Harlan Coben

by Play Dead

  May 28, 1960

  Revenge. Is that what I was after tonight? If so, I should have remembered that revenge can be a double-edged sword. I fear I have done something wrong. But alas, dear diary, you do not want my opinions. You want the facts. So here they are:

  When I woke up this morning (woke up? I never fell asleep), I knew what I had to do: exact my revenge. Mary had stolen two men away from me. It was time to start returning the favor. I visited James at the hospital today… .

  Gloria looked up. “Oh Christ, she didn’t. Tell me she didn’t.”

  “Keep reading.”

  James met me in his new private office. It was all done up in typical, immaculate doctor decor with diplomas and medical journals. He was very proud of it. He boasted that he was the only resident who had his own office. No surprise really. I always knew James would be successful. I loved him at one time. I loved him from the moment we first started dating all the way through his marriage to Mary. I was crushed when he left me for her. I thought my heart would never recover. But it has. It started to heal the day I met Sinclair. He released James’s hold on me, and now James seemed to me no more than a fine man, a very good catch for a husband.

  Am I saying that I feel nothing for James anymore? Not exactly. But the truth is that I wanted to take him away from Mary more than I wanted him for myself.

  We began by chatting about this and that, but with James, casual conversation does not last very long, especially when he has patients waiting. He quickly turned on his cool, calm exterior. His voice became as brisk and professional as his well-groomed appearance.

  “You said you had to see me about something urgent?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m just not sure how to tell you.”

  “How to tell me what?”

  I took a deep breath then and feigned looking confused. “I just feel so bad.”

  “About what?”

  “I hate to see you play the chump, James.” I reached across the desk and took his hands. “There was a time when you meant a great deal to me. Do you remember?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said impatiently. “Now what is it?”

  That was when I did it. I told James everything. I told him his wife was having an affair. I told him that Mary was sleeping with Sinclair Baskin. I told him that she was carrying his baby.

  At first James did not react. He merely played with the pencil between his fingers. Then his jaw set. His face turned red. His hands clenched, snapping the pencil in half. Suddenly books were flying, then chairs, then furniture. He was a man out of control, completely crazy. I tried to calm him down, tried to warn him that someone would hear him, but he did not pay heed. He tore apart the office he so loved until his rage finally gave way to exhaustion. He crumpled back into his chair (it was the only thing still standing except me) and dropped his head into his hands.

  I circled around the desk. “Don’t worry, James. I love you. I’ll take care of you.” I reached his seat and put my hands on his shoulders. He winced in revulsion. My hands flew back to my sides as if his shoulders were on fire. Slowly his head rose. He glared at me with a twisted look, a look of intense hatred.

  “I don’t want you,” he said. “I want Mary.”

  Gloria looked up. “Dad knew?”

  Laura nodded.

  “And he never said anything? He just raised you as his own?”

  “I don’t know but I think we should read on.”

  “Why?”

  “This was written on May twenty-eighth.”

  “So?”

  “Sinclair Baskin died the next day.”

  May 29, 1960

  Help me. God, what have I done? The whole situation has become too much for me to handle. It’s completely out of control now. It’s taking on a life all its own, and I don’t know where it will lead. I fear the worst, but what else could possibly happen?

  Mary just called me. The pregnancy test came back positive. Though James has kept up a good facade up till now, jealousy has already nibbled away at his ability to reason. What is he going to do now that speculation has become fact?

  Mary is on her way to Sinclair’s office to tell him the news. Sinclair, my beloved, what have you done? I understand the power of Mary’s beauty, the sensuous spell she can cast over a man. But wasn’t our love strong enough to fight it off ? Wasn’t our love powerful enough to deflect her physical charms harmlessly into space? Will you grow tired of her and come back to me eventually? Yes, I am sure you will. I must wait.

  Later:

  My life is over. The moment I saw the blood on James’s shirt I knew what had happened. I said nothing. My face showed no emotion. But inside someone was screaming until the vibrations wore through me.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he said to me, his voice bordering on hysterical. “I just meant to confront him, to confront them both.” His hands were shaking. “It just happened.”

  “Just happened,” a voice echoed. I guess it was mine.

  “I was listening in at the door of his office, my ear pressed against the wooden frame. I could not believe what I heard. Mary wanted to leave me. She wanted to run away with that son of a bitch.”

  I still said nothing.

  “But the bastard wouldn’t listen to her. He threw her out. He was so cold to her, so heartless. He knew he had impregnated a married woman and the son of a bitch reacted by tossing her out of his office like yesterday’s garbage.”

  “What did Mary do?” I asked.

  “She was in shock. She could not believe he was just going to abandon her like this. She called him a bastard and ran out. I ducked in an empty door way down the hall as she sprinted past. The next thing I remember, the gun was out of my pocket and in my hand.”

  “No,” I cried, while my mind kept shouting, “Sinclair is dead, Judy. James may have pulled the trigger but your jealousy killed him.”

