the Plan (1995) (29 page)

When they hit the transition bumps crossing over to the 405 freeway, Ryan moaned and Lucinda whispered encouragement to him.

Elizabeth felt very alone. As she listened to Ryan and Lucinda, she knew she was letting her life slip by.

They arrived at the marina and Elizabeth parked in the darkness, under a broken light at the foot of B dock. She and Lucinda got out of the wagon, leaving Ryan sleeping in the back; then Elizabeth led the way down the ramp to where she thought she remembered Ryan's boat being slipped.

"Shouldn't he see a doctor?"

"I'm going to work on that. First, I have to make sure he's safe."

"Safe from what? From who?"

"Please, just help me find his boat."

They walked farther down until Elizabeth could see the familiar profile of the beautiful fifty-foot ketch. Built in the fifties, she had classic lines. The wood hull had been varnished to a shiny dark brown; the cockpit was covered with white canvas. The boat was named Linda, for Ryan's ex-wife, but she had hated the boat and they rarely used it.

When Lucinda looked at the ketch, it was love at first sight. Sailing had been one of her childhood joys. She'd had a Sabot at Cape May when she was seven and had graduated to larger boats, winning some yacht club contests when she was in her mid-teens. She was at home o n t he sea. Now she jumped down and started to unsnap the canvas, exposing the teak decks and chrome fittings. "Look at this," she whispered as she unwrapped the boat with Christmas morning excitement. She moved below and checked the provisions. There was plenty of canned food and bottled water. She found the chart drawer and the battery selector switch and rotated it to ON BOTH BATTERIES. She turned on the cabin lights and checked the battery condition indicator. She stuck her head up and looked at Ryan's secretary.

"You seem to know something about boats," Elizabeth said.

"I'll manage. Let's get Ryan."

They brought over a rolling dock dolly and loaded the boat seat cushions into it, then got Ryan out of the wagon. He was gritting his teeth in pain as they moved him onto the dolly and rolled him to the boat. It was difficult getting him aboard, but they managed, finally settling him in the forward stateroom bunk. Once the transfer was complete, Elizabeth leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. "Damn, Ryan, take better care of yourself, will ya?"

He put an arm around her neck and whispered in her ear. "Missed you, Liz."

She stood up and held his hand for as long as she could, then moved out to the cockpit where Lucinda was pulling back the small engine hatch and checking the forty-horse Graymarine engine. She checked the oil stick, then replaced the hatch cover, leaving it cracked slightly for ventilation. She turned on the bilge fan and let it run, until it blew the engine compartment clean of fumes.

"You actually know something about this, don't ya?" Lucinda was removing the canvas cover on the pedestal compass. "I have a boat at home."

"What the hell's this all about? Who shot him?" Elizabeth asked.

"I'm fighting for his life. It wouldn't be safe for you to know more."

"In that case . . ." Elizabeth handed her all the money she had in her apartment. It was $450.

Lucinda took it. "He told me you were one of his best friends."

"Right, so don't fuck up and let him die."

Finally, Lucinda said, "Once I get the main going, can you cast us off?"

Elizabeth nodded and jumped onto the dock while Lucinda pumped the throttle to get gas to the carburetor. Then she hit the start button and the engine roared to life. Lucinda flipped some dash switches and the running lights went on.

Elizabeth untied the four lines and threw them onto the boat. Lucinda backed the ketch out of the slip into the channel. There was no adventure in Elizabeth's life and she envied the beautiful girl. She watched the Linda move slowly into the night until the twinkling masthead light disappeared from view. Elizabeth got back in the station wagon, but didn't start the engine right away. She sat in the dark, thinking.

She finally promised herself she'd quit her job first thing in the morning.

Lucinda made the crossing under power, deciding not to single-hand the big ketch under sail and try to take care of Ryan at the same time.

Once they got past the jetty and into open sea, the Linda began to buck and shudder in the close, four-foot swells. Lucinda was afraid that Ryan would roll off the forward bunk and onto the floor, so she ran down to check on him every few minutes. He was sleeping soundly. She propped up pillows around him and tried to take the swells on the quarter to minimize the chop.

There was a half-moon shining in the clear, February sky and she steered the sailboat across the sparkling moonlit water. Then she went below, took the chart of the Catalina channel out of the map tube, clipped it to the navigation table, and switched on the tensor light. She use d d ividers and parallels to plot the course, the way her sailing instructor at the yacht club had taught her when she was a teenager. She didn't know Catalina, but she decided not to go into Avalon Harbor because she was sure all the day boats went there. Instead she picked Toyon Bay, a small cove a few miles west. She went back to the wheel and set her course by the compass to 176 degrees.

She found Toyon Bay just as the sun was coming up. She got Linda into the lee of the cove and then dropped the bow anchor. The chain rattled through the hawsepipe, and once she had laid out fifty-feet of chain, she hit reverse and backed down on the Danforth anchor to set it. She checked for drift, let out some more scope on the chain, then turned off the engine and sat, listening. The rippling water gently lapped against the hull. The island was much more barren than she had expected. . . . Scrubby mesquite plants were hugging rocks that jutted on the low cliffs. But there was a rugged beauty to the place. Across the hundred yards of water, she could see a dark shape of something large on the beach. She found a pair of binoculars under the pilot seat, directed them to the shape, and slowly focused in on a huge, sleeping beast.

"It's a buffalo," she finally said in exhilaration and surprise. She went below to tell Ryan, but he was still out, so she didn't wake him. Instead, she lay down on the adjoining bunk. She loved the gentle sway of the boat at anchor. For the first time in three days, she felt safe.

As the boat swung around in the shifting breeze, she thought about her mother. Penny would worry about her. Lucinda had been unable to reach her before she left.

