Free The Syndrome by John Case Page B

pictures from the album until, in the end, the only photos left were of herself and her surviving sister. Then she got to her feet, blinking the tears from her eyes. And as much to the walls as to herself, she muttered, “Ding dong, the witch is dead.”
    It was almost dark now, or as dark as it got in D.C., the winking lights of planes standing in for the myriad, invisible stars. She got a wire whisk from the kitchen and when the fire had subsided to a smolder, smashed up the ashes.
    This done, she went into the living room and removed an envelope from the top drawer of her desk. Written more than a month before, it had lain out of sight until the time was right—and that was now. Going into the kitchen, she glanced around for a place to leave it, and finally settled on the refrigerator. Clearing the door of everything on its surface—cartoons and take-out menus, a recipe for chicken sate and a picture of Jack—she tossed it all in the trash. Then she centered the envelope to Adrienne, and affixed it to the door with a magnet shaped like a tiny bottle of Tanqueray gin. Shelooked at her watch. Six-thirty. There was still more than an hour before Adrienne was due, so there was no hurry.
    Standing at the kitchen counter, she poured herself a cold glass of Russian River Chardonnay, and put on a Miles Davis CD.
Sketches of Spain.
    Sipping the wine, she felt a shiver run through her as she walked into the bathroom. All that time on the balcony, sorting through the album had given her a chill. Removing the space heater from the linen closet next to the bath, she plugged it in and set it on the ledge that encased the tub.
    Flicking on the heater, she luxuriated for a moment in its bright and sudden warmth, then undressed slowly, tossing her clothes into the hamper. Standing there in the nude, she took a sip of wine, and, swaying slightly, gave herself over to the viscous, haunting slur of the trumpet, as Miles soared through “Concerto de Aranjuez.” Finally, she stepped into the water and, ever so slowly, eased herself into the cloud of bubbles that lay on its surface.
    The water was perfect. So hot she could just barely tolerate it. So hot, the warmth seemed to suffuse her. So hot it was just at the perfect intersection of pleasure and pain—in other words, just over the pleasure edge. She thought about that phrase—the pleasure edge—and smiled as she continued her glacial slide into the water. She could hear the tiny explosions of the bubbles, collapsing under the pressure of her back. She could feel them in the hair at the nape of her neck.
    Languidly, she sipped her wine and watched the coils of the space heater turn a deeper and deeper shade of orange. Then Miles hit a note so heartbreakingly pure that it brought a film of moisture to her eyes—and gently, almost tenderly, she extended her foot, and tipped the heater in.

5
    Duran’s apartment complex, the Capitol Towers, included an underground shopping center that made it more or less unnecessary for anyone who lived in the building to ever leave home. There was a supermarket, a drug store, a dry cleaners, a newsstand, and a travel agency, as well as a Starbucks. Each Sunday, an ad in the
Washington Post
featured a photo of the building above a cutline that read: “Capitol Towers—the Convenience of a Village in a Sophisticated Urban Setting!”
    Returning upstairs from the underground Safeway, Duran hefted three plastic bags of groceries with his left hand, while he struggled to open the door to his apartment with his right. Finally, the door swung open and, as soon as it did, he knew the telephone was about to ring.
    It was a trick of his. Or something.
    For whatever reason, he was peculiarly attuned to the pitches and hums of machines—the whir and chink of the icemaker, the somnolent hum of the air conditioner, the gush and gurgle of water in the dishwasher. Any change in the acoustics of his appliances, no matter how subtle, struck him immediately, the