Harlan Coben

by Play Dead

  “Great. Nice knowing you. Bye.”

  Stan smiled, his red eyes trying to focus in on hers. “Aren’t you forgetting one small detail?”

  “Such as?”

  “Gloria.”

  “What about her?”

  He shrugged, nearly toppling from the effort. “She loves me, you know. I can let her down nice and easy. Tell her how I’m not good enough for her and all that bullshit. Or I can crush her: tell her that I was just using her, that she’s nothing but a useless whore.”

  Laura let the rage build inside her but her face remained calm. “If you do that,” she said evenly, “I’ll kill you. I swear it.”

  “Threats, Laura? You should know better than that.”

  “What do you want, Stan? I thought you said you didn’t need money anymore. And why the hell were you acting so weird at the game?”

  “Patience, my lovely flower. You are indeed correct. I do not need your money.”

  “Then why don’t you just leave my sister in peace?”

  “Nothing would please me more. But life is not that easy. First, you must do something for me.” Stan grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her body so that they faced each other.

  “What?” she asked.

  He smiled. “I want you to sleep with me. Just once. Do me that one little favor and I won’t harm your sister.”

  As Laura felt herself begin to gag, she realized that to an onlooker she and Stan appeared to be just a happy, good-looking couple. They were both smiling, facing each other, standing close with his hands on her shoulders. Appearance versus reality. People were probably smiling sweetly at them, commenting on what a nice couple they made … but right now, Laura was looking at Mark Seidman and he did not appear to be smiling. For the first time that evening, Mark Seidman’s cool exterior had cracked. Laura was puzzled. Mark Seidman stood behind Stan, glaring at them, his face twisted into a look of intense hatred.

  Why?

  “Well,” Stan said, his breath reeking from liquor, “I’m waiting.”

  Laura’s eyes swung back to his. “You’re drunk.”

  “That fact has already been established,” he replied. “I’m still waiting for an answer.”

  “How about this? Go to hell.”

  Stan shook his head. “You’re not being smart, Laura. Really you’re not. You should think this through first.”

  “Think this through, Stan: you are the most repulsive creature I have ever met. I hate you.”

  “Do you know why you hate me?”

  “Do you want the list in any particular order?”

  He laughed. His feet shuffled underneath him, allowing him to maintain his balance. “Laura, why don’t you stop deceiving yourself? Admit to yourself at least why you hate me.”

  “Okay, Stan, I’ll bite. Why do I hate you?”

  “It’s because you find me attractive,” he said, spittle flying with his words. “Very attractive. You want me, Laura. You want me very badly. And that makes you feel guilty. It makes you feel like you’re being disloyal to David. So how do you compensate for that? You create this ugly illusion—an illusion you’re able to hate.”

  “You’re sick, Stan,” Laura shot back. “When I first saw you with Gloria tonight, I was actually stupid enough to think that maybe you did give a half a damn about her. But I won’t ever forget the truth, Stan. I won’t ever forget you’re a piece of shit.”

  His smile did not waver. “Yes, but a piece of shit who is going to have his way with you.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Ah, Laura, you’re using emotion again. Didn’t I warn you about that? Pretend this is a business decision. If you sleep with me tonight, I’m gone forever. I will be nothing but a pleasant memory for Gloria. If you don’t, I’ll destroy her. Think about it, Laura. What is Gloria’s life worth to you? Does she matter so little that you wouldn’t sacrifice your widow virginity for her?”

  Laura said nothing.

  Stan’s smirk of satisfaction raked across her heart painfully. “I see you’re starting to think about this practically. That’s smart, Laura. Just one quick boff and I’m history. You can even close your eyes, if you want. And of course, if your lovely bod decides it can’t just have Stan for one night, that it craves more of what I have, I’ll stay with you for a while. We’ll make it our little secret.”

  Laura swallowed away her nausea, not believing what she was about to say. “What guarantee do I have you will actually leave?”

