But the image de Groot projected—that of a capable and cosmopolitan businessman, multilingual and hip—was an illusion. Or not an illusion, really, but a gloss upon something so dangerous that his other qualities dwindled into irrelevance. Public persona aside, the businessman was in the grip of “command hallucinations.” Specifically, the Dutchman believed that “a worm” had taken residence in his heart and that, as his heart pumped, the worm whispered to him, counseling de Groot on all manner of things, from politics to finance.
In fact, de Groot exhibited most of the diagnostic criteria listed under paranoid schizophrenia in the DSM-IV, the maroon-jacketed tome that served as the shrink’s bible.
Under the circumstances, there was only so much that Duran could do. The psychopharmacology was straightforward enough—Clozaril was the drug of choice—and it was prescribed by the Dutchman’s psychiatrist in Europe, who communicated occasionally with Duran by e-mail. Using hypnosis and regression therapy, Duran’s task was to uncover any trauma contributing to de Groot’s dysfunction, and to help him confront it. Only then would he have any chance of a sustained recovery.
It was, in many ways, a curious case. Among other things, Duran found it interesting that the Dutchman interpreted his illness as a kind of possession—with the instrument of possession being a worm. That the worm was a demon, rather than a parasite, was self-evident even to de Groot: parasites didn’t issue orders—incubae did.
At first, Duran had theorized that the worm was indicative of a multiple personality, with the Dutchman suffering from dissociation rather than schizophrenia. But, no. The Worm was an invader (in de Groot’s eyes), and not an alter ego.
Another disturbing element in de Groot’s personality was his overt racism. In an age of political correctness, it was startling to encounter someone who said the kind of things the Dutchman did. “I don’t know how you live in this city with all these niggers.” Duran was offended by comments like this and always and immediately objected; it was one of the things he and the Dutchman were working on, although so far they hadn’t succeeded in discovering the roots of de Groot’s bigotry. Holland had a small population of blacks—mostly Moluccans—but people of color did not seem to have played any significant role in his client’s life. Duran shook his head, wondering how the Dutchman got by in the business world—particularly in D.C.—if he tossed off racist comments with any regularity.
Duran looked down at his notes and picked out a word that he’d underlined: mandala.
It was a term that figured prominently in de Groot’s fantasy world, with the Dutchman insisting at every session that the mandala was evil, and had to be destroyed. Duran recalled that a mandala was some kind of geometric design but still, he’d looked up the term in hopes of parsing its significance for his client. But the encyclopedia wasn’t very helpful. According to it, a mandala was (variously) a representation of the universe; a symbolic painting (consisting of a square, enclosed by a circle); and/or a field of power in constant flux. Buddhists used the figures for meditative purposes, but what they meant to de Groot was anyone’s guess.
Two weeks earlier, he’d shown the Dutchman a collection of Tibetan mandalas that he’d found on the Internet. De Groot’s reaction had been a soft shrug, and the polite remark, “How interesting… “ The figures had not seemed to engage him at all.
What was interesting was what Duran had learned through his research—that visual hallucinations of mandalas were quite common in schizophrenics, who found in the rigid symmetries of the figures a kind of order and stability that did not exist elsewhere in their minds. Most schizophrenics, found solace in mandalas whereas de Groot…
Bizzzzzzzzzzzttt!
The intercom startled Duran, as it always did, but his client was right on time. Closing the folder, he got to his feet, went into the living room, and pressed the switch on the intercom. “Henrik?”
The Dutchman was almost as handsome as he was crazy. His hair was yellow, rather than blond, spiky and glistening, like the pelt of a wet animal. High cheekbones and the palest of blue eyes flared and glittered on either side of a long, straight nose. A deeply cleft chin completed the picture.
Or not quite. There was something else about de Groot’s appearance that turned heads on the street. It was, for lack of a better term, an aura of athleticism—a nimbus of physical power and grace that his 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?” 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?”