Play Dead

by Harlan Coben

  Today, the city of Boston was dedicating a bronze statue to David to be placed in Faneuil Hall, near Clip Arnstein's own likeness. Clip was the Celtics' seventy-year-old president, a man who David had both loved and respected. He, along with the mayor of Boston, Senator Ted Kennedy (a man David had never cared much for), Earl, and Timmy Daniels, another Celtics teammate, were going to eulogize her husband.

  The work on the statue had been started months ago but for a whole different purpose. Originally, it was to be placed in a small playground at a school for handicapped children in honor of David's work. Now, it had been speedily completed and moved to Faneuil Hall to stand in memory of his premature death. Laura sighed. She could not help but think that David would have preferred to keep the statue in the small playground.

  After the dedication, there would be a private burial. Burial. Funeral. Laura shook her head as Serita led her into the bathroom. She heard Serita turn on the water.

  'Go on. Get in there.'

  Laura stepped into the shower, the water cascading over her naked body.

  Don't make me go to some service, Serita. There's no reason really. You see, David is not dead. It's all a lie. David is just fine. I know he is. He promised he would never leave me. He promised that we would be together forever. And David never broke a promise. You know that. So you see, he can't be dead. He can't be dead. He can't be . . .

  Her body slowly slid down the shower's tile wall until she lay huddled in the corner of the stall. Then she placed her hands over her face and cried.

  The surgeon looked at the clock on the far wall.

  4:45 a.m.

  He took a deep breath and continued stitching. A few minutes later, the wounds were all closed.

  Six hours of surgery.

  The surgeon walked out of the makeshift surgery room, untied his mask and let it fall onto his chest. He approached his friend and business associate. The surgeon noticed that his friend was much more nervous this time than usual.

  But that was understandable.

  'How did it go?' the man asked the surgeon.

  'No complications.'

  The man seemed very relieved. 'I owe you one, Hank.' 'Wait until you get my bill.'

  The man chuckled nervously at the joke. 'What now?'

  'The usual. Don't let him do anything for at least two weeks. I'll check in on him then.'

  'Okay.'

  'I'll leave a nurse with him.'

  'But -- '

  'She's done this type of thing before. She can be trusted.'

  'This is a little different, don't you think?'

  The surgeon had to agree. This was most definitely different. 'I assure you she can be trusted. She's been with me for years. Besides, he has to have a nurse.'

  The man thought for a moment. 'I guess you're right. Is there anything else?'

  A million questions swirled through the surgeon's head but he had been in this business long enough to know that the answers to such questions could be dangerous. Even fatal.

  He shook his head. 'I'll see you in two weeks.'

  Chapter 4

  Judy Simmons, Laura's aunt, was packing for the trip to Boston when the phone rang.

  David is dead, Judy. Pretend all you want but you're to blame . . .

  She closed her eyes, struggling to shove the cruel voice away, but the accusations continued to echo across her mind.

  You could have stopped it, Judy, but now it's too late. David is dead and it's your fault . . .

  She refused to listen anymore. Judy had recently turned forty-nine, lived alone, had always lived alone, had never wanted to live alone. It wasn't her fault. It was just that when it came to men she had the luck of Wiley Coyote chasing the Road Runner. To be more precise, her relationships with the opposite sex ended up being disasters of Hindenberg-like proportions. Though she wasn't any great beauty like her sister Mary, she was attractive enough by most standards. Her face was pretty, if somewhat plain, and she had a very nice figure. Her most noticeable feature was her auburn hair, which she wore at shoulder length. Men had always liked her. The problem was that for some reason she always attracted the wrong kind of men.

  That isn't exactly true. I almost had the best. Twice.

  But that was a long time ago. Best forgotten. Besides, she was happy enough. She was an English professor at Colgate College and while the winters got cold, she liked the small community lifestyle. She was content, satisfied . . .

  Bored.

  Maybe. But a little boredom was not always such a bad thing. Right now, she hoped for boredom, begged for it. She wanted no new surprises.

