Harlan Coben

by Play Dead

  Mark continued to watch Clip Arnstein. The older man’s arms were folded across his chest. He wore a floppy white hat, shorts, and a green Celtics shirt. He looked more like an American tourist than a basketball legend.

  “Nice shooting, kid,” Clip called out.

  Timmy stopped and sprinted over to where Clip was holding the press conference. “Thanks.”

  The reporters crowded in. “Are the Celtics going to repeat as champions, Clip?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Hope?”

  “Doesn’t pay to be too cocky,” Clip explained.

  “Do you think you can pull it off without David Baskin?”

  “Look, fellas, no team can lose a player like David and not feel it. A guy like White Lightning doesn’t come around very often. Will we be contenders? Yeah, sure, of course, we will. Will we be the champions? That, my friends, only time will tell. There are so many factors that come into making a champion. Healthy players and luck, to name just two.”

  Mike Logan, the reporter from the Boston Globe who had covered the Celtics for the last decade, stood up. “Clip, last year you told us that David Baskin was the world’s best outside shooter and Timmy Daniels was second.”

  “And I was right, wasn’t I, Mike? The three-point contest proved it.”

  “No argument there,” Mike Logan agreed. “My question is this: Now that David is dead, is Timmy the world’s best shooter?”

  Before Clip could answer, a loud voice from the stands shouted, “No!”

  The reporters, the Celtic players, and Clip Arnstein turned toward the blond heckler in the stands. “Then who is?” Logan called back.

  Mark stood. “You’re looking at him.”

  MARY Ayars heard the doorbell chime. The sound echoed through the house, finding Mary in the kitchen with a glass of wine in her hand. Lately, Mary had been drinking a tad more than usual, a tad more than she should. She knew that she was dangerously close to having a drinking problem, that she should really cut back. But the pain of both her guilt and Laura’s continuous rejection gnawed at the back of her brain until she craved just one more glass of white wine. Spanish white wine. Rioja was her favorite.

  Mary glanced at the clock. Eleven a.m. Not even noon and she was already on her first glass.

  The doorbell sounded again. Mary put down her drink, checked her face in the mirror, and headed toward the front door. She opened it and gasped. “Laura!”

  “Hello, Mother,” Laura replied politely. Her mother looked worn but still her beauty was dazzling. Laura noted that she still looked a good fifteen years younger than her true age of fifty.

  Mary tried to gather herself. Her daughter had not uttered one word to her recently, not since she had eloped with … “Your father isn’t here.”

  “I didn’t come to see him. I came to see you.”

  “Me?”

  “I think we should talk.”

  Mary stepped back and let her daughter enter. They moved into the den and sat down in chairs facing each other. Neither one spoke for several moments.

  “I’m so sorry about David,” Mary began uneasily. She pressed her palms against her skirt. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “I’m doing okay.”

  Mary reached out and took her daughter’s hand. Tears started to gather in Mary’s eyes. “Please forgive me, Laura. I never meant to hurt you. You know I love you. You know I only want what’s best for you.”

  Laura knelt forward and took her mother in her arms. “It’s okay, Mom,” she said softly. “I know you were trying to help.”

  “I love you so much, honey.”

  “I love you, too,” Laura replied, feeling tremendous guilt for what she had put her mother through. “I’m sorry I was so unforgiving.”

  “No. You had every right to be.” Mary looked up hopefully. “Oh, Laura, do you really forgive me? Is it really all behind us?”

  Laura nodded. “Mom?”

  “Yes, honey.”

  “I want to ask you something important.”

  Mary dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “What is it, baby?”

  “Why didn’t you like David?”

  Mary felt her chest tighten. “Oh, Laura, that’s all in the past now.”

  “I’d like to know.”

  Mary’s eyes darted around the room as though looking for a safe haven. “It’s not important now.”

  “Mother …”

  “You loved him, honey. I was wrong to interfere.”

  “But you must have had a reason.”

  “I guess I did at the time.”

  “You guess?”