  Stan smiled. He had her. “You don’t trust me?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to, my love,” he explained. “Life is a gamble. You’ll have to make your choice and live with it. But either way, I’m leaving tomorrow. So if you find Gloria in the bathroom with her arteries bursting blood, you know you made the wrong decision.”

  Across the room, Laura spotted Gloria. Her sister began to walk toward them.

  “I’ll meet you at your place at midnight,” Stan whispered.

  Laura watched him stagger toward her sister. Gloria looked so beautiful, so happy, so delicate, eyeing Stan worriedly as he stumbled his way toward her. She is concerned for his welfare, Laura thought, concerned about that no-good son of a bitch. And Laura could do nothing about it. She was powerless against him and right now that meant just one thing.

  Laura turned away. David was already dead. She had arrived too late to save him from the clutches of the Pacific or a still-unknown murderer. But Gloria was still with her, still alive.

  And Laura still had the opportunity to save her.

  ANGER glazed Mark’s eyes as he glared at Laura and Stan. He still could not believe it. Stan. Stan was here in Boston. Why the hell hadn’t T.C. told him? But the answer was obvious. Now that David Baskin was dead, Mark Seidman was to be told nothing.

  A familiar voice snapped him out of his semitrance. “Excuse me.”

  Mark swiveled his head toward a tall woman with auburn hair. Judy Simmons. He had figured Judy was going to show up for this event and that made him very afraid. Laura’s aunt was no fool, and more to the point, Mark was sure that she was the only person who had any real chance of discovering what had really happened to David Baskin.

  “Yes, Miss …” he feigned forgetting her name.

  “Simmons,” Judy finished for him. “Judy Simmons. I’m Laura Baskin’s aunt.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She scrutinized him closely, spending a long time on his face. “I just wanted to say, Mr. Seidman, that you played a wonderful game tonight.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Where did you learn to play like that?”

  Mark shrugged. “Nowhere special. Around.”

  “Well, you play like no rookie I’ve ever seen.” She stopped, her eyes narrowing. “You look very familiar to me, Mr. Seidman. Have we met before?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Funny, I know I’ve seen you somewhere,” she continued. “Were you ever on the campus of Colgate University?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe I knew your mother. Yes, that’s it. Seidman, Seidman. Even the name rings a bell.”

  “My mother died a good number of years ago.”

  Once again, Judy studied his face. She had seen his reaction to Laura’s conversing with Stan Baskin, but this time, his expression remained composed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Will you excuse me, ma’am?”

  Judy simply stared at him, saying nothing. Her eyes did not wander off his face as he smiled weakly, nodded, and moved toward the exit.

  It can’t be, she told herself. Just calm yourself down. Mark Seidman is just another amazing sports story. That’s all. Stop making something out of nothing.

  But she knew it was not true.

  STAN stumbled down the empty hallway at the Boston Garden and into the abandoned men’s room on the top floor. He had been drunk plenty of times before, plenty, but man, did he feel out of control and sick tonight. His head spun like a sev
enty-eight on an old Victrola. His mouth felt like someone had poured sand down his throat. And his stomach, his goddamn stomach felt like a training ground for grenade launchers.

  He looked at himself in the mirror, fear clutching his neck and throat. There was more than just booze working on his head, his mouth, his stomach. He had never been so terrified in all of his life, and yet an opportunity had sprung forward that exhilarated him. Money. All he wanted. All he needed. It was right in front of him now. He would ask for one hundred grand right off the bat and then cash in new installments whenever he deemed it necessary. He could have everything he ever wanted … if he would only shake hands with the devil.

  Stan staggered away from the mirror. Sometimes he was such an idiot, especially when it came to Laura. When was he going to learn to keep his big mouth under control? Christ, he was drunk. Maybe he should apologize for what he said, but no, that would do no good. Laura would just spit on him. Why did he always do things like that? Why did he always slide backward into his darkened, vile pit whenever he was one step away from getting out of it for good? He had drunk too much, seen Laura, and wham, his lust for vengeance on David rose up in him. Why? The poor guy was dead now. Why in the face of Laura’s awesome beauty did his old hatred always emerge anew?

