the Plan (1995) (53 page)

Ryan stood his ground. He put his weak left leg forward so that he would get punching power off his stronger righ
t l
eg. They net in the center of the roof, drenched from the downpour. Both held up their fists.

"You could a' been my friend," Mickey said, bitterly. "I was trying to help you."

"No, you weren't. You don't have any friends. You liked watching me squirm. . . . I was just like Rex. . . . Running with my head off, going nowhere."

Mickey swung.

The fight didn't last very long. Mickey's first blow hit Ryan square on the jaw. It rocked him back. Ryan pivoted to his right on his good leg and threw a left hand into Mickey's ribs, following it with a low right cross. Mickey stumbled back but didn't go down, then faked with his right and threw a looping overhand left that Ryan ducked. Then Ryan launched a vicious uppercut that caught Mickey square. He staggered backward, dropping to one knee. He let out a roar of anger and charged Ryan, who tried to pivot left, but his bad leg collapsed and he fell. Mickey flung himself on his fallen enemy, screaming with rage and joy. He had lost all control. He grabbed Ryan's neck in both of his chubby hands and tried to strangle him. Ryan struggled to throw Mickey off, but adrenaline powered Mickey's grip, giving him ungodly strength. Finally, as Ryan was about to pass out, with a last surge of energy, he rolled up and over on top of Mickey. As if pushed by an invisible force, the two of them rolled down the slight incline of the ramp to the level below. Ryan encouraged the roll and used it to break Mickey's grasp around his neck. He struggled to his feet, trying to favor the left leg, but Mickey turned and ran.

Ryan realized he was going after the nine-millimeter Beretta and limped futilely after him. Mickey picked up the gun and pointed it at Ryan.

"Fuck you Bolt," he yelled. "Fuck you. You're going away." And he fired.

Ryan felt a stinging in his right shoulder and then three shots rang out in succession and Mickey stumbled backward.

Stiff-legged.

A man on stilts.

Mickey's stomach opened up. . . . Stomach lining, kidney fluid, and intestines poured out into the rainwater at his feet. He looked down in horror as his life gushed out of the ragged hole in his abdomen.

Standing in the doorway with the security guard's pistol still in her hand was Lucinda. She was staring wide-eyed at her brother.

Mickey looked down. The gun was still in his hand. He dropped it and stumbled backward, trying to get to the helicopter, which was returning for him. He was moving by sheer force of will. His vision was blurred; he lost perspective, stumbling blindly on the rain-slick pavement.

The helicopter was still a few yards from the edge of the building and the Italian cousins let out a nine-millimeter stream of death. The lead chipped the concrete around Ryan but, miraculously, didn't hit him. Mickey moved on unsteady legs toward the chopper and they stopped firing. Mickey lunged for the helicopter skid and fell off the roof, catching the ledge at the last second with both hands.

Ryan looked down at Mickey. They were now only a few feet apart. Mickey had a strange, empty look on his face. With death almost on him, Mickey still held the ledge, his grip firm. Something ungodly came up from the depth of Michael Joseph Alo, a grumbling sound, powerful and angry. Ryan kneeled down to hear. Then Mickey spoke two chilling sentences.

Mickey's eyes were shining, more intense and alive than any eyes Ryan had ever seen. A jack-o'-lantern grin spread his face wide, and then he simply let go.

He fell backward off the roof, tumbling in the air, turning and rolling, the hideous leer still stretching his plump cheeks.

Four stories below, his body exploded on impact. Sirens sounded in the distance as the helicopter abruptl
y c
hanged direction and streaked away into the rain-swept night.

Ryan, with his shoulder bleeding, limped over and picked up Naomi's camera, then went back to Lucinda. He put his good arm around her. "Thank you," he whispered.

"What did he say?" she asked, still stunned.

Ryan looked away. "I couldn't understand him."

They moved into the garage to get out of the rain and found Cole on the first level looking out at the street as the cop cars pulled up, a cherry orchard of flashing red lights.

"Naomi's dead. Here's her camera." Ryan handed it to Cole.

Cole bowed his head. She had gone to join her Israeli.

They walked into the street, where the cops took them into custody. They were cuffed and read their rights. The rain slowed as they were put in separate squad cars.

Ryan sat alone in the backseat, listening to the windshield wipers flip-flopping the moisture away. He was in the middle of a city of eight million people, yet he was alone and afraid. He couldn't forget the last words Mickey had said to him.

"I'll come back," his prep school roommate had promised. "I'll come back and get you."

Chapter
72.

WHY WORRY?

WHEN HAZE RICHARDS ARRIVED HOME FROM EUROPE
and stepped off the plane at Dulles, he was taken int
o c
ustody by federal marshals and whisked to FBI headquarters. Two days later, Malcolm Rasher made a brie f s tatement to the news media from the steps of the Rhode Island governor's mansion: "Haze Richards has withdrawn his name from the ballot for President of the United States. This, in no way, indicates wrongdoing on Governor Richards's part, but until this investigation is completed, Governor Richards feels it would be unhealthy for our democracy if he continued to pursue the presidency. Governor Richards wishes to thank all of his supporters and he will make a statement in a few days."

But he didn't come out of hiding to defend himself for over a week. The press swarmed on the story and turned up more and more damning information. There were allegations that Anita Richards had been about to file for divorce and had made an appointment with a divorce attorney in Providence. Wasn't it strange that she died one day later? And wasn't it odd that Haze had received such an astounding amount of campaign funding under the five -
hundred-dollar reporting requirement? Questions without answers.

Nobody had seen A. J. Teagarden in a week.

Cole had told Ryan, two days after they'd been released from custody, that Haze was headed for a conspiracy to commit murder indictment. Cole and Ryan had tried to feel close, but the two of them had very little in common. Events had brought them together, not friendship. With Ryan's bandaged shoulder aching from the gunshot wound, they finished a drink in Ryan's hotel room and said good-bye, knowing they would probably never see each other again.