  Her poor beautiful niece. Such an awful thing to have happen to Laura. But perhaps it was divine intervention, Judy thought, though it was strange for a woman who was in no way religious, for a woman who had always despised those 'comforting' words that glossed over tragedy as 'God's will,' to have such thoughts.

  But maybe that's what it was. God's will. Please let that be what it was. David's death had to be God's will. Or some bizarre, tragic coincidence. Or . . .

  The alternative was too horrifying to even consider. She placed her heavy sweater in the Samsonite as the phone rang again. Her hand reached for the receiver.

  'Hello?'

  'Judy?'

  It was her sister. 'Hello, Mary. How are you feeling?'

  Tears were her answer. 'Awful,' Mary said. 'Laura still won't talk to me. She hates me, Judy. I don't know what to do.'

  'Give her some time.'

  'She'll always hate me. I know it.'

  'Laura is in a lot of pain right now.'

  'I know that,' Mary snapped. 'Don't you think I know that? I'm her mother, for chrissake. She needs me.'

  'Of course she does.'

  'Judy?'

  'Yes?'

  There was a pause. 'I didn't tell you everything.'

  'What do you mean?'

  More weeping came through the telephone line. 'I should have called you earlier. I wanted to. Really. But I know you would have tried to talk me out of it.'

  Judy's heart lurched. 'Mary, what happened? You didn't . . .'

  Still more tears. 'What would you have done? Don't you see I didn't have any choice? She's my daughter. I couldn't just sit back. And now . . . Oh God, I never wanted this to happen.'

  Judy's fingers nervously twisted the telephone cord. Her mind jerked back. How long? How many people must pay before it all ends? And why must the innocent have to suffer too? Why must they pay for the sins of others?

  Judy fought to keep her voice calm. 'Just tell me what happened.'

  Laura's dark sunglasses helped cut down on the warm, summer glare, but that was not the reason she wore them. They served the larger purpose of hiding her puffy eyelids from both the world and cameras that surrounded her. She sat on the dais, T.C. on her right, Serita on her left. Earl was on the other side of Serita. The photographers were pushing to get closer to the pale widow, their cameras clicking at warp speeds. Laura noticed the way T.C. glared at them, his fists clenched in his lap.

  They were at Faneuil Hall, one of the most popular leisure spots in Boston. It should have been called Food Hall. Sure, Faneuil Hall had a good variety of stores. There were clothing boutiques, bookstores, even a Sharper Image. But make no mistake: Faneuil Hall was about food, tremendous amounts of food, an abundance of food. The assortment was endless. There was an Indian food stand next to a Chinese, next to an Italian, next to a Greek, next to a Mexican, next to a Japanese, next to a Lebanese, next to . . . name a country and you probably named a restaurant. It was the United Nations of eating.

  If you were for some odd reason hungry for something more, you could wash down your foreign feast at a tropical fruit bar or an ice-cream parlor or a frozen-yogurt stand or a cookie bakery or a candy shop. David had once remarked that you could put on weight just walking through it.

  There was also inadequate seating in the market (next to none, actually) which helped make the experience all the more fun. Laura recalled
how David used to love to watch some poor guy forced to stand, trying to balance a souvlaki in one hand, napkins in the other, a strawberry daiquiri under one elbow, a taco under the other, and lord knows what between the knees.

  David used to love . . .

  She could not believe she was talking about David when she used that phrase.

  Used to . . .

  Faneuil Hall attracted many people, but never had Laura seen it this crowded. From her seat on the podium, Laura looked down at thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of faces, a sea of people flowing into the distant horizon, a blanket of humanity thrown over the entire area.

  Today the restaurants, the bars, the shops, the parlors were all closed and locked. Even the Boston Garden stood sadly in the distance, the weathered building watching over the proceedings like a grieving father over the funeral of a beloved son. Boston's colonial brick buildings and modern glass skyscrapers grieved with heads lowered. It was as if the whole city -- the people, the buildings, the streets, the monuments -- had stopped momentarily to mourn the death of David Baskin.