  James was in a trance now, his eyes wide and dreamy. “I stepped out of my hiding spot,” he began, “and moved slowly down the hall. When I reached his door, I peeked into his office. He was just sitting in his chair looking out the window. His back was to me. I crept closer. My hand gripped the gun. I had not held a weapon since I was in the service, but it felt so right in my palm. As he began to swivel his chair toward the door, I placed the gun against his forehead. He froze for a split second. His eyes, so full of fear, locked onto mine, and I think he knew then that he was about to die. I called him a bastard and then I pulled the trigger… .”

  “Dad?” Gloria asked, though she knew the answer. “Dad killed Sinclair Baskin?”

  Laura felt herself slowly slipping into a shock. “And Judy,” she managed, “and even Stan… .”

  “No! Not Dad! He couldn’t!”

  “Who else? Didn’t you say Stan saw the murder take place, that he remembered the killer’s face? He must have recognized Dad when he saw him at the game.”

  “It can’t be.”

  “And Judy,” Laura went on, “was going to tell me everything.”

  “But I don’t understand. Why did Judy wait so long to say something, Laura? Why didn’t she tell someone years ago?”

  “I’m not sure,” Laura said, “but she was probably scared out of her mind. She blames herself for what happened to Sinclair. If she had not betrayed her sister’s trust, he would still be alive. She might have seen herself as an accomplice. And what would have been the point of saying something anyway? It was over. Telling people would not bring Sinclair back.”

  “So what made her change her mind after all these years? Why did she finally say something?”

  Laura thought for a moment. “David’s drowning,” she concluded. “When David died, she must have realized that the past could not just be wished away.”

  Gloria shook her head. “It still makes no sense. David drowned six months ago. Why did she wait all that time to tell you? And there are other questions. What happened to David’s money? And how did someone get hold of his ring and put it in your apartment?” />
  Laura stopped. “I don’t know. But there may be a way of finding out.”

  “How?”

  Laura went to the closet and got her coat. It was six thirty in the morning. They had been reading the book all night. “You stay here and finish going through that diary. See if there’s any more about what happened.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She grabbed her keys and headed to the door. “To talk to Dad.”

  Gloria turned the page. The next day was May 30.

  JAMES drove very fast. He had never been afraid of being stopped by the police for speeding. After all, he was a senior staff member at Boston Memorial. He would just tell them that there was an emergency at the hospital. A matter of life and death. How that phrase grabbed people: a matter of life and death. People stopped and listened when you said it. For a fleeting moment, they considered their own mortality.

  He reached the apartment building on the outskirts of the city. It was a run-down neighborhood, but then again cops were not the highest-paid people in the workforce. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Six thirty in the morning. T.C. would probably still be asleep. James would have to wake him. After all, this was an emergency. This was a matter of life and death—for all of them.

  James stepped out of the car. He had known from the moment Laura first called him from Australia six months ago that Mary had once again lied to him, that she had gone to Australia instead of California, that she had been responsible for David’s sudden disappearance. The dread that had coursed through him at that moment was black and cold. Why had he been so foolish? Why hadn’t he seen it coming? Why hadn’t he found a way to stop Mary before she’d had the chance to say something to David?

  If only he could have stopped her. If only David had not listened to her. If only David had ignored Mary’s every word and run back to Laura. If only. Those two words stretched back thirty years to the moment when it all began: if only Mary had been a faithful wife instead of a cheap whore.

  But alas, none of that happened. Thinking of what might have been cannot change what has already occurred. James had to go on. He had to make the best of the situation. He had to salvage what he could from the tiny fragments that were still left. There was no time to cry over the past anymore. Too much time had passed. Too many people had already died.

  He knocked on the door. The gun was in his pocket just in case T.C. did not cooperate. He hoped that he would not have to use it quite yet. All he wanted from T.C. was one small piece of information: Where was Mark Seidman?

  When he found Mark Seidman, then the gun would be put to use.

  James knocked again. Why hadn’t David drowned in Australia? If he had, this whole episode would be unnecessary. But David was alive, and as a result, he was still a threat to James’s family. James had come too far to lose everything now. Just one more little pull of the trigger. Just one more bullet searing through a skull. Then it would all be over.

  T.C. came to the door. It was obvious from his appearance that he had been asleep. He pushed open the screen door and squinted through sleepy eyes.

  “Dr. Ayars?”

  “Can I speak to you a moment?” James asked. “It’s very important.”

  T.C. stepped back. “Come on in.”

  “No, this will only take a second.”

  “Okay,” T.C. said. “What can I do for you?”

  James licked his lips. “I need to speak to David.”

  “Huh?”

  “Please don’t play dumb with me. I know that David and Mark Seidman are one and the same. I’ve known for quite some time.”

  “I don’t know what the hell—”

  “Listen to me. I know David’s drowning was a fake. And I know why he did it. I don’t want to cause any trouble. I just want you to tell me where I can find him.”

  T.C. said nothing.

  “It’s a matter of life and death,” James urged. “Laura’s life is in danger. I have no interest in revealing his secret. I only want to talk to him.”

  T.C. shrugged. “David is dead, Dr. Ayars—”

  “Damn it! Judy has already been murdered. Stop playing games—”

  “—but,” T.C. continued evenly, “if you just want to speak with Mark Seidman, he shoots baskets at the Boston Garden every morning from now until about eight a.m. He’s alone in there, if you need to talk to him.”

