"The Analyst" - читать интересную книгу автора (Katzenbach John)Chapter EightHe looked down at the lies on the page in front of him and felt a great contradiction within him. His spirits plummeted, his heart was cold with despair of his own, as if some tenacity had been sucked out of him, and at the same moment, replaced with a rage that was so far distant from his normal character that it was almost unrecognizable. His hands started to quiver, his face flushed red, and a thin line of sweat broke out on his forehead. He could feel the same heat growing at the back of his neck, in his armpits, and down his throat. He turned away from the letters, raising his eyes, looking around for something he could seize hold of and break, but he could find nothing readily available, which angered him even more. Ricky paced back and forth across his office for a few moments. It was as if his entire body had acquired a nervous twitch. Finally, he flung himself down into his old leather chair, behind the head of the couch, and let the familiar creakings of the upholstery and the sensation of the polished fabric beneath his palms calm him, if only a little. He had absolutely no doubt who had concocted the complaint against him. The false anonymity of the phony victim guaranteed that. The more important question, he recognized, was determining why. There was an agenda, he understood, and he needed to isolate and identify what it was. Ricky kept a telephone on the floor next to his chair and he reached down and seized it. Within seconds he acquired the office number for the head of the Psychoanalytic Society from directory assistance. Refusing their electronic offer to dial the number for him, he furiously punched the numbers into the receiver, then leaned back, waiting for a response. The telephone was answered by the vaguely familiar voice of his fellow analyst. But it had the tinny, emotionless, and flat quality belonging to a recording. “Hello. You have reached the office of Doctor Martin Roth. I will be out of my office from August first to the twenty-ninth. If this is an emergency, please dial 555-1716, which will connect you with a service capable of reaching me while on vacation. You may also dial 555-2436 and speak with Doctor Albert Michaels at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, who is covering for me this month. If you feel this is a true crisis, please call both numbers and Doctor Michaels and I will both get back to you.” Ricky disconnected the recording and dialed the first of the two emergency numbers. He knew the second number was for a second- or third-year psychiatric resident at the hospital. The residents covered for the established physicians during vacation times, providing an outlet where prescriptions superseded the talk that was the mainstay of the analytic treatment plan. The first number, however, was an answering service. “Hello,” a woman’s voice responded wearily. “This is Doctor Roth’s service.” “I need to get the doctor a message,” Ricky said briskly. “The doctor is on vacation. In an emergency, you should call Doctor Albert Michaels at-” “I have that number,” Ricky interrupted, “but it’s not that sort of emergency and it’s not that sort of message.” The woman paused, more surprised than confused. “Well,” she said, “I don’t know if I should call him during his vacation for just any message…” “He will want to hear this,” Ricky said. It was difficult to conceal the coolness in his own voice. “I don’t know,” the woman repeated. “We have a procedure.” “Everyone has a procedure,” Ricky said bluntly. “Procedures exist to prevent contact. Not help it. People with small minds and vacant imaginations fill them with schedules and procedures. People of character know when to ignore protocol. Are you that sort of person, miss?” The woman hesitated. “What’s the message?” she abruptly demanded. “Tell Doctor Roth that Doctor Frederick Starks… you had better write this down because I want you to quote me precisely…” “I am writing it down,” the woman said sharply. “… That Doctor Starks received his letter, reviewed the complaint contained within, and wishes to inform him that there is not a single word of truth in any of it. It is a complete and total fantasy.” “… Not a single word of truth… okay. Fantasy. Got that. You want me to call him with that message? He’s on vacation.” “We’re all on vacation,” Ricky said, just as bluntly. “Some people just have more interesting holidays than others. This message will assuredly make his far more interesting. See that he gets it and gets it exactly the way I said it, or I’ll make absolutely damn sure that you’re looking for another job by Labor Day. Understand?” “I understand,” the woman answered. She seemed undaunted by his threat. “But I told you: We have clear-cut and defined procedures. I don’t think this