“You don’t think that you should look into these things. As a follow-up on the Zimmerman case?”
This question made Detective Riggins pause. She had not taken any notes during the conversation. “I might,” she said carefully. “I need to think about it. It’s hard to reopen a case once it has received a closed status.”
“But not impossible.”
“Difficult. But not impossible.”
“Can you get authority from your superior . . . ,” Ricky started.
“I don’t think I want to open that door quite yet,” the detective said. “As soon as I tell my boss there’s an official problem, then all sorts of bureaucratic stuff has to occur. I think I’ll just poke around myself. Maybe. Tell you what, doctor, why don’t I look at a few things, then get back to you. At the least, I can go check that computer Zimmerman had in his bedroom. There might be a time stamp on the file that contains the suicide note. I’ll do it tonight or tomorrow. How would that be?”
“Fine,” Ricky said. “Tonight would be better than tomorrow. I’m under some time restraints. And you might pass on the name and number of the right people at the NYPD at the same time . . .”
This seemed like a reasonable arrangement. The detective nodded. Ricky took some inward pleasure in the observation that her mildly mocking and sarcastic tone had changed, shortly after he had raised the possibility that she had screwed up. Even if she thought this possibility remote, in a world where promotions and raises were so carefully connected to successful completions of investigations, the idea that she had overlooked a murder and defined it as a suicide was the sort of mistake that any bureaucrat was especially scared of. “. . . I’ll expect your call at your earliest convenience,” he said.
Then Ricky rose, feeling as if he’d just struck a blow for himself. Not a victorious sensation, but, at least, one that made him feel a little less alone in the world.
Ricky took a cab to Lincoln Center, to the Metropolitan Opera House, which was empty except for a few tourists and some security guards. There was a bank of pay telephones outside the men’s and women’s rooms that he was familiar with. The advantage of the phones was that from that location he could make a phone call, while at the same time keep an eye on anyone who might try to follow him into the opera house. He doubted that anyone would be able to get close enough to determine who he was calling.
The number he had for Dr. Lewis had been changed, as he’d expected. But he was connected to a second number with a different area code. He used most of the spare quarters he had to connect to that number. As the phone rang, he thought Dr. Lewis was now probably well into his eighties, and he was uncertain whether he would be of any assistance. But Ricky knew that this was the only way he could get some perspective on his situation, and with a desperate quality to his every step, it was one he should take.
The receiver rang at least eight times before being answered.
“Yes?”
“Doctor Lewis, please.”
“This is Doctor Lewis.”
It was a voice Ricky had not heard in twenty years, yet filled him with a rush of emotion that surprised him. It was as if a torrent of hates, fears, loves, and frustrations suddenly was loosed within him, and he forced himself, struggling, to maintain some composure.
“Doctor Lewis, this is Doctor Frederick Starks . . .”
Both men were silent for a moment, as if the mere meeting on the telephone after so many years was overwhelming.
Dr. Lewis spoke first. “Well, I’ll be darned. It is nice to hear from you, Ricky, even after so many years. I am quite taken aback.”
“I’m sorry, doctor, to be so abrupt. But I didn’t know where else to turn.”
Again there was a brief silence.
“You are troubled, Ricky?”
“Yes.”
“And the tools of self-analysis are inadequate?”
“Yes. I was hoping you might lend me some time to talk.”
“I do not really see patients anymore,” Lewis said. “Retirement. Age. Infirmity. Getting older, which is terrible. All sorts of things simply sliding away.”
“Will you see me?”
The old man paused. “Your voice seems quite urgent. This is important? You are deeply troubled?”
“I am in great danger, and I have little time.”
“Well, well, well.” Ricky could sense a smile on the old analyst’s face. “That sounds genuinely intriguing. You think I can help you?”
“I don’t know. But you might be able to.”
The old analyst digested this momentarily, before replying, “Spoken like someone in our calling. You will have to come out here, I’m afraid. No more midtown office.”
“Where’s here?” Ricky asked.
“Rhinebeck,” Dr. Lewis said, adding an address on River Road. “A wonderful place to be retired, except damn cold and icy in the winter. But lovely now. You can get a train from Pennsylvania Station.”
“If I get there this afternoon . . .”