  “You … you know how mothers are,” Mary said, her voice cracking. “No man is good enough for my precious baby.”

  “I dated men before David. You never interfered before.”

  “But you were never serious about them,” Mary answered. “Please, can’t we talk about something else?”

  Laura ignored her request. “But that doesn’t make any sense. You disliked David right away, the first time I mentioned his name to you. Why, Mother?”

  A nervous shrug came off of Mary’s beautiful shoulders. “I never trusted athletes, I guess. But I was wrong, honey. He was a wonderful man. I’m sure he loved you very much.”

  “What makes you say that now?”

  “I … I don’t know. I guess I just realized I was wrong.”

  “When did this fact dawn on you, Mother?” Laura demanded. “When he died?”

  “No … I mean … Laura, please, I made a mistake. Can’t we just put it behind us?”

  “How can I, Mother?” Laura shouted. “I lost the only man I ever loved. We were forced to secretly elope, and do you know why?”

  “The press must have been hassling—”

  “No, Mother! We were both used to handling the press. We eloped because my own mother swore the wedding would only take place over her dead body! That’s why we took off for Australia and didn’t tell you!”

  Mary started to sob.

  “And now David is dead.”

  Mary’s head snapped up. “You can’t blame me! I was just …”

  “Just what, Mother? Don’t you understand what happened? Because of some goddamn whim of yours, David and I felt shunned by my own mother. We ran away to Australia because of you!”

  “Stop! Please!”

  “And he drowned there, Mother. The man I loved perished there because you didn’t like athletes, because—”

  “I had my reasons!” Mary shouted back.

  “What were they? What were your reasons?”

  But the only answer Laura received was more sobbing—uncontrollable sobs that racked Mary’s body. Her shoulders and chest heaved. Laura looked at the pitiful figure that was her mother and took hold of herself. What have I done? Laura asked herself. She had come here to forgive her mother, to release her from the undeserving torment she had suffered at Laura’s hands over the past few months. Instead, Laura had attacked her with a vengeance that left them both trembling.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean it. I just hurt all over and sometimes I just attack… .”

  She took her mother in her arms and together they both cried. Laura stroked her mother’s hair. Some secrets defy death, Laura realized, and some truths are best kept buried deep in the past. Laura understood that. She knew the truth was not always a good thing. The truth could cause pain. Devastating pain. Pain that could destroy lives.

  But that did not mean Laura would allow herself to be protected from the truth, to live a life where ignorance was bliss. Not when it came to David. After all, Laura’s heart had already been torn from her chest. What further harm could the past do to her now? No, Laura decided, I will seek the truth.

  And find it.

  ALL eyes were on Mark Seidman. “I can shoot better than any man alive.”

  “Who the hell are you?” a reporter yelled out.

  “Mark Seidman from the Boston Eagle Weekly.”

  “The what?”


  “Don’t pay any attention to him, fellas,” Clip interrupted. “He’s just some pain-in-the-ass heckler. Ignore him. To answer your question, Mike, the finest shooter in the game today is Timmy Daniels.”

  “Wanna bet?” shouted the blond heckler.

  Clip looked over to the security guards. “Okay, that’s it. Throw the bum out.” The uniformed guards strolled over to the bleachers.

  Mark quickly stood. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of green bills. “Ten thousand dollars,” he shouted. “One hundred portraits of Ben Franklin on crisp, new bills say I can beat Timmy Daniels in a three-point shoot-out.”

  The gymnasium fell silent. Mark watched Clip’s face turn red with fury. “I said, throw the bum out!”

  Reporters started snapping pictures. Mark waved the money. “Ten thousand dollars for the charity of your choosing, Mr. Arnstein. You put up zilch. Any charity you choose. No risk at all—unless you’re a little afraid your shooting star’s ego will be bruised by a stranger off the street.”

  Timmy leaned toward Clip. “Let me shut this punk up.”

  “Yeah, Clip,” one of the reporters added. “Let Tim take this kid’s dough.”

