Stephen Cannell - The Plan

"For me. Somebody who isn't afraid to show his weakness is always more interesting than some showboat with all the answers."

Soon they were in the air, heading out over the San Gabriel Mountains, leaving the L. A. nightmare behind.

Ryan looked at Lucinda, struck by her composure and beauty. He tried to see Mickey in her, but there was absolutely no family resemblance. Silence hung like a velvet curtain between them.

"So you're working on your doctorate," Ryan said, pushing it away. "What's it on?"

"Bereavement. Guess you know a little about that." "More than I need to, I think."

Suddenly he was very, very tired. Something about being here with Lucinda relaxed him. Within a short time, he fell asleep.

He awoke some time later and saw that she was looking at him. He turned his eyes away and thought, "God, could I be getting this lucky?"

The answer was waiting in New Haven.

Atfirst, it was just a void, an all-consuming nothingness, and then the dark shape passed him-bigger than before-evil and deadly, trailing pieces of Matt's clothing i n the currents behind it. The Florida Sea World T-shir t f rom the trip last summer, curling in the blackness, waftin g i n emptiness. Matt's shirt, then his tennis shoes caught o n s omething. The shape went by him in silence but the roa r t hat followed was the blood pounding in his ears. A simia n e ye swept past, seeing him, seeing the shallow desires tha t g uided him. He didn't think he could stand another pass, another look into that eye, but the shadow turned and cam e b ack.

"Are you ready, Daddy? Here we come."

Ryan bolted up out of a sound sleep, his heart racing. He didn't know where he was but finally put his thoughts in order. Pool house. The guest room. He was at Mickey's father's New Jersey estate. It was eleven-thirty in the evening.

He got up and moved slowly to the bathroom to look at the now-familiar mask that greeted him after bouts with the shadow-hollow eyes, tight lips, a look of desperation.

He dressed, left the pool house, and went wandering out on the grounds. It was cold, but at least the chill made him feel alive. A full moon turned the landscape silver. And then he saw her by the garden. She sensed him before she could have known he was there.

"Couldn't sleep," he said, as she turned.

"Me neither."

They stood in silence.

"Isn't Rex buried around here someplace?"

"He's over there." She pointed to the right.

"You warm enough?" he asked.

"I don't get cold. It's a family trait. Good circulation or something."

"Whatta you doing out here?"

"I was. . I was talking to God." It had never occurred to him that she was religious. Ryan had no formal religion. He believed that something out there governed things, but he found his church in a field of flowers or a beautiful star-filled night. Ryan had never felt close to God in formal settings.

"What were you telling Him?"

"None of your business." She grinned. "Come on, let's go inside. You look frozen."

They moved through patio French doors into the living room. She turned on one light, and they sat down on the couch in front of the unlit fireplace. She picked up a pillow and put it in her lap. It was funny how comfortable he felt with her. He didn't have to be anybody. With Linda, he always had to help create an image of perfection for others. Only occasionally were they focused on something else, like the night they found the bird in the house.

"You look sad," she said, reading him again, perfectly. "I guess."

"What are you thinking?"

"Nothing, really."

And then suddenly he wanted to tell her-share it with her-even though it made very little sense.

"It will probably sound odd."

"How will I know unless you tell me?"

He smiled and let a long-protected thought go free. "In our Bel Air house, Linda and I were about to go to bed when we heard this chirping sound," he started slowly. "I walked into the entry and there was a robin sitting on the chandelier. Linda and I knew we had to get it out. We had to save that bird. It became the most important task on earth. So we opened the doors and all the windows and we tried to flush it out. . Linda waving a towel at the poor thing, me swinging a broom, and then it would take off, flying into walls, landing on the floor. Every time we'd almost get to it, the bird would take off and fly into another room."

"What happened?"

"Finally, after at least an hour, she caught it. The robin was so tired, it just let her pick it up. She carried it outside and set it on the ground. We watched for an hour, but it wouldn't fly. Finally we went to bed. In the morning, it was gone."

"Was that before or after Matt died?"

"It was the night he left. The next day, we went to Santa Barbara and he died. How'd you know that?"

"Because of the way you said it."

"It was like an omen," he said. "He was in our life. We put him out and the next morning he was gone."

"It will get better, Ryan. All things change and become something else. Pain often forces us to grow."

She reached out and took his hand.

"I'll see you in the morning." He stood as she got to her feet. And then he kissed her. It was a quick kiss and not quite on the mouth.

"Don't leave without saying good-bye," she said as she turned out the lights and started up the stairs. He walked back to the pool house and stood there in silence. Something was different. It took a moment before he could identify what it was. It was a sense of calm, the first peace he'd felt in months. He turned off the light and stretched out on the bed. He thought about the shadow. He would fight it. He felt some of his confidence return. Like i n c ollege when it was third and long and they called his number. Back then, he knew if the ball came near him, he would catch it. For the first time since Matt died, he looked forward to what tomorrow would bring.

The door opened and Ryan walked into a flurry of activity. Twenty people were milling on the small concrete floor, which had few offices, little furniture, and no carpet. A volunteer was pulling campaign fliers of Haze Richards's last gubernatorial election out of a box. The Haze Richards Presidential Campaign Headquarters in Rhode Island was a study in organized confusion. Ven and Van were on phones trying to get airline schedules to Iowa.

"I need forty seats, minimum. . to Des Moines," Ven said. "How 'bout Iowa City or Cedar Rapids?" He listened for a moment, then said, "Okay, book it," and slammed the phone. "Hicks," he said, glancing up at Ryan.

"I'm Ryan Bolt. . looking for Malcolm Rasher. He's expecting me."

"Mal," Ven yelled at the top of his voice.

A door opened twenty feet away and Malcolm Rasher looked out He was handsome, a tall, black yuppie, with a Polo wardrobe and rimless glasses. "What?" Malcolm yelled back.

"There he is," Ken Venable said Ryan introduced himself to Malcolm Rasher and they shook hands.

"You gonna make the documentary?" Malcolm asked. "Tell you the truth, Mr. Rasher, I don't know what I'm doing here."

"We're pulling the troops together right now. This is a scoot an' shoot operation. You got a crew, equipment, anything?"

"Before we pay for all that, don't you think I oughta know what I'm trying to say?"

"Probably right. Come on." He led Ryan into a conference room with a scarred wooden table. There were half a dozen people sitting around talking.

"Sit down and buckle your seat belt, Ryan."

In a few minutes, the other members of the team had arrived and Malcolm closed the door. There were ten including Ryan.

"Okay, everybody shut up and turn on your tape recorders," Malcolm started. "All of this is only gonna get said once. I'm available for questions, but try and steer clear of bullshit. We're gonna sink if we don't get the Big Mo immediately."