The Analyst

by John Katzenbach

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The rain came in spurts throughout the first part of the night, falling heavily, with cracks of thunder and lightning strikes out over the ocean for the initial hours of his wait, before tapering off into a steady irritating drizzle. As the storm passed overhead, the temperature dropped a half-dozen or more degrees, giving the darkness a chill that seemed perversely out of place. There had been some wind with the line of thunderstorms, strong currents that tugged at the edges of his poncho, and made the rubble and charred remains around him creak, as if they, too, had unsettled business that night. Ricky remained hidden, like a hunter in a blind, waiting for the quarry to come into sight. He thought of all the hours he had spent silently seated behind the heads of patients on his couch, barely moving, rarely speaking, and thought it funny that all that time spent in contemplation had prepared him well for the wait that night.

  He moved only occasionally, and then just to stretch and flex his muscles enough so that they wouldn’t seize up with disuse but be available to him when needed. Mostly, he leaned back, the mosquito netting about his head, the poncho spread over his body, more a shapeless lump than human. From where he was concealed, he could still see across the open field that had welcomed visitors to his home, especially when the sky was streaked by bolts of electricity. He was situated in a position that allowed him to spot slices of headlights penetrating the stands of trees out by the main road, and he found that he could hear the car engines above the thick folds of black darkness.

  He had only one fear: that Rumplestiltskin would find more patience than he had.

  Ricky doubted this, but wasn’t completely certain. After all, the child had harbored so much hatred for years, and waited so long before springing his traps, it was possible that now, in this last stage, he might hesitate, and simply take up a position in the tree line and do more or less what Ricky was doing, which was waiting for some telltale motion before closing in. This was the gamble that Ricky was taking that night. But he thought his bet was well hedged. Everything he’d done was designed to provoke Mr. R. Anger, fear, and threats demand responses. A professional killer was a man of action. An analyst was not. Ricky believed that he had created a situation where his own strengths compensated for those of his adversary. His own training countered the killer’s training. He will move first, Ricky insisted. Everything you know about behavior tells you this is true. In the game of memory and death that the two men were locked in, Ricky held the higher ground. He was fighting on land he knew.

  It was, he thought, the best he could do.

  By ten p.m. the world around him had funneled itself into a damp, musty arena of blackness. He found his senses heightened, his mind alert to all the nuances of the night. He hadn’t heard a car, or spotted distant headlights in over an hour, and the rain seemed to have driven all the nocturnal beasts into their dens, so not even the scratching sound of an opossum or skunk searching for something to eat penetrated the air about him. It was, he thought, right at the moment when his heart and his determination should fail him, that doubt should creep into his imagination, trying to persuade him that he was waiting foolishly for someone who would not arrive. He mocked this sensation within him, insisting that the only thing he knew for certain was that Rumplestiltskin was close, and would be closer still, if only he persevered and waited. He wished that he’d had the sense to bring a bottle of water, or a thermos of coffee, but he hadn’t. It is hard to plot murder, he thought, and remember the mundane at the same time.

  He wiggled his fingers occasionally, and silently drummed his index finger along the side of the trigger guard. Once he was startled by a bat swooping through the air above him; another time a pair of deer emerged for a second or two from the woods. He could make out only the vaguest elements of their shapes, until they spooked and turned white tails and bounded away with unmistakable ballet leaps.

  Ricky continued to wait. The assassin was likely a man accustomed to the night, and comfortable in it, Ricky thought. Daytime compromises much for a killer. It gives him vision, but makes him recognizable, as well. He thought: I know you, Mr. R. You will want to end all this in the dark. You will be here soon enough.

  Some thirty minutes after the last car’s headlights had swooped past in the distance, shrouded by the trees, a cone of light heading steadily away, Ricky spotted another car approach on the roadway. This one traveled a little slower, almost hesitant. Just the slightest element of indecision in the speed it traveled.

  The glow paused near the dirt road entrance to his property, then sped up, and disappeared around a corner some ways away.

  Ricky shrank back, burrowing deeper into the hole that concealed him.

  Someone found what they were searching for, he thought, but did not want to display the discovery.

