Analyst by John Katzenbach

Author:John Katzenbach
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Mystery, Adventure, Psychology, Suspense & Thriller
ISBN: 9780345455482
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 2002-01-08T00:00:00+00:00

He could sense that the sun had scoured the day when he opened his eyes to the early afternoon. For a moment, he was disoriented, but then, as he awakened further, the world around him jumped into focus. The world outside was familiar and much loved, but seeing it seemed harsh, almost as if the vista that was most comforting was oddly out of his reach. It gave him no pleasure to stare at the world around him. Like the picture of his wife that he still clutched in his hand, it was distant, and somehow lost from him.

Ricky moved to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face at the sink. His face in the mirror seemed to have aged. He placed his hands on the edge of the porcelain, and stared at himself, thinking he had much to do, not much time to do it.

He moved swiftly to the ordinary chores of summertime. A trip to the barn to pull the car cover off the old Honda, and plug in the electric battery charger that he kept in storage there precisely for this moment every summer. Then, as the car was being reenergized, he went back to the house and started to strip the furniture covers off, and run a quick few broom swipes along the floors. There was an old feather duster in the closet as well, and he got this out and immediately turned the interior of the house into a world of dust mites, spinning in shafts of sunlight.

As was his custom on the Cape, he left the front door open, when he left. If he’d been followed, which was possible, he didn’t want to force Virgil or Merlin or anyone associated with Rumplestiltskin to break in. It was as if this would somehow minimize the violation. He did not know if he could tolerate anything else in his life being broken. His home in New York, his career, his reputation, everything associated with who Ricky thought he was, and everything that he had built into his life, had systematically been ruined. He felt a sort of immense fragility descending upon his heart, as if a single crack in a windowpane, a scratch on the woodwork, a broken teacup, or a bent spoon would be more than he could manage.

He breathed a long sigh of relief when the Honda started up. He pumped the brakes and they seemed to work, as well. He backed the car out gingerly, all the time thinking: This is what it must feel like to be close to death.

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