by Harlan Coben
'Dad?' she called again, but still no response. His car was in the driveway, so he had to be home. He was probably in bed already. Gloria started up the stairs, moved down the hallway and stopped abruptly.
What the . . . ?
The light was on in Laura's old room. Strange. No one had been in that room in years -- except Laura during her occasional visits, and the maid. Gloria crept down the hall, reached the doorway and peeked inside.
She suddenly felt very cold.
Her father sat on the edge of Laura's bed, his back facing the door. His head was slumped into his hands in obvious anguish. The sight shocked Gloria. She had never seen her father look so small, so vulnerable.
'Dad?' she ventured.
She heard a sniffle as he raised his head. He still did not turn and face her. 'Gloria, I'm . . . I'm glad you're home.'
Glad she was home. Those words. There was a time she would imagine Armageddon easier than imagining her father saying those words to her.
'Are you all right?' she asked.
Dr James Ayars did not respond right away, his shoulders raising and lowering with each breath. 'I have some bad news.'
Gloria had known terror in her thirty years, most self-inflicted. Once, when she had dropped some bad LSD at a West Coast party, her mind had conjured up horrors that almost made her jump out of a tenth-floor window. She remembered that fear now, the way her heart had raced in her chest. And then there was another time --
'Mommy! Mommy!'
'Gloria, get out of here! Get out of here now!' -- when she had known terror, but she was so young then. A little girl. She remembered nothing about it, except ---
Blood. So much blood.
-- what she saw in the dreams.
'What is it?' she asked.
'Laura just called from Australia,' he began slowly, his strength ebbing away with each word. 'David's dead. He got caught up in some powerful current and drowned.'
Despair swept through Gloria. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. Not David. Not the only man her sister had ever loved. Not the only man who had ever treated Gloria like a person, the only true friend she had ever had.
She broke then and ran to her father on frail legs, the tears already starting to pour down her face.
It just couldn't be.
T.C. sat next to Laura on the plane. She had barely spoken since he had delivered the news, asking only one question: 'When can I see the body?'
T.C. had hoped she would not ask that question. 'There's no need,' he had said gently.
'But I want -- '
'No you don't.'
T.C. had taken care of the rest of the details quickly. He knew that David had no real family to contact. His only living relative was Stan, his piece-of-shit brother who none of them had seen for over a decade and who would probably applaud David's death. No need to contact that scumbag. T.C. had also been busy making sure the press did not hassle Laura too much. He knew that once Laura returned to Boston, the press vultures would be all over her, wanting to know the tiniest tidbit of how it felt to have your heart ripped out of your chest. He decided the best thing would be to hide Laura in Serita's apartment for a little while, but T.C. knew from past experience that the press could only be denied for so long.
He turned toward her. He had been searching his brain, desperately trying to think of a way of easing some of her pain. His eyes watched her, concentrated on her every movement as if they would give him a clue as to what he should do. It was a useless exercise and T.C. knew it.
Damn you for doing this to her, David. Damn you.
He also knew what Laura was thinking under the haze of anguish because he was one of the few people who knew the truth about David and his affliction. He had witnessed its awesome effects firsthand. He had seen it nearly kill his best friend.
But Laura had put that all in the past, thank God. Somehow, she had sought and eventually destroyed the evil spectre that had tormented David Baskin for a good portion of his life. But still, they were haunted by the fear that the spectre would one day return. Was the spectre truly dead, they wondered, or like some Godzilla sequel was he just hiding, regaining his strength, preparing to one day attack with a vengeance that would destroy David once and for all?
And the more immediate question that T.C. knew Laura was asking herself: Had the creature paralyzed David's body in a wave of unbearable agony while he tried to handle the treacherous waters? If she had stayed with him, could she have done something to protect her beloved David from the cruel creature within?
T.C. reached out and patted her hand. He wanted to tell her to stop thinking such thoughts. He wanted to tell her that David had not had another attack. He wanted to tell her that there was nothing Laura could have done to change what had happened.
But of course, he could not tell Laura any of those things. She would never just accept his word. She would demand to know how he knew so much about David's drowning.
And that was something he could never tell her.
Dr James Ayars had seriously considered canceling all his appointments for the day. It was something he had not done in over twenty years, not allowing himself to become ill during that entire time period. He had always prided himself on being punctual. Every Monday through Friday -- save his three weeks' vacation each year - began with hospital rounds at seven thirty in the morning, followed by his first office appointment at nine, his last one at four thirty, another quick visit to the patients in the hospital, and then back to his home on the outskirts of Boston. If a day was to be missed for personal reasons, he gave his patients and staff at least two months' notice.
There had been very few deviations from this routine during the last two decades, but the phone call he had received from Laura yesterday was as much a cause for deviation as anything he had experienced during that time. It had left him saddened, confused, so much so that even a man as disciplined as he considered not going in to work. He had just wanted to stay in bed and deal with the harsh blows.
In the end, he had realized that staying at home would serve no purpose. It would only leave him time to brood when what he needed was to keep his mind and soul busy. He had called Gloria's psychiatrist -- even with her enormous improvement Gloria still needed therapy -- and told her what had happened. Her psychiatrist had wanted to see Gloria right away.