Lucinda had gone home to be with her mother, who was distraught over Mickey's death and the revelations about the Alo family, so Ryan was left alone in his suite at the Sherry Netherland Hotel. News crews prowled the halls, climbed onto fire escapes across the street with long lenses, and tried to get pictures of him. His phone never stopped ringing. He told the hotel switchboard to turn it off. They delivered the phone messages and mail every evening in a canvas mailbag that weighed over two pounds.

Marty Lanier had called five times.

Every night, he talked to Lucinda from the hotel room. She was in the New Jersey house with Penny.

"It's weird," she said the night before he left for L
. A
. "She's so distant." Lucinda was quiet for a long time. "She doesn't understand why I I. . ." And she stopped, unable to finish the sentence.

"You didn't kill him, Lucinda. . . . He killed himself. He forced it."

But she couldn't believe him and the evening conversations between them had become filled with long, empty spaces where neither said anything.

"I'mgoing to go home," Ryan finally said. "I have to say good-bye to Matt. I can finally do that, I think. But I miss you. I wish I could see you."

When she finally spoke, her words chilled him.

"I told you I loved you ... and I do ... but can w
e c
arry so many bad memories? Are we strong enough? Is anybody?"

"I don't know," he finally said. And he honestly didn't.

Ryan went back to Los Angeles. The media swarmed the airport at LAX. SNG trucks were parked in the white passenger-loading zones. A forest of microphones bloomed in front of blow-dried hair. Pod people pushed and shoved and cursed each other as Ryan was led through the throng by a platoon of L
. A . sheriffs. There was a motorcade at the curb.

He had arrived like the presidential candidate he had just destroyed.

The next morning, he sneaked down the freight elevator of the Century Plaza Hotel and waited in a stairwell while a rental car pulled up with the reservation clerk driving. Ryan hid under a hotel blanket as the clerk drove out of the hotel, past the pod people and blow-dries to a spot two blocks away. Then the man handed Ryan the keys and walked back to the rental desk at the hotel.

Ryan had made arrangements to have Linda's real estate agent meet him at the Bel Air house. He drove down the tree-lined street and pulled up in front of the French Regency where he and Linda had once lived--a house filled with decorator-perfect things that Ryan had no appreciation for. The agent let him in.

"I can wait," the thirty-five-year-old leggy blonde with a fitness instructor's body said, smiling at him.

"No . . . I need to do this alone."

He wandered through the house carrying an old suitcase, packing things much more valuable than the pre-Columbian art that adorned the rooms.

Linda still owned the house but she hadn't been here much since the divorce. She'd been traveling in Europe. She would never miss the things that Ryan took. He went into Matt's closet and stood looking at the clothes. He reached out and gathered some in his hands and smelled them.

He could smell Matt.

His heart ached and tears came to his eyes. He folded Matt's Little League uniform. He took Matt's baseball hats off the shelf and put them carefully in the suitcase. He packed both of their mitts. On the wall there was the legend his son had written. It was in Matt's neat handwriting and framed under glass. They'd laughed when he'd put it up four years ago. He took it down, held it, and read it one last time: WHY WORRY?

There are only two things to worry about: Either you are sick or you are well. If you're well, then there's nothing to worry about. If you're sick, you only have two things to worry about. . . . Either you live or you die. If you live, you have nothing to worry about. If you die, you have only two things to worry about. Either you go to heaven or you go to hell. If you go to heaven, you'll have nothing to worry about but if you go to hell, you'll be so busy shaking hands with old friends, you won't have time to worry.

Then he heard a laugh, or at least he thought he did. Was it his imagination or was it Kaz laughing at life's inconsistencies?

He packed Matt's football, then went into the hall and looked at the pictures on the wall--pictures he had been unable to look at since his son's death. He looked at Matt and Linda together, smiling in the Hawaiian sun. The people in the shot didn't seem like strangers to him anymore. He could relive those old moments and smile. The first fish . . . the second birthday party where only stuffed animals had been invited. He took a picture off the wall. In the shot, Matt and Linda were laughing because their cat, George, was sitting by Ryan's sleeping head, licking Ryan's hair, grooming it. The photograph spoke to him like no other picture in the hallway. He wasn't sure why. He packed it in the bag with the other treasures.

He continued to move through the rooms, looking at everything, saying good-bye. Two hours later, he walked out of the house and drove away.

He had left his two Emmys in the den.

Ryan went to the beach condo and was relieved that no press were there. He let himself in and went out onto the porch. He sat on the old chaise lounge and listened to the Malibu surf roll in.

What do 1 do now? he thought as his mind buzzed with unanswered questions. He knew he needed Lucinda, knew she had to be part of his life. Had he lost her? Would she come back? What about Elizabeth? Why had she died? Why had she become a victim? Elizabeth, who never did anything but take care of him, apologize for him . . . love him.

He got up and went into his bedroom. He lay on the bed, listened to the surf, and tried to figure out what to do with his life.

April turned to May. He called Lucinda and she said she and her mother were trying to work things out between them. It would be better if he didn't come to see her.

Ryan began writing a novel but the words didn't flow. He tried to run on the beach every evening. At least, he reasoned, he was getting his body back in shape. He refused to answer Marty Lather's calls or to have a meeting with his agent Jerry Upshaw. He decided he had to get someplace where the sun didn't shine every day . . . someplace where there were no personal trainers or tanning salons. He thought about moving to the mountains.

The last day in May, while he was running on the beach, she came back to him. He was jogging in the wet sand, angling up from the surf to his condo when he saw her standing on the deck, her rich, black hair blowing in the wind. He increased his pace, his heart pounding.