  He unzipped his fly in front of the urinal. The truth was he did not want to leave quite yet. He could have the money and keep Gloria—though it could get a little messy. After all, the source of his money supply was a member of her family.

  Yes, blackmail was on his mind, plain and simple. But this was no ordinary blackmail scheme. He was not planning on blackmailing an ordinary wrongdoer.

  He was going to blackmail his father’s murderer.

  Stan grabbed onto the sides of the urinal and steadied himself. Sweat made his clothes cling to his skin uncomfortably. After all these years he had finally seen his father’s killer again. Most sons would cry for blood against such a demon. They would demand biblical justice, an eye for an eye, death. But not Stan. Too many years had passed to play vengeful gunslinger, and frankly, Stan was gutless in the ways of violence, always had been. He could report it to the police, but who would believe him? Who would trust the word of a man who had waited thirty years to let anyone know that he had witnessed his father’s murder? And with his police record? No way. Forget it.

  No, Stan decided, he would have to wreak his own type of vengeance against the killer of his happy childhood. He would let the murderer live in constant fear of being discovered—and make a nice profit for himself in the process.

  A rush of nausea swept through him. Sure as God made green apples, he was going to vomit. No doubt about it. He hated throwing up, but then, who likes it? It had to be done. Best to get it over with. Besides, maybe he’d feel better after sacrificing a few of those Molotov cocktails to the porcelain gods.

  He wove toward the stall, his right shoulder ramming against the metallic side. If he were sober, Stan undoubtedly would have noticed the throbbing pain in his shoulder blade. Fortunately, the alcohol snuffed it out. Stan dropped to his knees, clutched the cold toilet on either side and waited.

  That was when he felt someone grab him by the hair.

  “What the—?”

  The rest of his words were lost in the icy water. Whoever had grabbed him was strong. Stan’s face lunged forward into the toilet bowl, crashing into the bottom. He could no longer breathe. Panicked, he shook his head back and forth violently, but he could not get free from the viselike grip, could not find an air pocket so that he could gather even one more breath into his heaving chest.

  “You son of a bitch!”

  Stan could barely make out the words being shouted at him, the toilet water splashing against his ears. I’m going to die, he thought. I’m going to drown in a fuckin’ toilet.

  His lungs were ready to burst. Water seeped down his throat. He felt himself choke. His eyes bulged. Thoughts flew out of his mind, replaced by primitive instinct. One primitive instinct. The instinct of survival. He became like any other mammal trapped underwater and unable to breathe. He jerked and bucked and kicked out, but the hand on his head held him down. The assailant shoved Stan’s face farther into the water, crushing his nose against the hard bottom of the bowl. Stan saw his own blood flow past him.

  His throat burned. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. Death. Drowning. Like David. Is this what it was like, little brother? Is this … ?

  The powerful grip pulled Stan’s head out of the water and dropped it like an inanimate object. His skull bounced off the porcelain seat and crashed onto the tile floor, but Stan did not notice or care. He gasped and wretched uncontrollably, his hand wrapped around his throat in some bizarre attempt to lessen the pain. He rolled on the floor, desperately trying to put some oxygen back into his sore lungs.

  Then he felt the hand clutch his hair again.

  “Oh God, please,” he managed.

  The hand roughly jerked his head back toward the rim of the bowl. It began to push his face downward, stopping less than an inch above the water. Stan’s chest still heaved spasmodically.

  “No, please …”

  Stan felt the assailant lower himself toward him, the hold never loosening. Warm breath pricked Stan’s ear and neck. “If you ever go near her again,” the male voice said slowly, “I’ll kill you.”

  The punch came from nowhere. Stan’s head snapped back from the blow. His body went limp. He slid to the floor as unconsciousness mercifully kicked in.

  MARK looked down past his shaking hands to Stan’s still form below him. He clenched his fists, trying to fight off his fury against the no-good son of a bitch. He had never lost control like that, never knew he was capable of such violence against any man. But then again, Stan Baskin was not just any man.

