Chapter Twelve
Surprise riveted him, but Ricky did not react outwardly. Instead, he stared hard across the table at the young woman, continuing to wear the flat poker face that was so familiar to many of his patients. When he did speak, he said only, “So, your thinking here is that the salmon will be fresh?”
“Fairly flopping around and gasping for breath,” Virgil replied breezily.
“That might seem appropriate,” Ricky said softly.
The young woman took a slow sip from the edge of her glass of wine, just moistening the outside of her lips with the dark liquid. Ricky pushed his own glass aside and gulped at water. “Really should be drinking white with pasta and fish,” Virgil said. “But, then again, we’re not in the sort of place that adheres to the rules, are we? I can’t imagine some frowning sommelier emerging to discuss with us the inadequacy of our selection.”
“No, I doubt that,” Ricky answered.
Virgil continued on, speaking rapidly, but without the nervousness that sometimes accompanies quickly spoken words. She sounded far more like a child excited on her birthday. “On the other hand, drinking red has a kind of devil-may-care attitude, don’t you think, Ricky? A cocky quality that suggests we don’t really care what the conventions say-we’re going to do what we want. Can you feel that, Doctor Starks? A bit of adventure and lawlessness, playing outside the rules. What do you think?”
“I think that the rules are constantly changing,” he replied.
“Of etiquette?”
“Is that what we’re talking about?” he answered with a question.
Virgil shook her head, causing her mane of blond hair to bounce seductively. She threw her head back slightly to laugh, revealing a long, attractive throat. “No, of course not, Ricky. You’re right about that.”
At that moment the waitress brought them a wicker basket filled with rolls and butter, dropping both of them into a stifling silence, a small moment of shared conspiracy. When she moved away, Virgil reached for the bread. “I’m famished,” she said.
“So, ruining my life burns calories?” Ricky posed.
Again Virgil laughed. “It seems to,” she said. “I like that, I really do. What shall we call it, doc? How about The Ruination Diet-do you like that? We could make a fortune together and retire just you and I to some exotic island paradise.”
“I don’t see that as happening,” Ricky said brusquely.
“I didn’t think so,” Virgil replied, generously buttering her roll, and biting into the edge with a crunching sound.
“Why are you here?” Ricky demanded, in a quiet, low voice, but still one that carried all the insistence he could muster. “You and your employer seem to have the design of my ruin all planned out. Step by step. Are you here to mock me? Perhaps add a bit of torment to his game?”
“No one has ever described my company as a torment,” Virgil said, adopting a look of false surprise. “I would think that you found it, well, if not pleasant, at least intriguing. And think of your own status, Ricky. You came here alone, old, nervous, filled with doubt and anxiety. The only people who even stared in your direction would have felt a momentary pang of pity, and then gone about the business of feeding and drinking, all the time ignoring the old man that you’ve clearly become. But everything changes when I sit down across from you. Suddenly, you’re not all that predictable, are you?” Virgil smiled.
“It can’t be that bad, can it?”
Ricky shook his head. His stomach had clenched into a ball and the taste in the back of his mouth was acid.
“My life…,” he started.
“Your life has changed. And will continue to change. At least for a few more days. And then… well, that’s the rub, isn’t it?”
“You enjoy this, then?” Ricky asked suddenly. “Watching me suffer. It’s odd, because I wouldn’t have instantly made you for such a dedicated sadist. Your Mr. R., perhaps, but I’m less sure about him, because he’s still a bit distant. But getting closer, I would guess. But you, Miss Virgil, I didn’t see you as possessor of the necessary psychopathology. But, of course, I could be wrong about that. And that’s what this is all about, right? When I was wrong about something, correct?”
Ricky sipped his water, hoping he’d baited the young woman into revealing something. For an instant he saw the start of anger crease the corners of Virgil’s eyes, the smallest of dark signals in the edges of her mouth. But then she recovered and waved her half-eaten roll in the air between them, as if dismissing his words.
“You misunderstand my role here, Ricky.”
“Better explain it again.”
“Everyone needs a guide on the road to Hell, Ricky. I told you that before.”
