Lifeline

by Susan X Meagher

  "Our house was surrounded by reporters! I couldn’t let Jamie wade through that flock of vultures by herself!"

  "Did you explain that?" the older woman asked.

  "I thought I …" Ryan looked confused for a moment, then said, "I don’t remember."

  Lynette shook her head briefly. "You didn’t explain your situation at all, Ryan. You just asked if Jamie could stay for practice. Coach replied automatically, like she always does. If you had made it clear that you had a very good reason for asking, she would have listened to you."

  "I’ve yet to see that," Ryan sniffed.

  "Ryan, the situation hasn’t come up," she said. "You two are always in the middle of a conflict before you start talking. Now, I know you’re a very mature woman, but you’ve got to admit that it wasn’t very mature to call her an asshole – especially in front of other players."

  Staring at the floor, Ryan said, "She was acting like an asshole."

  "Fine," Lynette said, taking a seat on the corner of her bed. "If you’re the type of player who thinks it’s okay to call the coach an asshole, then you’d better quit."

  After taking a moment to collect her thoughts, Ryan gave her a sheepish grin and admitted, "I don’t think it’s okay. I’m just pissed."

  "I understand that, Ryan," she said. "Now, I don’t know what your plans are, but I really think we’re on the verge of turning this thing around – through winning. That’s the easiest way to make people start to love each other."

  Ryan nodded and said, "I still don’t know what I’ll do, but I’ll give it my all as long as I’m with the squad."

  "I would expect nothing less," Lynette said.

  The next day, when the bus pulled up to the arena, Ryan scratched her head and said to Vicky, "I thought the next game was televised. Is this one, too?"

  "Those are local trucks," Vicky said. "Maybe it’s on in this market. I’m certain it’s not going to be on in the Bay area."

  They filed into the building, and got ready in their usual manner; but when they left the locker room, Ryan felt like one of the early Christians being thrown to the lions. There were at least six television cameras trained on her, and flashbulbs too numerous to count flashed with an unbearably irritating frequency. Tearing her eyes from the glare, she looked over to see at least forty reporters huddled around the press table, packed in so tightly that some of them shared a chair.

  She knew that she looked like a rat in a trap, and she had an overwhelming urge to run … just as far and as fast as she could … direction and destination immaterial. A young woman in a business suit, accompanied by an older man, also in a suit, approached her, with Vicky following right behind. "Ted Dickens, Athletic Information Officer. This is Maria Colavetti, my assistant. We’d like to arrange for a post-game interview session with you, Ryan."

  "Thanks," she said, her smile pencil-thin. "I’m not doing any interviews. With anyone. Ever." She folded her arms defiantly, then shuddered when she heard flashes popping continually.

  "What about to talk about the game?" the man asked. "Will you comment on the game?" He looked at Vicky and said, "It’s in our contract that your players will be made available for post-game interviews, you know."

  "Fine," Ryan said, precluding Vicky from answering. "If my play merits it, I’ll talk about the game. Only. With that, she turned on her heel and peeled off her warm-ups, a very large part of her hoping that she stunk up the gym with her abysmal play.

  The team played well, and she had to admit that she had made a big contribution, so Ryan docilely went with the information officers to a hastily set-up interview room. Every chair was filled, and as soon as she entered, the flashes started popping. For a moment she considered holding her jacket over her head like the mobsters used to do, but she thought that her father wouldn’t care for it, so she behaved. She sat down, and was surprised to see Coach Hayes sit down next to her. Ted Dickens introduced first Coach Hayes, and then Ryan, opening up the floor to questions.

  The reporters started yelling them out, fast and furiously:

  "Why the silence, Ryan? What have you got to hide?"

  "America wants to know who you really are. Are you related to Senator Evans? If not, why did you spend Christmas Eve at his home?"

  "Was that your baby in the car? We don’t even know her name. Where is she now? She hasn’t been seen since the incident."

  "Where is Jamie now? Why are you both registered as owners of the car?"