  From behind her glasses, Laura's eyes darted left and right: David's friends, his fans, his teammates, Faneuil Hall, the tired yellow and blue sign reading BOSTON GARDEN. It was all too much for Laura, a full-fledged assault on her senses. Her head swam. Her strength ebbed from her body. She could barely make out the eloquent words that were being spoken. Only a sprinkling of the sad passages came through the filter her mind had created. She guessed the filter was a defense mechanism saving her from a complete breakdown, but she really didn't possess the energy to think it through.

  'David was fiercely loyal. If a friend had a problem, it was David's problem. I remember a time when . . .'

  She turned toward T.C. She had not seen him since he had dropped her off at Serita's, but he looked like he had not slept or shaved since his arrival in Australia almost a week ago. He stared back at her with concern in his bloodshot eyes. She smiled at him as if to say she was all right and turned the other way.

  'He was one of the few people I ever knew who did not have to put you down in order to bring himself up. If you congratulated him on a good game, he would talk about the great play of his teammates. If you mentioned his hard work with the handicapped, he would talk about their bravery. But with David, this was no false modesty . . .'

  The seat next to Serita was empty now as Timmy Daniels finished speaking and Earl took the podium. She tried hard to tune into Earl's words. The ones she caught were beautiful, moving, straight from the pain in his soul. She noticed that Earl was tearing, his voice choked, his giant seven-foot frame heaving, and she remembered that David had once told her that Earl was the most emotional guy he knew.

  But knowing their past, who would ever have imagined that Earl and David would end up being close friends?

  Laura did not know anything about basketball back in the days when David had first encountered Earl on the basketball court, but she knew that it had been a shock to everyone when they became best friends -- everyone, that is, save Clip Arnstein, who had arranged it all.

  David and Earl had always been bitter rivals, starting from their high-school days in Michigan. Newspapers had fueled the rivalry by constantly analyzing the two, theorizing on who was the better college prospect. The media moved out in force for their match-ups, notably the three times they had met in the state championships. Earl had gotten the better of David in those games, his team winning two of the three contests.

  Heading into college, both players were the nation's top recruits. David ended up at the University of Michigan. Earl enrolled at Notre Dame. The rivalry became even more intense. Basketball fans debated the merits of both players, claiming their favorite of the two was the better. The media continued to compare the white player who stood six-five with the black seven-footer. All the talk in college basketball rotated around the two superstars.

  And the two warriors did not disappoint. The University of Michigan and Notre Dame met in NCAA Final Four competition twice during those years. When they were just freshmen, David was forced to miss the big match-up with a freak broken ankle that occurred the night before the game. But luckily for every basketball fan around the country, their college careers culminated three years later when David met Earl head-on in the championship game.

  It was easily the most eagerly anticipated game in the history of college basketball and became the talk of the sports world. Every sports magazine devoted major features on what was being billed the college competition of the decade. The cover of Sports Illustrated featured a photograph of David and Earl eyeballing and sneering at one another. The caption read: WHO'S HUNGRIER FOR THE NCAA CHAMPIONSHIP?

  And the game was worth the build-up.

  From the opening tap, it was a contest of great genius, both teams moving with the precision of chess masters. But it was the ending that will forever adorn the history books. With twenty seconds left to play, Earl's Notre Dame was up 87-86. David drove toward the basket and hit an off-balance jumpshot to put the University of Michigan up by one point 88-87.

  The clock read seventeen seconds.

  Notre Dame called their last time out. The coach drew up a play to go to Earl, who was having a brilliant game. Earl had already tossed in thirty-four points. And all he needed was to get his team two more and they would possess college basketball's most coveted prize.

  It was a simple play: give Earl the ball on the low post a few feet from the basket. Then just clear out and let him do his thing.

  Notre Dame inbounded the ball. They passed around the perimeter, trying like hell to work the ball inside to Earl. But he was being covered closely.

  Eight seconds remained.

  Notre Dame's point guard finally spotted an opening. He faked left and passed the ball inside. Earl caught it.

  Three seconds.

  Earl faked, turned, spotted a clearing, took one dribble, prepared to dunk the ball for the easy winning basket . . . and the ball was gone.

