Play Dead

by Harlan Coben

  'She died,' he said. 'I'm very sorry. I was very fond of your aunt. She and I were good friends.'

  Laura's head collapsed back. She looked straight into the air, her eyes blinking spasmodically. Aunt Judy was dead, killed in the fire. Laura tried to recall her last moments with her aunt, the desperate look in Judy's eyes as the blaze crept closer and closer. She remembered tripping over something, banging her head, reaching out to Judy, and then . . . blackness.

  'How was I rescued?' she asked.

  The doctor half smiled. 'That is a bit of a mystery. A man pulled both of you out of the fire. For Professor Simmons, unfortunately, it was too late.'

  'But who was the man?'

  'We don't know,' Eric answered. 'He called the emergency room and then vanished.'

  'Vanished?'

  'I found it rather strange myself.'

  Laura tried to concentrate through the grief. The fire was no accident, she was sure of it. Someone had set the fire. Someone had knocked poor Judy unconscious and doused her study with some sort of flammable liquid. Someone had set the fire with the intention of killing Laura's aunt. But who?

  David's murderer.

  Laura's head nodded at the thought. David's murderer had done this. Somehow, Judy had learned the truth behind David's demise and had paid for it with her life. But why a fire, especially when a simple investigation would prove it was arson? Why not simply use a gun or a knife? Why go to the trouble of burning down Judy's house if you just wanted to keep her silent . . . ?

  Not the house. The study.

  Laura felt a coldness wrap itself around her spine. The study. The fire had taken place in the study.

  'I spoke to your father,' Eric Glarich said, interrupting her thoughts. 'He is on his way. He should be here in a couple more hours.'

  'Thank you, Doctor. When can I get out of here?' Eric smiled and picked up a clipboard. 'We'll talk about that a little later, okay? Why don't you get some rest now?'

  Laura closed her eyes though she knew sleep would not come. She felt scared and so very alone -- a helpless amateur against ruthless killers and arsonists. What chance did she have? None really. And what was she supposed to do next? Judy was dead, silenced before she had the chance to tell Laura what was going on. What had Judy learned that had cost her her life? What had Judy wanted to tell Laura that . . . ?

  '. . . to show you, Laura. Show you ...'

  Her eyes suddenly flew open.

  ' . . . show you, Laura . . .'

  'Dr Clarich?'

  ' . . . Take it . . .'

  Eric stopped scribbling and looked up. 'Yes, Mrs Baskin?'

  Her mouth felt very dry. 'My personal possessions.'

  'They're in a plastic bag in your closet.'

  The blaze had almost been upon them. Laura could still feel Judy press something into her hand, forcing her to pocket the items while the fire moved in around them. 'May I have it, please?'

  Eric sighed heavily. 'You really should get some rest. The fire chief is going to want to talk to you later.'

  'I will,' Laura promised. 'I just need my things for a moment.'

  Eric spotted the desperation in her voice. 'Okay,' he agreed. 'But then I want you to rest.'

  Laura nodded eagerly. She watched Dr Clarich step toward the closet. Seconds dragged.

  What did you hand me, Aunt Judy? What was so important that imminent death became merely a distraction?

  Eric opened the closet, bent down, and came up holding a red plastic bag marked Emergency Room. Laura tried to sit up, each movement of her body rubbing a burn the wrong way. She thought for a moment of how close she had come to being burned alive and wondered once again about the mystery man who had saved her life.

  Dr Clarich walked back over to the bed. 'Here you go. I'll leave you alone now.'

  'Thank you, Doctor.'

  He smiled gently and left the room. When the door shut, when Laura had been left completely alone, she opened the plastic bag and began to sift through its contents.

  A clue, Aunt Judy. Did you save a clue from the treacherous fire?

  The first thing that caught her eye was the Svengali label on her ripped and slightly scorched blouse. Part of the sleeve and back were burnt black, the cotton and silk threads seared beyond repair. She found the rest of her clothes, her wallet, her pocketbook, her shoes, her car keys. Then she came upon one of the two things Judy had handed her.

  A set of keys.

  Disappointment shot down Laura's hopes. Why would Judy hand her a set of keys? What significance could that have? There were four keys on the chain. One she recognized as Judy's house key. Two others were for the car. Laura had no idea what the fourth opened.