  She ground her teeth together and leaned down until her mouth hovered over the microphone. The room stilled, every reporter waiting to finally hear her voice. In a completely flat, emotionless monotone, she made her statement. She spoke so quickly, and with so little inflection, that it actually sounded like a single sentence, but she managed to cover every point she thought was germane. "We played well tonight because we stuck to our game plan. Wake Forest is a very tough opponent, and they play a style that matches up very well against us. Coach Hayes came up with an aggressive attack-style of offense which we managed to execute well. I think the key to our play tonight was our freshman guard, Franny Sumitomo’s crisp passes. Her play let me drift outside and can a few treys. Even though I mention her specifically – everyone on the team contributed to this win." She took a breath, cleared her throat and looked up guardedly. "Any more questions about the game?"

  They started firing them out again, and she sat impassively, not making eye contact with anyone in the room. Her hands were folded on the table, and she gazed at nothing further than the tips of her fingers, seemingly oblivious to the cacophony of sound and light.

  Coach Hayes finally moved the microphone in front of her own mouth and said, "We’re here to talk about the game, people. Only the game."

  She was shouted down immediately, and after another moment, placed her hand on Ryan’s shoulder and jerked her head towards the door, indicating that it was time to leave. Just as they stood, a reporter came running into the room. He was seriously out of breath, and his panting attracted as much attention as his dramatic call for Ryan’s ear. "Ryan!" he shouted, his voice much louder, despite his short-windedness, than any of the other reporters. "What is your reaction to the report, just off the wire service, that Wendell Delp, one of your attackers, has died as a result of the gunshot wound he sustained?"

  The room grew still in the blink of an eye. It seemed that all of the air had been sucked out of the space, but that sensation only lasted for a millisecond. In the next instant, every flash fired, every shutter snapped, every eye focused intently on Ryan.

  It took a few seconds for the news to reach her brain, and as it did, her legs gave way, and she found herself sprawled upon the chair that Coach Hayes had occupied. The room they were in was not very large, and as the seconds ticked away it became, in Ryan’s distorted view, substantially smaller. The walls actually seemed to be closing in on her, and she found herself unable to reassure herself that it was an optical illusion. The sound of the snapping shutters grew louder as the walls drew closer, and she started to be able to feel her heart pounding rapidly in her chest.

  Another voice, that echoed strangely, called out, "Did you intend to kill him, Ryan?"

  A swooshing sound filled her ears, and her head dropped to the table, bouncing a little as she lost control of her muscles. Her defenses destroyed, she felt as though she had been stripped bare. She began to cry helplessly, her entire body shaking. She vaguely felt a hand on her shoulder, then another, then had the sensation of arms trying to lift her -- to no avail.

  The voices she detected sounded as though they were underwater, but she could just make out a tone that sounded like Coach Hayes. Something about clearing the room, Ryan thought, but she couldn’t be sure. Actually, she didn’t care enough to be sure. All she knew, and she knew this with absolute certainly, was that things would never be the same again.

  After a long while, her surroundings started to come back into focus. Ryan knew she was still in the room, she knew she was being held and roc
ked, and she knew that it was a woman holding her, since she was nestled against a warm breast. Lifting her head, she was surprised to see the brown and silver strands of Mary Hayes’ hair brushing against her cheek. She started to pull away, horribly confused, but Coach Hayes held on tight, patting her back, and whispering soothing words right into her ear. "Easy now, Ryan. Just take it easy. They’re gone now … It’s just us."

  Wiping her eyes and taking in a very shaky breath, Ryan sat up. Her fingers were horribly cramped, and she realized that was because they were digging into her coach’s flesh. She released her frantic grip and stared at the woman in amazement. "What happened?" she asked dully.

  "You … you kinda lost it," the coach informed her, tenderly brushing her bangs from her eyes. "I think you had a panic attack."

  Ryan nodded slowly. "I’ve had them before … but not since I was a child."

  With a voice filled with compassion, Mary quietly asked, "Why did you have them then?"

  Looking at the coach, and seeing her genuine interest, Ryan said, "My mom was ill when I was little. She was in and out of the hospital during most of my formative years. She died when I was seven," she said. "It took me a long time to get over it, and I had quite a few panic attacks during the years after her death."

