Stephen Cannell - The Plan

Lucinda had heard people from two boats discussing Anita's death on the marine ship-to-ship radio. She pulled out the old black-and-white and adjusted the rabbit ears so that she and Ryan could watch the newscast on the aft deck. Ryan felt his heart sink as the story unfolded. He had heard rumors inside the campaign that there was trouble between the candidate and his wife. . Then his mind went back to the bar at the Savoy House, where he had told A. J. that the way to create sympathy was to create tragedy. Had he been the unwitting architect of this tragedy? At that moment, he promised himself that he would devote his energies to Mickey's destruction.

"What is it?" Lucinda said, noticing a strange look on his face.

"Tomorrow, I want to go into town and see the doctor you found. I need to get better."

Lucinda reached out and took his hand. They both knew the vacation was over. What they didn't know was that the Ghost was already in town, waiting.

They arrived at the Dinghy Dock in Avalon at eight-ten the next morning. It took another ten minutes to get Ryan off the boat and up onto the bench on the woode n d ock.

Lucinda left him sitting there while she went off to rent one of the electric golf carts that were used by everyone on the island instead of cars. Ryan sat on the bench looking at a pay phone across from him. It was only twenty feet away, but he wondered if he could make it. He stood on his one good leg, reached in his pants pocket for some change, then hopped across the wooden deck, grabbed the phone, and, teetering precariously, fed some quarters into the slot and dialed a number from memory.

The phone in the Alos' New Jersey house rang five times before Pulacarpo answered it.

"Yes," he said.

"Lemme talk to Mickey."

"He's a' no here right now. You wanna leave a'you' name an' a'you' number?"

"Tell him Ryan Bolt is on the line." He could hear the other man breathing. "Go get him. He wants to talk to me."

Ryan was put on hold and then, in a few seconds, Mickey was on the line.

"Hey, Ryan, buddy, how you doin'?" Mickey's voice grinned at him through three thousand miles of phone cable.

"Not so good, Mickey. Every time I turn my back, some overbuilt slice a' pizza is swinging a bat or a gun at me."

Mickey pulled the Pin Tel out of the desk drawer and was scrolling it while he talked. The number Ryan was calling from was different from the one Lucinda used, but he saw that the area code and prefix were the same. . Ryan was in Avalon with his sister.

"Listen, Ryan. . I don't know what you think is going on, but you got it all wrong."

"Yeah? How's that?"

"I'm your friend."

"You're nobody's friend."

Mickey put down the Pin Tel, then slowly sat back in his swivel chair. "You have something on your mind or you just trying to get your balls to swell?"

"I called to tell you you're going down for this." "For what?"

"For Anita Richards. I know why her plane crashed. I know why you killed her. I also know you're behind Haze Richards's candidacy. You had two tries at me when I wasn't ready. Now I am."

"You threatening me?"

"It's not a threat, it's a promise. I'm gonna put you away, Mickey."

"I invite you to try, shithead."

"You remember when we were kids at school? I was always better than you, Mickey. I always won. In sports. In school. Pick a category, I'm better."

"The category is killer. You're not a killer, Ryan. I'm a killer. For you, it was always games with rules. Fifteen yards for clipping, no hitting after the bell. I got only one rule: Win at all costs. So you take your best shot, asshole. I ain't worried 'cause nothing's ever stuck to me yet."

And he hung up, leaving Ryan balanced on his, leg, feeling stupid.

When Lucinda returned to the pier, he was back on the bench. "Does it hurt?" she asked, seeing the tight expression on his face.

"No. . no. Let's go."

She helped him to his feet and down to the end of the pier, where she had parked the rented cart. After Ryan was seated, she moved around and got behind the wheel. They zipped off toward the island hospital.

Armando Vasquez watched them go. His wiry body advertised twenty-eight years in South Central L. A. Knife scars and the names of old girlfriends were scratched onto his muscled arms like bridge graffiti. He looked down at a small picture of Ryan he had in his hand, then got up off the bench near the end of the pier and stood watching as they headed up the hill. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, razor-sharp curved linoleum knife. He leaned against the rail with the knife in his palm and waited for them to return.

The hospital was busy when they got there. Schoolchildren with sinus infections sneezed and sniffed in the waiting room as they were given medicine and complained about shots. Several of them stole glances at Ryan and Lucinda. By nine-fifteen, the morning preschool sick call was over and Dr. Andrea Lewis came out and looked at them waiting patiently on the tan vinyl sofa, holding hands.

"So, this is Bill. .?"

"Huh?" Lucinda said.

"Lauren and Bill. . remember? That's you two. I wrote it in the logbook." Then, not waiting for a reply, she reached out her hand to Ryan, taking in his blond good looks.

"I'm Dr. Andrea Lewis."

"Ili, I'm Bill."

"Sure you are."

"Would you mind taking a look at his leg?" Lucinda said sharply.

"Can you walk?"

"I'm a good hopper."

With Lucinda on one side and Dr. Lewis on the other, they pulled him up and helped him into the doctor's examining room. The room was painted yellow with a wood cabinet full of medical supplies and a metal examining table covered with sterile paper. Ryan struggled up onto the table as Dr. Lewis took a pair of scissors from an instrument tray.

He unbuttoned his trousers and Lucinda removed his tennis shoes and began to tug gingerly at the jeans until they were off. The bandage had turned brownish red from additional seepage. Dr. Lewis looked at it carefully.

"Is the wound on the front and side?" she asked, noting the stains on the bandage.

"That's right."

She slipped the scissors under the bandage on the inside of his leg and cut it off, peeling it back slowly. She pulled the bandage free and looked at the repair job done by Dr. Jazz four days before.

"Who did this work?"

"A doctor in New Jersey," he said. "Is it bad?"

"No, it's very good. . tight stitching, good surgical knots. Have you had a fever?"

"No. "

"You've been taking antibiotics?"

"He gave me a heavy dose of penicillin."

Dr. Lewis turned away, got an alcohol swab, and cleaned around the wound.

"This is a gunshot wound, isn't it?"

Neither Ryan nor Lucinda responded, so she went on.

"I can't treat you unless I call the sheriff and tell him."

"Don't do that, please. There are people trying to kill him. . powerful people. If they find out he's here, they'll come, they'll kill him."

"Why?"

"They just will."

"You're wanted by the police," Dr. Lewis said, feeling a momentary fear rising up in her.

"We're not," Ryan finally said. "I'll make a deal with you. We'll get out of here. . You don't have to do anything. If you don't treat me, you don't have to report it."

Dr. Lewis didn't know what to do. She had been an intern for only six months. It was her first job since graduating from UCLA Med School. The Avalon Hospital made arrangements with the university to take one doctor a year. She wanted to be a GP so she had applied, thinking it would be a great adventure, but she hadn't bargained for anything like this. On the other hand, some irrational urge made her want to help them. They didn't look like criminals. They didn't sound like criminals. She guessed they were both college-educated, both were clean-cut and extremely attractive.