The Analyst (35 page)

Most of the new construction on the Cape wears the arrogance of money in both design and location. Large homes slapped down on every hillside and promontory, pitched to gather whatever view of the Atlantic can be acquired. And, if no water view is available, then bent so that they look upon glades, or stands of the thick tangles of wind-stunted trees that dominate the landscape. New houses are designed to look at something. Ricky’s house was different. Built well over a hundred years earlier, it had once been a small farm, so it was set at the edge of fields. The fields that had once grown corn were now part of conservation land, so there was an automatic isolation to the location. The house found peace and solitude less in the vista it looked out upon, and more from an ancient connection to the land beneath its foundation. Now it was a little like an old, graying pensioner, slightly tattered and shopworn, frayed about the edges, who wore his medals on holidays, but preferred to spend his hours catnapping in the sunlight. The house had done its duty for decades, and now rested. It had none of the energy of modern homes, where relaxation is almost a demand and a pressing requirement.

Ricky walked through the shadows beneath overhanging trees until the road emerged from the modest forest and he saw the house tucked in the corner of an open field. That the house was standing almost surprised him.

He stood on the front stoop, relieved that he’d found the spare key beneath the loose gray flagstone, as expected. He paused for a moment, then unlocked the door and stepped inside. The musty smell of stale air was almost a relief. His eyes quickly absorbed the world inside. Dust and quiet.

As Ricky recognized the tasks that awaited him-tidying up, sweeping out, getting the house ready for his vacation-an almost dizzying exhaustion filled him. He walked up the narrow flight of stairs to the bedroom. The wooden floorboards, warped and worn with age, creaked beneath his tread. In his room, he opened the window so that warm air would pour over him. He kept a photo of his dead wife in a drawer of a chest, a curious place to store her picture and her memory. He went and pulled it out, and then clutching it like a child would a teddy bear, tossed himself onto the creaky double bed where he’d slept alone for the past three summers, dropping almost immediately into a deep, but unsettled sleep.

He could sense that the sun had scoured the day when he opened his eyes to the early afternoon. For a moment, he was disoriented, but then, as he awakened further, the world around him jumped into focus. The world outside was familiar and much loved, but seeing it seemed harsh, almost as if the vista that was most comforting was oddly out of his reach. It gave him no pleasure to stare at the world around him. Like the picture of his wife that he still clutched in his hand, it was distant, and somehow lost from him.

Ricky moved to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face at the sink. His face in the mirror seemed to have aged. He placed his hands on the edge of the porcelain, and stared at himself, thinking he had much to do, not much time to do it.

He moved swiftly to the ordinary chores of summertime. A trip to the barn to pull the car cover off the old Honda, and plug in the electric battery charger that he kept in storage there precisely for this moment every summer. Then, as the car was being reenergized, he went back to the house and started to strip the furniture covers off, and run a quick few broom swipes along the floors. There was an old feather duster in the closet as well, and he got this out and immediately turned the interior of the house into a world of dust mites, spinning in shafts of sunlight.

As was his custom on the Cape, he left the front door open, when he left. If he’d been followed, which was possible, he didn’t want to force Virgil or Merlin or anyone associated with Rumplestiltskin to break in. It was as if this would somehow minimize the violation. He did not know if he could tolerate anything else in his life being broken. His home in New York, his career, his reputation, everything associated with who Ricky thought he was, and everything that he had built into his life, had systematically been ruined. He felt a sort of immense fragility descending upon his heart, as if a single crack in a windowpane, a scratch on the woodwork, a broken teacup, or a bent spoon would be more than he could manage.

He breathed a long sigh of relief when the Honda started up. He pumped the brakes and they seemed to work, as well. He backed the car out gingerly, all the time thinking: This is what it must feel like to be close to death.

A friendly receptionist pointed Ricky to the bank manager’s glass-enclosed cubicle about ten feet away. The First Cape Bank was a small building, with shingle siding like so many of the older homes in the area. But the inside was as modern as any, so that the offices combined the worn with the new. Some architect had thought this to be a good idea, but the result, Ricky thought, was the creation of a place that belonged nowhere. Still, he was glad it was there, and still open.

The manager was a short, outgoing fellow, paunchy, with a bald spot on his head that had obviously been sunburned too often that summer. He shook Ricky’s hand vigorously. Then stepped back, eyeing Ricky with an appraiser’s glance.

“Are you okay, doctor? Have you been ill?”

Ricky paused, then replied, “I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

The manager seemed embarrassed, waving his hand in the air dismissively, as if he could erase the question he’d uttered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Ricky thought his appearance must show the stress of the past days. “I’ve had one of those summer colds. Really knocked me for a loop…,” he lied.

The manager nodded. “They can be difficult. I trust you had yourself tested for Lyme disease. Up here, someone looks a bit under the weather, that’s the first thing we think about.”

“I’m fine,” Ricky lied again.

“Well, we’ve been expecting you, Doctor Starks. I believe you’ll find everything is in order, but I must say, this is the most unusual account closing I’ve ever attended.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, first there was that unauthorized attempt to access your account. That was odd enough for a place like this. Then today, a courier delivered a package here addressed to you, care of the bank.”

“A package?”

The manager handed over an overnight mail envelope. It had Ricky’s name and the bank manager’s name. It had been sent from New York. In the box for a return, there was a post office box number and the name: R. S. Skin. Ricky took it, but did not open it. “Thank you,” he said. “I apologize for the irregularities.”