“I will see you whenever you arrive. That is one of the sole advantages to retirement. A distinct lack of pressing appointments. Take a cab from the station and I will be expecting you around dinnertime.”
He scrunched into a corner seat as far to the rear of the train as he could find and spent most of the afternoon staring out the window. The train traveled directly north following the course of the Hudson, sometimes so close to the river’s edge that the water was only yards away. Ricky found himself staring out across the expanse, fascinated by the different shades of blue-green that the river engaged, a seemingly deep near-black close to the banks, stretching into a lighter, vibrant blue in the deep center. Sailboats carved through the water, tossing white sheets of spray from their bows, and an occasional ungainly, huge container ship wallowed through the deepest channel. In the distance, the Palisades rose harshly, gray-brown columns of rock, topped with stands of dark green trees. There were mansions dotting wide lawns, houses so huge that the wealth enclosed seemed impossible to envision. At West Point he caught a glimpse of the military academy high on a hill, overlooking the river; he thought the stolid buildings as gray and taut as the uniformed lines of cadets. The river was wide and glassy, and he found it easy to imagine the explorer who gave the water its name five hundred years earlier. He watched the water surface for a bit, unsure in his own mind which way the current flowed, whether it dropped down back toward the city and the ocean beyond, or whether it climbed north, pushed by the tides and the spin of the earth. This troubled him slightly, not knowing, being unable to tell which direction the water traveled from staring at its surface.
Only a small group of people got off the train in Rhinebeck and Ricky lingered on the platform inspecting each, still worried that despite his efforts, someone had managed to follow him. There were a couple of young people, college-age kids in jeans or shorts, laughing among themselves; a middle-aged mother towing three children in a pack, trying to show patience with one wandering blond-headed boy; a harried pair of businessmen already working their cell phones as they headed up to the station. None of the folks getting off the train even glanced in Ricky’s direction, except for the little boy, who paused and made a face in his direction before racing up the long flight of stairs leading away from the tracks. Ricky waited until the train started to edge out, making large metallic grunting sounds as it gathered momentum. Convinced there was no one else who had departed, Ricky ascended into the station. It was an old, brick building, with a tiled floor that echoed his footsteps as he paced through, filled with cool air that defied the late afternoon heat. A single sign with a red arrow above a wide double door read: taxis. He exited the station and saw only a single bedraggled white sedan, bearing a medallion on the side and an unlit emblem on its roof and a large dent in the front quarter panel. The driver seemed about ready to leave, but spotted Ricky, and sharply pulled back to the curb.
“You need a ride, fella?” the driver asked.
“Yes, please,” Rick
y answered.
“Well, I’m the only guy left. I was just about to take off when I sees you coming through the door. Jump in.”
Ricky did as he was told, and gave the man Dr. Lewis’s address.
“Ah, prime real estate that,” the driver said, accelerating, the tires complaining slightly as they pulled out of the station.
The road to the old analyst’s house was a meandering, narrow two-lane drive through the countryside. Stately oaks created a canopy of shade above the macadam, so that the weak summer evening light seemed to slowly flow to the earth like flour through a sieve, sifting shadows right and left. The countryside rolled with gentle hills, like swells on a modest ocean. He could see clusters of horses standing in some fields, and in the distance large, imposing mansions. The homes closer to the roadway were antique, often clapboard, with small square date-signs prominently displayed, so that the passerby would know that this house was constructed in 1788, or this one in 1802. He saw flower gardens streaked with color, and more than one T-shirted homeowner astride a small tractor lawn mower, aggressively clipping some immaculate swath of green grass. It was an area that spoke of escape, he thought. He guessed that most of the residents thought their primary life was in the caverns of Manhattan, working with money, power, or prestige, and quite frequently with all of them. These were weekend homes and summer getaways, fantastically expensive, but with genuine cricket sounds at night.
The cabdriver saw his inspecting, and said, “Not bad, huh? Some of these places will set you back a buck or two.”
“Can’t get a seat in a restaurant on the weekend, I’ll bet,” Ricky replied.
“Not in the summer, or around the holidays, you got that right. But not everybody’s a city person. There’s some folks that put down roots. Just enough to keep it from being a ghost town. It’s a pretty place.” He slowed the car and then took a sharp left into a driveway. “The trouble is, it’s just a little bit too damn convenient to the city. Anyway, here you are. This is the place,” he said.