  Earl quickly spun as the buzzer ended the game. David held the ball. He had stolen it from the big center, preserving the victory for his University of Michigan.

  Earl had been devastated. The press could not get enough of the story. They claimed that there was trouble between the two superstars, that their rivalry had taken on nasty overtones, that they genuinely did not like each other. In truth, David and Earl barely knew one another off a basketball court.

  Speculation about their dislike of one another began to increase when the media began to concentrate on which player was going to be the first pick in the pro basketball draft. Again, fans broke down into David and Earl camps.

  That was when Clip Arnstein, a short, bald senior citizen who looked like he should be working for a deli rather than a pro basketball team, made the deal.

  It had cost him. Many questioned the risk of trading three veteran players for two rookie draft picks, but Clip had been making successful deals since the late 1940s and was not about to let the skeptics start bothering him now.

  The morning before the draft, the Celtics announced that they had secured the rights to the first two picks in the college draft. When the NBA Commissioner called for the Celtics' senior president to select the first player, Clip Arnstein calmly stood, lit a cigar, reached into his pocket and yelled over to Earl Roberts, 'Call it. Heads or tails.'

  'Excuse me, Mr Arnstein?' Earl replied.

  'I said call it. Heads or tails.'

  Earl shrugged. 'Heads.'

  Clip flipped the coin. 'Heads it is. You're the first pick in the draft. Baskin, you're the second.'

  The crowd was stunned. Suddenly the long-time rivals were teammates.

  Earl was finishing his eulogy now. He concluded by looking over at Laura, smiling, and stating simply, 'I love you, David, I always will.'

  He turned the podium over to an ashen-faced Clip Arnstein. A more skeptical person would claim that Clip had lost his most valuable financial commodity and that was the reason for his d
evastation. But Laura had seen David and Clip together too many times to believe such nonsense.

  She watched now as Clip walked over to the roped-off area where his own bronze image sat on a bench, the smile on his bronze face contrasting with the grimace of pain on his real one. He pulled away the sheet next to his likeness and revealed the new bronze statue. Laura and the entire audience gasped. Somehow, the artist had captured David perfectly, his crooked smile, his soaring spirit . . .

  Laura wished she was dead, wished she could feel something other than the pain of losing David.

  Please, I just don't want to go on. I just want to be with my David, my beautiful David. Please don't be dead. Don't let my David be dead . . .

  Mercifully, the ceremony ended. The crowd slowly drifted off, drifted toward cars that would take them back to the safety of their homes. Laura sat in a murky haze as people walked up to her.

  Voices. So many voices.

  'I'm so sorry . . .' 'A real tragedy . . .' 'What a waste . . .' 'It's always the good . . .' 'Why him? . . .' 'So sad . . .' Laura just nodded tiredly, their words meshing together in a meaningless wave of sound. Then something was said that truly jarred her.

  'I'm David's brother Stan.'

  Somehow, Laura got through the funeral.

  Somehow, the endless hours passed, the grim words were spoken, the casket buried in the earth. Somehow, Laura managed to numb her brain enough so that reality could not seep through her haze. If not -- if she had truly understood what was going on -- she would surely have started screaming, screaming until both her mind and her vocal chords snapped.

  Her father helped her out of the car and gently led her into his house. A half-dozen other cars filled the circular driveway while down the street, a roadblock had been set up to keep the press away, but Laura could still hear their zoom-lens cameras snapping away, the constant clacking like buzzing insects in her ears. She felt her knees buckle again, but her father was there to prevent her from crumbling to the ground. He gripped her arm tighter and half carried her into the living room.

  Being a private gathering, only those closest to David were in attendance. Laura could see David's teammates, his coaches, Clip, Serita, Gloria, Judy, her father and of course, the surprise show, Stan Baskin. Odd that in this group the only person Laura had never met was David's only living relative. In fact, David had mentioned Stan once, maybe twice, in all the time she had known him. She knew that they had not gotten along, but as of today whatever it was that had separated the brothers was in the past. Stan was family and he was here to mourn the death of his brother. In death, much is forgiven and forgotten, and that at least was a good thing.