It had occurred to him that after confronting the younger brother and sister, he could flee, but he knew instantly that would be useless. Then he would spend the entirety of his remaining life being startled by every unusual noise in the dark, nervous at any sound behind his back, afraid of every stranger who happened into his line of sight. An impossible life, spent running away from something and someone impossible to discern, always with him, ghosting every step Ricky ever took.
Ricky knew, as much as he’d ever known anything with certainty, that he had to best Rumplestiltskin in this final phase. It was the only way he’d really regain a grip on any semblance of life as he hoped to live it.
He thought he knew how to accomplish this. The first elements of his scheme had already been put in place. He could easily imagine the conversation between brothers and sister that was happening even as he sat in the cheap rented room. It wouldn’t be a telephone conversation. They would have to meet, because they would have to see one another to reassure themselves that they were safe. Voices would be raised. There would be a few tears and considerable anger, perhaps even some insult and blame tossed about the room. Everything had gone smoothly for the three of them, wreaking murderous revenge on all the obvious targets of their past. Only one had come up a cropper, and that one was now the source of significant anxiety. He could hear the phrase “You got us into this!” shouted across the room at the shadowy figure who had meant so much to them over so many years. Ricky thought, with some satisfaction, that there would be panic in that accusation, because he had managed to drive a small wedge into the bonds that linked the trio together. No matter how persuasive the need for revenge had been, no matter how cunning the plot was against Ricky and all the others, there was one element that Rumplestiltskin had not foreseen: Even with their compulsion to go along with him, the younger brother and younger sister still had aspirations of lives in the mainstream. Normal, in their own ways: A life onstage and a life in court, playing by certain rules, with recognizable strictures. Rumplestiltskin, alone of the three, was willing to live outside certain boundaries. But the two others were not, and that was how they became vulnerable.
It was that distinction that Ricky had found. And it was, he knew, their greatest weakness.
There would be harsh words between them, Ricky knew. As cruel as the game had been, and as murderous, the actual pushing, shooting, and killing had been left to only one of them. Ruining a reputation or savaging investment accounts were some nasty works. But none that actually saw blood. There had been a separation of evils, with the most suspect left in a single pair of hands.
Those jobs had fallen to Mr. R. Just as he had borne the brunt of beatings and cruelty as they grew up, so the actual violence had belonged to him. The others had merely helped him, reaping the psychological satisfaction that revenge provides. The difference between being an enabler and being the performer, Ricky thought. Only now, they understand, their complicity has come back to bite them.
They thought they were home free, Ricky thought. But they are not.
He smiled inwardly. There is nothing, Ricky decided, quite as devastating as realizing that now perhaps it is you who is being hunted, when you are so accustomed to being the hunter. And that, he hoped, was the trap he had set, because even the psychopath would leap for the opportunity to regain the position of superiority that was so natural for the predator. He would be pushed in that direction by the threat to Virgil and Merlin. What few threads of normalcy that Mr. R. retained were those that connected him to his brother and sister. If, deep in his psychopathological world, he had any remaining links to humanity, they came from his relationship with his siblings. He would be desperate to protect those. It is simple, really, Ricky insisted to himself. Make the hunter think he is hunting, closing in on his prey, when in reality, he is being drawn into an ambush.
An ambush, Ricky thought with some irony, that is defined by love.
Ricky found some scratch paper, and worked for a few moments on a rhyme. When he had it the way he wanted, he called the Village Voice classified section. Once again, as before, he found himself speaking with a clerk in Personals. He made some small talk, as he had on numerous occasions before. But this time he was careful to ask the clerk several key questions and deliver some critical information:
“Look, if I’m out of town, can I still call in and get the responses?”
“Sure,” said the clerk. “Just dial the access code. You can call from anywhere.”
“Great,” Ricky replied. “You see I have some business up on the Cape this weekend, so I have to head up there for a few days, and I still want to get the responses.”
“It won’t be a problem,” the clerk said.
“I hope the weather is good. The forecast is for rain. You ever go up to Cape Cod?”
“Been to Provincetown,” the clerk said. “It’s pretty wild up there after the Fourth of July weekend.”
“No kidding,” Ricky said. “My place is in Wellfleet. Or, at least it used to be. Had to sell it. A fire sale. Going up just to settle a few leftover matters, then back to the city and back to the grind.”
“I hear you,” the clerk said. “I wish I had a place on the Cape.”
“The Cape is special,” Ricky spoke carefully, lingering over each word. “You only really go in the summer, maybe a little in the fall or spring, but each season gets inside you in its own way. It becomes home. More than home, really. A place for starting and ending. When I die, that’s where I want them to bury me.”
“I can only wish,” the clerk said, slightly envious.
“Maybe someday,” Ricky added. He cleared his throat to deliver the message for the classifieds. He had it run under the modest headline: Seeking Mr. R.
“Don’t you mean ‘Mr. Right ’?” the clerk asked.
“No,” Ricky said. “Mr. R. is fine.” Then he launched into what he hoped would be the last rhyme he would ever need to concoct:
Ricky’s here. Ricky’s there.
Ricky could be anywhere.
Ricky maybe likes to roam,
Ricky maybe has gone home.
Perhaps Ricky has gone to ground,
But Ricky likely can’t be found.
Someplace old, someplace new,
Ricky will always elude you.
Mr. R. can search high and low,
Still he will never know,
When Ricky might return again,
As an adversary, not a friend,
Carrying evil, toting death,
Ready to steal someone’s last breath.
“Intense,” the clerk said, with a long, slow whistle. “You say this is a game?”
“Yes,” Ricky answered. “But not one too many people should be eager to play.”
The ad was scheduled for the following Friday, which gave Ricky little time. He knew what would happen: The paper actually hit the newsstands the evening before, and that would be when all three of them would read the message. But this time, they wouldn’t respond in the paper. It will be Merlin, Ricky thought, using his brusque and demanding lawyer’s tones and obliquely threatening manner. Merlin will call the ad supervisor and work his way rapidly down through the paper’s hierarchy until he finds the clerk who took the poem over the telephone. And he will question him closely about the man who called it in. And the clerk will quickly recall the conversation about the Cape. Maybe, Ricky wondered, the young man will even recall that Ricky said it was where he wanted someday to be buried, a small desire, in a way, but one that will trigger much in Merlin. After he acquires the information he will pass it to his brother. A modest act of insulation, to be sure, but a necessary one. Then the three of them will argue once again. The two younger ones have been frightened, probably more frightened than they have been since they were children and abandoned by self-murder by the mother they loved. They will say they want to join Mr. R. on his hunt, and they will say they feel responsible for the danger, and guilty, too, he thought, for making him take care of them once more. But they will not truly mean it, and the older brother will have none of it, anyway. This is a killing he will want to handle alone.