  With one foot, Mark flipped Stan onto his back. Stan’s face was covered with blood. Nothing to worry about really. Mark had not hit him with anything near full force, but in Stan’s inebriated state, a love tap would have been enough to knock him out. Mark still could not believe his eyes. Stan was back. Stan had always been scum, and judging by the bits and pieces of conversation between Laura and Stan he had overheard, nothing had changed. Stan was still a sick, demented man.

  Why had Stan come to Boston? The answer was fairly obvious: money. Stan had figured that the wealthy widow of his late brother would be an easy mark for his cunning ways. And, Mark realized with mounting rage, the fact that Laura happened to be lonely, vulnerable, and gorgeous just made her all the more irresistable to lure into his lair.

  Son of a bitch.

  There was a knock on the door. “Mark? You in there?”

  Mark quickly moved out of the stall. “Are you alone, T.C.?”

  “Yes.”

  Mark reached the door and pulled back the dead bolt. T.C. entered. Mark slammed the door behind him and replaced the lock.

  “What the hell is going on?” T.C. asked. Then he spotted the open stall door. Glancing into the cubicle, he found Stan’s crumpled body on the floor.

  T.C. whistled. “What did you do to him?”

  “Played a little game of dunk. Why the hell didn’t you tell me he was here?”

  T.C. turned away from the tile floor and shrugged. “It was none of your business.”

  “None of my business? Don’t you think you’re taking this—”

  That was when it hit him. Mark clutched his head between his hands, his fingers clawing at his temples. Pain came at him in great, unbearable waves. He sank to his knees.

  T.C. acted without hesitation. He sprinted toward Mark. “It’s okay, Mark. I’m right here.”

  Mark looked up at him with eyes distorted by pure agony. T.C. placed his arm around his shoulder and helped his friend to his feet. While pain consumed Mark’s every nerve, naked fear seeped into T.C.

  It’s back, T.C. thought. The demon is back.

  LAURA excused herself and moved toward the Blades and Boards Club exit. She just needed a moment away from the crush
of family and friends, a few seconds to be by herself and think about David. Evenings like these had a way of going by in a murky haze, but Laura knew that she could only block so long before her protective wall crumbled and reality flowed back in.

  She strolled aimlessly down the vacant hall, her mind filled with images of David. She had learned over the past six months that people handle death differently. Some wear their grief on their sleeves. Others try to avoid pain by pretending that nothing ever happened, that the beloved never existed. Laura guessed she fell into a third category. Friends had told her to try to put the tragedy behind her—best to move on, they had said. She understood their reasoning and probably would have offered similar advice if she had been the bereaved friend rather than the widow. But Laura did not want to forget David. She found an odd sort of comfort in thinking about him, in remembering every moment she spent with him. And yes, she cried when she went through photo albums, when she thought of how much he’d had to live for, when she thought of the happy family that would never be. But crying was okay. There was nothing wrong with crying. Better to cry than to pretend David had not existed. Better to cry than to feel nothing.

  T.C.’s voice jolted Laura away from her thoughts and back into the darkened hallway in Boston Garden. His voice was low. She moved closer and tried to listen.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I got you.”

  She cocked her head to the side. What was T.C. doing out here? Laura peered around the corner and spotted him right away. Her eyes grew puzzled. T.C. half dragged, half carried Mark Seidman down the hallway. Mark’s legs were not functioning. His hands gripped his head as if it were about to split open. A scream was cut off when T.C. clamped his hand over Mark’s mouth.

  “Hang in there, old buddy. Just lean on me. I’ll have you home soon.”

  Mark’s reply began with another muffled cry. “I didn’t want to see her, T.C. I didn’t want to go near her.”

  “I know, Mark. I know.”

  Laura stood in frozen horror as the two men disappeared around the corner, remembering that T.C. had told her just a few hours ago that he had never met Mark Seidman.