  So why did Judy hand her a set of keys?

  Maybe her aunt's mind had been confused at that stage. Maybe she was trying to find her way to the car to make her escape.

  You're reaching, Laura.

  Any better ideas?

  She put the keys down and reached back into the red plastic bag. This time her hand located a thick piece of paper or maybe a thin piece of cardboard. It felt wrinkled and old. She gently lifted the paper/cardboard and brought it into view.

  It was a photograph.

  Laura's eyes narrowed in confusion. The photograph was an old black and white one. Her mother had a lot of these kind but this one had obviously been handled many times over. Brown spots dotted the photograph with age. But Laura was not interested in the technical aspects of the picture. She was interested in its content.

  The picture showed a happy couple staring lovingly into each other's eyes. The man's arms were wrapped passionately around the woman's waist. The woman was Judy. She could not have been more than twenty years old. How happy she looked, Laura thought, how her face glowed in a way Laura had never seen before. It was more than just the simple glow of youth. There was love here, real love.

  Laura turned her attention to the man in the photograph. Her throat constricted. It took but a few seconds for her brain to register the impossible truth. When she recognized the man's face, when she was absolutely sure who the man was, she wanted so very much to scream.

  The man in the photograph smiled playfully at young, pretty Judy Simmons. His hair was tousled, his face strong and handsome like . . .

  ... like his youngest son's.

  Her head began to swim. David's father. David's father who committed suicide thirty years ago. Sinclair Baskin and Judy were holding each other in a passionate embrace.

  The picture dropped from Laura's hand. Judy's last clue. With death just moments away, this photograph had been her aunt's last desperate effort to tell Laura the truth of what had happened to David, of why he was killed.

  But what did it mean?

  'Hurry, damn it.'

  'Hey, buddy, I'm already going too fast. You want to end up in the hospital too?'

  James sat back. 'Sorry. It's just that -- '

  'I know, I know,' the taxi driver interrupted. 'Your daughter is in the hospital in Hamilton. I got kids too, you know. I understand what you're feeling.'

  James tried taking a few deep breaths. 'How much longer?'

  'Five minutes. Considering the weather, I'd say we're making great time. Airport to Hamilton in a half-hour. That could be a record.'

  'Could you go just a little faster please?'

  'No need,' the driver replied. 'We're here.'

  James tossed the driver a fifty-dollar bill. 'Thanks.'

  'Thank you, buddy. Hope your daughter's feeling better.'

  He stepped out of the car and sprinted into the hospital. His heart raced. The record-breaking, thirty-minute drive from the airport to St Catherine's had felt like weeks.

  Laura is okay, he reminded himself. You heard the doctor. Just a few burns and some smoke inhalation. Nothing a little rest won't fix.

  And James would make sure she rested. Oh yes, he would stand guard over her twenty-fours a day if necessary, but he would not let anyone ever hurt his baby again. No one. Not ever.
<
br />   He stormed through the doors. Hospitals were familiar territory to him. He quickly found the on-duty receptionist and asked for his daughter's room.

  'Down the hall and to the right,' the receptionist replied. 'Room 117. I believe Dr Clarich is in there now.'

  James sped down the corridor. He circled right, his legs propelling him with surprising velocity -- and then he stopped cold. His heart jerked to one side.

  Oh no.

  Down at the end of the hallway, just a few feet in front of Laura's hospital room, his wife sat crumpled into a plastic chair. Mary looked so small, so fragile. Her face was pale and harried.

  'Mary?'

  Her head swiveled slowly toward the familiar voice. 'Oh, James.'

  How did you get here so fast, Mary? How . . .

  She stood and ran toward her husband on wobbly legs, but James moved forward hesitantly, almost afraid to go near her.

  She was here the whole time. She was at Colgate.

  'I . . . I called the answering machine and heard your message,' she explained weakly. 'I got up here as soon as I could.'

  In less than three hours? Talk about breaking speed records.

  'Where is the doctor?' James asked, trying like hell to sound like his usual cool, controlled self.

  'He's in with Laura. He said she's doing just fine.' Mary started to cry. 'Oh James, say it isn't true. Not Judy. She can't be dead. She just can't be.'