  "My mom died when I was in college," Mary said. "I’m still not over it."

  Ryan gave her a watery smile and said, "Thanks for helping me out, Coach. I think the jackals would have eaten me alive if you hadn’t been here."

  She just nodded and squeezed Ryan’s shoulder. "Don’t mention it. Now we have to decide what to do next."

  "Next?"

  "Yeah. I’ll pay for you to leave town as soon as we can get you on a plane, Ryan. You can go home, or you can leave for your vacation early. Whatever you want."

  Ryan considered for a few moments. "Can I have Jamie come here?"

  "Of course. I’m really sorry for singling you out, Ryan. That was a stupid way to try to make a point. Lynette told me why you wanted her to stay at practice the other day." She shook her head and said, "I’m very sorry for being so rigid about it. I’ll rescind the rule about bed checks at breakfast tomorrow."

  Nodding slightly, Ryan said, "I’m not able to make up my mind about anything right now. I’ll be able to think after I talk to Jamie."

  "No problem," the coach said. She helped Ryan to her feet and tucked an arm around her waist. "I’m going to have Shelly move you into a single room. I’m sure you’ll be on the phone for a long time, and you won’t want your roommate eavesdropping on you."

  "Thanks," Ryan said. "I appreciate everything that you’ve done, Coach." She looked down at the floor briefly, then met the older woman’s steady gaze. "I’m sorry I called you an asshole the other day. That was really uncalled for."

  "Don’t worry about that," Coach Hayes said. "It’s all forgotten."

  Ryan’s clear blue eyes shifted and she gazed at the coach for a moment, then her lower lip started to tremble. "Is it true?" she asked softly. "Did I … did I … kill that man?"

  "I don’t know," the coach said. "Let me go check with a reliable source."

  Shaking her head, Ryan said, "That’s okay. Jamie will know." She nodded again, then said, "She’ll know."

  By the time Ryan was settled in her new room, she was feeling slightly better. Lynette came by to check on her, and she brought two sleeping pills that the home team’s doctor had provided. "Thanks," Ryan said. "I might take them after I talk to Jamie."

  "Just take one, Ryan. He gave you two in case you need one tomorrow night, too. Promise you’ll call me if you need anything," Lynette said. She wrote her room number down in large letters and placed it right next to the phone. "Even if you just want to talk, please call, okay?"

  "I will," Ryan said. "I’m gonna use the phone, and I’ll probably run up a whopper of a bill, but I’ll pay for it myself."

  "Don’t worry about those little things," Lynette said. "Just try to feel better."

  Ryan knew that she had caused a scene, and she knew that her family would eventually hear about it. But being naïve in the ways of international gossip, it had not dawned on her that her family would know about the incident while it was still occurring. For the previous hour, while waiting to hear from the stricken woman, the combined resources of the Evans-O’Flaherty clan had been frantically trying to find a way to get Jamie to North Carolina.

  When Ryan dialed the phone, her father answered. "Yes?" he said curtly.

  "Da?"

  "Siobhan!" he cried. "Sweetheart! How are you?" He partially covered the receiver and shouted, "Jamie! It’s Siobhan!"

  "Daaaaa," she said slowly, "what’s going on?"

  "We all saw what happened," Martin said. "We’re worried sick about you."

  "Oh, crap," she said. "I’ll be fine, Da. Really. I just had a panic attack when they told me about … well … you know. Uhm … is it true?"

  "Yes," he said, sending her stomach into a mad spin. "It’s true that he’s dead, but you didn’t kill him, sweetheart, not really."

  "That’s pretty cryptic, Da …" she said, but he interrupted her.

  "I’ll let you talk to Jamie, love. She’s about to pry the phone from my hands."

  Ryan smiled softly at that, knowing that her father wasn’t exaggerating in the least.

  "Sweetheart, I’ve got my father working on getting me a flight down there. At this point, it looks like I’m gonna have to charter a private jet, but I’ll be there as soon as I possibly can."

  "Whoa … whoa! Just hold on a minute. Can we just talk for a second?"

