There was a quaver in Ricky’s next question. “Don’t you have any limits?”

Merlin shook his head. “None whatsoever. That’s what makes all this so intriguing for us participants. The system of the game established by my employer is one where anything can be a part of the activity. The same is true for your profession, I daresay, Doctor Starks, is it not?”

Ricky shifted in his seat. “Suppose,” he said softly, hoarsely, “I were to walk away right now. Leave you sitting with whatever is in that bag…”

Again Merlin smiled. He reached down and just turned the top of the bag slightly, revealing the letters f.a.s. embossed on the top. Ricky stared at his initials. “Don’t you think that there’s something in that bag alongside the head that links you to it, Ricky? Don’t you think that the bag was purchased with one of your credit cards, before they were canceled. And don’t you think that the cabdriver who picked you up this morning and took you to the station will remember that the only thing you carried was a medium-sized blue gym bag? And that he will tell this to whatever homicide detective bothers to ask him?”

Ricky tried to lick his lips, find some moisture in his world.

“Of course,” Merlin continued, “I can always take the bag with me. And you can behave as if you’ve never seen it before.”

“How-”

“Ask your second question, Ricky. Call the Times right now.”

“I don’t know that I…”

“Now, Ricky. We’re approaching Penn Station and when we head underground the phone won’t work and this conversation will end. Make a choice, now!” To underscore his words, Merlin started to dial a number on the cell phone. “There,” he said, with brisk efficiency. “I’ve dialed the Times classified for you. Ask the question, Ricky!”

Ricky took the phone and pressed the send button. In a moment he was connected to the same woman who’d taken his call the prior week.

“This is Doctor Starks,” he said slowly, “I’d like to place another front-page classified ad.” As he spoke, his mind churned swiftly, trying to formulate words.

“Of course, doctor. How’s the scavenger hunt game going?” the woman asked.

“I’m losing,” Ricky replied. Then he said, “This is what I want the ad to say…”

He paused, took as deep a breath as he could muster, and said:

Twenty years, it was no joke,

At a hospital I treated poor folk.

For a better job, some people I left.

Is that why you are bereft?

Because I went to treat some other,

did that cause the death of your mother?

The ad lady repeated the words to Ricky, and said, “That seems like a pretty unusual clue for a scavenger hunt.”

Ricky answered, “It’s an unusual game.” Then he gave her his billing address again, and disconnected the line.

Merlin was nodding his head. “Very good, very good,” he said. “Most clever, considering the stress you’re under. You can be a very cool character, Doctor Starks. Probably much more so than you even realize.”

“Why don’t you simply call your employer and fill him in…,” Ricky started. But Merlin was shaking his head.

“Do you not think that we are as insulated from him as you? Do you think a man with his capabilities hasn’t built layers and walls between himself and the people who carry out his bidding?”

Ricky figured this was probably true.

The train was slowing, and abruptly descended beneath the surface of the earth, leaving sunlight and midday behind, lurching toward the station. The lights in the train car glowed, giving everything and everyone a pale, yellowish pall. Outside the window, dark shapes of tracks, trains, and concrete pillars slipped past. Ricky thought the sensation was similar to being buried.

Merlin rose, as the train pulled to a stop.

“Do you ever read the New York Daily News, Ricky? No, I suspect you’re not the type for a tabloid. The nice refined upper-class crusty world of the Times for you. My own origins are much humbler. I like the Post and the Daily News. Sometimes they emphasize stories that the Times is far less interested in. You know, the Times covers something in Kurdistan, the News and the Post, something in the Bronx. But today, I think, your world would be well served by reading those papers, and not the Times. Do I make myself absolutely clear, Ricky? Read the Post and the News today, because there is a story there that you will find most intriguing. I would suggest absolutely essential.”

Merlin gave a little wave of the hand. “This has been the most interesting ride, don’t you think, doctor? The miles have simply flown past.” He pointed at the duffel bag.

“That’s for you, doctor. A present. Encouragement, as I said.”

Then Merlin turned, leaving Ricky alone in the train car.

“Wait!” Ricky yelled. “Stop!”

Merlin kept walking. A few other heads turned toward him. Another shout was halfway out of Ricky’s mouth, but he stifled it. He did not want anyone to focus on him. He didn’t want to gain anyone’s attention. He wanted to sink back into the station’s darkness and become one entity with the shadows. The duffel bag with his initials blocked his exit, like a sudden massive iceberg in his path.

He could no more leave the bag than he could take it.

Ricky’s heart and hands seemed to quiver. He bent over and lifted the bag from the floor. Something within shifted position, and Ricky felt dizzy. For an instant he raised his eyes, trying to find something in the world that he could seize hold of, something normal, routine, ordinary, that would remind him and anchor him to some sort of reality.

He could see none.

Instead, he seized the long zipper on the top of the bag, hesitated, taking a deep breath and opened it slowly. He pulled back the opening and stared inside.

In the center of the bag there was a large cantaloupe. Head-sized and round.

Ricky burst into laughter. Relief filled him, unchecked, bursting out in guffaws and giggles. Sweat and nervousness dissipated. The world around him that had been spinning out of control stopped, and seemed to return to focus.

He zipped the bag back up and rose. The train was empty, as was the platform outside, except for a couple of porters and a pair of blue-jacketed conductors.

Throwing the bag over his shoulder, Ricky proceeded down the platform. He started to think about his next move. He was sure that Rumplestiltskin would confirm the location and the situation where his mother had been in treatment with Ricky. He allowed himself the fervent hope that the clinic might actually have kept records of patients dating back two decades. The name that had proven so elusive for his memory might be on a list up at the hospital.

Ricky marched forward, his shoes clicking on the platform, echoing in the darkness around him. The core of Pennsylvania Station was ahead, and he moved steadily and swiftly toward the glow of the station lights. As he marched with military determination toward the brightly lit crowds of people, his eye picked out one of the redcaps, sitting on a hand truck, engrossed in the Daily News while he waited for the next train’s arrival. In that single second, the man opened the paper so that Ricky could see the screaming headline on the front page, written in the unmistakable block letters that seemed to cry for attention. He read: transit cop in hit-run coma.

And below that, the subhead: seek missing hubby in marital mayhem.