The Analyst

covers something in Kurdistan, the News and the Post, something in the Bronx. But today, I think, your world would be well served by reading those papers, and not the Times. Do I make myself absolutely clear, Ricky? Read the Post and the News today, because there is a story there that you will find most intriguing. I would suggest absolutely essential.”

Merlin gave a little wave of the hand. “This has been the most interesting ride, don’t you think, doctor? The miles have simply flown past.” He pointed at the duffel bag.

“That’s for you, doctor. A present. Encouragement, as I said.”

Then Merlin turned, leaving Ricky alone in the train car.

“Wait!” Ricky yelled. “Stop!”

Merlin kept walking. A few other heads turned toward him. Another shout was halfway out of Ricky’s mouth, but he stifled it. He did not want anyone to focus on him. He didn’t want to gain anyone’s attention. He wanted to sink back into the station’s darkness and become one entity with the shadows. The duffel bag with his initials blocked his exit, like a sudden massive iceberg in his path.

He could no more leave the bag than he could take it.

Ricky’s heart and hands seemed to quiver. He bent over and lifted the bag from the floor. Something within shifted position, and Ricky felt dizzy. For an instant he raised his eyes, trying to find something in the world that he could seize hold of, something normal, routine, ordinary, that would remind him and anchor him to some sort of reality.

He could see none.

Instead, he seized the long zipper on the top of the bag, hesitated, taking a deep breath and opened it slowly. He pulled back the opening and stared inside.

In the center of the bag there was a large cantaloupe. Head-sized and round.

Ricky burst into laughter. Relief filled him, unchecked, bursting out in guffaws and giggles. Sweat and nervousness dissipated. The world around him that had been spinning out of control stopped, and seemed to return to focus.

He zipped the bag back up and rose. The train was empty, as was the platform outside, except for a couple of porters and a pair of blue-jacketed conductors.

Throwing the bag over his shoulder, Ricky proceeded down the platform. He started to think about his next move. He was sure that Rumplestiltskin would confirm the location and the situation where his mother had been in treatment with Ricky. He allowed himself the fervent hope that the clinic might actually have kept records of patients dating back two decades. The name that had proven so elusive for his memory might be on a list up at the hospital.

Ricky marched forward, his shoes clicking on the platform, echoing in the darkness around him. The core of Pennsylvania Station was ahead, and he moved steadily and swiftly toward the glow of the station lights. As he marched with military determination toward the brightly lit crowds of people, his eye picked out one of the redcaps, sitting on a hand truck, engrossed in the Daily News while he waited for the next train’s arrival. In that single second, the man opened the paper so that Ricky could see the screaming headline on the front page, written in the unmistakable block letters that seemed to cry for attention. He read: transit cop in hit-run coma.

And below that, the subhead: seek missing hubby in marital mayhem.

Chapter Seventeen

Ricky sat on a hard wooden bench in the middle of Pennsylvania Station with copies of both the News and the Post on his lap, oblivious to the flow of people surrounding him, hunched over like a single tree in a field bending to the force of a strong wind. Every word he read seemed to accelerate, slipping and skidding across his imagination like a car out of control, wheels locked and screeching impotently, unable to halt the careening, heading inevitably toward a crash.

Both stories had fundamentally the same details: Joanne Riggins, a thirty-four-year-old detective with the New York Transit Authority Police, had been the victim of a hit-and-run driver the night before, struck less than a half block from her home as she crossed the street. The detective remained on life support systems in a coma at Brooklyn Medical Center after emergency surgery. Prognosis questionable. Witnesses told both papers that a fire-engine red Pontiac Firebird had been seen fleeing the site of the accident. This was a vehicle similar to one owned by the detective’s estranged husband. Although the vehicle was still missing, the ex- husband was being questioned by police. The Post reported that he was claiming his highly distinctive car had been stolen the night before the hit-and-run accident. The News uncovered that the man had had a restraining order taken out against him by Detective Riggins during the divorce proceedings, a second restraining order taken out by another, unnamed female police officer, who was said to have rushed to Detective Riggins’s side in the seconds after the young woman was crushed by the speeding car. The paper also reported that the ex-husband had publicly threatened his wife during the final year of their marriage.

It was a tabloid dream story, filled with tawdry intimations of an unusual sexual triangle, a stormy infidelity, and out-of-control passions that eventually resulted in violence.

Ricky also knew that it was fundamentally untrue.

Not, of course, the majority of the story; only one small aspect: The driver of the car wasn’t the man the police were interviewing, although he was a wondrously obvious and convenient suspect. Ricky knew that it would take them a significant amount of time to come to believe the ex-husband’s protests of innocence and even longer to examine whatever alibi he claimed to have. Ricky thought the man was probably guilty of every thought and desire leading up to the act itself, and he guessed that the man who’d arranged this particular accident knew that, as well.

Ricky crushed and crumpled the News in anger, twisting the pages and then tossing them aside, scattering the sheets on the wooden bench, almost as if he’d wrung the neck of a small animal. He considered telephoning the detectives working the case. He considered calling Riggins’s boss at the Transit Police. He tried to imagine one of Riggins’s coworkers listening to his tale. He shook his head in growing despair. There was absolutely no chance whatsoever, he thought, that anyone would hear what he had to say. Not one word.

He lifted his head slowly, once again nearly overcome with the sense that he was being watched. Inspected. That his responses were being measured like the subject of some bizarre clinical study. The sensation made his skin grow cold and clammy. Goose bumps formed on his arms. He looked around the huge, cavernous station. In the course of a few seconds, dozens, hundreds, perhaps even thousands of people swept past him. But Ricky felt utterly alone.

He rose and, like a wounded man, started to make his way out of the station, heading toward the cabstand. There was a homeless man by the station entrance begging for loose change, which surprised Ricky; most of the disadvantaged were shooed away from prominent locations by the police. He stopped and dropped whatever loose change he had in the man’s empty Styrofoam coffee cup.

“Here,” Ricky said. “I don’t need it.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” the man said. “Bless you.”

Ricky stared at the man for a moment, taking note of the sores on his hands, the lesions, partially hidden by a scraggly beard, that marked his face. Dirt, grime, and tatters. Ravaged by the streets and mental illness. The man could have been anywhere between forty and sixty years old.

“Are you okay?” Ricky asked.

“Yes, sir, yes, sir. Thank you. God bless you, generous sir. God bless you. Spare change?” The homeless man’s head pivoted toward another person exiting the station. “Any spare change?” He kept up the refrain, almost singsong with his voice, now ignoring Ricky, who continued to stand in front of him.

“Where are you from?” Ricky suddenly asked.