Stephen Cannell - The Plan

Usually he could turn them. He'd convince them they had a better chance with the Vegas DA than their own asshole buddies. Of course, most of them weren't very smart.

Brenton Spencer would be a lot tougher, but the thing about people involved in a criminal conspiracy was, they were always sure they were gonna get found out. That thought haunted them. Their own imaginations were what finally busted most of them. Brenton wasn't used to being interrogated, so Kaz had to get him away from his normal surroundings, find a place where he felt uncomfortable, and convince him he was involved in a federal crime.

Kaz had spent the last day setting up for the must. He'd called a friend in the federal prosecutor's office and explained what he needed. The closest thing they could find to a suitable crime was in Statute 348.7 of the Federal Election Code, which governs ballot box tampering and illegal voter registrations. Kaz had done a cut-and-paste job on the document, matching typefaces, inserting a paragraph saying that any person who attempted to unduly influence the outcome of a national election could be charged with felony malfeasance of the political process and violation of federal election law. Then he'd photocopied the document so that it was on one sheet of paper and looked official. He had that little jawbreaker in his pocket as he took the elevator up to UBC and got out on the Rim.

The first thing that struck him was that there were one hell of a lot of young people running around in a hundred different directions with no apparent destination. He grabbed a young man who was flying past.

"Looking for Brenton Spencer," he said.

"Oh God," the young man said, and ran off.

Kaz soon realized that this wasn't a room full of overeager yuppies. This was a room full of panicked people. He saw a crowd around an office door and elbowed his way in through the staffers until he saw a bald man in his late twenties, bent over the form of Brenton Spencer, who was lying unconscious on a white carpet. Steve Israel had his ear on Brenton's chest, listening for a heartbeat. Kaz was being pushed aside by some late arrivals trying to get a better look.

"It's okay," Kaz said. "I'm a doctor."

They immediately let him through and he moved to the fallen newsman.

"Anybody call the paramedics?"

"Three minutes ago," Israel said.

"What happened?"

"He's been having horrible headaches. He walked off the set, back to his office. When I came to get him, he was like this."

"Okay, gimme some room.. "

Kaz had done his share of field triages, both in the Korean War and a couple of major Bureau shootouts. He started with vitals. Brenton had a reedy heartbeat, weak and irregular, and his breathing was rasping and shallow. Kaz opened his mouth and pulled his tongue free, clearing the throat. He thumbed open Brenton's eyes. The right looked normal but the left pupil was dilated to the size of a small-bore pistol.

"Brain hemorrhage. Get on the phone and tell the paramedics to alert the hospital they're gonna need a head cutter with a catcher's mitt. This guy is critical."

The paramedics arrived a few minutes later. Kaz helped them get Spencer on the rolling gurney and load him into the ambulance. They tried to leave Kaz behind, but he flashed his lapsed credentials.

"FBI," he said. "Man's a material witness in a homicide. I'm coming." He didn't want to let Brenton out of his sight. The ambulance accelerated away from the curb and rushed across town, its siren heehawing at the traffic.

In the back of the ambulance, the vital signs were being relayed, by radio, to New York County Hospital, where the neurosurgeon was getting the operating theater ready. Kaz was concerned about the decreasing blood pressure and the irregular heartbeat.

The ambulance slowed down in traffic as critical minutes ticked by. The increasing pressure on Brenton Spencer's brain began to shut down precious nerve centers, obliterating memory, personality, and thought.

They screeched to a stop at the back door of the emergency room, the siren still wailing. Two attendants ran with the gurney, pushing it ahead of them into the waiting elevator.

"This is that news guy," one said as the elevator door closed, cutting them from view.

Kaz looked at his watch and pulled the phony criminal statute out of his pocket, ripped it up and sprinkled the shreds into the wastebasket.

He felt tired and angry. But the job was like that, he thought. Sometimes you were just too late with too little.

Ryan heard about Brenton on a news brief on TV and guessed it must have happened before Kaz got to him. He had been trying all afternoon to get in touch with Lucinda. He waited to call until Kaz left because he knew how the man felt about Mickey's sister.

He had tried the Alo house three times, but an unfamiliar male voice answered, so he'd hung up without saying anything. Then, on a hunch, he called his own answering machine in Malibu. After a few routine messages he heard her voice.

"Ryan, it's Lucinda. I need to talk to you. I borrowed my mother's cell phone, the number is: 609-555-9056. 'Bye." Her voice had sounded fragile, hesitant.

With nervous fingers, he dialed the number.

"Hi, I got your message," he said, his heart in his throat when she answered.

"I need to see you, Ryan."

"I'm at a hotel in Trenton called the Blue Rainbow. It's a little do e, so don't be surprised. Room five-ohsix."

"Can't we meet someplace else?"

"No. You'll see why when you get here."

"I miss you," she said, tentatively. The sentence hovered somewhere between a statement and a question. -

"I miss you, too. And, Lucinda, don't let anybody follow you."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line before she said, "Okay."

He lay in the small room, unarmed, and hoped he hadn't just invited his own death. He knew Lucinda wouldn't betray him, but Mickey could have someone following her. An hour later, he heard a light rap on the door. He pulled himself up and, using the desk chair as a walker, moved slowly across the room.

"Yes?" he asked through the paint-peeled door. "Ryan, open up, it's me," she said.

He fumbled for the lock and swung the door open, throwing caution aside. She rushed into his arms, bumping into the chair, almost tipping him over.

She kissed him on the face, on the mouth. She was crying, tears streaming down her cheeks.

He held her tightly. It was the first time since Matt died that he could feel pieces of himself start to come back together.

She closed the door and looked down at his leg, wrapped in gauze, colored by seeping blood.

"What happened?"

"It's a long story."

She helped him to the bed and sat beside him. "Was it Mickey?" knowing already that it was.

Ryan nodded. "He sent Tony after me and, if I hadn't run into this ex-FBI agent, I'd be dead."

She turned and faced him, her expression grave. "I've done the same thing you did with that little boy, Terry. I've pushed ugly thoughts about Mickey away. I've refused to deal with what I always knew was in him. And now I've looked into his eyes and seen things that scare me.

"I know."

"I want to be with you, Ryan," she said, charging ahead, thinking if she didn't say these words now, she might never find the chance. "I know this is right."

He reached over and held her hand. She paused for a moment before adding, softly, "I'm afraid now that I've found you, you'll be taken from me before I get the chance to make love to you."

He kissed her on the mouth and drew her to him. He had never felt such longing. She sat up, unbuttoned her shirt and removed it. Reaching behind her, she unsnapped her bra and let it fall. Her breasts were full and round and her nipples were thrusting out. She stood to unhook her skirt and stepped out of it. Then she turned to him, wearing only her panties. She unbuttoned his one-legged jeans and eased them carefully down over his bandaged leg. Then she moved into his arms, holding him tightly.