In moments, Lucinda fell into a fitful sleep.

Chapter
42.

ANITA FARRINGTON RICHARDS HAD NOT TOLD HAZE THAT
she wanted to divorce him when she'd gone to Iowa. Sh
e h
ad intended to, but something had stopped her. It ha d t aken her a few days to understand how complicated he r r easoning was. Anita had been raised by upper-middle -
class eastern Protestants, who taught their daughter fro m c hildhood not to show her emotions, not to make a scen e i n public, not to draw attention to herself. The thought o f h aving a messy public divorce appalled her, and she realized, after the media swarm at the Iowa debate, that ther e w as no way to do it quietly. So she had not broached th e s ubject with Haze and withdrew instead to reconsider. Anita had left immediately after the campaign victory in Iow a a nd was now holed up in the safety of the governor's mansion in Providence. She had refused all of the intervie w r equests that her press secretary had tried to arrange. Sh e h oped that Haze's campaign would unwind on its own , that he'd lose New Hampshire so she wouldn't be force d t o use divorce to veto his candidacy. Better than anyon e o n earth, Anita Richards knew her husband wasn't fit t o g overn. She knew he lacked moral strength. But as th e d ays went by, she realized he was gaining in popularity.

Every night, they talked about him on the news. "The surprise candidate," UBC said. . . . "The probable frontrunner." She'd started drinking again. She'd had a bout with alcoholism in her mid-thirties when Haze was still a prosecutor. Now she was sneaking into the study every afternoon and taking straight shots of vodka from the little crystal bottle on the marble bar top.

Haze was coming home that afternoon to get packed for a four-day, ten-state swing through the South, and she had finally swallowed enough false courage to tell him she was going to leave. She poured two more shots from the crystal decanter in her hand, sat down on the quilted sofa, and thought about the events that had led her to this dilemma.

She had never been a fighter. She tried to avoid confrontations and so had not been a good moral guide for Haze when he needed one. She had chosen isolation instead. Now she readied herself for what she was sure would be the most ugly event of her life. She was going to file for divorce.

Haze arrived home by limo at six. He found her asleep on the sofa in the study. He looked down at his overweight wife, disgusted at what she had become. He saw the glass on the table and knew she had been drinking again. He started to move out of the den when she heard him and sat up.

"How long have you been here?" she asked.

"Just got in."

"Oh," she said, suddenly not prepared for the fight ahead of her. But it had to be done. He turned and moved up the hall to his private bedroom. She followed him.

"I have something I want to talk about."

"Not now, Anita. They're holding the plane for me." "I want a divorce."

He looked at her. "Come on, Nita, cut the shit." "Haze, I can't do this anymore. I'm filing tomorrow." "You can't divorce me. Whatta you talking about?" "To begin with, I can do whatever I want. I don't hav
e t o ask your permission to file divorce papers."

"But why?"

"To stop you."

"Stop me from what?"

"That's what I wanted to tell you," she said and walked out of his room, back down the hall toward her bedroom. He caught her in the hall, grabbed her by the arm, and spun her to face him.

"Whatta you doing? You know what's at stake? I could actually win this thing."

"I've made up my mind." She pulled her arm free and walked to her bedroom. He started to follow but she slammed the big oak door and threw the deadbolt before he could reach it.

"Anita, you gotta talk to me," he pleaded through the thick door. After a minute, he realized it was useless and walked back to his den to call A
. J
., who had stopped at his law office a block away to get some papers. A . J
. answered on the second ring.

"Jesus, AJ., Anita wants a divorce. She's locked in her room. She's drinking again. You gotta do something," Haze said, turning, as always, to the only man who ever solved his problems.

"I'm on my way." A
. J
. hung up, dialed the airport, and got Malcolm at the executive terminal. They had chartered a 737 to carry the enlarged staff and the hundred big feet traveling with them.

"We got a problem."

"How big a problem?"

"I can't tell you over the phone. Just hold the flight. If I can't get there with Haze in an hour, I'll call back."

"Shit, A
. J
., we got a planeful of press. We don't hold to the schedule, they're gonna sense something is wrong. The be all over me. First rule in a campaign is don't deviate from the schedule in front of the press."

"An hour isn't gonna kill us. Two hours, we're gonna have to make up something. In the meantime, hose th
e f
uckers down with free booze." And he rang off and sprinted for his car.

At the governor's mansion, he found Haze in the upstairs hall, banging on Anita's door. "Come on, Nita. I just wanna talk to you." He turned and looked helplessly at A
. J
. "She's locked in there."

"Let me handle it. Go to your room," A
. J
. said. "She files for divorce, we're fucked."

"Go"

Reluctantly, Haze moved down the hall to his room, but he stood in the doorway so he could overhear what A
. J
. said.

A
. J
. tapped on the door, softly. He had always had a good relationship with Anita. He found her smart and funny and had actually dated her in college, before Haze did. In the old days, they'd had a lot of long, meaningful talks. He had a strong appreciation for her mind and values. "Nita, it's A . J
.," he said, tapping again on the door. "Listen, if you don't want to talk to me, say so. Okay? I don't wanna be banging on this door all night. You say `Get lost, Albert,' and I'm gone. Okay?"

Nothing from the other side of the door. A
. J
. was a strategist. He always tried to solve one problem at a time. He couldn't get through the door unless he got Anita talking.

"See, if I don't hear anything, Nita, I'm gonna figure you haven't made up your mind and I'm gonna stay. out here, banging my poor knuckles on this hard wood," the wonk cooed softly through the massive oak door.

"Go away, A
. J
."

"Listen ... uh, I will. I'll go, but first I gotta know you're okay."

"Just go. Leave me alone."