He pushed his chair away from his desk. There were patients waiting. Mr Campbell was waiting in room five and Mrs Salton was in three.
The phone buzzed.
'Dr Ayars?' the box cawed.
'Yes?'
'Your wife is on line two.'
'Thank you.' He swallowed away his fear, picked up the receiver, and pressed the flashing light. 'Mary?'
'Hello, James.'
'Where the hell are you?' he asked. 'I was trying to reach you all night. I thought you were staying at the Four Seasons.'
'They were having some sort of wild convention. Noise all night long so I moved over to the Hyatt.'
James closed his eyes and rubbed them. He did not mention that there had been no listing under her name at the Hyatt either. 'I have some rather bad news.'
There was a pause. 'Oh?'
'It's about David.'
'What's happened?'
'He's dead.'
'Oh my God! How? Was it . . . was it suicide?'
Predictable enough response, James thought. 'He drowned off the Australian coast.'
'But he was such a good swimmer.'
'I guess he misjudged the current.'
'Or . . . ?'
'Or what?'
'How awful,' she continued. 'How's Laura handling it?'
'I don't think it's fully hit her yet. David's friend T.C. is there with her. He's handling all the arrangements.'
'She's going to be devastated, James. We have to help her through this.'
'Of course we will.'
'She'll snap out of it,' Mary said hopefully. 'She's always been a very strong girl.'
'I'm sure you're
right,' he replied without much enthusiasm.
'I'll catch a flight back home tomorrow.'
'Do you want me to meet you at the airport?'
'No need, James, I'll grab a cab at Logan.'
'Okay, I'll see you then.'
He hung up the phone, leaned back and took a deep breath. Mary had never been a very good liar. She had not even bothered to ask why Laura and David were in Australia. James Ayars looked down at his hands. With some surprise he realized that they were shaking.
Stan Baskin woke up with a start. He tried to remember the dream that had caused him to wake, couldn't, then gave up. What's-her-name in the bed next to him was still asleep, thank God, her face turned away from him. He tried to remember what she looked like, couldn't, then gave up.
He must have been having a nightmare about last night's Red Sox game. Damn, that had been a sure thing. Stan had studied the match-up carefully and had concluded that there was absolutely no way the Brewers could beat the Sox. Milwaukee could never hit a lefty pitcher with a 7-0 lifetime record against them. Combine that with the way the Sox had been beating up Brewer pitching and then add that they were playing in Fenway Park. It was a sure thing.
The Sox had lost 6-3.
Stan had dropped a thousand bucks on that game. And even worse, the B Man (so named because of his fondness for breaking bones) was after him just because Stan had been late on a few payments. Stan knew that all he needed was one more chance. He knew that today's game between the Houston Astros and the Cards in St Louis was a sure thing. Mike Scott was ready to explode. He may even hurl a no-hitter against St Louis today. And there was a horse in the fifth at Yonkers Stan absolutely loved.
He silently slipped from under the covers, urinated, flushed, then looked at his naked body in the mirror. Not bad for a man in his late (very late) thirties. Everything was still firm this morning (even Mr Happy) and his handsome face still drew the women. Witness last night, his very first in Boston.
He moved back into the bedroom, What's-her-name had not yet stirred. Good. He searched her dresser for some aspirin, found some Tylenol, quickly downed three in the hopes that it would kill his hangover. He turned on the television, flipped the stations until he found what he was looking for, sat on the edge of the bed. What's-her-name finally began to stir from her hibernation as the television warmed up.
The anchorman was talking about his brother again. For chrissake you would have thought the President of the United States had died the way they covered David. He grabbed a cigarette off the floor (how the cigarette had ended up there he had no idea) and lit it as the television droned on: 'The sports world is still shaken and shocked over the tragic drowning death of basketball great David Baskin. Today, our city pays its last respects to Mr Baskin, the Celtics legend who provided us all with so many memorable moments and world championships. A public memorial service will be held today at noon at Faneuil Hall. Thousands are expected to be on hand to say goodbye to David Baskin. Scheduled speakers include Senator Ted Kennedy, Celtics President Clip Arnstein and two of David Baskin's teammates, center Earl Roberts and shooting guard Timmy Daniels.
Stan shook his head. A whole city mourning for that schmuck. Unbelievable. His eyes suddenly grew large when the television flashed a picture of Laura on the screen.
A spokesman for the team said that Baskin's beautiful widow, fashion mogul Laura Ayars-Baskin, will come out of seclusion for today's ceremony and the private burial that will follow. Mrs Ayars-Baskin and her husband were on their secret honeymoon when the tragedy occurred. She has not been seen since returning . . .
Stan was held spellbound by her image. He may not have liked his brother (hated him actually), but oh man, was his bride a different story. Just look at that body! Christ, she had to be a great lay. No question about it. And a girl like that would be crawling up walls soon without a steady fuck. A girl like that would want a real man sharing her bed this time.
And David's dear older brother Stan was just the man for the job.
