“
RYAN
?”
The voice in the night was like music to Ryan’s ears.
Babes was alive.
Ryan hurried in the general direction of the voice, sidestepping gravestones along the way, praying to God that Babes wasn’t down from a gunshot and bleeding onto the grass.
“I can’t find you,” said Ryan, searching frantically in the darkness. “Where are you?”
“Forty-one degrees, forty-four minutes north; seventy-one degrees, twenty-six minutes west.”
Ryan smiled. Only a healthy and unharmed Babes could have reached into his memory bank of Rhode Island trivia and pulled out the exact latitude and longitude for north Providence.
Ryan leaped over a gravestone and found Babes hiding behind a tall monument. He was huddled into a ball, pulling his knees tightly up to his chest.
“Are you hurt?” said Ryan.
“Where’s your shirt?” said Babes.
Babes’s question confirmed that he was just fine. Ryan went to him and hugged him tightly. Babes bristled. Hugs had never been Babes’s thing, not even with Chelsea, but at the moment, Ryan couldn’t help himself. He was that glad to see him.
There was a commotion in the woods. Flashlights swirled, and the approaching footsteps sounded like a herd of charging buffalo.
Babes cowered. “What’s that?”
“It’s okay,” said Ryan. “It’s the police.”
“No, no! No cherry Kool-Aid!”
Ryan had no idea what Babes was talking about. He tried to hold him, but Babes’s fears had taken over. His arms were flailing, his feet were kicking, and Babes was able to wriggle free. He sprang from his hiding place and ran off wildly, screaming in a voice that pierced the night.
“No cherry Kool-Aid!”
“Police, freeze!”
“Don’t shoot!” Ryan shouted.
The beam of a high-powered flashlight had caught up with Babes, adding to his confusion and anger. He turned and ran straight toward the police, still screaming. “Freeze!” another cop shouted, his weapon drawn. Babes kept charging toward the police, yelling at the top of his voice, a total outpouring of emotion more than the verbalization of any specific thought.
“Babes, stop!” shouted Emma.
Maybe it was coincidence. Maybe it was the hand of God. Or maybe it was just the sound of a woman’s voice in the darkness.
Whatever it was, Babes stopped.
Two officers grabbed Babes and ordered him onto his belly. Babes was sobbing, facedown on the wet grass, when Ryan caught up with them.
“Please, leave him alone,” said Ryan. “The shooter’s dead. You need to help Emma Carlisle. She’s been hit.”
Ryan was pointing. The officer aimed his flashlight and found Emma.
The old cemetery grounds were too wooded and too crowded with gravestones for emergency vehicles to pass, but a team of paramedics was rushing up the gravel pathway on foot. The officer called out to the paramedics and led them to Emma. The area around the Dawes family crypt was suddenly aglow with emergency lighting. Ryan stayed a moment longer with Babes, watching from a distance as the paramedics tended to Emma and her wound.
“Is she going to be okay?” asked Babes.
The paramedics were working quickly, already infusing her.
“I think so,” said Ryan.
The paramedics lifted Emma onto a gurney, but she stopped them before they could whisk her away. Ryan noticed her hand moving. She was gesturing—calling him over.
“Wait right here,” he told Babes.
Ryan approached quickly. A paramedic stepped aside so that Emma could speak to him.
“Closer,” Emma said softly.
Ryan walked up close to the rail on the gurney, and she curled her index finger to call him closer still. He leaned over. She reached up, cupped the back of his neck with her hand, and pulled his face toward hers. For a moment, Ryan thought she was going to kiss him, but she pulled his ear to her lips.
“Nice abs,” she whispered.
Ryan smiled. Emma was going to be okay. Just like Babes. They would all be okay.
IT WASN’T OPENING DAY FOR MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL. IT WASN’T
even the first home game of the season for the Boston Red Sox. But it was the biggest first in the career of Ryan James. He was wearing one of the most classic and recognizable uniforms in all of professional sports—and he was playing third base at Fenway Park.
Ryan could scarcely believe he was standing on such hallowed ground.
For almost a century, virtually every boy in America has dreamed of playing at Fenway—some as the Beantown hero, others as the clutch hitter for an archrival who would ruin another Boston “summah.” Fenway was a battle-tested constant in a high-tech world of disposable everything. It was a place where the perfect symmetry that defined every ball game—four bases exactly ninety feet apart—played out amid truly unique charm. Seats intimately close to the manicured field of Kentucky bluegrass. A thirty-seven-foot-high Green Monster of a wall in left field with its manually operated scoreboard. The towering lighted
CITGO
sign was a block away but was as much a part of the stadium as home plate. Diehard fans, thick Boston accents, Fenway franks, cold beer, and on and on. The park was so beloved that even the foul poles had names (Fisk in left field, Pesky in right). Sure, its thirty-six thousand seats were cramped; “rubbing elbows” was no figurative expression at Fenway. Lines at the bathrooms had been known to force beer-chugging fans to run across the street to use the facilities at neighboring restaurants, and the concession stands probably could have used a makeover. But this familiar old shoe of a ballpark wasn’t built for comfort. It was built for New Englanders.
