The Analyst

The teenager persisted. “They’re outboard tanks.”

“Yeah,” Ricky said. “But I don’t own an outboard.”

The boy shrugged. He was probably year-round, Ricky thought, a local high school kid who couldn’t imagine another use for the tanks other than what they were designed for, and who immediately put Ricky into the category that the Cape residents had for summer people, which was a status of mild contempt and utter persuasion that no one from New York or Boston had even the slightest idea what they were doing at any time whatsoever. Ricky paid, replaced the now filled tanks in the trunk of the car, an act even he understood to be remarkably dangerous, and set out for his home.

He set the two gasoline canisters down temporarily in the living room, and returned to the kitchen. He felt suddenly parched, as if he’d exerted a great deal of energy, and he found a bottle of spring water in the refrigerator which he gulped at rapidly. His heart seemed to have picked up pace, as the hours of this last day dwindled, and he told himself to remain calm.

Spreading the envelopes and the pad of paper out on the kitchen table, Ricky sat down, fingered one of the ballpoint pens, and wrote the following short note:

To the Nature Conservancy:

Please accept the enclosed donation. Do not seek more,because I have no more to give, and after tonight, will notbe here to give it.

Sincerely yours,

Frederick Starks,M.D.

He then took a hundred-dollar bill from his stash and sealed it and the letter into one of the stamped envelopes.

Ricky then wrote similar notes and enclosed a similar amount in all the other stamped envelopes, save one. He made donations to the American Cancer Society, The Sierra Club, The Coastal Conservation Association, CARE, and the Democratic National Committee. In each case, he simply wrote the name of the organization on the outside of the envelope.

When he had finished, he looked at his wristwatch and saw that he was nearing the Times’s evening deadline. He went to the phone and called the advertising department as he had on three other occasions.

This time, however, the message for the ad that he gave the clerk was different. No rhymes, no poems, no questions. Just the simple statement:

Mr. R.: You win. Check the Cape Cod Times.

Once that was accomplished, Ricky returned to his seat at the kitchen table and took the writing pad in hand. He chewed on the end of the pen for a moment, while he composed a final letter. Then he wrote rapidly:

To whom it may concern:

I did this because I was alone, and hate the emptiness inmy life. I simply could not tolerate causing any furtherharm to any other person.I have been accused of things I am innocent of. Butam guilty of mistakes toward the people I loved, andthat has brought me to this point to take this step.If someone would mail the various contributions I haveleft behind, I would appreciate it. All property and fundsremaining in my estate should be sold and the proceedsturned over to these same charities. What is left of my home herein Wellfleet should become conservation land.To my friends, if any, I hope you will forgive me.To my patients, I hope you will understand.And Mr. R., who helped bring me to this stage, I hopeyou will find your own way to Hell soon enough, becauseI will be waiting there for you.

He signed this letter with a flourish, sealed it in the last remaining envelope and addressed it to the Wellfleet Police Department.

Taking the hair color and his backpack in hand, he went to the upstairs shower. Ricky followed the directions for the dyeing agent, and emerged from the bathroom in moments with nearly jet-black hair. He stole a quick glance at his appearance in the mirror, thought it mildly foolish, then toweled himself dry. At his bureau, he selected some of the old and worn summer clothes he stored there, and stuffed them, along with a frayed windbreaker, into the backpack. He kept an additional change of clothes out, folded carefully and placed on top of the pack. Then he dressed back in the clothing he had worn that day. In an outside pocket of the pack, he slid the photograph of his dead wife. In another pocket he stuffed the latest message from Rumplestiltskin and the few remaining documents he had in his possession that detailed what had happened to him. The documents about the mother’s death.

He took the backpack and change of clothes, the aluminum crutches, and stack of letters out to his car, leaving them on the passenger’s seat next to his cheap sunglasses and running shoes. Then he returned inside and sat quietly in the kitchen for the remaining hours of the evening to pass. He was excited, a little intrigued, and occasionally riveted by a bolt of fear. He tried hard to think of nothing, humming to himself, blanking his mind. This, of course, did not work.

Ricky knew that he could not cause the death of another, even someone he didn’t know, who was only related through the accidents of blood and marriage. Of this, Rumplestiltskin had been correct from the first day. Nothing about his life, his past, all of the little moments that made up who he was, who he had become, who he might yet turn out to be, amounted to anything in the face of this threat. He shook his head, thinking, Mr. R. knows me far better than I do myself. He had me pegged from the start.

Ricky did not know who he might be saving, but knew it was someone.

Think about that, he told himself.

Shortly after midnight, he rose. He allowed himself one final tour of the house, reminding himself how beloved each corner, each warp, and each creak in the floorboards truly was.

His hand shook slightly as he took the first canister of gasoline to the second floor, where he spread it liberally about on the floor. He doused the bedding.

The second canister was used the same way, throughout the ground floor.

In the kitchen, Ricky blew out the pilot lights on the old gas stove. Then he opened every jet, so that the room filled immediately with the distinctive odor of rotten eggs, the stove hissing in alarm. It blended with the stink of gasoline which already permeated his clothes.

Seizing the marine flare pistol, Ricky walked back outside. He went to the old Honda, started it up and moved it well away from the house, pointing it down the driveway, leaving the engine running.

Then he moved to a spot opposite the windows to the living room. The smell from the gasoline spread throughout the house mixed with the smell on his hands and clothes. He thought how alien all these angry scents were, clashing with the summer warmth and mixed honeysuckle and wildflowers, with just the mildest hint of the ocean salt, that permeated every breeze that slipped innocently across the trees. Ricky took a single deep breath, tried not to dwell on what he was doing, took careful aim with the pistol, cocked the hammer back, and then fired a single flare through the center window. The flare arced through the night, leaving a streak of energetic white light in the black air between where he stood and the house. The flare crashed through the window with a tinkling of shattered glass. He half expected an explosion, but instead heard a muffled thud, followed by an immediate crackle and glow. Within a few seconds he saw the first licks of fire dancing about the floor and beginning to spread through the living room.

Ricky turned and ran back to the Honda. By the time he slipped the car in gear, the entire downstairs was glowing with flame. As he headed down the driveway, he heard an explosion, as the flames hit the gas in the kitchen.

He decided not to look back, but accelerated into the deepening night.

Ricky drove carefully and steadily to a spot he had known for years called Hawthorne Beach. It was several miles down a narrow, lonely blacktop lane, removed from any development, other than a