fits anything…” “Try not to be quite so predictable,” Ricky said. “And that way you can save your job.” Then he hung up the telephone. He leaned back in his seat. He couldn’t recall being that rude and demanding, not to mention threatening, in years. It, too, was against his nature. But then he recognized that he was likely to have to go against his nature in many ways over the next few days. He returned his eyes to the cover letter from Dr. Roth and then read through the anonymous complaint a second time. Still inwardly battling with the outrage and indignation of the falsely accused, he tried to measure the impact of the letters and return to an answer to the question Why? He thought Rumplestiltskin clearly had in mind some specific effect, but what was it? Some things came into focus, as he considered the question. The complaint itself was far more subtle than one would first think, Ricky realized. The anonymous letter writer cried rape! but placed the time frame just distant enough to be beyond any legal statute of limitations. No real police detectives need be involved. Instead, it would trigger a cumbersome, ham-handed inquiry by the State Board of Medical Ethics. This would be slow, inefficient, and unlikely to get in the way of the game clock running. A complaint that involved the police would likely get an immediate response, and Rumplestiltskin clearly didn’t want the police involved in any fashion, other than utterly tangentially. And, by making the complaint provocative, yet anonymous, the letter writer maintained distance. No one from the Psychoanalytic Society would call to follow up. They would hand it over, just as they had apparently done, to a third agency, washing their hands as quickly as possible to avoid what might be a real stench. Ricky read both letters over a third time, and saw an answer. “He wants me alone,” he blurted out loud. For a moment, Ricky leaned back, staring at the ceiling, as if the flat white above him reflected somehow with clarity. He spoke to no one, his voice seeming to echo a little in the office space, the sound almost hollow. “He doesn’t want me to get help. He wants me to play him without even the slightest bit of assistance. And so, he took steps to make sure I couldn’t talk to anyone else in the profession.” He almost smiled at the modestly diabolical nature of what Rumplestiltskin had done. He knew that Ricky would be internally buffeted by questions surrounding Zimmerman’s death. He knew Ricky was undoubtedly frightened by the invasion of his home and office in the hours that his back was turned in pursuit of Zimmerman’s truth. He knew that Ricky was unsettled and uncertain, probably a little panicky and in shock at the rapid-fire series of events that had taken place. Rumplestiltskin had anticipated all that, and then speculated what Ricky’s first move might be: seeking assistance. And where would Ricky have likely been willing to turn for help? He would have wanted to talk-not act-because that was the nature of his profession, and he would have turned to another analyst. A friend who could function as a sounding board. Someone who could hem and haw and listen to each detail and help Ricky sort through the wealth of things that had happened so rapidly. But that wouldn’t happen now, Ricky realized. The complaint with its allegations of rape, including the gratuitous and ugly last portrait of the final session, was sent to everyone in the hierarchy of the Psychoanalytic Society right as they all prepared to depart on their August vacations. There was no time to forcibly deny the charge, no ready forum in which to do so effectively. The nasty nature of the charge would race through the New York analytic world like gossip at some grand Hollywood opening. Ricky was a man with many colleagues and few real friends, this he knew. And these colleagues were unlikely to want to be tainted by contact with a doctor who had violated arguably the single greatest taboo of the profession. An allegation that he’d used his position as therapist and analyst for the basest and crudest sexual favors, and then turned his back on the psychological disaster he’d created, was the psychoanalytic equivalent of the plague, and he was instantly rendered into a modern Typhoid Mary. With this allegation hanging over his head, no one was likely to step forward to help Ricky, no matter how hard he pleaded, no matter how hard he denied the charge, until it was resolved. And that would take months. There was another, secondary effect: It created a situation where people who thought they knew Ricky, now would wonder what they knew and how they knew it. It was a wondrous lie, he thought, because the mere fact that he denied it would make people in his profession think he was covering up. I am all alone, Ricky thought. Isolated. Adrift. Ricky