And for boys from Alpine, Texas, with a dream.
Ryan felt right at home—even if he was 0 for 3 at the plate, still looking for his first major-league hit.
“Next batter for the Red Sox,” said the stadium announcer, “number eleven, the third baseman, Ryan James.”
Virtually every Sox game was a sellout, and thousands of fans cheered as Ryan stepped out of the on-deck circle and approached the batter’s box. Of course, one voice stood out.
“Let’s go,
baaaabe.
”
Babes had a choice seat right behind home plate, which meant that he was actually closer to the batter than the pitcher was. Only at Fenway.
“Come on, Daddy!”
The score was tied, and the game had gone into extra innings. Ainsley was out way past her bedtime, but no kindergartner had ever had a better excuse for it. Ryan glanced at his little girl and gave her a wink. She waved.
As did Emma. She and Ryan had been dating since Christmas, but only recently had Ryan taken the big step of making Emma part of his daughter’s life. She and Ainsley were sitting together, right next to Babes.
On a cool spring night, beneath the hot white lights at Fenway, the events of last September seemed like another lifetime to Ryan. For a while, the media in Boston and Rhode Island were all over the story, stoking the fires for the next big “trial of the century,” the prosecution of PawSox owner and Beacon Hill blue blood, Connie Garrisen. It ended with a quick plea bargain, triggered no doubt by the discovery of Doug Wells’s body. A tourist in Providence spotted it in the murky waters of the Blackstone when workers ignited the huge cedar-filled urns for the popular river fires. Garrisen was sentenced to six months probation for leaving the scene of Chelsea’s accident; twelve years in prison for hiring a hit man to murder Yaz, the homeless blackmailer; and another twenty in connection with Doug Wells’s execution-style killing. The press decried the deal as too lenient, but Ryan was okay with it, knowing that it was better than putting Babes through a trial as a witness. Brandon Lomax was happy with it, too. With the senatorial election looming, he just wanted all the talk of Connie Garrisen to go away, even if his cooperation in nabbing Garrisen was seen as heroic. In the end, however, his opponent was able to exploit the truth about Lomax’s gambling debts and alcoholism, which came out during the Garrisen saga. Some said it was another sad chapter in the state’s corrupt political history. By “Roe Dyelin” standards, it was barely a footnote.
“Another rookie, another strikeout,” the catcher said.
Ryan ignored him and stepped into the batter’s box.
Ryan was by no means the megastar his friend Ivan had become, but no one had worked harder to make the team. The training was intense, but it was amazing what a difference a good night’s sleep could make in the life of an athlete. A little luck didn’t hurt either. Three weeks into the season, the Sox’s starting third baseman broke his wrist in a motorcycle accident. Ryan was called up from Pawtucket. He was supposed to be a backup infielder, but the manager liked the way he swung the bat against left-handed pitchers. Tonight, facing a southpaw, he made Ryan a starter.
“Stee
-rike!” shouted the umpire.
It was a good pitch, but it wasn’t the one Ryan wanted.
The pitcher stepped off the rubber and went to the rosin bag at the back of the mound. Ryan stepped out of the box and tapped the dirt from his cleats with his bat. Thirty-some-thousand spectators watched and waited.
The pitcher was in his stance. Ryan assumed the ready position—elbow up, knees slightly bent, bat cocked.
The pitcher went to his windup and hurled a fastball—straight at Ryan’s head.
Ryan dived to the ground. The true test of how fast the human body can move is when a rock-hard, nine-inch sphere—cork, rubber, and 369 yards of tightly wound yarn covered with cowhide—is rocketing toward your skull at ninety-eight miles per hour. It missed him. But it hit his bat.
“Strike two,” said the umpire.
The crowd booed. The Sox’s third-base coach shouted a few choice words at the pitcher that Ryan hoped Ainsley didn’t hear.
Ryan pushed himself up from the dirt and dusted himself off. The pitcher turned his back to home plate and gazed out toward centerfield. Ryan wondered if he was chuckling to himself.
Baseball isn’t one of those sports, such as football, where anger is an asset, an emotional tool that takes a player to a higher level. Sometimes, however, it does help, and nothing made Ryan madder than a head-hunting pitcher.
“Come on,
baaaabe.
”
Ryan’s adrenaline was flowing, his heart thumping. He gripped his bat, then eased off. Nice and comfortable, not too tight.
The pitcher reared back for his windup. Ryan was guessing curveball—something off-speed to screw up his timing after a blazing fastball that had nearly killed him. He’d guessed right, and the next few moments unfolded like a slow-motion highlights film.
