The Analyst (24 page)

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.

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 thought 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.”

“So, what you’re saying is…”

“Your choice, it seems to me, is relatively simple: Can you win? Can you determine the identity of the man called Rumplestiltskin in the few days you have remaining? If not, then will you kill yourself to save another? This is the most interesting question to pose to a physician. We are, after all, in the business of saving lives. But our resources for salvation are medicines, knowledge, skill with a scalpel. In this instance, your life is perhaps someone’s cure. Can you make that sacrifice? And, if unwilling to do that, will you be able to live with yourself afterward? On the surface, at least, it is not all that complicated. The complicated part is, well, internal.”

“You’re suggesting…” Ricky started to speak, stammering slightly. He looked across the room and saw that the old analyst had sat back in his chair, so that a shadow from a table lamp’s light seemed to bisect his face. Dr. Lewis gestured with a hand that seemed clawlike, long, elongated fingers thinned by age.

“I am not suggesting anything. I am merely pointing out that doing precisely what this gentleman has requested is a viable alternative. People sacrifice themselves so that others may live all the time. Soldiers in combat. Firemen in a burning building. Policemen on city streets. Is your life so sweet and so productive and so important that we can automatically assume it is more valuable than the life it might cost?”

Ricky shifted in his chair, as if the soft upholstery had grown wooden beneath him. “I can’t believe…,” he started, then he stopped.

Dr. Lewis looked at him and lifted his shoulders. “I am sorry. Of course you have not considered this consciously. But I wonder if you have not asked yourself these same questions in your unconscious, which is what prompted you to find me.”

“I came for help,” Ricky said perhaps far too swiftly. “I need help playing this game.”

“Really? Perhaps on one level. Perhaps, on another, you came for something else. Permission? Benediction?”

“I need to probe the era in my past where Rumplestiltskin’s mother was my patient. I need you to help me do that, because I have blocked that segment of my life. It’s like it’s just out of reach, just beyond my touch. I need you to help me steer through it. I know I can identify the patient who is connected to Rumplestiltskin, but I need assistance, and I believe that the patient who connects me to this man was someone I was seeing at the same time that I was in treatment with you, when you were my training analyst. I must have mentioned this person to you during our sessions together. So what I need is a sounding board. Someone to bounce those old memories off of. I’m sure I can talk the name out of my unconscious.”

Dr. Lewis nodded again. “Not an unreasonable request, and clearly an intelligent approach. ’s approach. Talk is a cure, not action. Do I sound cruel, Ricky? I guess that I have become irascible and outrageous in my old age. Of course, I will help. But, it seems to me, as we dissect, it would be wise to look at the present, as well, because eventually you will need to find answers both in your past and in your present. Perhaps, too, in your future. Can you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

Now it was Dr. Lewis’s turn to grin unpleasantly. “There is a classic analyst’s response. A football player or a lawyer or a modern businessman would say ‘Damn straight, I can!’ But we analysts always hedge our bets, do we not. Certainty is something we are uncomfortable with, no?” He took a deep breath and shifted about for a moment. “The problem is, this fellow who wants your head on a platter does not seem quite as indecisive or uncertain about things, does he?”

Ricky answered swiftly: “No. He seems to have everything well planned and thought out in advance. I have the sensation that he’s anticipated every single move I’ve made, almost as if he’d charted them all out beforehand.”

“I am sure he has.”

Ricky nodded to the truth of this observation. Dr. Lewis continued with his questions.

“He is, you would say, psychologically astute?”

“That’s my impression.”

Dr. Lewis nodded. “In some games, that is the essence of play. Football, perhaps. Certainly chess.”

“You’re suggesting…”

“To win a game of chess, you must plan further ahead than your opponent. That single move beyond the scope of what he has envisioned is what creates checkmate and defines victory. I think you should be doing the same.”

“How do I…”

Dr. Lewis rose. “That is what we should figure out over a modest dinner, and the remainder of the evening.” He smiled again, with a just slightly wry twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, you are assuming one great factor.”

“What is that?” Ricky asked.

“Well, it seems quite obvious that this fellow Rumplestiltskin has spent months, probably years, planning everything that has happened to you. It is a revenge that takes many items into consideration, and as you quite accurately point out, he has anticipated virtually every move you have made.”

“Yes. All true.”

“I wonder, then,” Dr. Lewis said slowly, “why you assume and why you believe that he has not already enlisted me, perhaps through threats or outside pressure of some other sort, to help him achieve his desire. Maybe he paid me off somehow. Why, Ricky, do you presume I am on your side in all this?”

Then with a sweeping gesture for Ricky to accompany him instead of answering the question, the old analyst slowly led the way into the kitchen, limping slightly as he traveled forward.

Two places had been set at an antique two-board table in the center of the kitchen. A jug of ice water and some sliced wheat bread in a wicker hamper graced the center of the table. Dr. Lewis crossed the room and lifted a casserole from the oven, placed it on a trivet, then took a modest salad out of the refrigerator. He hummed slightly as he finished setting the table. Ricky recognized a few strains of Mozart.

“Have a seat, Ricky. The concoction that stands before us is chicken. Please help yourself.”

Ricky hesitated. He reached out and poured himself a tall glass of water, then gulped at it like a man who had just crossed some desert. The drink barely quenched his sudden thirst.

“Has he?” he demanded abruptly. Ricky could hardly recognize his own voice. It seemed high-pitched and shrill.

“Has he what?”

“Has Rumplestiltskin approached you? Are you a part of this?”

Dr. Lewis sat down, carefully spreading a napkin on his lap, then helping himself to a generous portion of casserole and salad before replying. “Let me ask you this, Ricky,” he said slowly. “What difference would it make?”

Ricky stammered his reply: “All the difference in the world. I need to know I can trust you.”

Dr. Lewis nodded. “Really? Trust, I think, in this world is overrated. Regardless, what have I done, so far, to relinquish the trust you have in me that brought you here in the first place?”

“Nothing.”

“Then you should eat. The casserole is made by my housekeeper, and I assure you it is quite good, although not as good, alas, as that my wife used to make before she passed away. And you appear pale, Ricky, as if you have not been taking care of yourself.”

“I need to know. Has Rumplestiltskin enlisted you?”

Dr. Lewis shook his head, but this wasn’t a negative reply to Ricky’s question, more a comment on the situation. “Ricky, it seems to me that what you need is knowledge. Information. Understanding. Nothing you have described, so far, about what this man has done is designed to mislead you. When has he lied? Well, perhaps the attorney whose office was not where it was supposed to be, but that seems like a pretty simple and necessary deception. In reality, everything he has done so far is designed to lead you to him. At least it could be construed that way. He gives you clues. He sends an attractive young woman to assist you. Do you think he truly wants you to be unable to determine who he is?”