“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 it. It’s like… like an elevator without walls, an escalator without stairs.”

“And then what?”

“I’m in a room… in the sky.”

“What kind of room?”

“Like… an auditorium.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t move,” the Dutchman said. “I’m turning in the air—”

“What?”

“I’m slowly… turning in the air.”

“Why?”

“I’m on display… like a bug… in a case. A glass case.”

“Are you alone?” Duran asked.

The Dutchman shook his head. “There are seats all around—and they go up, row after row.”

“Are there people in the seats?” Duran asked.

De Groot shook his head. “I can’t see. The light is so bright—they’re just shapes.” Suddenly, de Groot stiffened, and thrashed.

“What’s the matter?” Duran asked.

De Groot answered through gritted teeth: “I am being interfered with.”

Duran looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve told you! I am interfered with.”

“How?”

“I am examined by… I don’t know who… I don’t know what they are.”

“Doctors?”

“No!” de Groot shot back, his voice suddenly loud and scared. “Not doctors. Figures! Shapes. I don’t want to look.”

“Then… why don’t you run away?” Duran asked.

“I can’t move. The light won’t let me move. It holds me in the air.”

“And what are the shapes doing? What’s happening?”

“They… insert instruments.”

“Where?”

“In my nose. Mouth. Every hole.” De Groot winced, and his eyes slammed shut.

“Yes?”

“It feels bad!”

“What does?”

“I’m not to remember,” de Groot muttered. “For my own welfare. I am not to remember.”

Duran pushed.

“It’s all right to remember, Henrik.” He laid a hand on his client’s shoulder. “It is good to remember. But you have to relax. You have to breathe. Thaaaaat’s it. Now, just concentrate on breathing. It’s safe here. You’re not in the light anymore: you’re on a rock at the edge of the water. You can hear the waves lapping at the rock. There’s a breeze. And seagulls wheeling overhead… “ Duran let him think about this for a while, and then: “Now, let’s go back to the other place, the place in the light. But don’t be frightened—I’m with you. I want you to tell me about the instruments… what do they look like?”

“Tubes.”

“And what are they made of?”

“Glass. Metal.” Once again, de Groot shuddered.

“What’s the matter?” Duran asked.

“They’re cold. So cold… they stick to my skin—and they burn.”

“And what are they doing with… the instruments?”

De Groot took a deep breath, and shuddered. “They put them in me.”

“Where?”

“No.”

“Henrik—it’s for your own good.”

“But you know!”

“Of course, I know—but you have to tell me.”

De Groot shook his head.

“Where?” Duran insisted.

“My willy! My… arse.”

“But why? Why are they doing that, Henrik? Do you know?”

The Dutchman nodded. “They’re feeding the Worm,” he said. Suddenly, de Groot whimpered, and his face clenched with a mixture of sadness and pain.

Duran glanced at his watch. To his surprise, he saw that fifty minutes had gone by. “Okay, Henrik, that’s enough. That’s enough for now.”

He brought the Dutchman back to wakeful consciousness, disappointed that he was still unable to surface the trauma underlying de Groot’s delusion. He needed to help de Groot push through, reversing the process of sublimation which had generated this absurd story of alien abduction (if, indeed, that is what it was). As things now stood, de Groot was being tortured by an event that his mind had encrypted, repressing the memory by transforming it into something else.

The Dutchman sat up, blinked and looked around. “What happened?” he asked, his voice thick with suspicion.

“You did great,” Duran told him. Then he switched off the tape recorder, and got to his feet. “We made real progress.”

To Duran’s surprise, de Groot remained where he was, tapping his fingertips together, listening or thinking or both. Finally, he pushed himself to his feet, and smiled. “That’s funny,” he said. “I don’t feel any better.”

Nico lived in a two-bedroom apartment in The Watermill, a Georgetown condominium just below M Street, where the C&O Canal begins its journey out to the Maryland suburbs and beyond. The building was a modern and elegant one with decent security, a nice view of the Potomac, and capacious balconies brimming with plants.

That morning, she’d slept late, and by the time she’d climbed out of bed, Jack was practically crossing his legs. He reproached her with a series of stiff little barks as she quickly dressed, then ran a brush through her hair, using a scrunchie to corral it in an untidy ponytail. Finally, she grabbed a plastic grocery bag, stuffed it into her pocket and headed toward the elevator with Jack lurching ahead on his leash, scrabbling along the carpeted hallway.

“Mawnin’ Miz Sullivan.”

The doorman, Ramon, was an aspiring actor who tried out a different accent each week. His latest affectation was to mimic the speech and mannerisms of a southern butler, a not entirely successful undertaking that suggested an unlikely hybrid of Vivian Leigh and Antonio Banderas.

“Hey, Ramon!”

“And to you, too, Master Kerouac.” The doorman leaned down to pet the dog, a Jack Russell terrier who rewarded Ramon’s attention by launching himself in a series of impressive vertical leaps.

“Whoa,” Nico said. “Take it easy, Jacko.”

“Vigorous animal,” Ramon remarked, still in his plantation accent.

Nico smiled. “He is, indeed. What’s up?”

Ramon segued into himself. “Did I tell you, I got a part in the Scorsese movie, the one they’re shooting in the District!”

“That’s terrific. Congratulations!”

“Well, it’s not so terrific. I mean, it’s just a walk-on. But guess what the part is—I’m a doorman.”

Nico wasn’t sure what to say, so she said, “Heyyy!” Jack was straining at the leash, pulling her toward the door. “Congratulations are definitely in order.”

“The thing is, I don’t know whether to take it. I’m gonna miss three, maybe four days work. Probably, I get fired. So whatta you think, Neek? Should I do it?” He gave her a beseeching look.

“Jack!” she said. “Do you mind?” In point of fact, Jack had already settled down, sitting quietly between them. She wasn’t sure what to say, and used the dog as a distraction to avoid the doorman’s eyes. Should he risk his job for a bit part that might not even make the final cut? Ramon took his career as an actor very seriously, but the truth was, he didn’t seem to be very good at it. So playing a doorman might not be a bad idea. Then again, was it worth giving up his real job so he could pretend to do the same thing on camera? Finally, she said: “Go for it.”

“Really?”

“Definitely. I saw this whole thing on TV once, and this guy is saying, you know, you can’t go wrong if you follow your bliss.”

“My bliss? You mean, like, what makes me happy? Like acting?”

“Exactly.”

Ramon winced. “I don’t know. I like my job, too. The tips aren’t bad, you know? And Christmas is coming—not too long now. Coupla months.”

Nico shrugged. “Maybe you can get somebody to fill in—make it worth their while. And, anyway, where are they going to find someone as reliable as you? What do I think? You get someone to cover—they won’t touch you.”