  James took her in his arms and held her closely. His eyes closed and a transformation took place within him. This, after all, was what it was all about. He loved her. God forgive him, he loved her so damn much. She had sinned and done some horrible things, things most husbands would never forgive. But try as he might, James could not help but love her more every day. She was so seemingly innocent, so helpless and beautiful. He had to protect her . . .

  ... no matter what she may have done in the past.

  'It's okay, my love,' James whispered, his eyes still tightly shut. 'I'm here now. Everything is going to be okay.'

  The tender moment, perhaps the last Mary and James would ever share together, came to a sudden halt when the door of room 117 opened. James released his wife and automatically fixed his professional mask back onto his face. He turned toward Dr Eric Clarich.

  'Dr Clarich?'

  'Dr Ayars?' Eric asked. They shook hands. 'Glad you both are here.'

  'Is she all right?' James asked. 'Can we see her?'

  'She's doing just fine,' Dr Clarich assured him. 'She'll be out of here in no more than a day or two.'

  'That's wonderful,' Mary said.

  'She is a bit shaken up. It was quite a harrowing ordeal.'

  'Can you tell us what happened, Doctor?'

  Eric led them over to a waiting area where they all sat down. 'Apparently, your daughter walked in on a fire at Professor Simmons's home. According to Laura, she opened the study door and found Professor Simmons on the floor. She tried to rescue her aunt and in doing so she nearly got herself killed. You see, Laura got trapped in the study. She tried to pull Professor Simmons out but the smoke was too much. Laura passed out.'

  Mary looked at the doctor in horror. 'Passed out? Then how did she . . . ?'

  'Get out alive?' Eric finished for her. 'A bit of a mystery, I suppose. A man who has since chosen to remain anonymous pulled your daughter out of the fire. If not, she would undoubtedly have died in your sister's study.'

  'Can we see her?' James asked again.

  'She's napping right now. She should be awake in a few hours.'

  'We'll wait,' James said, taking his wife's shaking hand into his own. 'Are you okay, Mary?'

  She nodded.

  'I contacted Gloria,' James continued. 'She and Stan are on their way up.'

  Another nod.

  James turned his attention back toward his fellow physician. 'Do they know what caused the fire?'

  'Not for sure,' Eric replied, 'but they suspect arson.'

  Dr Eric Clarich watched as whatever little color had been left in their faces vanished with his words.

  Later that night, there was a soft knock on Laura's door.

  'Come in.'

  The door swung open and a head of blond hair peeked around the corner. 'Hi.'

  'Gloria!' Laura said as a smile jumped to her lips. 'I'm so glad you're here.'

  Another female voice came from behind the door. 'What about little ol' me?'

  'Serita,' Laura chuckled. 'How the hell did you two get here so fast?'

  Gloria and Serita came in, the door closing behind them. They kissed Laura and sat on the corners of her bed. 'You will never guess in a million years,' Serita replied.

  'Huh?'

  'Stan drove us,' Gloria explained.

  'And Laura, he was a perfect gentleman.'

  'Where is he now?' Laura asked.

  'Go on, Gloria. You tell her.'

  'He left,' Gloria explained. 'He told us that he said some really stupid things to you the other night and that he couldn't face you yet.'

  Laura looked puzzled. 'He told you that?'

  Both women nodded.

  'And now he's heading back to Boston?'

  'That's right, honey. Can you believe it? The guy played chauffeur for the last six hours and now he's shlepping all the way back.'

  'He was very drunk the other night, Laura,' Gloria added. 'He really feels terrible about it.'

  Laura did not know what to say. 'Forget it.'

  'So how you feeling, champ?' Serita asked.

  'Not bad.'

  Gloria wrung her hands. 'I can't believe this. Aunt Judy dead. It's so horrible. Mom and Dad are in shock.'

  'I know,' Laura said. 'They were in here a little while ago.'

  'Such a terrible accident,' Serita added.

  'No accident.'

  Laura's sister and best friend stared at her. 'What did you say?'

  'It was no accident,' Laura repeated. 'Aunt Judy was murdered.'

  'Are you sure?' Serita asked.

  'Arson. The house was doused with kerosene and Judy had been knocked unconscious.'

