride. “Lewis can tell you all about it. He’s in the field.”

“What do you mean, it’s a myth?” Adrie

Shaw glanced at his watch, then ran his hand through his hair. “It’s all a question of context,” he explained.

“What context?” Adrie