The Syndrome Read Free Page A

and drew his scalpel across the bit of tissue that held McBride’s lip to the gum beneath his nose. This done, and as the paralyzed McBride stared in terror at the monitor, Opdahl began the procedure known as “de-gloving,” delicately prying the younger man’s face away from the skull, peeling the skin back to reveal a direct passage into his brain.

October 7, 2000
Florida
1
    She was in a kind of road-trance, coasting south with her eyes on the horizon, not quite listening to the radio—that was, in any case, playing songs from her infancy. The car was a cherry-red BMW convertible, a Z-3 with new Michelins and a killer radio that seemed to be tuned to the past. Removing her sunglasses, Nico put the car on cruise-control—she didn’t want to speed—she knew
better
than to speed—and hit the
seek
button.
    Easy listenin’. Country. Oldies. Salsa.
    A riot of oleanders divided the highway, which unfurled across a sunbaked landscape that was flat as a pool table, seedy and glamorous, all at once. Dilapidated double-wides hunkered beside the road under canopies of live oaks strung with Spanish moss. Here and there: confederate flags and pink flamingos. Mortuaries and nursing homes. A roadside stand selling boiled peanuts, Cajun and plain.
    Florida
, she thought, then shook her head and rolled her eyes behind her Ray•Bans.
    What glamour there was, was in the light, and in the Dodger-blue sky. It was in the pastel promise of the Gulf coast, a few miles west, and it was in Nico, too. Like the car she drove, Nico was a masterpiece, fast and expensive.
    She’d come down by train from Washington to Orlando, where the BMW was waiting for her in a parking lot at the train station. (She’d have preferred to fly—she liked to fly—but, under the circumstances, what with her baggage and all, flying wasn’t practical, flying wasn’t even an option.) Takingthe I-4 to the Tamiami Trail, she’d turned south just outside of Tampa. This was Florida, trashy side up, all strip malls and trailer camps, parking lots and gas stations.
    But all that began to change when she left the Trail, heading west toward the causeway that connected Anna Maria Island to the mainland. At first, it was the same-old/same-old, a constellation of Shoney’s, Wal-Marts and Exxons. Stopped at a traffic light, she glanced to her right and saw, with a shock of surprise, an unkempt woman lounging on the pavement next to a shopping cart piled high with plastic bags of what looked like trash. Hanging from the side of the cart was a hand-lettered, cardboard sign that read:
    secret service mafia scum
murdered diana—jack—adlai
dag! maser whores and elf
slaves! you too!
    Once Nico pulled away from the light, she left the craziness behind—or, at least, the crazy lady—and, with it, the down-at-the-heels world of the Inland.
    Her destination was a rich man’s redoubt, a barrier island just a few miles north of Sarasota, a lush sandspit dappled with turquoise swimming pools and emerald-green golf courses. This was a place where million-dollar villas and high-rise condos stood their ground on a shimmering blond beach that, seen from the sky, made the island look as if it had been outlined with a yellow highlighting pen.
    Or so she thought. She’d never actually been there. At least, she didn’t
think
she had. But she’d seen the pictures and brochures. And the place was beautiful. Longboat Key—the Florida that old money dreamed of.
    Seeing a sign for La Resort, Nico turned into a boulevard of palm trees, which took her to the front door of a low-slung villa with apricot walls. Killing the engine, she unfolded her long legs, and climbed out into the rapt gaze of the bellboy.
    “Checking in?”
    “Hope so,” she said and, tossing him the keys, bounded up the steps to the office.
    Inside, a big “Hi there!” from the clerk behind the desk, who, unlike Nico, was dressed for air-conditioning: white shirt and tie, khakis, and a blazer.
    “Brrrr,” she