The Analyst

Ricky’s stomach clenched. “Confusion?” he asked. “How can money be confused? People can be confused. Dogs can be confused. Money ca

“I’m going to co

“Doctor Starks?” The executive came on the line brusque and speaking swiftly. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but we’re trying to figure out a problem here…”

Ricky’s stomach seemed empty, tight. “What sort of problem?”

“Well,” the executive said, “did you open up a personal trading account with one of the new online brokers? Because…”

“No, I haven’t. In fact, I hardly know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, that’s the confusing part. It appears that there’s been significant day-trading in your account.”

“What’s day-trading?” Ricky asked.

“It’s trading stocks rapidly, trying to stay ahead of market fluctuations.”

“Okay. I understand that. But I don’t do this.”

“Does someone else have access to your accounts? Perhaps your wife…”

“My wife passed away three years ago,” Ricky said coldly.

“Of course,” the broker answered quickly. “I remember. I apologize. But someone else, perhaps. Do you have children?”

“No. We did not have children. Where is my money?” Ricky spoke sharply, demanding.

“Well, we’re searching. This may turn out to be a police matter, Doctor Starks. In fact, that’s what I’m begi

“Where is the money?” Ricky demanded a second time.

The broker hesitated. “I can’t say precisely. We have our internal auditors going over the account now. All I can say is that there has been significant activity…”

“What do you mean activity? The money has just been sitting there…”

“Well, not exactly. There are literally dozens maybe even hundreds of trades, transfers, sales, investments…”

“Where is it now?”

The broker continued, “A truly extraordinary trail of extremely complicated and aggressive financial transactions…”

“You’re not answering my question,” Ricky said, exasperation filling his voice. “My funds. My retirement account, my cash reserves…”

“We’re searching. I’ve put my best people on it. I will have our head of security contact you as soon as they make some headway. I can’t believe with all the activity that no one here spotted something wrong…”

“But all my money…”

“Right now,” the executive said slowly, “there is no money. At least, none that we can find.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I wish it were so,” the man continued, “but it is. Don’t worry, Doctor Starks. Our investigators will track the transactions. We’ll get to the bottom of this. And your accounts are insured, at least in part. Eventually, we’ll get this all straightened out. It’s just going to take some time, and, as I said, we may have to involve the police or the SEC, because it seems that what you’re saying is that a theft of some sort is involved.”

“How much time?”

“It’s summertime and some of the staff is on vacation. I’d guess no more than a couple of weeks. At the most.”

Ricky hung up the phone. He did not have a couple of weeks.

By the end of the day he was able to determine that the only account that he owned that hadn’t been raided and eviscerated by someone who’d gained access was the small checking account he kept at First Cape Bank up in Wellfleet. This was an account purely designed to make summer matters easier. There was barely ten thousand dollars in the account, money that he used to pay bills at the local fish market and grocery store, the liquor store and hardware store. He paid for his gardening tools and plants and seeds with that account. It was money to make his vacation run smoothly. A household account, for the month he spent in the vacation household.

He was a little surprised that Rumplestiltskin had not assaulted these funds as well. He felt toyed with, almost as if the man had left this parcel of money alone to tease Ricky. Regardless, Ricky thought he needed to find a way to get the funds into his hands, before they, too, disappeared into some bizarre financial limbo. He called the manager of the First Cape Bank and told him that he was going to need to close the account and was going to want the balance of the money in cash.

The manager informed Ricky that he would have to be present for that transaction, which was fine with Ricky. He wished some of the other institutions handling his money had had the same policy. He explained to the manager that there had been some trouble with other accounts, and that it was important that no one other than Ricky access the money. The manager offered to have the funds written into a cashier’s check, which he would personally keep for Ricky’s arrival. This was acceptable.

The problem was how to get the money.

Ignored in his desk was an open plane ticket from La Guardia to Hya

But he didn’t really have time to consider this.

He could get to the Cape. And get back, as well, he thought. It would take at least twenty-four hours. But in the same moment, he was overcome with a sudden sense of lethargy, almost as if he couldn’t move his muscles, as if the synapses in the brain that issued commands to sinew and tissue throughout his body had abruptly gone on strike. A black exhaustion that mocked his age flowed through his body. He felt dull, stupid, and filled with fatigue.

Ricky rocked in his desk chair, his head leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He recognized the warning signs of a clinical depression as quickly as a mother would know a cold coming on when her child sneezed. He held out his hands in front of him, looking for some quiver or palsy. They were still steady. How much longer? he wondered.