  Murmurs of agreement rippled through the gymnasium.

  Clip’s face was still red. “You mind if I count the money, big mouth?”

  “Not at all,” Mark replied. “You can even hold it while we shoot.”

  Mark walked down the bleachers and handed the money to Clip. He looked at the older man’s angry eyes. If looks could kill. Whispers came from the others: “What do you figure?” “Some wealthy punk with money to burn.” “He’s no reporter.” “Rich bastard.” “Yeah.” “Timmy will teach him a lesson.” “Weirdo.”

  Clip counted the money and then sighed. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

  A coin was tossed. Mark won and chose to shoot second. A ball boy quickly set up the balls in various positions more than twenty feet away from the basket, where only the finest shooters dare roam. Mike Logan watched with interest. He had covered the previous year’s three-point contest before the All-Star Game in Dallas. David Baskin had won, shattering his own record by hitting twenty-two shots in the one-minute time period. Twenty-two. It had been truly incredible. Timmy Daniels had placed second with twenty; Reggie Cooper of the Chicago Bulls was third with nineteen.

  Timmy Daniels approached the first cart of basketballs on the left side of the basket, his eyes concentrating on nothing but the rim of the basket. He crouched and waited for the timer.

  “One minute of shooting. Ready, go!”

  Tim started shooting. He moved from the left side of the basket to the middle, his rainbowlike shots heading toward the cylinder. Swish, swish, swish. Timmy shot as well as he had ever shot before.

  “Thirty seconds!”

  “He already has twelve!” someone shouted. “He’s heading for a record!”

  Mark closed his eyes and hoped Tim would miss more often. But Timmy continued to shoot exceptionally well. His hands moved with precision, the same fast move- ment every time he shot.

  “Time!”

  The counter looked up. “Holy shit! Twenty-three! A new record! He shattered White Lightning’s record!”

  Applause and cheers filled the small gymnasium. Timmy’s teammates, including Earl Roberts, went over and congratulated their shooting champion. Clip patted him on the back. Reporters took notes. Even Timmy seemed somewhat taken aback by what he had done.

  Clip reached into his pocket and took out a victory cigar. The small crowd went wild.

  “Not so fast, Mr. Arnstein.”

  Clip looked past the front of his cigar at Mark. “Son, you might as well just head on home now.”

  Murmurs of agreement.

  “Not yet,” Mark replied calmly. But he was worried. Timmy Daniels had indeed shot brilliantly. “I still get my turn.”

  “Why waste our time, son?”

  “The name is Mark Seidman, Mr. Arnstein, and this contest is not yet over.”

  Clip lit his cigar. Everyone laughed. “Well, let’s get a move on, Mr. Mark Seidman. There’s a team practice being held up because of you.”

  The ball boys quickly retrieved the balls and set them up for Mark’s turn. He walked over to the left side of the basket and turned back toward Clip.

  “Extra wager?” Mark asked.

  “What? You crazy, son?”

  “Extra wager or not?”

  Clip smiled. “Name it.”

  “If I win, you give me a tryout with the team. If I lose, your charity gets another ten grand.”

  Again the laughter echoed through the warm building. “Done,” Clip shouted.

  Mark nodded and waited; his muscles tensed. Everyone was watching him with mocking eyes. He could hear his heart pounding.

  “Ready, go!”

  Mark grabbed a ball off the rack and quickly launched his first shot. Too quickly. The ball banged off the rim. The crowd laughed. The next shot found its mark. So did the next, and the next …

  “Not bad. He may even hit fifteen.”

  “No way.”

  … the next, the next …

  “The kid can shoot.”

  “He’ll never even hit sixteen.”

  … a miss, a make, a make, a make …

  “Funny way of shooting, huh?”

  “Yeah. Quick release. Reminds me a little of Baskin.”

  “Hey, Clip, what do you think?”

  Clip Arnstein said nothing. He watched the awkward yet graceful shooting. Mark’s hands were a blur.

  “Thirty seconds.”

  “Christ, the kid has ten!”