inhaled sharply, as if the air in his office had grown cold. He realized that was what he wanted. Alone. Again he looked at the two letters. In the fake complaint the anonymous writer had included the names of a Manhattan lawyer and a Boston therapist. Ricky couldn’t help himself from shuddering. Those names were installed for me. That’s the route I’m supposed to travel. He thought of the frightening darkness in his office the night before. All he had to do was follow the simple path and plug in what had been disconnected to shed light into the room. He suspected this was more or less the same. He just didn’t know where this particular path might be leading him. He wasted the remainder of that day examining every detail of Rumplestiltskin’s first letter, trying to dissect the rhymed clue further, then taking the time to write precise notes about all that had happened to him, paying as much attention as he could to each word spoken, re-creating dialogue like a reporter readying a news story, seeking a perspective that eluded him easily. He found he had the most trouble remembering exactly what the woman Virgil had said, which was disconcerting. He had no difficulty recalling the shape of her figure or the slyness in her voice, but found that her beauty was like a protective covering over her words. This troubled him, because it went against his training and his habit, and, like any good analyst, he pondered why he was so incapable of focus, when the truth was so obvious that any routinely charged teenage boy could have told him. He was accumulating notes and observations, seeking refuge in the world he was comfortable within. But, the following morning, after he had dressed in a suit and tie, and then had taken the time to draw an The morning heat seemed to mock him, and he steamed inside his suit almost immediately. He assumed he was being followed, but once again refused to turn and look. He realized he wouldn’t know how to spot a person tailing him, anyway. In the movies, he thought, it was always so easy for the hero to detect the forces of evil arrayed against him. The bad guys wore the black hats and the furtive look in their eyes. In real life, he recognized, it is far different. Everyone is suspicious. Everyone is preoccupied. The man on the corner delivering items to a grocery deli, the businessman pacing rapidly down the sidewalk, the homeless man in the alcove, the faces behind the glass windows of the restaurant, or a passing car. Anyone could be watching him or not. It was impossible for him to tell. He was so accustomed to the hyperintense world of ’s office, where the roles were so much clearer. Out on the street, it was impossible for him to tell who might be playing the game and watching him, and who was just one of the other eight million or so beings who abruptly populated his world. Ricky shrugged and hailed a cab at the corner. The cabbie had an unpronounceable foreign name, and was listening to an odd, Middle Eastern music station. A woman vocalist was keening in a high-pitched voice that wavered as the tempo changed. When a new tune came on, only the pace changed, the warbling vocals seemed to be the same. He couldn’t make out any recognizable words, but the driver was tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in rhythmic appreciation. The cabbie grunted when Ricky gave him the address, and sped off into traffic rapidly. Ricky wondered for a moment how many people jumped into the man’s cab every day. There was no way for the man behind the plastic partition to tell whether he was carrying fares to some momentous event in their life, or merely another passing minute. The cabbie punched his horn once or twice at an intersection, and drove him through the congested streets without comment. A large white moving van blocked most of the side street where the lawyer’s office was located, leaving just enough space for cars to squeeze past. Three or four burly men were moving in and out of the front doors of the modest, nondescript office building, carrying brown cardboard boxes and the occasional piece of furniture, desk chairs, sofas, and the like and walking carefully up a steel ramp into the truck to load them. A man in a blue blazer with a security badge stood to the side, keeping watch on the progress the movers made, eyeing passersby with a wariness that spoke loudly of a man with a single purpose for his presence and a rigidity that would see that purpose met. Ricky exited the cab, which sped off as soon as he slammed the door, and approached the man in the blazer. “I’m looking for the office of a Mr. Merlin. He’s an attorney…” “Sixth floor, all the way to the top,” the blazer man said, without taking his eyes off the parade of movers. “You got an appointment? Pretty busy up there with the move and all.” “He’s moving?” The blazer