The clerk coughed.
“Is she there now?” Ricky demanded.
After a second or two, the clerk whispered, “No. She left. A little less than an hour ago, right after she got a call on her cell phone. Took off real quick. And so did the guy she was with. They’ve been in and out of here all evening asking for you.”
“The guy she’s with?” Ricky asked. “Kinda round and pasty, looks a little bit like the kid you used to beat up on in junior high school?”
“You got it,” the clerk said. He laughed. “That’s the guy. Perfect description.”
Hello, Merlin, Ricky thought.
“They leave a number or an address?”
“No. Just said they’d come back. And didn’t want me to let on that they’d been here. What’s this all about?”
“Just a business arrangement. Tell you what, if they show, you give them this number…” Ricky read off the last of his remaining cell phone exchanges. “But make them slip you some cash in return. They’re loaded.”
“Okay. Should I tell them you’re going to be here tomorrow?”
“Yes. Might as well. And tell them that I called for my messages. That’s it. Did they look at the messages?”
The man hesitated again. “No,” he lied. “Those are private. I wouldn’t share them with strangers without your authorization.”
Sure, Ricky thought. Not for a penny less than fifty bucks. He was pleased that the man at the hotel had done precisely what he expected him to do. He disconnected the call, and sat back in the seat. They won’t be certain, he thought. They won’t know exactly who else is looking for Frederick Lazarus, or why, or what connection he has to what is going on. It will worry them and make their next step a little uncertain. Which is what he wanted. He looked down at his watch. He was sure that the kennel owner had finally gotten free from the duct tape handcuffs and after placating Brutus and rounding up as many of the other dogs as he could, had finally made his call, so Ricky expected at least one light to be on at the house where he was headed.
As he had earlier that night, Ricky left the rental car parked off a side road, out of sight from anyone who might have passed by. He was a good mile from his destination, but he thought he could use the time on foot to consider what his plan was. He could feel some excitement within him, as if he’d closed in finally on some answers to some questions. But it was coupled with a sense of outrage that might have been fury were he not struggling to restrain it. Betrayal, he thought to himself, has the potential to become far stronger than love. He felt a little queasy in his stomach, and recognized it for disappointment mingling freely with unbridled anger.
Ricky, once upon a time a man of introspection, checked the weapon he carried to make certain it was fully loaded, thinking that he had no real plan other than confrontation, which is an approach that defines itself, and realizing that he was closing in quickly on one of those moments where thoughts and actions coalesce. He jogged forward through the surrounding blackness, his running shoes slapping at the macadam, joining with the ordinary sounds of a country night: the opossum scrabbling through the underbrush, the cicadas buzzing in a nearby field. He wanted to be a part of the air.
As he ran, he asked himself: Are you going to kill someone this night?
He did not know the answer.
Then he asked: Are you willing to kill someone tonight?
The answer to that question seemed much easier. He realized that a large part of him was ready to. It was the part that he’d constructed out of bits and pieces of identity in the months after his life had been ruined. The part that had studied all the methods of murder and mayhem available in the local library, and developed an expertise on the firing range. The invented part.
He pulled up short when he reached the drive to the house. Inside was the telephone with the number that he’d recognized. For a moment he recalled coming there almost a year earlier, expectant and almost panicked, hoping for any kind of help, desperate for any sort of answers. They were here, waiting for me, Ricky thought, obscured by lies. I just couldn’t see them. It never occurred to me that the man who he believed had been the greatest help in his life turned out to be the man trying to kill him.
From the drive, he saw, as he’d expected, a single light in the study.
He knows I’m coming, Ricky thought. And Virgil and Merlin, who might have helped him, are still in New York. Even if they’d driven hard after he’d called, racing out of the city, they were still probably a good hour away. He took a step forward, hearing the sound of his feet against the loose stones of the gravel drive. Perhaps he even knows I’m here. Ricky searched around, trying to see a way of sneaking in. But he wasn’t certain that the element of surprise was truly called for.
So, instead, he put the pistol in his right hand and chambered a round. He clicked the safety off and then walked nonchalantly up to the front door, like a friendly neighbor might in the midst of a summer afternoon. He didn’t knock, he simply turned the handle. As he’d guessed, the door was open.
He walked in. A voice came from the study to his right.
“In here, Ricky.”
He took a single stride forward, raising the pistol in front of him, readying himself to fire. Then he stepped into the light that flowed through the doorway.
“Hello, Ricky. You are lucky to be alive.”
“Hello, Doctor Lewis,” Ricky replied. The old man was standing behind his desk, his hands flat on the surface, leaning expectantly forward. “Shall I kill you now, or perhaps in a moment or two?” Ricky asked, voice flat with the hard restraints he’d looped around his rage.
The old psychoanalyst smiled. “You would, I suspect, be justified in shooting in some courts. But there are questions you want answered, and I have waited up this long night to answer what I can. That is, after all, what we do, is it not, Ricky? Answer questions.”
“Maybe once I did,” Ricky replied. “But no longer.”
He leveled the gun at the man who’d been his mentor. The man who’d trained him. Dr. Lewis seemed a little surprised. “Did you really come all this way just to murder me?” he asked.
“Yes,” Ricky said, though this was a lie.
“Then go ahead.” The old doctor eyed him intensely.
“Rumplestiltskin,” Ricky said. “All along it was you.”
Dr. Lewis shook his head. “No, you are wrong. But I am the man who created him. At least in part.”
Ricky moved sideways, coming deeper into the office, keeping his back to the wall. The same bookcases lined the walls. The same artwork. For a second, he could almost imagine that the year between visits hadn’t actually taken place. It was a cold place, that seemed to speak of neutrality and opaque personality; nothing on the walls or the desk said anything about the man who occupied the office, which, Ricky thought darkly, probably said as much as anything. You don’t need a diploma on the wall to certify being evil. He wondered how he had missed seeing it before. He gestured with his weapon for the old man to take a seat in the swiveling leather desk chair.