  Everyone watched now as Mark moved toward another rack of basketballs. He was still behind Timmy Daniels and no one gave any serious consideration to the blond’s chances of beating him, but only seven professional players had broken the eighteen-basket mark and the heckler had a real chance of hitting that milestone. Mark continued to shoot, ignoring his score, lost in the bliss of basketball. His shooting motion was fluid; the ball had perfect backspin as it dropped through the net.

  “Time!”

  Stunned silence. The counter looked up. “Twenty-four,” he said softly. “The kid just broke the record.”

  Eyes swiveled as Clip Arnstein slowly strode toward the blond stranger named Mark Seidman. No one spoke. Clip approached Mark and handed him back his money. Mark said nothing, his expression solemn.

  “Impressive shooting, son.”

  Mark did not respond.

  “But there’s a hell of a lot more to this game than shooting.”

  The blond nodded his agreement.

  Clip eyed him. The kid had just beaten the NBA’s best shooter and broken an NBA record. He should have been celebrating. Instead, the kid stood there like he was attending a funeral. Clip shrugged, turning away from the bleak, haunted look in Mark’s blue eyes. “A bet is a bet,” he said after some time. “Get on your practice gear.”

  Mark jogged past the ugly, suspicious stares of his potential teammates, past the reporters. Mike Logan watched. The reporter could not believe what he had just seen. An amateur had just broken the three-point shooting record. And the weird style of his shot. Just like …

  Logan took out his pad and wrote down a nickname just in case the kid made it.

  White Lightning II.

  13

  May 30, 1960

  ONCE again, it was time to kill. Victim Number Two.

  Tears filled the killer’s eyes. I don’t want to kill this one. I really don’t want to. He was an innocent victim in all this.

  But maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was to blame. And maybe his death could finally lead to peace. Maybe his death would be a good thing in the long run. The innocent die all the time. Sacrifices must be made. Occasionally, the ends do justify the means. That was just the way of the world.

  That argument was not very convincing.

  The time had come. Without warning, the killer silently jammed the steel instr
ument of death into the helpless victim. Blood came pouring out in large doses, doses larger than the killer had expected. The dark red liquid seeped onto the floor, staining everything in its path.

  It all ends so quickly, the killer thought, watching as death claimed yet another life before its time.

  The killer stood and turned toward the accomplice. The accomplice remained huddled in the shadows, watching with horrified eyes. “Clean up the remains,” the killer said coolly. “Make it fast.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes. Now hurry.”

  The accomplice had taken less than two steps when the door behind them flew open.

  Both the killer and the accomplice gasped and spun around. A very young child peeked her head through the doorway. The little girl did not get a very good look at the room, but she saw blood. Lots of blood. Her scream pierced the silent room.

  “Mommy! Mommy!”

  “Get out of here, Gloria! Get out of here now!”

  14

  “SERITA shimmers ‘minerally gorgeous’ in this silver formal gown with a wide gold belt around her waist. The belt comes off for a more funsy look. Notice the dipping back… .”

  Serita spun to show the audience her stunning back. From behind the curtain, Laura watched her friend. A sign over the runway read:

  Be your own SVENGALI!

  Our new find: Mr. Benito Spencer!

  The well-known SV logo of Svengali adorned both ends of the sign. The ballroom at the New York Nikko Hotel was packed with some of the biggest names in fashion. Laura had arranged front-row seating for the most important critics, and tonight, the Palladium would throw a party for Mr. Benito Spencer. Svengali’s marketing department had been hard at work, making sure that the company’s first show in nearly five months had plenty of positive publicity surrounding it.

  Serita walked to the end of the runway, made a final turn, and headed back. No doubt about it, Laura thought, Serita was the best in the business. She thrived on the runway like an actress on the stage. With her back straight and her whole being giving off an aura of sophistication and elegance, Serita could make Hawaiian shirts look in vogue. And yet Serita allowed the audience to peek under the unruffled facade and see that she was no mere mannequin, that she was real and having fun up there.