Double Play

Clay, knocking his hand away, and then pushes Clay back against the brick wall of the diner. Clay doubles over and grabs his sore ribs under his jacket.

  "I don't have time for this," Emma says through teary eyes. Then she grabs the door to the kitchen entrance.

  "You're not going anywhere," Wayne says, and pulls a revolver out of his coat pocket.

  "Christ, Wayne. What the hell are you doing?" Clay asks.

  "You knew I would follow you here, didn't you? You lured me here," Wayne says, looking at Clay, all the while keeping the gun pointed at Emma.

  "I suppose I did."

  "You trapped me," Wayne says. "How'd you know I was involved?"

  "Because you lied to me once—about why you wanted me to look for her. I just assumed you would lie to me about anything. But I couldn't exactly figure out your motive. I always assumed it was about Brett's money, but I wasn't sure how to get a clear answer. I couldn't trust that she would tell me," Clay says, calmly nodding to Emma. "But I made a bet that if I got you two together, it would come out one way or the other."

  "You think you're so smart," Wayne says, turning the gun toward Clay's face.

  Emma grabs the doorknob to the kitchen entrance and tries to open the door. Wayne swings the gun toward her. Clay lunges at the gun as Wayne fires a shot.

  Emma screams.

  Clay looks at Wayne, and then grabs the left side of his chest.

  Wayne, wide-eyed, stares at Clay.

  Clay takes a couple steps to the other side of the alley. His right hand is under his jacket, grabbing the bloody shirt beneath. He falls into a pile of trash bags piled on the ground.

  "God, what did I do?" Wayne asks, kneeling by Clay.

  "Hate to be the one to tell you, but you shot me," Clay says, half-smiling through clenched teeth.

  "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

  "Tell her to stop staring and go get some help," Clay says to Wayne.

  "Go get help," Wayne says to Emma.

  Emma runs back inside the diner.

  "Clay, honestly, I never meant to—"

  "No good ever comes from having a gun."

  "What can I do?"

  "Call Maggie. Tell her that Jack… Tell her…" Clay stops, pulls as deep a breath as he can through his teeth. His vision is going blurry, and he starts to close his eyes.

  "Clay! What do you want me to tell Maggie?"

  Clay opens his eyes for a second, looks at Wayne.

  "Tell her I'm done with baseball, and I've been thinking that her and I…" he says, and winces, takes another breath. "Tell her I was thinking about her."

  Clay slowly opens his eyes, squints at the brightness from the overhead lights in the room. He can immediately tell from the smell of the place that he's in a hospital. It takes him a second to remember what happened, but the pain in his chest quickly jogs his memory.

  "Clay?"

  He feels a hand collapse over his own. He turns to look through weary, tired eyes, and sees Maggie sitting beside him.

  "How do you feel?"

  "Like I was shot in the chest."

  "You were shot in the chest," Maggie says, deadpan.

  "Yeah, I know. I was joking."

  "This was no joke, Clay. You had me scared to death."

  "Just imagine how I felt," he says as he goes to sit up, but immediately feels a wave of pain shoot up his torso.

  "You shouldn't try to move."

  "Right," Clay says, wincing. "I won't make that mistake again."

  "Do you need anything?"

  "Could you get me some water?"

  Maggie grabs a cup from his bedside table, and fills it from a pitcher sitting beside it. She hands it to him.

  "What's the damage?" he asks, trying to ignore the pain he feels as he lifts his arm to grab the cup of water from her. He nurses a couple sips of the stuff before taking a couple bigger drinks. It's the best damn water he's ever tasted. So cool. So wet.

  "The bullet missed your heart, obviously, or you wouldn't be here. But they had to operate to get the bullet out and repair a punctured lung. It was touch and go for awhile there. I thought I was going to lose you," she says, trying to keep her emotions in check.

  "How long have I been out?"

  "They brought you in yesterday morning."

  "When can I go?"

  "No one's even talking about that yet."

  "Well, let's start that talk right about now."

  "You can't even sit up, let alone get up and walk out of here."

  "I have just one more loose end to tie up. I have to talk to Sam."

  "Sam's been in and out of here since yesterday."

  "He has?"

  "Yeah, he's worried," Maggie says. "Besides, he's on the case now."

  "I need to get a message to him."

  "But you need to rest."

  "I know, but—"

  "They've got this, Clay. Sam's working the case with the Salinas Police Department. They're involved now because of the shooting."