Ricky nodded. “I recall.”
“Someone to steer you through the rocky shores and hidden shoals of the underworld.”
“And you’re that someone, I know. You told me.”
“Well, are you in Hell yet, Ricky?”
He shrugged, trying to infuriate her. This was unsuccessful.
She grinned. “Maybe knocking on the door to Hell, then?”
He shook his head, but she ignored this denial.
“You’re a proud man, Doctor Ricky. It pains you to lose control over your life, no? Far too proud. And we all know what comes directly after pride. You know, the wine’s not half-bad. You might try a sip or two.”
He took the wineglass in his hand, raised it to his lips, but spoke instead of drinking. “Are you happy, Virgil? Happy with your criminality?”
“What makes you think I’ve committed a crime, doctor?”
“Everything you and your employer have done is criminal. Everything that you have planned is criminal.”
“Really? I thought your expertise was in luxury-class neurosis and upper-middle-class anxiety. But you’ve developed a forensic streak in recent days, I guess.”
Ricky paused. It wasn’t his normal inclination to play cards.doles them out slowly, searching for reactions, trying to provoke travels down avenues of memory. But he had so little time, he thought, and as he watched the young woman across from him shift momentarily in her seat, he wasn’t altogether certain that this meeting was going exactly the way the elusive Mr. R. had envisioned it. It gave him a small satisfaction to think that he was disrupting the planned outcome of events, even if only slightly. “Of course,” he said carefully, “so far you’ve committed a number of felonies, ranging from the possible murder of Roger Zimmerman…”
“His death has already been ruled a suicide by the police…”
“You managed to make a murder appear to be a suicide. Of that I am persuaded.”
“Well, if you’re going to be so obstinate, I won’t try to change your mind. But I thought keeping an open mind was a hallmark of your profession.”
Ricky ignored this dig and persisted, “… to robbery and fraud…”
“Oh, I doubt there’s proof anywhere of those acts. It’s a little like the old saw about the tree falling in the forest: If there’s no one there to witness it, does it make a sound? If there’s no proof, did a crime actually take place? And if there is proof, it exists out there in cyberspace, right alongside your funds…”
“Not to mention your little libel with the bogus letters to the Psychoanalytic Society. That was you, wasn’t it? Leading on that complete idiot up in Boston with such an elaborate fiction. Did you take your clothes off for him, as well…?”
Virgil swept the hair away from her face again, leaning back slightly in her seat. “Didn’t have to. He’s one of those men who acts like puppies when you reproach them. He simply rolls over on his back and exposes his genitals with pathetic little mewling sounds. Isn’t it remarkable how much a person will believe when they want to believe…”
“I will get my reputation back,” Ricky said fiercely.
Virgil grinned. “You need to be alive for that, and right now, I have my doubts.”
Ricky didn’t answer, because he, too, had his doubts. He looked up and saw the waitress approach with their dinners. She set them down and asked if there was anything else she could bring to the table. Virgil wanted a second glass of wine, but Ricky shook his head.
“That’s good,” Virgil said as the waitress departed. “Keep a clear head.”
Ricky poked for an instant at the plate of food steaming in front of him. “Why,” he asked abruptly, “are you helping this man? What’s in it for you? Why don’t you drop all this pretense and stop acting like a fool and come with me to the police. We could put a stop to this game immediately and I’d see to it that you regained some semblance of normal life. No criminal charges. I could do that.”
Virgil kept her eyes on her plate as well, using her fork to toy with the mound of pasta and slab of salmon. When she lifted her gaze to meet his, her eyes barely concealed anger. “You’ll see that I return to a normal life? Are you a magician? And, anyway, what makes you think there’s anything so wonderful about a normal life?”
He persisted, ignoring this question. “If you’re not a criminal, why are you helping one? If you’re not a sadist, why do you work for one? If you’re not a psychopath, why are you joining one? And, if you’re not a killer, why are you helping someone commit a murder?”