man gestured. “What you see,” he said. “Breaking into the big time, big money, from what I hear. You can go on up, but don’t get in the way.” The elevator hummed, but thankfully no Muzak played. When the doors opened on the sixth floor, Ricky immediately saw the lawyer’s office. A door was propped open and two men were struggling with a desk, lifting and angling it through the doorway, as a middle-aged woman in jeans, running shoes, and designer T-shirt watched them carefully. “That’s my desk, goddamn it, and I know every stain and scratch on it. You put a new one there, and you’ll be buying me another one.” The two movers paused, scowling. The desk slid through the door with millimeters to spare. Ricky looked past the men and saw boxes piled in the interior corridor, empty bookcases, and tables, all the items one ordinarily associated with a busy office out of place and collected for the move. From within the office there was a thudding sound and some cursing. The woman in jeans threw back her head, shaking a wild mane of auburn hair with obvious irritation. She had the look of a woman who appreciated organization and the temporary chaos of the move was almost painful for her. Ricky walked up quickly. “I’m looking for Mr. Merlin,” he said. “Is he around?” The woman turned quickly. “Are you a client? We don’t have any appointments scheduled for today. Moving day.” “In a manner of speaking,” Ricky replied. “Well,” the woman said stiffly, “what manner of speaking would that be?” “My name is Doctor Frederick Starks, and I believe it safe to say that Mr. Merlin and I have something to discuss. Is he here?” The woman briefly looked surprised, then smiled unpleasantly, nodding her head. “That’s a name I recognize. But I don’t believe Mr. Merlin was expecting a visit quite so quickly.” “Really?” Ricky said. “I would have guessed the exact opposite is the case.” The woman paused as another mover emerged carrying a lamp in one hand and a box of books under another arm. She turned to him and said, “One trip, one item. Carry too much, something just gets broken. Put one of those down and come back for it next time.” The mover looked astonished, shrugged, and put the lamp down none too gently. She turned back to Ricky. “As you can see, doctor, you’ve arrived at a difficult moment…” It seemed to Ricky that the woman was about to dismiss him, when a younger man, in his early thirties, slightly overweight and slightly balding, wearing pressed khaki slacks, an expensive designer sport shirt, and highly polished, tasseled loafers, emerged from the back of the office. It was a most curious appearance, because he was overdressed for lifting and carrying, underdressed for conducting business. The clothes he wore were ostentatious and expensive, and stated that appearance, even in genuinely informal circumstances, was somehow governed by stiff rules. What Ricky saw was that there was nothing relaxed about the man’s clothes to relax in. “I’m Merlin,” the man said, removing a folded linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his hands before offering one in Ricky’s direction. “If you will forgive the chaotic nature of our surroundings, we could perhaps speak for a few moments in the conference room. Most of the furniture is still there, although for how much longer is an open question.” The attorney gestured toward a door. “Would you like me to take notes, Mr. Merlin?” the woman asked. Merlin shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll be all that long.” Ricky was ushered into a room dominated by a long cherry-wood table and chairs. There was an end table at the rear of the room with a coffee machine and a jug with glasses. The attorney pointed toward a seat, then went and inspected the machine. Shrugging, he turned to Ricky. “I’m sorry, Doctor,” Merlin said. “No coffee left, and the water jug appears empty, too. I can’t offer you anything.” “That’s all right,” Ricky replied. “I didn’t come here because I was thirsty.” This response made the lawyer smile. “No. Of course not,” he said. “But I’m not sure how I can help-” “Merlin is an unusual name,” Ricky interrupted. “One wonders whether you’re a conjuror of sorts.” Again the lawyer grinned. “In my profession, Doctor Starks, a name such as mine is an advantage. We are frequently asked by clients to pull the proverbial rabbit out of a top hat.” “And can you do this?” Ricky asked. “Alas, no,” Merlin answered. “I have no magic wand. But, on the other hand, I have been singularly successful at forcing reluctant and recalcitrant opposition rabbits to emerge from places of concealment in all sorts of hats, relying, of course, less on magical powers than on a torrent of legal papers and a blizzard of legal demands. Perhaps in this world, these things amount to the same. Certain lawsuits seem to function in much