The bank manager produced a smaller envelope from his desk drawer. “Cashier’s check,” he said. “In the amount of ten thousand seven hundred and seventy-two dollars. We are sorry to lose your account, doctor. I hope you are not taking this to one of our competitors.”

“No.” Ricky eyed the check.

“Are you selling your home here, doctor? We could be of assistance in that transaction…”

“No. Not selling.”

The manager looked surprised. “Then why close the account? Most times, when long-standing accounts close, it’s because some great change has taken place in the household. A death or divorce. Bankruptcy sometimes. Something tragic or very difficult, that causes people to reinvent themselves. Start over again somewhere new. But this case…”

The manager was probing.

Ricky would not rise to answer. He stared at the check. “I wonder, if it’s not too inconvenient, could I have the amount in cash?”

The manager rolled his eyes slightly. “It might be dangerous to carry that much cash around, doctor. Perhaps traveler’s checks?”

“No thank you, but you are kind to be concerned. Cash is better.”

The manager nodded. “I’ll just get it, then. Be right back. Hundreds?”

“That would be fine.”

Ricky sat alone for a few moments. Death, divorce, bankruptcy. Illness, despair, depression, blackmail, extortion. He thought any one or perhaps all of the words could apply to him.

The manager returned and handed Ricky another envelope, containing the cash. “Would you care to count it?” he asked.

“No, I trust you,” Ricky said, pocketing the money.

“Well, please, Doctor Starks, if we can ever be of service again, here’s my card…”

Ricky took this as well, muttering his thanks. He turned to leave, then stopped suddenly, looking back at the manager.

“You said people usually close accounts because?”

“Well, usually something very hard has happened to them. They need to move to a new location, begin a new career. Create a new life for themselves and their families. We get many closings, the vast majority, I’d say, because elderly, longtime customers pass away, and their estates, which we’ve handled, get sucked up and tossed into the more aggressive money markets or Wall Street by the children who do the inheriting. I would say that almost ninety percent of our account closings are related to a death. Maybe even a higher percentage. That’s why I wondered about yours, doctor. It just doesn’t fit the pattern that we’re accustomed to.”

“How interesting,” Ricky said. “I don’t know about that. Well, please rest assured that if I need a bank in the future, this will be the one I use.”

This placated the manager somewhat. “We will be at your service,” he said, as Ricky, suddenly chewing on what the bank manager had told him, turned and exited into the last of the day of his last day but one.

The weightless dark of early evening had descended by the time Ricky returned to the farmhouse. In the summer, he thought, the truly thick and heavy night holds off until midnight or later. In the fields adjacent to his home, crickets chirped, and above him, the first stars of night dotted the sky. It all seems so benign, he thought. A night when one should have no cares and no worries.

He half expected Merlin or Virgil to be waiting for him inside the house, but the interior was silent and empty. He flicked on the lights and then went to the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee. Then he sat at the wooden table where he’d shared so many meals over the years with his wife, and opened the package he’d received at the bank. Inside the overnight courier bag was a single envelope with his name printed on the outside.

Ricky tore open the envelope and removed a single folded sheet of paper. There was a letterhead at the top of the page, giving the letter the appearance of a more or less routine business transaction. The letterhead read:

R. S. Skin

Private Investigations

“All transactions strictly confidential”

P.O. Box 66-66

Church Street Station

New York, N.Y. 10008

Beneath the letterhead was the following brief letter, written in a routine and clipped business tone:

Ricky read through the letter three times, before setting it down on the table.

It was, he thought, a truly remarkable document. He shook his head, almost in admiration, certainly in despair. The address and the bogus private investigation firm were surely complete fictions. That wasn’t the genius in the letter, though. The genius lay in how insignificant the letter would seem to anyone except Ricky. Every other connection with Rumplestiltskin had been erased from Ricky’s life. The little poems, the first letter, the clues and directions, all had been either destroyed or stolen back from him. And this letter told Ricky what he needed to know, but in such a manner that if someone else were to come upon it, it wouldn’t attract attention. And, it would almost directly lead anyone who might be curious to an immediate and impenetrable brick wall. A trail that went nowhere instantly.

That, Ricky thought, was intelligent.

He knew who it was who wanted him to kill himself, he just didn’t know their names. He knew why they wanted him to kill himself. And he knew that if he failed in that demand, they had the capacity to do precisely what they had promised to do from the very first day. The bill for services.

He knew the havoc that they had produced in his last two weeks would evaporate when Ricky met the deadline. The fiction of sexual abuse that had skewered his career, the money, the apartment, the entirety of what had befallen him over the course of fourteen days would unravel instantly, as soon as he was dead.

But beyond that, he thought, the worst thing of all: No one would care.

He had isolated himself professionally and socially over the past few years. He was, if not estranged, certainly cut off and distant from his relatives. He had no real family, and no real friends. He thought his funeral would be crowded with people in dark suits, wearing faces displaying sufficient fake concern and false regret. Those would be his colleagues. There would be some people in the church pews who were former patients whom he had helped, he thought. They would wear their emotions appropriately. But it is the cornerstone of psychoanalysis that a successful treatment would put all those folks into a realm where they were free of anxiety and depression. That was what he had designed for them, in years of daily sessions. So, it would be unreasonable to ask them to actually shed a tear on his behalf.

The only person likely to squirm on the hard wooden church bench with genuine emotion was the man who’d created his death.