  “Does he use the same side entrance David used to use?”

  T.C. nodded.

  “Thank you,” James said and turned to leave. Perfect. No one would be in the Garden this early. James could sneak up on David, put the gun against his head (just like he had done with David’s father), and fire.

  And at long last it would be over.

  James jogged back to his car. His hands were in his pockets—one touching his car keys, the other touching the weapon he would use in his next (and last) murder.

  GLORIA chose not to read about May 30, 1960, right away. Judy’s journal was like a bad-tasting medicine that could be swallowed only in moderate doses—and May 29, 1960, had given Gloria more than a mouthful.

  She put down the diary, walked into the kitchen, and poured herself a cup of coffee. She glanced out the window. Laura, too, had a view of the Charles River. Gloria remembered how much Stan had loved to look at that river, how he’d cherished the time he’d spent just staring out from the balcony. He was such a simple man really—a simple man who had turned down a few wrong paths and could never find his way out of the thicket. Gloria had found him there. She had begun to lead Stan into the clearing when someone had killed him.

  Someone nothing. Her father had done it.

  How? she wondered. How could a man full of love be such a monster underneath? She did not know the answer. She was not sure she wanted to know. She sipped her coffee, sat back on the couch, picked up the diary and read about—

  May 30, 1960.

  Gloria’s eyes widened.

  Blood …

  Soon the words began to swim in front of her eyes. Her stomach contracted painfully. Images, horrible terrible images—

  Blood, there was so much blood …

  —jerked her mind back and forth. Gloria’s darkest nightmare was coming to life, chasing after her with—

  blood …

  —with a lust for destruction. She had been so young at the time, just a little girl, and mercifully she had never remembered what had happened.

  “Mommy! Mommy!”

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

  But that was about to change. Visions jolted her, stinging her nerves. All of a sudden, Gloria was a five-year-old child moving down that darkened hallway again, except this time she knew where she was heading: her parents’ bedroom. She was thirsty and wanted a drink of water. So she took Floppy Rabbit with her and began to trek down the hallway toward her mommy and daddy’s bedroom.

  Gloria wanted to turn away from the diary, to close the book and never open it again. But her eyes were locked to the pages, moving over the words at a brisk, even pace. The words were opening a door that had been closed in her mind since childhood. Suddenly, little Gloria was in front of her parents’ bedroom door again. She stood up on her tiptoes and stretched for the doorknob. Floppy Rabbit was cocked under her elbow.

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

  The knob turned in her hands. Soon, Gloria would see what was behind that door. She had spent her whole life forgetting this moment, but now the image was being forced upon her. Even when she closed her eyes she could still see the door swinging open.

  She looked inside the room. And remembered. And screamed.

  Gloria put down the diary. She was shaking. The words Judy had written about May 30, 1960, revealed everything. It was all true. Every last word was true. Her father had killed Sinclair and Judy and Stan and . . . what about David?

  The doorman’s intercom buzzed again. Gloria walked over to the squawk box. She noticed on the kitchen clock that it was near
ly seven in the morning. Who would be visiting them now?

  “Yes?”

  “There is a Richard Corsel down here to see Laura,” the security guard said. “He says it’s urgent.”

  Laura had just mentioned his name. He was the man at the Heritage of Boston Bank who had transferred David’s money. “Send him up.”

  As Gloria sat and waited, the reality of what she had just read sank into her brain like a concrete brick in quicksand. Her heart hammered away in her chest. The truth became apparent and even more tragic than she could have ever dared imagine. She grabbed the diary off the couch, flipped forward in time, and read onward. Soon, her eyes found what she had already known to be true. The words on the page merely reconfirmed her darkest fear: her mother had been wrong. David and Laura were not brother and sister.

  31

  LAURA pulled into the driveway and leaped out of the car. There were still so many holes that needed to be plugged up: David’s ring under her pillow, his missing money, and maybe most of all, the reason Judy had waited so long to try to say something. Laura did not know why but she was sure that was the crux, that once that was answered the rest would fall into place.

  She did not bother to ring the bell and warn her parents of her early-morning arrival. She simply unlocked the door and stepped into the front foyer.

  “Laura?”

  She turned toward the voice. Her mother was sitting on the couch, wearing a robe.

  “Where is Dad?”

  Mary’s face clouded over. “He’s not here.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know. He stayed in his study all night. Oh, Laura, you’re not going to tell him, are you? Please—”

  “He already knows,” Laura said evenly. “He’s known for thirty years.”

  Mary’s head fell to the side. “What?”

  “Judy told him the day after you told her. I have Judy’s diary from nineteen sixty. It’s all in there.”

  Mary’s face twisted in puzzlement. “But that’s not possible. He never said one word to me.”

  Laura’s words spilled forward in wild gasps. “Judy was furious at you for stealing Sinclair from her. Telling Dad was her way of getting revenge. But she never expected him to lose control. He murdered Sinclair Baskin right after you left the office.”