Harlan Coben

by Play Dead

  Gloria moved toward them. “And that answers the question about why Judy waited so long to say something, Laura. When David died, there was no reason to tell you the truth. David was already dead. But when she saw Mark Seidman at the Boston Garden, she must have realized that David was still alive. She knew then that it was not too late to bring you two back together.”

  “My God,” Mary managed, “then David is not your brother?”

  Laura shook her head.

  “Then that gun …”

  “What gun? Mom, what are you talking about?”

  “I thought nothing of it at the time. I figured there had been some trouble at the hospital and he needed it for protection… .”

  “Needed what?” Laura shouted. “Tell me.”

  Her eyes fixed onto Laura’s. “I saw your father leave earlier. He had a gun.”

  Laura sprinted to the phone. The house remained silent, everyone lost in her troubled thoughts. Laura quickly dialed. The phone was picked up on the first ring.

  “Hello?” the voice said.

  “Clip?”

  “Oh, hello, Laura,” the old Celtics president said. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “Sorry to hear about your aunt. Terrible tragedy. This whole year—”

  “I’m in a bit of a hurry,” she cut in. “I need to speak to Mark Seidman right away. Do you have his phone number?”

  “Seidman? Why do you want to speak to him?”

  “Please,” Laura begged, “it’s very important.”

  “Well, if you really need to reach him quickly, you can head over to the Garden. He’s usually shooting there by himself in the mornings … just like David—”

  Laura did not hear the rest of his words. She was already sprinting toward the car.

  “DISCONTINUE his IV and monitor his vital signs,” James barked in his familiar authoritative voice.

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Tell Dr. Kingfield to look in on him. I’ll be in in a few hours.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  James glanced out the booth and into the streets. The Boston Garden was so close now. He only had to drive another hundred yards at the most. “Is there anything else?”

  “No, Doctor.”

  “Good,” he replied. “I’ll call back in a little while.”

  He did not wait for her “Yes, Doctor.” He hung up the phone and strolled as casually as he could back to his car. It was not easy. He was anxious now.

  The car started right away. He checked the traffic behind him and moved the car into the flow. A minute later, he turned into the lot at the Boston Garden. The timeworn arena needed so much construction that it was nearly impossible to figure out what should be worked on first. Still, the Garden had a certain majesty to it. He felt an undeniable awe when he gazed upon it. Whether his awe emanated from the building’s history or from the thought of the atrocity he was about to commit within its sacred hall, James could not say.

  He parked not too far from the side entrance David had always used in the past. One peek out the windows told him that there was no one around this early in the morning. The area was completely abandoned.

  Perfect.

  James took his gun out of the pocket. He opened the chamber. All loaded and ready to go. The gun he had used last night to kill Stan was sitting in the bottom of the river. This was a new gun—entirely unrelated to the one that had ended Stan Baskin’s life. Also untraceable. He put it back in his pocket and got out of the car.

  He walked over to the heavy exit door and took one more look around. Nope. Nobody in sight. He opened the door slowly. There was no creak. He stepped inside. Behind him, the door began to swing closed. James turned around and realized that the door was going to slam shut. He put out his hand to slow the accelerating movement of the weighty portal. It worked to some degree. The door did not slam, but it did not close silently either.

  James was in the dark cavern on the bottom level of the Garden. He turned around. Down the hall was the famous parquet court. In the distance, he could make out the distinct echo of someone dribbling a basketball.

  32

  DAVID worked on his foul shots. He rarely missed foul shots in a game, shooting a career ninety-two percent—the highest in the league. Missing foul shots was something he had always considered unforgivable. It was a free shot, free points. There were no hands in your face, no players bumping you or trying to swat the ball into the seats. And there was only one thing you needed to do to be a good foul shooter: practice. So many games came down to them. So many games were won or lost on the charity stripe.

  He had made twelve foul shots in a row when he heard a faint noise. Someone had just come in via his side entrance. David grabbed the ball and speed-dribbled down to the other end of the court. Sweat trickled down his body. His hair, now curly blond instead of wavy brown, was matted against his forehead.

  His ears did not detect footsteps. Strange. The sound of the door closing was fairly unmistakable. Very few people knew that he kept that particular door unlocked when he was working out in the mornings. There were his teammates of course. Clip and the coaching staff. T.C., Laura, Gloria, and James. And that was about it.

  So who was here now?

  He drove hard to the basket and took a reverse layup, always a favorite move of his when he was up against a much taller player. He would leap in the air, use the rim for protection against the long arm of the defender, and drop the ball against the backboard on the other side. Two points. Three, if he could draw the foul.

  Since becoming Mark Seidman, he had worked out with Nautilus weight machines four times a week. The exercise regimen had immediate impact on his athletic body. It made Mark Seidman’s physique somewhat thinner and more toned than David Baskin’s. David found this also increased his foot speed and leaping ability to some degree.

  Still no sounds from the entrance ramp.

  He shrugged. Maybe it had been the wind against the metal door. Maybe it was just one of the towel boys doing some early laundry in the locker room. Whatever.