  "Oh, honey, I’m sorry. It’s just … we’ve been absolutely frantic, and it’s hard for me to switch gears." She took in a breath and tried again. "How are you, baby? Are you feeling a little better?"

  "Yeah," Ryan said. "I really am."

  "Okay, now that that’s settled, let me get back on the phone with my father. I have to see that you’re better with my own eyes."

  "No, no, Jamie, please. I’ll be all right. I just … I just felt claustrophobic when that guy told me what had happened. It got too close in there, and I started to feel panicked. I’ll be fine."

  "Give me your number," Jamie said. "I’m going to go down to our room and call you back. I can hardly hear myself think up here."

  Ryan provided the requested information, and a few minutes later Jamie called back from a much quieter place. "That’s better," she said when she heard Ryan’s voice. "Now what do you know about what happened?"

  "Only that I killed a man," Ryan said, her voice strangely flat and emotionless.

  "I had a feeling that’s what you believed," Jamie said. "But nothing could be further from the truth, honey. Daddy made a few calls, and he got the whole story. Now, most of this will never be made public, but Daddy swears it’s the truth."

  Ryan sat up and stared at the phone, unable to imagine what her partner would say.

  "The guys’ names were Wendell and Elmore Delp," Jamie said.

  "Perfect names for psychopaths," Ryan muttered.

  "My thoughts exactly. Now, Wendell was a real piece of work. He was the one who wanted to rape you while he was strangling you with his bare hands," she said, revealing this detail to Ryan for the first time.

  "Fuck."

  "And he’s the one who wanted to kill Caitlin," Jamie said, just to give her partner a complete picture of their assailant’s evil nature.

  Ryan didn’t say a word, but Jamie could hear her breathing faster, and she knew her partner was beginning to understand just what these men were. "Wendell apparently raped women frequently, at least according to Elmore," Jamie said. "He was, by the way, HIV positive, and had been diagnosed with AIDS almost ten years ago. Apparently, his treatment had been failing, and he was starting to get sick again. He knew he didn’t have a lot of time left, and he decided that he was going to start taking whatever he wanted – consequences be damned.

  "His brother claims that he loved Lexuses, and he decided he was go
ing to take the next one he saw. That just happened to be yours," Jamie said.

  Ryan blew out a breath and said, "They sound like the lowest of the low, but I still fell like crap for killing one of them."

  "But you didn’t," Jamie said. "I told you the background just so you’d understand, honey. The bullet that you fired went into Elmore’s shoulder, then passed through Wendell’s left arm. It was no big deal. I think he got something like ten stitches to close the wound. Elmore’s wound was a little worse, but after a night in the hospital they were both doing well, and were sent to the county jail to await arraignment.

  "Apparently, Wendell developed a fever later that day. Elmore says the staff at the infirmary ignored Wendell, but there’s no record that he complained of a fever, and the medical staff claims that they didn’t know he was sick until he went into convulsions late that night. Obviously, they started to treat him then, but he didn’t respond. They finally sent him to UCSF, but by then it was too late. His immune system was so compromised, that the bacteria that had gotten into his body through his wound just overwhelmed him, and he died of the infection."

  "Wow," Ryan said quietly. "Are you sure that’s all true, Jamie?"

  "Well, some of the info comes from Elmore, and he probably twisted it to make it seem like this is all the jail’s fault, but Daddy claims the medical details are all true. He spoke with the chief of police to get the information. They don’t want the full story to come out because they’re afraid of being sued by the family, but the chief says it’s the truth."

  "Damn," Ryan muttered. "What a friggin’ chain of events."

  "It is," Jamie said. "But the bottom line is that he was dying anyway. The Bay water just helped him along."

  Ryan sighed heavily, and Jamie could just see her dark head shaking. "I played a part, too."

  "Yes, you did," Jamie said, desperately trying to think of a way to frame her belief. "The way I see it, Wendell is about 99 percent responsible for his own death, and the bacteria in the Bay is responsible for about a half of a percent. That leaves a big, fat one half of one percent that you can feel guilty about," she said. "But since I think you should have shot them both in the head, you know how I feel about that."