who’d needed help, and years later he’d been turned out on the street equally cruelly, and now was condemned to wheeze away his final days on a different, but similarly unforgiving death row.
Ricky added to the equation beginning to form in his head: The boyfriend who beat Claire Tyson in New York was then beaten to death in his own turn, with a bloody
There had to be others. This realization chilled his heart.
It seemed that Rumplestiltskin had designed a number of acts of revenge according to a simple principle: to each according to who they were. Crimes of omission were being judged and sentences being dealt out, years later. The boyfriend, who was nothing more than a thug and criminal, had been treated one way. The grandfather who’d denied his offspring’s entreaties had been punished differently. It was, Ricky thought, a unique method of delivering evil. His own game had been designed with Ricky’s personality and education in mind. Others had been dealt with more brutally, because they came from worlds where brutality was more refined. One other thing seemed clear cut: In Rumplestiltskin’s imagination, there was no statute of limitations.
The end results, though, he took note, seemed to be the same. A consistent path of death or ruin. And anyone who might stand in the way, like the unfortunate Mr. Zimmerman or Detective Riggins were seen as impediments that were summarily erased with the same amount of compassion one would reserve for a horsefly that landed on one’s forearm.
Ricky shuddered as he assessed how patient, dedicated, and cold-blooded Rumplestiltskin truly was.
He started to make a modest list of people who also might have failed to help Claire Tyson and her three young children when they were in need: Was there a landlord in New York who demanded rent from the destitute woman? If so, they were probably on the street somewhere, wondering what happened to their building. A social worker who failed to get her into an assistance program? Had they been ruined financially, and now forced to apply for the same program? A priest who had listened to her entreaties and suggested that prayer might fill an empty stomach? They were probably praying for themselves, now. He could only guess how far Rumplestiltskin’s revenge reached: What happened to the city power worker who had turned off the electricity at her house when she failed to pay a bill on time? He didn’t know the answers to these questions, nor did he know precisely where Rumplestiltskin had drawn his dividing line, separating the people he’d judged guilty, from however many others there might be. Still, Ricky knew one thing: A number of people had once upon a time come up far short and were now paying a price.
Or, more likely, had paid their debt. All the people who had neglected to help Claire Tyson, so that her only choice was to take her own life in despair.
It was the most frightening concept of justice that Ricky had ever imagined. Murders of both the body and the soul. It seemed to Ricky that he had often been scared since Rumplestiltskin had entered his life. He had been a man of routine and insight. Now, nothing was solid, everything was unsettled. The fear that ricocheted within him now was something different. Something he had difficulty categorizing, but he knew it left his mouth dry and a bitter taste on his tongue. As an analyst, he had lived in his well-to-do patients’ worlds of convoluted anxieties and debilitating frustrations, but these seemed now to be uniformly petty and pathetically self-indulgent.
The scope of Rumplestiltskin’s fury astounded him. And, at the same time, made perfect sense.
Psychoanalysis teaches one thing, he thought: Nothing ever happens in a vacuum. A single bad act can have all sorts of repercussions. He was reminded of the desktop perpetual motion machines that some of his colleagues had, where a group of ball bearings were hung in a row, and if one was lifted slightly, so that it swung against the others, the force would cause the last in the line to swing out and then bounce back, making a clicking sound and starting an engine of momentum that would only stop when someone injected their hand into the works. Rumplestiltskin’s revenge, of which he’d been only a single part, was like that machine.
There were others dead. Others destroyed. He alone, in all likelihood, saw the entirety of what had taken place. Perpetual motion.
Ricky felt shafts of cold drip through his body.
These were all crimes that existed in a plane defined by immunity. What detective, what police authority, would ever be able to link them all together, because the only thing the victims had in common was a relationship with a woman dead for twenty years.
Serial crimes, Ricky thought, with a thread so invisible that it defied imagination. Like the policeman who had blithely told him about the
And one other thing was abundantly clear to him: If Rumplestiltskin learned that he’d escaped, if he even suspected that Ricky still breathed air on this planet, he would be on Ricky’s trail instantly with evil intentions. Ricky doubted that he would have the opportunity to play any game the second time around. It also occurred to him how easy it would be to dispatch his new identity: Richard Lively was a nonentity in the world. His very anonymity made his own quick and brutal death a relative certainty. Richard Lively could be executed in broad daylight, and no policeman anywhere would be able to make the necessary connections leading him back to Ricky Starks and some man called Rumplestiltskin. What they would find out was that Richard Lively wasn’t Richard Lively and he would instantly become a John Doe, planted with little ceremony without a headstone in some potter’s field. Perhaps a detective would wonder idly who he truly once was, but, inundated with other cases, the death of Richard Lively would simply be shunted aside. Forever.
What made Ricky so safe, also made him utterly vulnerable.
So, upon his return to New Hampshire, he greeted taking up the simple routines of his life in Durham with unbridled enthusiasm. It was as if he hoped he could lose himself readily in the steadiness of getting up each morning and going to work with the rest of the janitorial force at the university, of swabbing floors, cleaning bathrooms, polishing hallways, and changing lightbulbs, exchanging a joke or two with coworkers, speculating about the Red Sox’s prospects for the upcoming season. He functioned in a world so insistently normal and mundane that it cried out to be painted in institutional pale blues and light greens. Once, when operating a steam cleaner across the carpet of the faculty lounge, he discovered that the sensation of the machine humming, vibrating in his hands, and the swath of clean rug that it created was almost hypnotically pleasant. It was as if he could disappear from who he once had been in the new simplicity of this world. It was a strangely satisfying situation; alone, a job that shouted out routine and regularity, the occasional night spent manning the telephone bank at the suicide prevention line, where he recalled his skills as a therapist, dispensing advice and throwing lifelines in a modest, controlled fashion. He discovered he didn’t much miss the daily deposit of angst, frustration, and anger that characterized his life as an analyst. He wondered, some, whether the people he’d known, or even his late wife, would recognize him. In a curious way, Ricky thought that Richard Lively was closer to the person that he had wanted to be, closer to the person who’d found himself in summers on the Cape, than Dr. Starks had ever realized treating the rich and powerful and neurotic.
Anonymity, he thought, is seductive.
But elusive. For every second that he forced himself to grow comfortable with who he was, the revenge persona of Federick Lazarus shouted contradictory commands. He renewed his physical fitness training, and spent his free hours perfecting marksmanship skills on the pistol practice range. As the weather continued to improve, bringing warmth and bursting with color, he decided he needed to add outdoor skills to his repertoire, so he signed up for an orienteering class operated by a hiking and camping company under the name of Frederick Lazarus.
In a way, he’d been triangulated, in much the same way one finds his location when lost in the woods. Three pillars: who he was, who he’d become, who he needed to be.
He asked himself, late at night, sitting alone in the near-darkness of his rented room, a single desk lamp barely denting the shadows, whether he could turn his back on everything that had happened. Simply abandon any emotional connection to his past and what had befallen him, and become a man of complete
