“So, the shooting range?”
“You can use it anytime we’re open and it ain’t already being used. Targets is just fifty cents. Only thing we require is that you buy your ammo here. And you don’t come walking through the front door with a loaded weapon. Keep it in the case. Keep the clips empty. Fill ’em up here, where’s someone can see what you’re doing. Then you can go squeeze off as many as you like. Come spring, we sets up a combat course in the woods. Maybe you’d like to try that out?”
“Absolutely,” Ricky said.
“You want me to call you when the approval comes back, Mr. Lazarus?”
“Forty-eight hours? I’ll just swing on by myself. Or give you a call.”
“Either one is fine.” The clerk eyed Ricky carefully. “Sometimes,” he said, “these handgun permits come back rejected because of some dumb-ass glitch. You know, like maybe there’s a problem or two with the numbers you gave me. Something comes up on somebody’s computer, you know what I mean…”
“Foul-ups happen, right?” Ricky said.
“You seem like a pretty good guy, Mr. Lazarus. I’d hate you to get turned down ’cause of some bureaucratic snafu. Wouldn’t be fair.” The clerk spoke slowly, almost cautiously. Ricky listened to the tone of what the man was saying. “All depends on what sort of clerk you get looking over the application. Some guys over at the federal building, they just punch the numbers in, hardly pay attention at all. Other guys take their job real serious…”
“Sounds like you sure want to get that application in front of the right guy.”
The clerk nodded. “We ain’t supposed to know who’s doing the checking, but I got some friends over there…”
Ricky removed his wallet. He placed a hundred dollars on the counter.
The man smiled again. “That’s not necessary,” he said. But his hand closed over the cash. “I’ll make sure you get the right clerk. The type of guy who processes things real quick and efficient…”
“Well,” Ricky said, “that’s real helpful. Real helpful. I would feel like I owed you a favor, then.”
“No big deal. We try to keep customers happy, that’s all.” The clerk stuffed Ricky’s cash into his pocket. “Hey, you interested in a rifle? We got a special on a real nice.30 caliber with a scope for deer. Shotguns, too…”
Ricky nodded. “Maybe,” he said. “I’ll have to check what my needs are. I mean, once I know that I’m not going to have any problem with permits, I’ll be assessing my needs. Those look pretty impressive.” He pointed at the collection of assault weapons.
“An Uzi or an Ingram.45 caliber machine pistol or an AK-47 with a nice banana clip can go a long ways toward settling any dispute you might be facing,” the clerk said. “They tend to discourage disagreement and urge compromise.”
“That’s a good thing to keep in mind,” Ricky replied.
Ricky became significantly more adept at the computer.
Using his screen name, he made two different electronic searches for his own family tree, discovering with daunting speed how easy it was for Rumplestiltskin to have acquired the list of relatives that had been the fulcrum of his initial threat. The fifty-odd members of Dr. Frederick Starks’s family had emerged across the Internet in only a couple of hours’ worth of inquiries. Ricky was able to ascertain that armed with names, it did not take much longer to come up with addresses. Addresses turned into professions. It was not hard to extrapolate how Rumplestiltskin-who had all the time and energy he’d needed-had come up with information as to who these people were, and to find a few vulnerable members of the extended group.
Ricky sat at the computer, slightly astonished.
When his own name came up, and the second of the family tree programs that he was employing showed him as recently deceased, he stiffened in his chair, surprised, though he shouldn’t have been; it was the same way that one feels a momentary surge of shock when an animal runs in front of their car wheels at night, only to disappear into the shrub brush by the side of the road. An instant of fear, swept away in the same moment.
He had worked for decades in a world of privacy, where secrets were hidden beneath emotional fogs and layers of doubts, mired in memory, obscured by logjammed years of denials and depressions. If analysis is, at best, the slow peeling away of frustrations in order to expose truths, the computer seemed to him to have the clinical equivalence of a scalpel. Details and facts simply blipped across the screen, cut free instantaneously with a few strokes on a keyboard. He hated it at the same time that it fascinated him.
Ricky also realized how antique his chosen profession appeared.
And, swiftly, he understood, as well, how little chance he’d ever had at winning Rumplestiltskin’s game. When he replayed the fifteen days between the letter and his pseudodeath, he realized how easy it had been for the man to anticipate every move Ricky made. The predictability of his response at every turn was utterly obvious.
Ricky thought hard about another aspect of the game. Every moment had been designed in advance, every moment had thrust him in directions that were clearly expected. Rumplestiltskin had known him every bit as well as he had known himself. Virgil and Merlin together had been the means used to distract him from ever getting any perspective. They had created the breakneck pace, filled his last days with demands, made every threat real and palpable.
Every step in the play had been scripted. From Zimmerman’s death by subway to his trip to see Dr. Lewis in Rhinebeck, through the clerk’s office at the hospital where he’d once seen Claire Tyson. What does an analyst do? Ricky asked himself. He establishes the simplest yet most inviolable of rules. Once a day, five days per week, his patients showed up at his door, ringing the bell distinctively. Out of that regimen the rest of the chaos of their lives gained form. And with that, the ability to get control.
The lesson was simple, Ricky thought: He could no longer be predictable.
That was slightly incorrect, he told himself. Richard Lively could be as normal as necessary, as normal as he desired. A regular kind of guy. But Frederick Lazarus was to be someone different.
A man without a past, he thought, can write any future.
Frederick Lazarus obtained a library card, and immersed himself in the culture of revenge. Violence dripped from every page he read. He read histories, plays, poetry, and nonfiction, emphasizing the genre category of true crime. He devoured novels, ranging from thrillers written in the last year, to Gothics from the nineteenth century. He blistered through the theater, almost memorizing Othello and then, deeper still, to The Oresteia. He plucked segments from his memory and reread passages recalled from his own college days, spending time in particular with the man who donated his screen name to him and lent him the name he’d used with the derelict whose wallet he’d stolen. He absorbed the sequence where Odysseus slams shut the doors on the suitors and promptly murders all the men who presumed him dead.
Ricky had known little of crime and criminals, but fast became expert-at least, he understood, to the degree that the printed word can educate. Thomas Harris and Robert Parker taught him, as did Norman Mailer and Truman Capote. Edgar Allan Poe and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle were mixed liberally with FBI training manuals available through the Internet bookselling outlets. He read Hervey Cleckley’s The Mask of Sanity and came away with a much better knowledge of the nature of psychopaths. He read books entitled Why They Kill and The A to Z Encyclopedia of Serial Killers. He read about mass murder and explosive killings, crimes of passion and murders thought to be perfect. Names and crimes filled his imagination, from Jack the Ripper to Billy the Kid, to John Wayne Gacy and The Zodiac Killer. From past through the present. He read about war crimes and snipers, about hit men and satanic rituals, mobsters, and confused teenagers who took assault rifles to school, searching for classmates who had teased them perhaps once too often.