vision spyglasses swept over the wreckage of the place where he’d once enjoyed happiness. But again, the poncho hid his form, made him into a piece of debris, and the man hesitated, as if frustrated. He could see the hand holding the night vision glasses drop to his side, as if dismissing the surroundings.
The shape stepped forward more aggressively, standing now in what was once the doorway, searching the ruin. Then he stepped forward, stumbling slightly, and Ricky heard a muffled curse.
He knows I should be here, Ricky thought. But now he has doubts.
Ricky gritted his teeth together. He could feel a cold, murderous shaft within himself. He thought: Now you are unsure. It is not what you expected. And now you are doubting yourself. Doubt, frustration, and all the built-up anger you have for failing to kill me once when I made it so easy for you. This is a dangerous combination, because it is forcing you to do things you wouldn’t ordinarily do. You are shedding precautions with every stride and uncertainty is in your every step, and now, suddenly, you are playing the game on my field. Because Dr. Starks knows you, now, and knows everything that is in your head, because everything you are feeling, all that indecision and confusion, is the currency of his life, not yours. You are a killer whose target isn’t clear, and all because of the situation I’ve staged.
Ricky eyed the shape. Come closer, he said to himself.
The man stepped forward, stumbling slightly on a chunk of what was once a roof beam, trying to walk through a room that he did not know.
He stopped and kicked at the detritus.
“Doctor Starks,” the man whispered, like an actor on a stage, a secret meant to be shared. “I know you’re here.”
The voice seemed like dull razors scraped across the night.
“Come on out, doctor. It’s time for an ending.”
Ricky did not move. Did not reply. He could feel every muscle he had tighten, pulled taut. But Ricky had not spent years behind the couch greeting the most provocative and demanding statements with silence to fall into the invitation that the shape urged.
“Where are you, doctor?” the man continued, turning back and forth. “You weren’t on the beach. So you should be here, because you are a man of your word. And this is where you said you would be.”
The man stepped forward, moving from shadow to shadow. He tripped again, banging a knee against what had once been a stairway riser. He cursed a second time, and straightened up. Ricky could see confusion and irritation, mingled with frustration, in the shrug of the man’s shoulders.
The man turned right and left one more time, then sighed.
When he spoke, it was loudly, with resignation. “If not here, doctor, then just where the hell are you?”
With a final shrug, the man finally turned his back to Ricky. And as the man turned, Ricky lifted his hand holding the semiautomatic pistol out from where it was concealed beneath the poncho, lifting it up as he’d been taught at the gun store in New Hampshire, holding it with both hands and bringing the barrel sight squarely in line with the middle of Rumplestiltskin’s back.
“I’m behind you,” Ricky said quietly.
Now time seemed truly to lose its grip on the world around Ricky. Seconds that would ordinarily have collected themselves in an orderly progression into minutes seemed to scatter like flower petals caught in a strong breeze. He remained frozen in position, weapon bearing directly on the killer’s back, his own breathing shallow and labored. He could feel surges of electricity racing through his veins and it took an immense amount of energy to keep himself calm.
The man in front of him stood immobile.
“I have a gun,” Ricky croaked, voice raw with tension. “It is pointing at your back. It is a.380 caliber semiautomatic pistol, loaded with hollow-point bullets, and if you move even in the slightest, I will fire. I will get off two, maybe three shots before you can turn and bring your own weapon to bear. At least one of these will find the target and will likely kill you. But you know that, don’t you, because you are familiar with the weapon, and the ammunition, and you know what they are capable of, so you have already made these calculations in your head, haven’t you?”
“As soon as I heard your voice, doctor,” Rumplestiltskin replied. His tone was unruffled and even. If he had been surprised, it was not readily apparent. Then he laughed out loud, adding quickly, “To think that I waltzed right into your aim. Ah, I suppose it was inevitable. You have played well, far better than I ever expected, and you have displayed resources I didn’t think you possessed. But our little game is now down to its final moves, isn’t it?” He paused, then said, “I think, Doctor Starks, you would be wise to shoot me now. Right in the back. You currently have the advantage. But every few seconds that pass, your position weakens. As a professional having dealt with these sorts of situations before, I would strongly recommend that you not waste the opportunity that you’ve created. Shoot me now, doctor. While you still have the chance.”
Ricky did not reply.
The man laughed. “Come on, doctor. Channel all that anger. Focus all your rage. You’ve got to bring these things together in your head, concentrate them into a single, centered entity, and then you can pull that trigger with nary a twitch of guilt. Do it now, doctor, because every second you let me live, is another second you may be taking off your own life.”
Ricky aimed straight ahead, but did not fire.
“Hold up your hands where I can see them,” he demanded instead.
Rumplestiltskin snorted another laugh. “What? Did you see that on a television show? Or in the movies? Is doesn’t work that way in real life.”
“Drop your weapon,” Ricky insisted.
The man shook his head slowly back and forth. “No. I won’t be doing that, either. It’s a cliche, anyway. You see, if I drop my weapon to the ground, then I give up any options I might have. Examine the situation, doctor: In my professional judgment, you’ve already blown your chance. I know what is in your head. I know that if you could fire, you would have done so already. But it is a little more difficult to murder a man, even someone who has given you plenty of reasons for death, than even you thought. Doctor, your world is one of fantasy death. All those murderous impulses that you’ve listened to for all those years, and helped defuse. Because, to you, they exist in the realm of fantasy. But here, tonight, there is nothing but reality surrounding us. And right now, you’re searching for the strength to kill. And, I’m wagering, not finding it rapidly. I, on the other hand, haven’t quite the same journey to travel before finding the same strength. I wouldn’t have worried even a bit about the moral ambiguity of shooting someone in the back. Or the front, for that matter. The proof, as they say, is in the pudding, doctor. As long as the target is dead, who cares? So, I won’t be dropping my weapon to the ground, not now, not ever. Instead, it will stay in my right hand, cocked and ready. Will I spin around now? Take my best chance at this moment? Or shall I wait a bit?”
Ricky again remained silent, his mind churning.
“One thing you should know, doctor: If you want to be a successful killer, you need to not worry about your own sorry life.”
Ricky listened to the words that flitted through the darkness. A great unsettled sensation crept into his heart.
“I know you,” he said. “I know your voice.”
“Yes, you do,” Rumplestiltskin replied, with a slight mocking tone. “You’ve heard it often enough.”
Ricky felt suddenly as if he were standing on a sheet of slippery ice. Unsteadiness crept into his own voice. “Turn around,” he said.
Rumplestiltskin hesitated, shaking his head negatively. “You don’t want to ask me to do that. Because once I turn around almost every advantage you have will be erased. I will see your precise position, and, trust me on this one, doctor, once I have you located, it will only be a short time before I kill you.”
“I know you,” Ricky repeated, whispering.
“Is it that hard? The voice is the same. The posture. All the inflections and tones, nuances and mannerisms. You should recognize them all,” Rumplestiltskin said. “After all, we were in more or less the same physical relationship five times each week for nearly a year. And I wouldn’t have turned around then.