The pitch.
The swing.
The crack of the fat barrel of the maple bat colliding with the ball, the air seemingly sucked from the stadium as the crowd rose to watch a deep fly ball to left field—a ball that just seemed to keep going up and up, a towering blast that showed no sign of ever coming down. It soared over the Green Monster between the Fisk foul pole and the giant Coca-Cola bottle. It sailed over the tiered seating atop the monster, the most expensive seats in Fenway.
Ryan knew it was gone before he stepped out of the batter’s box. He rounded the bases with a slugger’s trot. The home crowd was jumping up and down at their seats, screaming wildly. The Red Sox dugout cleared, and the entire team was a pulsating mob waiting for him at home plate, ready to maul him after his game-winning blast.
It was Ryan’s first home run at Fenway.
And it was all the way
out
of Fenway.
Ainsley was asleep when Ryan carried her into her room and laid her on the bed. He peeled back the fluffy red comforter with the Red Sox logo, tucked her in gently between the sheets, and kissed her good night.
The excitement was still coursing through his veins. A walk-off home run in his first game as a Red Sox player put Ryan into a small club. Babes, of course, was immediately able to tell him how small: “One. You’re it, Ryan!” Ryan would listen to
Jock in the Morning
—his friend Jock was again doing the show alone—to see if Babes was right. Ivan had said some equally nice words about him to the team in the clubhouse. The sheer excitement from Ainsley and Emma was the icing on the cake. It had been a perfect night, except for one thing.
No one had found the ball.
Ryan could only surmise that when it sailed out of the park and into the city street, it had rolled into a storm sewer.
“Daddy?”
The sound of her little voice made him smile. He turned to face her in the darkness. “I thought you were asleep.”
“Almost. But I was thinking.”
“About what?” he said.
She propped herself up on an elbow. “Will anyone ever find your home-run ball?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Are you and Uncle Ivan going to look for it?”
“Probably not,” he said. “It’s not really important. We’ll always remember it. That’s all that matters.”
She laid back into her pillow. “I guess that’s right.”
He went to her and kissed her forehead. “I love you. Now go to sleep.”
“Love you, too.”
He was standing at the door and about to close it when he heard that sweet voice again.
“Daddy?”
He stopped. “What?”
“Do you know what I think?”
“Tell me, honey.”
“I think Mommy caught it.”
Her words touched Ryan in a way that they couldn’t have eight months earlier. He smiled at Ainsley’s thought. “Maybe so, sweetheart. Maybe so.”
SOME STORIES PERCOLATE IN A WRITER’S MIND FOR YEARS BEFORE PEN
ever meets paper. For me,
Intent to Kill
is one of those stories. I mention this up front because I can’t possibly remember everyone who helped me with it over a period of so many years. I apologize to all you unsung heroes.
At the top of my list of those to thank is my father, James V. Grippando, who gave me a lifelong love of baseball, which I now share with my own children. Sorry, Dad, for not making it about the Chicago Cubs.
Also high on my list is Eleanor Rayner. If you check the acknowledgments in my previous novels, you will see Eleanor’s name. Over the last fifteen years, Eleanor read each one of my manuscripts—even the first one, which was never published. She was a tough critic, and when she was finished reading, it always made me feel good to see her shuffle across the room with the dog-eared manuscript in hand and that little smile on her face. “You did it again,” she’d tell me, “this one was even better than the last one.”
Intent to Kill
will stand as her last. She will be missed terribly.
As you might imagine, the research for this novel was great fun—much of it done simply by observing, drinking beer, and root-root-rooting for the home team. Several friends deserve special mention. Rob Murphy helped me experience (vicariously) a ballplayer’s journey from minor-league to major-league baseball and, ultimately, to Fenway Park. I received especially gracious treatment from folks in Austin, including Joe R. Alba, special-services coordinator with the Office of the President, who gave me a first-class tour of the University of Texas at Austin; Mark Franklin, Longhorn team manager, who provided an insider’s look at University of Texas baseball (and who scored me a signed baseball from Augie Garrido, which I promise
never
to sell on eBay); and DeLaine Ward, from the Austin Bar Association, who helped to arrange all of this fun (with the exception of the body shot at some bar on Sixth Street). Gordon Van Alstyne was extremely patient and did his best to help me understand everything from silencers to body armor. Thanks also to my new editor, Sally Kim, for stepping in after the manuscript was written and proving that a good book can always be made better.
As always, any mistakes are mine.
Tom Bales lent his name and his Hawaiian shirts to a character in
Intent to Kill
. His generosity at a character auction will benefit the children at St. Thomas Episcopal Parish School in Coral Gables, Florida. Maybe one (or more) of them will end up at MIT, too.
Finally, I want to thank my wife, Tiffany. There is nothing sexier than a mother of three who has never looked better in her life.