  "So, they arrested Wayne?"

  "Why don't you get some rest?"

  "I'll rest better if I know what's happening."

  "Yes, they arrested Wayne, and he's done nothing but talk since then."

  "And Emma?"

  "Yes, Emma's been questioned too."

  "They need to get Kevin to come home from Los Angeles."

  "What for?"

  "Can you get me a piece of paper and something to write with? I need you to give Sam a message for me."

  Maggie rummages around the drawers at his bedside until she finds a pen and a small pad of paper. Clay grabs them, tries to get in a position to write, but stops. He has no strength, and the pain is too great."

  "Could you take a note for me?" he asks Maggie, holding out the pen and paper to her.

  "Sure," she says.

  "You ready?"

  "Fire away."

  "Ramsey is Jack. Jack is Ramsey. Find Kevin Dunham. He'll identify Jack as Ramsey. Everything else will fall in place."

  "What's that mean, Ramsey is Jack?"

  "Exactly what it sounds like it means. They're the same person. Jack has been hiding in plain sight all these years. Nobody ever caught on because he was so good at never showing himself as Ramsey. His paranoia had paid off for him all those years, and all it took was falling for Crystal Lake to make him get sloppy. Once he started showing himself as Ramsey at those Fremont games with Brett and Kevin, he opened himself up to be caught."

  "And you caught him."

  "We'll see. He's not caught yet."

  "How did you figure it out?"

  "I knew Ramsey was involved in the accident after talking to Kevin, but I still didn't know to what extent he was pulling the strings. I couldn't quite suss out who was more to blame, Emma or Ramsey?

  "But, as I talked to Emma, I started to realize that it didn't matter who was more responsible. Emma was going to take the hit. It wouldn't be Ramsey. He was too insulated. He had played his cards so brilliantly close to the vest that no one would ever get to him.

  "Still, I was hung up on who had tipped him off on the fact that I was investigating the case. At first, I was sure it was Kevin, but, after I talked to him, I knew he hadn't contacted anybody. Then, I thought it was Sam."

  "Right. That's what you said to me. You said that you thought the police were involved somehow."

  "Yeah, but I was grasping at straws at that point. I was getting desperate."

  "Then who tipped Ramsey off?"

  "I did."

  "What?"

  "When Emma told me that Ramsey had been communicating to her by leaving her little notes around town, it started coming together. That's what Jack does. Jack leaves little notes like that. I've never known anyone else to do that. And, then, I realized that I had called Jack the night before I went to San Francisco for the meeting, and that's when the trouble started."

  "Unbelievable."

  "Plus, I knew I had been baited into going to Crystal's parents' house. But by who? It was
Jack. He's the one who gave me her name. He was always one step ahead of me. He knew what I was going to do before I did. And he thought he had me when I went to Crystal's parents' house, and I thought I was had, too. But once Sam called Ramsey's boys off me, they backed off and gave me some space. They just gave me too much space for their own good."

  "When did you figure all this out?"

  "I think it finally came to me while I was lying in a pile of trash with a hole in my chest."

  "You were still thinking about the case after you were shot?"

  "It's my cross to bear."

  "So, all that time that you worked for Jack, you were working for Ramsey."

  "That's what it looks like," Clay says, and tries to reach across his body for the cup of water, but winces again.

  "Oh, they found a couple of cracked ribs on the right side when they x-rayed you."

  "The fun never ends."

  "Do you want me to try and get this to Sam now?"

  "Just a second. It can wait another minute," he says, and takes a breath. "When I get out of here, we should move east, live a nice, quiet New England life, free from gamblers and gun-toting lawyers. What do you say?"

  "I'd say your morphine is doing the trick."

  "No, I mean it, Maggie. I know we've always hesitated to commit to anything, but—"

  "No, it was you who always hesitated to commit to anything."

  "You're right. It's always been me."

  "You've always given too much credence to what you thought my dad wanted."

  "No, you don't understand. It wasn't just that your dad didn't want you to be with a ballplayer. It was a class thing. Your dad liked me, I know that, but he didn't want you to be with a bum, the kind of bum who would go and get himself shot. He was only protecting you."

  "Clay—"

  "You know it's true," he says. "And I can't say I blame him. What do I have to offer you?"

  "I'm selling the team."

  "What?"

  "I'm selling the team. This is the last year I'll own the Braves."

  "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I didn't want you to try and talk me out of