  'But who would do such a thing?'

  Laura knew it was unsafe to involve anyone else in this, but her feelings of loneliness and despair made her reach out. She had to confide in someone. 'You have to promise me you won't say a word about this to anyone. Not one word. It could be a matter of life and death.'

  'Not a word,' Serita replied while Gloria nodded her head in agreement.

  'I don't know who killed Aunt Judy, but take a look at this.'

  Laura reached into her bag and pulled out the old black-and-white photograph. She handed it to Gloria, who looked at it and then passed it on to Serita.

  'I don't get it,' Gloria said. 'It's an old picture of Aunt Judy, but who's the guy?'

  'Any guesses, Serita?'

  'He looks familiar ...'

  'Like David . . . or maybe Stan?'

  'A little, I guess.'

  'What are you getting at?' Gloria asked.

  'The man in the photograph is Sinclair Baskin. Stan and David's father.'

  Gloria gasped. She remembered Stan's words about his father's death and she began to shake.

  'I don't get it,' Serita said. 'What does this have to do with Judy's death?'

  'I don't know yet. But take a look at them. This is no casual pose.'

  'No,' Serita agreed, 'they definitely seem fond of one another.'

  'And take a look at that banner in the background. Brinlen College 1960. That's where Sinclair Baskin taught. And 1960 -- that's the year he died.'

  Serita continued to stare at the picture. 'I still don't get it. So your aunt might have had an affair with David's father before he died in 1960. What does that have to do with the fire today?'

  'I haven't figured out the connection yet, but I know one exists. I have to go to Chicago and find it.'

  'Chicago? Why Chicago?'

  'Brinlen College is in Chicago. My mother and Aunt Judy were raised there.'

  Glo
ria finally spoke, her words coming from a fog. 'We used to live there, Laura, before you were born.'

  'I know. There has to be a connection somehow. There has to be a link between Judy's murder and Sinclair Baskin's suicide.'

  Gloria nearly screamed. She put her hand in her mouth, her teeth biting down hard upon her tender skin. A small shriek made its way past her lips.

  'What is it, Gloria? What's the matter?'

  Gloria took her hand away. She remembered what Stan had told her just a few nights ago, just after she had woken from her nightmare. Her eyes bounced about the room as though looking for a place to hide. 'I . . . I can't say.'

  Laura sat up and grabbed her sister's shoulders. 'This is important, Gloria. Whoever killed Judy may have killed David too.'

  'Wha . . . ? Killed David? But he drowned.'

  'Maybe. Maybe not. Tell me what you know.'

  'But I promised.'

  'Promised who?'

  'Stan. I promised him I wouldn't say anything.'

  'You have to tell me, Gloria. You could be in danger. Stan could be in danger.'

  'I don't know . . .'

  Laura began to shake her. 'Tell me. Tell me.'

  Serita stepped in and disengaged the two sisters. 'Just relax a second, Laura.'

  Laura let go and lay back down. 'I can't relax. The killer is still out there.'

  'You're not making any sense, girl. Pictures from thirty years ago. Murderers running around. A suicide that's thirty years old -- '

  'Not a suicide!' Gloria shouted.

  Laura and Serita spun toward Gloria's voice. She was huddled in a corner, her whole body quivering and quaking as though she were caught in the grip of a fever. 'He didn't commit suicide,' Gloria said.

  Laura could not believe what she was hearing. 'What are you talking about? Of course he committed suicide.'

  Gloria shook her head violently. 'He was murdered. Sinclair Baskin was murdered.'

  'What?'

  'Stan was hiding behind the couch in his father's office. He was only ten years old but he saw the whole thing. Somebody murdered Sinclair Baskin.'

  'But . . . ?' Laura's mouth fell open. She stared dumbstruck. 'My God,' she finally managed. 'Does Stan know who did it?'

  'No. He didn't recognize the killer. But he remembers the face ...'

  Laura fell back on the bed. Another piece of the puzzle had been handed to her and, once again, that piece did not seem to fit. Murdered. Sinclair Baskin. David. Judy. Something had happened thirty years ago, something horrible and evil, something that did not end with the passing of a decade or two. Judy's haunting words came back to her, tearing at her heart with sharpened claws.