Dr. Lewis’s home was one of the old, reconditioned farmhouses, a simple two-story Cape design, painted a vibrant, glowing white, with a placard that read 1791 in one corner. It wasn’t by any means the largest of the homes Ricky had passed. There was a trellis covered with vines, and flowers planted by the entranceway, and a small fish pond by the edge of the yard. A hammock and some Adirondack chairs that were peeling white paint stood to the side. A ten-year-old blue Volvo station wagon was parked in front of a onetime stable, that now clearly served as a garage.
The cab pulled away behind him, and Ricky paused on the edge of the gravel drive. He was suddenly, acutely aware that his hands were empty. He had no bag, no simple gift, or the ubiquitous bottle of midpriced white wine to bring with him. He breathed in sharply, feeling a rush of conflicting emotions within him. It wasn’t quite right to characterize what he felt as fear, but it was the sensation that a child feels knowing that he needs to bring some transgression to the attention of a parent. Ricky wanted to smile to himself, recognizing that the burst of feelings that had turned his feet so leaden and accelerated his heart rate were normal; the relationship between analyst and analysand is deep and provocative, and functions in many different ways, not the least of which is like an authority and a child. This, he knew, was an integral part of the process of transference, wherein the analyst engaged in the process slowly takes on different roles, all ultimately leading to understanding. Still, Ricky thought, not many physicians have such an impact on their patients. An orthopedist would probably not even recall the knee or hip that he operated on after so many years and so many joints. But the analyst is likely to remember if not everything, then much, the mind being more sophisticated than the knee, if sometimes not quite as efficient.
He stepped forward slowly, his eyes sweeping over the entranceway, absorbing all he could see. He reminded himself that this is another of the keys to analysis; the doctor knows virtually every emotional and sexual intimacy of the patient, who, in turn, knows next to nothing about the therapist. The mystery mimics the essential mysteries of life and family; and there is always a sense of fascination and trepidation about entering the unknown. He thought: Dr. Lewis knows about me, and now I will know something about him, and this changes things. The observation made him sweat nervously.
Ricky was halfway to the front steps, when the front door swung open. He heard the voice before he saw the man: “Slightly uncomfortable, I will wager.”
Ricky replied: “You read my mind,” which was something of an analyst joke.
He was ushered into a study, right off the entranceway to the old house. He found his eyes swinging from side to side, absorbing, imprinting details on his imagination. Books on a shelf. Tiffany lampshade. Oriental carpet. Like many older houses, the interior had a dark hue, contradicted by vibrant white walls; it seemed to him to be cool within, not stuffy, but fresh, as if the windows had been open to the night before and the home had retained the memory of the lower temperatures. He could smell a faint odor of lilac and there was a distant sound of cooking coming from the rear of the house.
Dr. Lewis was a slight man, bent a little at the shoulders, bald, with aggressive tufts of hair bursting from his ears, which gave him a distinctly odd appearance. He wore glasses perched down far on his nose, so that he rarely seemed to actually look through them. There were some age spots on the backs of his hands, and the slightest shakiness in his fingers. He moved slowly, limping a little, finally settling into a large red leather, overstuffed wing chair, gesturing to Ricky to seat himself in a slightly lesser armchair a few feet away. Ricky sunk down into the cushions.
“I am delighted to see you, Ricky, even after so many years. How long has it been?”
“More than a decade, certainly. You’re looking well, doctor.”
Dr. Lewis grinned and shook his head. “Probably should not start this out with such an obvious lie, although at my age one appreciates lies much more than the truth. The truths are always so damn inconvenient. I need a new hip, a new bladder, a new prostate, two new eyes and ears, and some new teeth. New feet would be helpful, as well. Probably need a new heart, too, but I will not be getting any of these things. I could use a new car in the garage and the house could use new plumbing. Come to think of it, so could I. The roof is fine, though.” He tapped his forehead. “Mine, too.” Then he cackled again. “But I am sure you did not track me down to find out about me. I have forgotten both my training and my manners. You will join me, of course, for dinner, and I have had the guest bedroom made up for you. And now, I should keep my mouth shut, which is what we in our profession believe we do so well, and have you tell me why you are here.”
