After finishing his business, Ricky returned to the rental car. He did not look behind once, as he slid through the city streets, up onto the Henry Hudson Parkway heading north. He had much to do, he thought, and little time.
He returned the rental car and spent the day killing off Frederick Lazarus. Every membership, credit card, phone account-anything having to do with that particular persona was shut down, canceled, or closed out. He even swung around the gun shop where he’d learned to shoot, and purchasing a box of shells, spent a productive hour on the firing range squeezing off shots at a black silhouette target of a man that was easily configured in his imagination to be the man he knew who would close in on him swiftly enough. Afterward, he made a little small talk with the gun shop owners, dropping on them the news that he was expecting to move away from the area for several months. The man behind the counter shrugged, but, Ricky realized, still noted the departure.
And with that, Frederick Lazarus evaporated. At least on paper and in documents. He departed, too, from the few relationships that the character had. By the time he had finished, Ricky thought that all that remained of the persona he’d created was whatever murderous streaks he had absorbed within himself. At least, that was what he hoped still weighed within him.
Richard Lively was a little more difficult, because Richard Lively was a little more human. And it was Richard Lively who needed to live. But he also needed to fade away from his life in Durham, New Hampshire, with a minimum of fanfare and little notice. He had to leave it all behind, but not appear to be doing so, on the off chance that someone, someday, might come asking questions and connect the disappearance with that particular weekend.
Ricky considered this dilemma, and thought that the best way to disappear is to imply the opposite. Make people think your exit is only momentary. Richard Lively’s bank account was left intact, with only a minimum deposit. He didn’t cancel any credit cards or library memberships. He told his supervisor at the university maintenance department that family trouble on the West Coast was going to require his presence for a few weeks. The boss understood, reluctantly told Ricky that he couldn’t promise that his job would wait for him, but told him he would do everything he could to see that it was left open. He had a similar conversation with his landladies, explaining that he wasn’t sure how long he would be absent. He paid an extra month’s rent in advance. They had become accustomed to his comings and goings, and said little, although Ricky suspected the older woman knew he would never return, simply in the way she eyed him and the manner in which she absorbed what he said. Ricky admired this quality. A New Hampshire quality, he thought, one that accepts on the face what another person says, but harbors an understanding of the truth hidden within. Still, to underscore the illusion of return, even if not fully believed, Ricky left behind as many of his belongings as possible. Clothes, books, a bedside radio, the modest things he had collected while rebuilding his life. What he took with him was a couple of changes of clothing, and his weapon. He thought that what he needed to leave behind was evidence that he’d been there, and might return-but nothing that truly spoke about who he was or where he might actually have gone.
As he walked down the street, he felt a momentary pang of regret. If he lived through the weekend, he thought, which was really only a fifty-fifty proposition, he knew he would never return. He had developed an ease and a familiarity with the small world he’d participated in, and it saddened him to walk away. But he restructured the emotion within himself, trying to re-form it into a strength to carry him through what was about to happen.
He caught a midday Trailways bus to Boston, retracing a familiar route. He did not spend long in the Boston terminal, just long enough to wonder whether the real Richard Lively was still living, and half thinking that it might be interesting to head toward Charlestown to see if he could spot the man in any of the parks or alleyways where Ricky had once trailed him so diligently. Of course, Ricky knew he had nothing to say to the man, other than to thank him for providing an avenue into a questionable future. Regardless, he did not have time. The Friday afternoon Bonanza bus was heading to the Cape, and he slid into a seat in the back, excitement picking up within him. They have read the poem by now, he thought. And Merlin has questioned the ad clerk.
At this moment, they are talking. Ricky could imagine the words flying back and forth. But he knew he didn’t actually have to hear them, because he knew what they would do. He glanced down at his wristwatch.
He will take off soon, Ricky thought. He will be driving hard, compelled to find a conclusion to a story that was written differently than he’d expected.
Ricky smiled. He saw one immense advantage he had. Rumplestiltskin’s world was one accustomed to conclusions. Ricky’s was the opposite. One of the tenets of psychoanalysis is that even though the sessions draw to a close, and the daily therapy finally finishes, the process never is completed. What the therapy brings, at its best, is a new way of looking at who one is, and allowing that new definition of one’s life to influence the decisions and choices that come with the future. At best, then those moments are not crippled by the events of the past, and the selections made are oddly relieved of the debts everyone owes to their upbringing.
He had the sensation that he was reaching the same sort of non-end ending.
It was either dying time, or continuing time. And whichever it was would be defined by the next hours.
Ricky accepted the coldness of his situation, and stared out the window at the scenery. As the bus droned on toward the Cape, Ricky noted that the trees and shrub bushes seemed to lessen in stature. It was as if life in the sandy soil not far from the ocean was a little harsher, and that it was harder to grow high when pummeled by the sea winds in the winter.
Outside of Provincetown, Ricky spotted a motel on the strip that is Route Six, that hadn’t already blinked on its no vacancy sign, probably a result of the desultory weather forecast. He paid cash for the weekend, the desk clerk taking the money in a bored and disinterested fashion, assuming, Ricky guessed, that he was nothing more than a confused middle-aged Boston businessman, finally giving into fantasies, descending upon the town with its gaudy summertime nightlife for a few days of sex and guilt. He didn’t do anything to discourage this presumption, and, in fact, asked the clerk where the best clubs were in town. The types of places where single folks went searching for companionship. The man gave him some names and left it at that.
Ricky found a camping goods store, and purchased more bug repellent, a powerful flashlight, and an oversized olive drab pullover poncho. He also bought a wide-brimmed camouflage hat that was clearly ridiculous in appearance, but which had one critical feature: Attached to the brim was a shroud of mosquito netting, which could drop over the head and shoulders. Once again, the weather forecast for the weekend helped: humid, thunderstorms, gray skies, and warm temperatures. A sickly sort of weekend. Ricky told the man behind the counter that he was still going to be doing some gardening, which made each of the purchases establish perfect and unforgettable sense within that context.