Virgil continued to stare at him. All the breezy eccentricity and liveliness in her manner had dissipated, replaced by a sudden frosty harshness that blew coldly across the table. “Perhaps because I’m well paid,” she said slowly. “In this day and age, many people are willing to do anything for money. Could you believe that of me?”
“Only with difficulty,” Ricky replied cautiously, although the opposite of what he said was likely the truth.
Virgil shook her head. “So you’d like to dismiss money as my motive, although I’m not sure that you should. Another motive perhaps? What other motives could there be for me? You should be expert in that arena. Doesn’t the concept ‘searching for motives’ pretty much define what you do? And isn’t the same thing an integral part of this little exercise that we’re all playing? So, c ’mon, Ricky. We’ve now had two sessions together. If it’s not money, what motivates me?”
Ricky stared hard at the young woman. “I don’t know enough about you…,” he started lamely. She put down her knife and fork with a stiff deliberateness that indicated she didn’t approve of this answer.
“Do better, Ricky. For my sake. After all, in my own way, I’m here to guide you. The trouble is, Ricky, the word
guide
has positive connotations that may actually be incorrect. I may need to steer you in directions that you don’t want to go. But one thing is certain: Without me, you’ll get no closer to an answer, which will kill either you-or someone close to you who is in a state of complete ignorance. And dying blindly is stupid, Ricky. In its own way a worse crime. So, now, answer my question: What other motives might I have?”
“You hate me. Hate me, just as this fellow R. does, only I don’t know why.”
“Hate is an imprecise emotion, Ricky. Do you think you understand it?”
“It’s something I hear every day, in my practice…”
She shook her head. “No, no, no. You don’t. You hear about anger and frustration, which are minor elements of hate. You hear about abuse and cruelty, which are bigger players on that stage, but still, only teammates. But mostly, what you hear about is inconvenience. Boring and old and dull inconvenience. And this has as little to do with pure hatred as a single dark cloud has to do with a thunderstorm. That cloud has to join others and grow precipitously, before venting.”
“But you…”
“I don’t hate you, Ricky. Though, perhaps I could learn to. Try something else.”
He didn’t believe this for a second, but, at the same moment felt almost as if he were spinning, trying to find an answer. He breathed in sharply.
“Love, then,” Ricky said abruptly.
Virgil smiled again. “Love?”
“You perform because you’re in love with this man Rumplestiltskin.”
“That’s an intriguing idea. Especially when I told you I don’t know who he is. Never met the fellow.”
“Yes, I recall you said that. I just don’t believe it.”
“Love. Hate. Money. Are these the only motives you can come up with?”
Ricky paused. “Perhaps fear, as well.”
Virgil nodded. “Fear is good, Ricky. It can prompt all sorts of unusual behavior, can’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Your analysis of this relationship suggests that perhaps Mr. R. has some sort of threatening hold over me? Like the kidnapper who forces his victims to fork over their money in the pathetic hope that he will return their dog or their child or whoever it is that he has snatched. Do I behave like a person being asked to perform tasks against my will?”
“No,” Ricky replied.
“Well, okay then. You know, Ricky, I think you’re a man who doesn’t seize opportunities when they arise. Here, now, this is the second time I’ve sat across from you, and instead of trying to help yourself, you plead with me to help you, when you’ve done nothing to deserve my assistance. I should have predicted this, but I did have hope for you. Really, I did. Not much anymore, though…”
She waved her hand in the air above the table, dismissing a reply before he could come up with one. “… On to business. You got the reply to your questions in your paper this morning?”
Ricky paused, then answered: “Yes.”
“Good. That’s why he sent me here this evening. To double-check. Wouldn’t be fair, he thought, if you didn’t get the answers you were searching for. I was surprised, of course. Mr. R. decided to put you much closer to him. Closer than I’d have thought prudent. Pick your next questions wisely, Ricky, if you want to win. It seems to me that he’s given you a big opportunity. But as of tomorrow morning, you have only a single week left. Seven days and two remaining questions.”
“I’m aware of the time.”
“Are you? I think you don’t get it. Not yet. But, as long as we’ve been talking about motivation, Mr. R. sent along something to help you pick up the pace of your investigation.”