the same way that curses and spells did for my namesake.” “And you are moving?” The attorney reached down and extracted a small, crafted-leather card case from a pocket. He removed a card and handed it across the table to Ricky. “The new digs,” he said, not unpleasantly. “Success brings a demand for expansion. Hiring new associates. Need room to stretch.” Ricky looked at the card, with a downtown address. “And am I to be another pelt on your wall?” Merlin nodded, grinning not unpleasantly. “Probably,” he said. “In fact, it is likely. I shouldn’t really be speaking with you, doctor, especially without your attorney present. Why don’t you have your lawyer call me, we can go over your malpractice insurance policy… You are insured, aren’t you, doctor? And then get this thing settled swiftly and profitably for all involved.” “I carry insurance, but I doubt whether it would cover the complaint your client has invented. I don’t think I’ve had a reason to read the policy in decades.” “No insurance? That’s bad… And “Who is your client?” Ricky demanded abruptly. The lawyer shook his head. “I am still not at liberty to divulge her name. She is in the process of recovery and-” “None of this ever happened,” Ricky sliced through the lawyer’s words. “It is all a fantasy. Made up. Not a word of truth. Your real client is someone else, true?” The attorney paused. “I can assure you my client is real,” he said. “As are her complaints. Miss X is a very distraught young woman…” “Why not call her Miss R?” Ricky asked. “ Merlin looked a bit confused. “I don’t know that I follow your thinking, doctor. “Correct.” “The point, Doctor Starks, is that you are in real trouble. And, trust me, you want this problem to disappear from your horizon just as quickly as humanly possible. If I have to file suit, well, then the damage will be done. Pandora’s box, doctor. All the evil things will just come flying out. Everything will become a part of some public record. Allegations and denials, although, in my experience, the denial never manages to have quite the same impact as the allegation, does it? It’s not the denial that sticks in people’s memories, is it?” The lawyer shook his head. “At no time have I ever abused a patient’s trust in the manner alleged. I do not believe this person even exists. I have no record of such a patient.” “Well, doc, that’s dandy. I hope you’re one hundred percent right about that. Because,” as he spoke, the lawyer’s voice dipped an octave and the intonation of each word gained a razor-sharp edge, “by the time I get through interviewing every patient you’ve had for the past decade or so, and talking with every colleague you’ve ever had a dispute with, and examining every facet of what you better hope is your saintlike life and certainly every second you’ve spent behind that couch, well, whether or not my client exists is not going to be completely relevant, because you will have absolutely no life and no reputation left. None, whatsoever.” Ricky wanted to respond, but did not. Merlin continued to stare directly at Ricky, not wavering even slightly. “Do you have any enemies, doctor? How about jealous colleagues? Do you think any of your patients over the years have been less than pleased with their treatment? Have you ever kicked a dog? Maybe failed to brake when a squirrel ran out in front of your car up there at your vacation house on Cape Cod?” Merlin smiled again, but now the smile had turned nasty. “I already know about that place,” he said. “A nice farmhouse in a lovely field on the edge of a forest with a garden and with just a little bit of ocean view. Twelve acres. Purchased from a middle-aged woman whose husband had just died back in 1984. Sort of took advantage of the bereaved in that transaction, huh, doc? Do you have any idea how the value of that property has increased? I’m sure you do. Let me suggest to you, Doctor Starks, one thing and one thing only. Whether or not there’s the slightest bit of truth involved in my client’s allegation, I’m going to own that property before this is finished. And I’m going to own your apartment, and your bank account at Chase, and the retirement account at Dean Witter that you haven’t yet dipped into, and the modest stock portfolio you keep with the same brokerage firm. But I’ll start with the summer place. Twelve acres. I think I can subdivide and make a killing. What do you think, doc?” Ricky listened to the lawyer, reeling internally. “How do you know-” he started lamely. “I make it my business to know,” Merlin cut him off rapidly. “If you didn’t have something I wanted, I wouldn’t be bothering. But you do, and trust me on this, doc, because your lawyer will tell you the same, the fight isn’t worth it.” “My integrity is certainly worth it,” Ricky replied. Merlin shrugged again. “You’re not seeing clearly here, doctor. I’m