  After another few seconds, David forgot all about the slamming door. He tried to concentrate on his long-distance jump shot, but other images jumped in the way.

  GLORIA’S car swerved off Interstate 93 and onto the exit ramp. Her eyes stared out the windshield, seeing nothing but the road in front of her. Her foot pressed down harder against the accelerator. The car lurched forward.

  In the passenger seat, Laura sat with the diary laid open on her lap. She read and read but still one thought kept going through her head—one thought that pushed away the mounting horror of the past.

  David. David was still alive.

  Laura looked over at Gloria. “Are you okay?”

  “Dad murdered Stan,” she answered. “He killed the man I loved.”

  “I know,” Laura said softly.

  “How? How could he do that?”

  Laura’s voice was barely a whisper. “You read the diary. He’s a sick man. He’s out of control.”

  “Did you get through the month of June yet?” Gloria asked.

  “Just about.”

  “Then you see the full scope of what he did. Dad kept drugging Mom so she wouldn’t figure out what he had done. Then he kept sleeping with her until she was pregnant again—except now the baby was his, not Sinclair’s.”

  “And Judy said nothing,” Laura added. “She was terrified of what would happen if the truth came out.”

  The car turned right. They were not very far away now. “They lived with that secret for all those years. They just pretended nothing had ever happened.”

  “I don’t think it was all that simple,” Laura said. “I doubt a day went by that they didn’t think of what happened in May of nineteen sixty.”

  Gloria’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I just can’t believe it. I mean, what could have twisted Dad’s mind like that?”

  “I don’t know,” Laura said. “His blind obsession with Mom
maybe, with the whole idea of family.”

  “How can he act like he loves us so much and still be a killer?”

  “It’s no act,” Laura replied. “At least, I don’t think it is. He loves us—maybe too strongly. He has always been the one to take on responsibility without help, protecting his girls from harm. Whenever there was a problem, Mom never raised a hand to help him. She just sat back and relied on Dad. Somewhere in his mind, he believes he has done all of this to protect his family.”

  “All this time … and we never knew.”

  Laura nodded. She tried to look down and continue reading the diary, hoping to block her thoughts from what was about to occur. But it was senseless. Anticipation rubbed against her raw nerves. David. After all this time, David was still alive. She was going to see him soon, hold him, tell him that they were never meant to be apart.

  Just a few more minutes.

  JAMES crept down the darkened hallway. He moved past a media room, past an empty watercooler, past the visiting team’s locker room. On his left, he saw a large garbage canister stuffed full with paper cups and programs. He checked the other end of the corridor. Nobody in sight.

  Everything had been going so well until Mary realized that David Baskin was Sinclair’s son. Then she’d panicked. She flailed around until she awoke the sleeping past. The mask that hid away all of his deceptions—his useful deceptions—began to crack and fall away. He tried to keep Mary still, but how could he protect Laura and David’s relationship without telling his wife what she had made him do all those years ago? The whole foundation that supported his family would crumble into worthless ruins. Families, like lives, are fragile things. They are held together with flimsy tissue. Stretch that tissue too far …

  He moved forward. Up ahead, he could see the entrance ramp. The players jogged down this very hall and out that ramp to the sound of swelling applause or boos. Light cascaded in from the playing area. The sound of dribbling became louder.

  James had been in this building just a few days ago for the opening game of the Celtics’ new season. He had come with high hopes, with the genuine belief that the worst was behind them. But he was so wrong. That visit to the Garden, that damn opening game, had unraveled the spool of lies like no other occasion ever had. Judy had been only one loose thread that needed immediate attention.

  The other had been Stan Baskin.

  Stan had recognized James at the basketball game. He knew that James had killed his father. But instead of seeking vengeance, Stan Baskin had decided to turn a profit by playing a little game of blackmail. Disgusting. What kind of sense of family did a man like that have? James quickly realized that a payoff would do no good. Any man who could be bought off by his father’s murderer could not be trusted to remain silent. Furthermore, this scum was seriously involved with his older daughter. James would not allow Gloria to fall in love with such a man. So once again, what choice did James have? Only one, really.

  He had silenced Stan for good.

  The entranceway was only a few yards away. The time had come. No more mere clipping away at the weeds to improve the appearance. He needed to dig deep and rip up the evil by the roots, to destroy it in one bold stroke. Then they would all be safe.

  Drastic situations called for drastic measures. And in this case, that meant murder. He would not shy away from the unpleasantness of what must be done. Personal feeling had to be put aside.

  One last murder.

  He pressed his back up against the wall. He leaned forward and peered out. David was performing dribbling drills near center court. He was stationary, the ball moving in a figure eight between his legs.

  “It’s good for the hand-eye coordination, Dr. Ayars.”

  “Please. Call me James.”

