“But—”

“It’s an emergency,” she explained, and shot out the door.

Henrik de Groot sat slumped in the chair and, at first glance, it might have seemed as if he and Duran were having a casual conversation. The consultation room was a comfortable one, with an array of magazines fanned out on the coffee table between them. A glass of ice-water and a glass of iced tea rested, untouched, on a pair of Sandstone coasters.

Duran regarded the coasters with a look of suspicion. Where had they come from? They had a gritty feel, and rasped when he set his glass down. Where had he bought them? What had he been thinking of?

De Groot’s cigarettes were on the coffee table, too, along with a pack of matches. There was no ashtray because Duran did not permit smoking in the office. But the Dutchman was a chain-smoker and since abstinence caused him to be anxious, Duran allowed him to handle his cigarettes. When not in a trance, he did this constantly, almost obsessively—sliding a cigarette out of the package, tapping its end against the table, stroking its length, even putting it to his lips and pretending to smoke it.

Pay attention, he told himself. Even though he and de Groot had been over this material time and time again, it was important that he pay attention.

It was de Groot’s eyes which revealed that he was in a trance. They were open, but slightly out of focus, as if the Dutchman was looking past Duran, past the array of diplomas on the wall, past everything, in fact.

De Groot had been silent for what seemed like a long time, waiting for Duran’s cue.

“You’re in the car?” Duran suggested.

“Yes—in the car. It’s dark in the car and it’s dark outside. It’s the kind of night where it’s overcast and you can feel the moisture in the air. It’s going to rain.”

Duran found himself leaning forward, puzzled by the stiff, blond bristle that covered the Dutchman’s head.

“It’s going to rain,” de Groot repeated.

Duran pulled back when he realized that what he was doing was trying to get a whiff of the man’s hair—trying to discern if the effect was achieved with some kind of mousse or gel. Pay attention, he told himself. De Groot was stuck.

“Are there car lights?” he prompted.

On the chair, de Groot squinted and narrowed his eyes, as if the light were shining into them. “Yes. At first, I think it’s a car with its bright lights on. I think ‘Goddamnit, why doesn’t he put his lights down?”

No, Duran thought. That’s what the driver thinks. “Did your father maybe say that? He’s the one who’s driving, right?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, my father. Me—I look away from the lights, but they won’t go away. The light—somehow, it’s inside me. Like a searchlight in my chest.”

“And then?”

“I am taken up by the light—and then I am interfered with.” He squirmed in his chair. “They put something into me.”

“What, Henrik? What do they put into you?”

The Dutchman winced. “The Worm. Boss Worm.”

Duran sat back in his chair and smiled. And then, in one of those instances that he seemed prone to of late, he caught himself up. He didn’t understand why he should find the integration of the Worm in de Groot’s delusional system… somehow pleasurable. It ought to be a matter of indifference to him. He shouldn’t have a stake in it.

And behind that thought—behind the idea that maybe he wasn’t maintaining a professional distance from his client—lurked another, even more insidious notion. Which was that he’d seen all this on The X-Files.

Henrik shifted uncomfortably in his chair, grimacing in the subdued way of a person in a trance.

“Who’s doing this to you, Henrik?” Duran asked. “Who’s responsible—”

At that moment, Duran heard the intercom buzz. And de Groot heard it, too, because he stiffened, and his eyes swelled with fear.

“They’re here!” he whispered. “Here!”

The buzzer continued, first a long rasp, and then a staccato series of short ones. It took Duran a second to calm de Groot and, by then, the noise had ceased. The mood, however, was shattered, and although it was a little early, he began to bring the Dutchman out of his trance. Then the front-door bell began to ring, an insistent series of bings.

“Goddamnit,” Duran muttered, and sprung to his feet. If this isn’t an emergency…

Seconds later, he was standing behind the door, looking through the peephole—and he could have sworn it was Nico, whom he hadn’t seen or heard from in a week. Almost as a reflex, he opened the door for a young woman who, as it happened, was not Nico, after all, but someone who looked a whole lot like her—but with darker dirty blond hair in place of Nico’s platinum mop. Whoever she was, she was in a highly excited state, almost a rage, and she shocked Duran by pushing him backwards with her two hands in a motion so sudden that he stumbled and almost fell.

“You son of a bitch!” she yelled, coming for him again. “You killed her!” She was shoving him—with surprising force—and he found himself walking backwards in the direction of his consultation room.

Reflexively, he put his hands up in a gesture of peace and surrender. “Wait a minute! What are you talking about?” he asked.

She stopped, and glowered, then turned her head away, as if to get control of her temper. Duran could see her chest heaving with emotion as she stared at the wall that held his framed diplomas. Finally, she turned back to him, and he could see that the rage was still intact.

“Nikki!” She spat the name at him.

“You mean… Nico?”

“Nikki, Nico—whatever you called her!”

“Where is she?” Duran asked. “I haven’t seen her in—who are you?”

The question seemed to infuriate her. “I’ll tell you who I am! I’m her sister. And I’m going to put you out of business, you quack son of a bitch!”

The woman’s hostility was like a kleig light, burning in his face. He was stunned by her hatred, and by what she’d said.

“Her sister?” he repeated, sounding stupid even to himself.

“Adrienne.”

He flashed onto Nico’s voice: Adrienne was only five. Suddenly, Duran softened. While he’d never believed that Nico’s tales of Satanic abuse were factual, he was convinced that in some way she had been abused. And if one child in a family suffered abuse, the others seldom escaped unscathed. In any case, the woman in front of him had suffered a great deal of loss: the unknown father, the junkie mother, the brutal mill of foster care. “Hey,” he said, offering his hand. “Nico told me what you’ve been through,” he said.

“She didn’t ‘tell’ you anything! You put it in her head. And it’s a crock!” With a gasp of disgust and a shake of her head, Adrienne turned on her heel and strode toward the door. “I just wanted to see the person who did it,” she told him. “Because the next time I see you, there’ll be a judge in front of us.” She had her hand on the doorknob.

“But—wait a second—what did you say? About Nico?”

Adrienne looked at him as if he were a stone. “She killed herself.”

It was almost as if she’d slapped him in the face. For a moment, he couldn’t find his voice, and when he did, the words that came were senseless. “But… why? She was making such good progress,” he said.

“Right!” Adrienne snarled. “She was ‘making such good progress’ that we’re having her cremated on Friday.”

She wanted to take a swing at him, but all she could manage in her unhappiness and frustration was a feeble push with her left hand. Even so, it staggered him, and he took a step backwards. Anger and grief welled in her eyes. “Did you do it intentionally? For the money?”

“What money?” Duran asked.

Before Adrienne could reply, de Groot was in the doorway behind them. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who is this person, Doctor Duran?” He seemed dazed and dangerous, all at once, like a big cat waking from a tranquilizer dart.