trying to tell you how to leave your integrity more or less intact. You rather foolishly believe that this has something to do with being right or wrong. Telling the truth rather than lying. I find this intriguing, coming from a veteran psychoanalyst such as yourself. Is the truth, in some wondrously authentic and clear-cut fashion, something that you hear often? Or are truths hidden, concealed, and covered up with all sorts of curious psychological baggage, elusive and slippery once identified? And never exactly black or white, either. More like shades of gray, brown, and even red. Isn’t that what your profession preaches?” Ricky felt foolish. The lawyer’s words were battering him like so many punches in a mismatched prizefight. He took a deep breath, thinking he was stupid to have come to the office, and the smart course was to get out rapidly. He was about to rise, when Merlin added: “Hell can take many forms, Doctor Starks. Think of me as merely one of them.” “Come again?” Ricky said. But what he recalled was what Virgil had said in their first meeting, when she told him that she was to be his guide to Hell, and that was where her name came from. The lawyer smiled. “In Arthurian times,” he said not unpleasantly, with the confidence of a man who has sized up the opposition and found it distinctly lacking, “Hell was very real in the minds of all sorts of folks, even the educated and sophisticated. They truly believed in demons, devils, possession by evil spirits, what have you. They could smell fire and brimstone awaiting the less than pious, thought that burning pits and eternal tortures were not unreasonable outcomes for poorly led lives. Today, things are more complicated, doctor, aren’t they? We don’t really think we’re going to suffer burning tongs and eternal damnation in some fiery pit. So, what do we have instead? Lawyers. And trust me on this, doc, I can quite easily turn your life into something resembling a medieval picture etched by one of those nightmare artists. What you want is to take the easy way out, doc. The easy way. Better check that insurance policy again.” The door to the conference room swung open right then, and two of the moving men hesitated before entering. “We’d like to get this stuff now,” one man said. “It’s pretty much all that’s left.” Merlin rose. “No problem. I believe Doctor Starks was just getting ready to leave.” Ricky, too, stood. He nodded. “Yes. I am.” He looked down at the lawyer’s card. “This is where my attorney should contact you?” “Yes.” “All right,” he said. “And you’ll be available…” “At your convenience, doctor. I think you’d be wise to get this settled promptly. You’d hate to waste your precious vacation worrying about me, wouldn’t you?” Ricky did not reply, although he noted that he had not mentioned his vacation plans to the lawyer. He simply nodded, then turned and exited the office, not looking back for a second. Ricky slid into a cab and told the driver to take him to the Plaza Hotel. This was barely a dozen blocks away. For what Ricky had in mind, it seemed the best selection. The cab lurched forward, racing through midtown in that unique manner that city cabs have, accelerating quickly, surging, braking, shifting, slaloming through traffic, making no better and no worse time than a steady, contained, direct path would have. Ricky looked at the cabdriver’s identification shield, which, as expected, was another unfathomable foreign name. He sat back, thinking how hard it is sometimes to get a cab in Manhattan, and wasn’t it intriguing that one was so readily available as he emerged, shaken, from the attorney’s office. Just as if it had been waiting for him. The cabdriver pulled sharply to the curb outside the hotel’s entrance. Ricky jammed some money through the Plexiglas partition, and exited the cab. He ignored the doorman, and jumped up the stairs and through the revolving hotel doors. The lobby was milling with guests, and he rapidly threaded his way through several parties and tour groups, dodging piles of luggage and scurrying bellhops. He launched himself to The Palm Court. On the far side of the restaurant, he paused, stared at a menu for a moment, then ducked down, hunching over slightly and headed for the corridor, moving at as quick a pace as he could muster without drawing undue attention, more like a man late for a train. He went directly to the Central Park South exit of the hotel, stepping through the doors, back onto the street. There was a doorman flagging cabs for guests as they emerged. Ricky stepped past one family gathered at the curb. “Do you mind,” he said to a middle-aged father dressed in a Hawaiian print shirt who was riding herd on three rowdy children all between the ages of six and ten. A mousy wife stood to the side, mother-henning the entire brood. “I have a bit of an emergency. I don’t mean to be rude, but…” The father looked at Ricky crazily, as if no family trip all the way from Idaho to New York would be complete without someone stealing a cab from them, and then wordlessly gestured to the door. Ricky jumped in, slamming it behind him as he heard the wife say, “Ralph, what are you doing? That was ours…” This cabdriver, Ricky thought, at least, wasn’t someone hired by Rumplestiltskin. He gave the driver the address of Merlin’s office. As he suspected, the moving van was no longer parked out front. The security guard in his blue blazer had disappeared as well. Ricky leaned forward and knocked on the cabdriver’s partition. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “Take me to this address, please.” He read the new address off the attorney’s card. “But when you get close, stop about a block away, okay? I don’t want to pull up in front.” The cabdriver silently shrugged and nodded. It took a quarter hour to battle through traffic. The address on Merlin’s card was near Wall Street. It reeked of prestige. The driver did as he’d been asked, pulling to the side a block shy of the address. “Up there,” the man said. “You want me to drive?” “No,” Ricky replied. “This is fine.” He paid and tossed himself from the tight confines of the rear seat. As he’d half guessed, there was no sign of the moving truck outside the large office building. He looked up and down the street, but saw no sign of the attorney, nor the company, nor the office furniture. He double-checked the address on the card, making certain that he had it correct, then looked into the building and saw there was a security desk just inside the front door. A single uniformed guard, reading a paperback novel, had taken up a position behind a bank of video monitors and an electronic board that showed the elevator operations. Ricky stepped into the building and first approached an office directory printed on the wall. He quickly checked and found no listing for anyone named Merlin. Ricky walked over to the guard, who looked up as he came forward. “Help you?” he said. “Yes,” Ricky replied. “I seem to be confused. I have this lawyer’s card, with this address, but I can’t seem to find his listing. He should be moving in today.” The guard checked the card, frowned, and shook his head. “That’s the right address,” he said, “but we’ve got nobody by that name.” “Maybe an empty office? Like I said, moving in today?” “No one told security nothing. And there aren’t any vacancies. Haven’t been for years.” “Well, that’s strange,” Ricky said. “Must be a printer’s mistake.” The guard handed back the card. “Could be,” he said. Ricky pocketed the card, thinking that he’d just won his first skirmish with the man stalking him. But to what advantage, he wasn’t sure. Ricky was still feeling slightly smug as he arrived at his own building. He was unsure who he’d met in the attorney’s office, wondering whether the man who called himself Merlin wasn’t really Rumplestiltskin himself. This was a distinct possibility, Ricky thought, because he was certain that the man at the core of the situation would want to see Ricky himself, face-to-face. He wasn’t precisely certain why he believed this, but it seemed to make some sense. It was difficult to imagine someone gaining pleasure from tormenting him, without that person wanting to get a firsthand opportunity to see his handiwork. But this observation did not even begin to color in the portrait he knew he would have to create in order to guess that man’s name. “What do you know about psychopaths?” he asked himself, as he walked up the steps to the brownstone building that housed his home office and four other apartments. Not much, he answered quietly to himself. What he knew about were the troubles and neuroses of the mildly to significantly crippled. He knew about the lies well-to-do people told themselves to justify their behavior. He didn’t think he knew much about someone who would create an entire world of lies in order to bring about his death. Ricky understood that this was uncharted territory for him. In an instant, the satisfaction Ricky had felt outmaneuvering Rumplestiltskin once, fled. He reminded himself coldly: Remember what’s at stake. He saw that the mail had been delivered, and he opened his box. One long, thin envelope bore an official seal in the upper left-hand corner from the Transit Authority of the City of New York. He opened this first. There was a small piece of paper clipped to a larger photocopied sheet. He read the small letter first. Ricky flipped the cover letter back and read the photocopy. It was brief, typed, and filled him with a distant dread. Even the signature had been typed. Ricky stared at the suicide note, feeling his emotions simply drain through him. |
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