  He closed his eyes and pushed the memory away. Then he dared another peek. David’s back was to him. Silently, James moved out from the entranceway and ducked behind a row of courtside seats. David had not heard a thing. He just continued dribbling in figure eights, now using two balls, each traveling in a different direction. James slowly raised his head and glanced out like a soldier in a foxhole. David stared straight toward the basket at the opposite end of the court. He did not watch the basketballs as they moved in a blur beneath him. The orange spheres were like well-trained animals who obeyed his every command.

  “How do you do that, David? How can you dribble so fast without looking down?”

  “I practice.”

  “You never watch the ball when you’re dribbling?”

  “Never. There are too many other things to watch.”

  James was close enough now, only ten yards away. He would not miss from here. He reached into his pocket and gently slid the gun into his hand. Once again, the weapon felt so right.

  The time had come. Tears welled in his eyes. Not now. He had to save his daughter, his family. He had to end this thing once and for all.

  He took aim.

  GLORIA pulled the car into the abandoned North Station Garden parking lot. They circled around to Area B, where the side entrance was. When they reached that lot, Laura nearly screamed. Her chest tightened to the point where she could barely breathe.

  “No,” she whispered. “No!”

  Laura jumped out of the car before it came to a complete stop. She sprinted toward the side door, passing the one car in the lot, a familiar car.

  Her father’s car.

  JAMES’S hand shook, but it no longer mattered. The target was within range. All he had to do was pull the trigger. It would all be over. Once again, peace would descend over his family. The past would be foiled before it could destroy any more lives. It would rise no more.

  His thumb pulled back the hammer.

  That was when he heard the door swing open.

  The heavy metal door banged hard against the wall, the sound echoing all the way down the hall and into the arena. David turned around quickly. He froze when he saw James.

  “Daddy!” a voice screamed from the distance. It was Laura’s voice. He could hear her footsteps as she ran toward them both.

  Time was running out. There was no time to dawdle. He had a job to do, and whether his daughter was here or not, he would do it. This was, after all, for her benefit. Once again, he aimed the gun.

  David’s eyes met James’s. David said just one word: “Don’t.”

  James chose to ignore the request. His finger squeezed the trigger. The gun fired.

  LAURA heard the gunshot.

  “No!” she shouted.

  She raced down the hall, turned right, and sprinted with everything she had toward the entrance ramp. In the distance, she could hear somebody running away.

  Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please … not again. Don’t let me lose him twice.

  But when she reached the playing area, when she crossed the portal that David had happily jogged through so many times, her heart fell into the pit of the stomach.

  “No …”

  Blood. Blood on the floor.

  She ran toward the dark red substance that flowed freely over the parquet floor. Her world, already unglued, began to melt away into nothing. When Laura finally looked down, she saw the still body. His head lay in a murky puddle of blood.

  Laura screamed.

  Epilogue

  LAURA drove herself. Gloria and Serita had volunteered to go with her and wait in the car, but Laura had decided to go alone. She wanted no help.

  Her heart swelled in her chest as she made the right turn into the familiar parking lot. She was dressed conservatively in a dark Svengali business suit. Her hair was pulled back away from her face, highlighting her high cheekbones. As always, she wore very little makeup. As always, she was breathtaking.

  Laura circled the car around the decrepit edifice. The parking lot was completely empty, the sun just beginning to form dull streaks across the pavement. She checked the time on her watch and saw it was nearly seven in the morning. The ride had taken her only fifteen minutes, but in Laura’s world, fifteen min
utes was suddenly a very long time.

  She parked the car not too far from where her father had parked a scant two days earlier. Two days and a lifetime ago.

  A moment later, Laura opened the car door and stepped out. Yes, she thought, it was finally time. The past had claimed its vengeance. It had punished the guilty and struck down the innocent. But now it was over. At long last, the past would succumb to the present and future.

  She strode toward the side-entrance door. Her hand pulled the door back and she stepped inside. Like two days ago, the hall was dark. Like two days ago, there was a ball being dribbled in the distance.

  Laura walked neither very fast nor very slow toward the court. Her legs felt numb but her pulse raced. Her heart beat so hard, she was sure it was visible to the naked eye.

  When she reached the entrance ramp, she stopped and took a deep breath. Her body quivered. She stepped out.

  The player continued to dribble and shoot. He had not yet seen her.

  It took her a few moments to find her voice. Finally she called out to him. “Hello.”

  Mark Seidman’s body went rigid when he heard the voice. The ball rolled away. He turned toward her slowly, hesitantly, as though he were afraid to reconfirm with his eyes what his ears already knew to be true. When he finally did see her standing by the entrance ramp, his eyes darted away. He spun back toward the basket and retrieved the ball.

  “Hello,” he managed.

  She stepped in and sat down in one of the box seats. “Do you mind if I watch for a few minutes?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “No one is supposed to be in here.”

  “I won’t stay long.”

  He glanced at the clock on the scoreboard, his eyes never swerving in her direction. “I really have to be going.”

  “Wait,” she said. “Don’t go. I’d like to watch you shoot. Please.”

  Mark broke his own rule: he chose to stare at the dribbling basketball rather than look up. “Okay,” he said after a few moments had passed, “but I can’t stay very long.”