He stood up.
'Where you going?'
So she was finally awake. Stan tried like hell to remember the name he had used last night, couldn't, then gave up. 'Huh?'
'Did you sleep okay, David?'
He suppressed a laugh. David. He had used the son of a bitch's name. 'Just fine.' He turned and faced her, seeing her for the first time since the night before.
Oh shit.
First the Red Sox lose, and now this beast. He could have sworn she was a whole lot better looking last night.
'What would you like me to make you for breakfast?'
Christ, she was a cow. 'I gotta go.'
'Will you call?'
Moo. 'Sure, sweetheart.'
She lowered her head. 'I mean, if you don't want . . .'
Listen to this cow nag. How had he ended up with her anyway? If Stan didn't know himself better, he would have sworn he was slipping.
He looked at her again. Now he noticed that she had big tits. Real big. Well, that did count for something, but right now, it was time to teach her a lesson, time to teach her who was boss. 'How about if we go out tonight?' he asked.
Her eyes lit up, her face beaming. 'Really?'
'Sure. Dinner, dancing, formal dress, the works. Go out today and buy yourself a new gown. Sound okay?'
She sat up eagerly. 'That sounds wonderful. What time?'
He suppressed another laugh. The cow was buying it. 'How's eight o'clock? I have a business appointment so I may be a few minutes late.'
'Okay.'
He pictured the cow waiting all night in some new dress for a knock that would never come. This time, a chuckle did manage to escape from his lips.
'Anything wrong, David?'
David. He chuckled again. 'Just thought of something funny.' He looked at her again, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Maybe he was being unfair. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he should reconsider. After all, she did have big tits . . .
Nah.
It would be more fun to stand her up. Besides, he had big plans for tonight. It was time to introduce Stan Baskin to the city of Boston, to the press . . .
. . . and to Laura Ayars.
It made international headlines.
David's death was truly a story no newsman could resist. More than any other athlete, David Baskin had gained international fame through not only his pro basketball excellence, but for his Olympic heroics, his domination of European basketball during his stint as a Rhodes Scholar and, most of all, his tireless work with handicapped children. Add to this the fact that he was married to gorgeous supermodel Laura Ayars, the founder of the Svengali line, and just watch the reporters salivate.
What could make the story even more stimulating? Tragedy striking the happy couple. While eloping and secretly honeymooning in Australia, the great White Lightning drowns in a freak accident, leaving behind his beautiful widow to mourn the cruelty of it all.
Newspapers from Warsaw to New York, from Bangkok to Leningrad, gave the story prominence. Every spectrum of the journalism world, from supermarket tabloids to government-run newsletters, covered the sad event.
There were all kinds of clever headlines about how White Lightning would strike no more, how nature was finally able to stop David when no man in a basketball uniform could, but more than any of the others, Laura thought that the Boston Globe, the Celtics' hometown newspaper, struck closest to the bone. In simple, huge, sad block letters, the front page screamed in pain:
WHITE LIGHTNING DEAD
Laura laid the newspaper in the bed, leaned back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Her eyes blinked spasmodically. Serita had tried to keep the newspapers away from her, but Laura had been insistent and Serita was hardly the type to tell her what she could and could not do. Now, as she lay in the spare bedroom in Serita's apartment for the third straight day, she recalled one particular paragraph she had read claiming that David's body was found 'bloated' and 'mutilated beyond recognition.'
The tears started to come again and yet they did not seem to come from her. She was too numb, too anguished merely to cry. Crying served her no purpose. The pain went far beyond anything tears could help to drown out. She knew the media were searching for her, but very few people knew where she was hiding, and Serita watched over Laura like an Israeli airport security guard.
She also knew that today she would have to rise from this bed, that today she would have to leave the protection of Serita's apartment and face the world for the first time since her David had . . .
He can't be dead. He just can't be. Please tell me it's not true. Please tell me that this is just a stupid joke and when I get a hold of him I'm going to beat the shit out of him for scaring me like this. Please tell him enough is enough, that I know he's okay, that I know his body was not shredded on coral and rocks.
'Laura?'
Laura looked up at her long-time friend. Serita was a devastating beauty, one of the few women in the world who could compete with Laura in the looks category. She was nearly six feet tall, her body thin and very muscular with the most beautiful ebony skin. Serita (she never used a last name) had been the world's top black model since she and Laura had first met six years ago on the modeling circuit. Serita had also become good friends with David over the last two years. In fact, David had liked her so much he had set her up with his closest friend on the Celtics, Earl Roberts, the seven-foot center.
'Yes?'
'Honey, you got to get out of bed now. Gloria called. She and your father are going to pick you up in an hour.'
Laura did not respond.
'And Gloria wants to speak to you first.'
'About what?'
Serita paused. 'Your mother.'
Laura's eyes grew angry. For the first time since David's death, they showed some sort of life. 'What about my mother?'
'She wants to come to the memorial service.'
'Fuck her.'
'That's your answer?'
'That's my answer.'
Serita shrugged. 'I'm but the secretary. Now get your ass out of bed.'