Ricky paused, not precisely certain where to begin. He stared across at the old man swallowed up in the wing chair, and felt as if a string within him suddenly broke. He could feel his control sliding away, and what he said choked out past lips that quivered. “I believe I have only a single week left to live,” he said.
Dr. Lewis’s eyebrows arched upward.
“You are ill, Ricky?”
Ricky shook his head.
“I think I must murder myself,” he answered.
The old analyst leaned forward. “That is a problem,” he said.
Chapter Fourteen
Ricky must have spoken nonstop for more than an hour, uninterrupted by even the slightest comment or question from Dr. Lewis, who sat almost motionless in his seat, balancing his chin in the palm of his hand. Once or twice Ricky rose, pacing swiftly around the perimeter of the room as if the movement in his feet would propel his story along quicker, before returning to the overstuffed armchair and continuing with his tale. On more than one occasion he could feel sweat dripping down beneath his armpits, although the room was pleasantly cool, the windows open to the early Hudson Valley evening.
He heard some distant thunder coming from the Catskills, miles away across the river, deep explosive rolls of noise like artillery. He recalled that local legend th
ought the sound to be the noise made by supernatural dwarves and elves, bowling in the green hollows. He told Dr. Lewis of receiving the first letter, the poetry and threats, the stakes of the game. He described Virgil and Merlin and the attorney’s office that didn’t exist. He tried to leave out nothing, from the electronic assaults on his bank and brokerage accounts, to the pornographic message sent to his distant relative on the birthday they shared. He went on at length about Zimmerman, his treatment, his death, and the two visits to Detective Riggins. He spoke about the false accusation of sexual impropriety lodged against him with the medical board, his face turning slightly red as he did so. Sometimes he rambled, as when he spoke about the break-ins at his office and the odd violation he felt, or when he described his first effort in the Times and Rumplestiltskin’s response. He ended slightly out of chronology, talking about the impact of the photographs of the three young people shown to him by Virgil. Then he leaned back, grew silent, and for the first time actually stared across the room at the old analyst, who by now had lifted both hands to his chin, supporting his head in thought, as if trying to assess the totality of the evil that had descended upon Ricky.
“Most intriguing,” Dr. Lewis finally said, leaning back and emitting a long sigh. “I wonder if your Rumplestiltskin fellow is a philosopher. Was it not Camus who argued that the only real choice any man had in life was whether or not to commit suicide? The ultimate existential question.”
“I thought that was Sartre,” Ricky replied. He shrugged.
“I suppose that is the central question here, Ricky, the first and most important question Rumplestiltskin has posed.”
“I’m sorry, what . . .”
“Will you kill yourself to save another, Ricky?”
Ricky was taken aback by the question. “I’m not sure,” he stammered. “I don’t think that I’ve really considered that alternative.”
Dr. Lewis shifted in his seat. “It is really not all that unreasonable a question,” he said. “And I am certain that your tormentor here has spent many hours wondering what your response would be. What sort of man are you, Ricky? What sort of physician? Because, when all is said and done, that is the essence of this game: Will you kill yourself? He appears to have proven the sincerity of his threats, or, at least made you believe that he has already committed one killing, so another is probably not beyond him. And these are, if you will permit me, Ricky, to sound callous, extremely easy murders to perform. The subjects mean nothing to him. They are merely vessels that assist him in getting to you. And they have the added advantage of being homicides that probably no FBI agent or police detective in the world, not even a Maigret or Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple or one of Mickey Spillane’s or Robert Parker’s creations could effectively solve. Think about it, Ricky, for it is truly devilish and wondrously existential: An act of killing takes place in Paris, Guatemala City, or Bar Harbor, Maine. It is sudden, spontaneous, and the person being killed has no rhyme or reason that it is coming. They are simply executed one second. Like being felled by a bolt of lightning. And the person supposed to directly suffer from this killing is hundreds, thousands of miles away. A nightmare for any police authority, who would have to find you, find the killer created in your past, then somehow connect them to this event in some distant country, with all the red tape and diplomatic hassles that involves. And that is assuming that they can find the killer. Probably so insulated by fake identities and red herrings of all sorts that it will be impossible. Police have enough trouble obtaining convictions when they have confessions and DNA evidence and eyewitnesses. No, Ricky, my guess is that this would be a crime that is way beyond their capacities.”
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