“ . . . 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 X through another day in the calendar, he once again started to feel the pressure of time weighing on the situation. He thought that it was important for him to at least come up with his first question, and call the Times to place the question in an ad.
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 the analyst’s office, where the roles were so much clearer. Out on the street, it was impossible for him to tell who might be playing t
he 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 invented is a word I might take exception to.”
“Who is your clien
t?” 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. “R as in Rumplestiltskin. Wouldn’t that be more appropriate?”
Merlin looked a bit confused. “I don’t know that I follow your thinking, doctor. X, R, whatever. That’s not really the point, is it?”
“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.”
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