Stephen Cannell - The Plan

"It's not that easy. The law doesn't say, if I don't treat you, I don't have to report it. The law says, I have to report any gunshot wound that I see whether I treat you or not."

"It's not a gunshot wound. I got stabbed accidentally with a barbecue skewer." Ryan grinned at her.

"You two come in here with cornball aliases. You don't want the police advised. . and I can see the dimple here where the slug entered the thigh. All that's missing is a videotape of the shooting."

Ryan turned to Lucinda. "Gimme a hand, let's get outta here."

Lucinda started to pick up his pants but Dr. Lewis put out a hand to restrain her.

"A barbecue skewer. That's the story?"

"I guess so, unless you can come up with a better one,"

Ryan said.

"It's pretty cold this time of year to be barbecuing in New Jersey."

"We're compulsive," he said. She shook her head and looked at the leg again. She put on latex gloves and gently spread the edges of the wound to see how it was mending.

She could tell it was less than a week old, but it seemed to be knitting well. "Okay, I'm going to redress it. You're gonna need to watch for infection. I'll give you two weeks' worth of antibiotics. Take them twice a day until they're all gone."

"I take it you're not gonna want a follow-up visit?"

"Look, Bill, or whoever you are. . I could get into a helluva lot of trouble over this. I'm doing it because something tells me you two are on the level, despite the fact you haven't told me one thing that sounds true since you got here. I'll wrap the leg, give you the drugs, leave it off my medical log, and pretend I never saw you. For that, you can leave an extra hundred dollars in the dish out there for the children's playground. If you come back here, I'm gonna notify the police."

Andrea turned to the table and grabbed some sterile pads and disinfectant powder. She shook the powder onto the wound and put the pads over the stitching. She wrapped the leg in gauze first, then with a white, heavy elastic bandage. She gave Lucinda the powder and the rest of the bandage on the roll, along with several sterile pads.

"In four days, cut off the bandage and redress. If he starts getting a fever or if there is oozing or discharge through the stitching, get him to a hospital, fast; otherwise he could lose the leg. You can cut the stitches and pull them out in about a week." Then, as an afterthought, she added, "No more barbecuing till August."

"Will I get back use of this leg?"

"That depends. Since I didn't do the surgery, I can't really tell what's left in there and what's gone. Can you lift it up?"

He tried to lift the leg. It moved halfway.

"Okay, you have hip flexors and abductors. You still have tendons and blood flowing to the muscles. Whoever did this job-connecting the veins and arteries you should send a thank-you note."

"Will I be able to walk?"

"I don't know. You'll have to try and build up the muscies that are left. You're probably going to have weak spots, like if you pivot the wrong way, you could go down. A leg is supported by muscle, bone, and tendons wrapped in flesh. Blood supplies oxygen to the muscles. Without that, they atrophy. You lose any of the parts, you change the physical equation. You could have a permanent injury or other muscles could build up to compensate. But it will probably never be as good as it was."

Lucinda got Ryan's pants and helped him pull them over the newly bandaged leg.

"I'll get some ampicillin." She moved out of the office and Ryan motioned to Lucinda to follow her. Lucinda left as Ryan pushed his good foot into his tennis shoe, didn't bother to lace it, then stood and pushed the other foot into the left shoe. Then he hopped to the door, thankful for the firm new dressing on his leg. He lowered his foot and tried to put some weight on it, but he knew, instantly, that the leg wouldn't hold him. He hopped to the outer office. Andrea Lewis got pills out of the cabinet. She put them into a bottle, wrote something on the label, and handed them to Lucinda. Dr. Lewis turned to Ryan.

"You need crutches?"

"I lost mine," Ryan said.

"I have some wooden ones in the back. Just a minute."

Andrea moved out of the office and down the hall. There was a phone in the equipment room and she toyed with the idea of calling the sheriff. His office was only two blocks away. But for some reason she couldn't identify, she knew she wouldn't call. She brought the crutches back and handed them to Ryan. Lucinda reached out and shook her hand. "Thank you," she said softly.

Lucinda dropped five $20 bills into a jar labeled SCHOOL PLAYGROUND FUND, and a few minutes later, they got into the electric cart and headed back to the harbor, while Andrea watched from the front porch of the hospital.

Lucinda stopped at the market near the pay phone where she'd made the call to her mother. She picked up some fresh fish and vegetables and threw in some barbecue briquettes. A middle-aged, red-haired man with a sunburned nose saw her struggling with the heavy grocery bags. "Need any help with those?" he asked. He had a fishing hat pushed back on his sun-raw forehead.

"I think I can manage, thanks."

She moved out and handed the bag to Ryan in the front seat of the electric cart and drove to the wooden pier.

They walked slowly down the pier while Ryan tried to put some weight on his bad leg, but each step was causing more and more pain. He decided to start some sort of self-therapy first thing in the morning. They moved down onto the dinghy dock and, after Lucinda scrambled aboard and stowed the groceries, he threw the crutches into the boat and stood on one foot while Lucinda started to help him aboard.

Armando Vasquez watched from the darkness under the gangplank. He was crouched down with the linoleum knife out and ready. He chose that moment and made his charge, staying low, the knife out in front of him.

Ryan saw him, but without his left leg to pivot, he was helpless, teetering on the edge of the pier. Armando slashed at his torso with the linoleum knife. Ryan jerked back and fell awkwardly to the dock, landing on his elbows, favoring his left leg, trying not to tear out the stitches again. He was on his back as Armando rushed at him and slashed at his throat with the knife, missing again, as Ryan rolled left out of the way.

"Hey!. . Hey you!" the redheaded fisherman from the market bellowed from the pier above them. "Stop that!"

Armando hesitated. Lucinda was trying to get out of the Avon to help Ryan. The man from the market was now running down the gangplank, his beer belly bouncing in front of him, the hat flying off his head. He had a long-poled fish gaff in both hands as he charged toward Armando. Once he got to the dinghy dock, he swung the gaff. The sharp point buried itself in Armando's shoulder. "Ayyee puta," Armando swore as the fisherman yanked the gaff free, tearing out a hunk of the Mexican's flesh.

Armando screamed, and the fisherman swung the gaff again. This time, it hit him in the side of the neck, but didn't stick as deeply. Armando yelled, jumped off Ryan, then turned to face the balding fisherman who had the gaff now in both hands. He swung it again as Armando turned and dove into the water and started swimming the short distance to shore. Once he was at the beach, he ran toward the street, the wound in his shoulder trailing blood down his ripped shirt on his back. They all watched until he was out of sight.

"Jesus," Ryan stammered.

"Looked like he was after your watch," the fisherman said, grinning, pointing at Ryan's Rolex. "That there's a ten-thousand-dollar invitation to get mugged."

"Bill Williams," Ryan said, extending his hand.

"Jerry Paradise." The red-haired man leaned down and held out his hand to Ryan, who was still on his back on the dock. Ryan took his hand and Jerry pulled him up on his good leg. Lucinda grabbed the crutches and handed them to Ryan.