  He continued to wait. Twenty more minutes passed in utter darkness, but Ricky now was curled like a snake, waiting. The glow of his wristwatch helped him to measure what was happening just beyond what little sight he had. Five minutes, time enough to find a spot where he could leave the car unseen. Ten minutes, time to walk back to the entranceway to Ricky’s property. Another five minutes to slide along quietly, beneath the canopy of branches. Now, he’s in the last line of trees, Ricky thought. Surveying the ruin of the house from a safe distance. He drew back into his lair, pulling his feet under the edge of the poncho.

  Ricky looped tendrils of patience around his heart. He could feel adrenaline pumping wildly through his ears, and his pulse racing like an athlete’s, but he calmed himself by silently reciting passages from literature to himself. Dickens: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” A line from Camus: “Mother died today, or maybe it was yesterday.” This recollection made him smile through the terror that lurked within him. An appropriate passage, he thought. His eyes darted back and forth, searching the darkness. It was a little like opening one’s eyes underwater. Shapes were in motion, but not recognizable. Still, he waited, because he knew that his only chance was to see before he was seen.

  The drizzle had finally stopped, leaving the world slick and glistening. The chill that had first accompanied the thunderstorms fled, and Ricky could feel a thick, humid warmth seize hold of the world around him. He was breathing slowly, afraid that the asthmatic raspiness in every breath could be heard for miles. He glanced at the sky, and saw the outline of a cloud, showing up billowing gray against the black, scudding across the air, almost as if it was being rowed by some unseen oarsman. A little bit of moonlight slid into a hole carved by the cloud’s passing, dropping like a shaft through the night. Ricky pulled his eyes from right to left, and saw a shape step away from the trees.

  Ricky fixed on the figure, who stood outlined for just an instant by the wan light, more a shape of darkness that was colored a richer black than the night surrounding them. In that time, he saw the person lift something to his eyes, and then slowly pivot, like a lookout high on a boat’s tower, searching for icebergs in the waters ahead.

  Ricky shrank back farther, pressing himself back against the ruins. He bit down hard on his lip, for he knew immediately what he was facing: a man with night vision binoculars.

  He froze in position, realizing that the outlandish costume of poncho and bug hat was his greatest defense. Amid the charred slabs of wood and piles of burned rubble, he would appear as just another shape of twisted wreckage. Like a chameleon who can change his color depending on the shade of leaf that it occupies, Ricky remained in position, hoping that there was nothing outward that presented even the smallest suggestion of humanity.

  The shape moved subtly.

  Ricky caught his breath. He did not know whether he’d been spotted.

  It took every bit of mental energy he could collect to maintain his position. Panic lapped at the edges of his imagination screaming at him to run while he still had a chance. But he replied inwardly that his only chance lay in doing what he was doing. After so much that had happened, he had to bring the man moving throug
h the darkness toward him within arm’s reach. The dark shape moved obliquely across Ricky’s field of vision. Moving cautiously, slowly, but not fearfully, slightly crouched over, presenting little profile, an experienced predator.

  Ricky let out a long slow whistle of air. He did not see me.

  The shape reached the onetime garden, and Ricky watched the man hesitate. He could see that he wore some cover over his head and face, matching his dark clothing. The shape seemed far more a part of the night than a person. Again something was lifted up, and again Ricky burned with tension as the night 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 cliché, 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 fel
t 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. And the psychoanalytic process, isn’t it more or less the same as this? The doctor with the knowledge, the power, dare I say it, the weapons, right behind the back of the poor patient, who can’t see what is going on, but only has his paltry and pathetic memories to work with. Have things changed all that much for us, doctor?”

  Ricky’s throat was completely dry, but he still choked out the name.

  “Zimmerman?”

  Rumplestiltskin laughed again. “Zimmerman is very dead.”

  “But you’re . . .”

  “I’m the man you knew as Roger Zimmerman. With the invalided mother and the couldn’t-care-less brother, and the job that went nowhere, and all that anger that never seemed to get resolved in the slightest despite all the yakkety-yak that filled up your office to no great advantage. That’s the Zimmerman you knew, Doctor Starks. And that’s the Zimmerman that died.”

  Ricky felt dizzy. He was grasping inwardly at lies.

  “But the subway . . .”

  “That is indeed where Zimmerman—the real Zimmerman, who was indeed quite suicidal—died. Nudged to his demise. A timely death.”