Play Dead (2010)

by Harlan Coben

  'Stop!' she shouted. 'Leave him alone!'

  B Man and Bart hesitated for a moment and looked up. Stan was not moving.

  'Pl . . . Please,' she begged, 'I'll give you anything you want. Just leave him alone.'

  B Man moved toward her. 'Sweetheart, he owes a hundred thousand dollars.'

  'I'll write you a check. Just please don't hurt him anymore.'

  B Man thought a moment. 'You want to help him?'

  She nodded. Stan had risked his life for her. Sure, he had a problem. He had admitted it to her, had asked for her help. Once she paid off these criminals, she could help him heal in much the way Laura had helped her. 'Please. Don't hurt him anymore.'

  B Man shrugged. 'Leave him alone, Bart. Wait for me downstairs.'

  'But, B Man -- '

  'Go.'

  Reluctantly, Bart left the room.

  'My . . . my purse is in the bathroom,' Gloria stammered. 'I'll be right back.'

  When she had gone into the other room, when she was completely out of sight, Stan raised his head toward B Man. Stan took the remains of the blood capsule out of his mouth and put it in his pocket.

  'Thank Roadhouse for me,' Stan whispered.

  Then the two men shared a smile and a wink.

  Mark Seidman showed the press pass T.C. had secured for him to the security guard. He moved past him and sat on the wooden benches with the other reporters. Hellenic College in Brookline, Massachusetts was home of the Soaring Owls. Their basketball program had been dumped off the curriculum twelve years ago after yet another pitiful season. If they had drawn thirty people for a basketball game, including the players and coaches, it would have been considered a major sell-out. But Mark Seidman and the handful of spectators were not there to watch the Soaring (or Wingless, as the school newspaper had labeled them) Owls. No, the gymnasium at Hellenic College was better known for their current guests: The Boston Celtics.

  Here was where the final try-outs were held before the pre-season games began. The seventeen players on the court would be trimmed down to twelve soon, leaving five crushed dreams on this wooden floor in Brookline. The Celtics were having double sessions this week. That meant two practices a day. The morning practice was an intense workout, but in the afternoon the mood was a bit more relaxed. Members of the press with the proper credentials were encouraged to come in and watch the players for a while.

  Today, Mark Seidman was one such reporter.

  Celtics coach Roger Wainright ran the players through a few simple drills and then gave the players time for free shooting. It was a quiet day for the Celtics. Mark counted only eight reporters in the stands. Not even Clip Arnstein was here. Mark watched the players shooting. Earl Roberts was working on his hookshot. Johnny Dennison dribbled laps around the court. And Timmy Daniels, the press's pick to be this year's best outside shooter, was practicing his long-range jumper with one of the towel boys rebounding for him.

  Mark could see the smile on Coach Roger Wainright's face as he watched his young guard put shot after shot through the cylinder. Suddenly, an idea surged into Mark's head. He sat upright, mulling the idea over in his mind. It would work, he was sure of it. There was a big risk, but after all, what did he have to lose? He felt anxious, wanting to just get it over with. But Mark knew better than to try it today. No way. He would only get one chance. If he blew it . . . well, that was it. The end. Mark needed to get some money and wait until Clip Arnstein and the media were around. His scheme would fail without them.

  Mark stood and stepped off the bleachers. He would have to wait until the team held its next press conference before putting his plan into action. The press conferences were usually the same -- reporters asking about the team's chances of winning the championship, and Clip Arnstein answering with either a joke or a sports cliche. Occasionally, the press would ask about a trade rumor or a change in personnel, but for the most part, press conferences were routine and not very exciting events.

  Mark Seidman was about to change all that.

  Gloria came out of the bathroom with her checkbook in hand. She spotted Stan's body on the floor. He lay still, too still. She managed to write a check for $100,000 through her shaking fingers. She tore it out of the book and handed it to the bleached-blonde standing over Stan's body.

  B Man smiled graciously as she cringed away from him. 'Thank you, lovely lady,' he said, pocketing the check. 'I assume you can cover this rather considerable sum?'

  She nodded.

  'I would not advise your calling the authorities or trying to stop payment after I depart. My reaction to such a move would be, well, let's say unpleasant. Do you understand?'

  She nodded again, her eyes stained with fear.

  'Good.' B Man looked down at Stan and shook his head. 'I'm not sure I understand what you see in this deadbeat. Frankly, I think you're being foolish.'

  He smiled at her. She moved farther into the corner.

  'Alas, life is full of choices,' B Man continued. 'You've made your bed, my dear, and repulsive as it might be, you have to sleep in it.' With a small bow (a custom he'd picked up in the Orient) B Man turned toward the door. 'I wish you both all the best. Goodbye for now, lovely lady.'

  As soon as the door closed, Gloria raced across the room and knelt by Stan's still form.

  'Stan?'

  He groaned.

  'Don't move. I'll call an ambulance.'

  His hand reached out and grabbed hers. 'No.'

  'But you're hurt.'

  'Just a few knocks,' he said, forcing a smile onto his face. 'They're experts on inflicting pain and messing people up without leaving any real damage. I'll be fine.'

  'What do you want me to do?'

  'Just help me up.'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Positive,' Stan grimaced. 'I'll stand under a hot shower for a while and clean myself off.' He smiled at her encouragingly. 'It looks worse than it is, believe me.' With a struggle, Gloria helped him to his feet. He looked at her solemnly. 'I'm going to pay you back. Every last cent.'

  'Don't worry about that now,' she replied.

  'I mean it. Every cent. I'm so sorry about all this, Gloria. I would understand if you wanted to stop seeing me.'

  'I don't want to stop seeing you,' she said.

  'You don't?'

  'No, of course not.'

  'I'm not going to gamble anymore. I promise.'

  'It won't be that easy, Stan. But I know you can stop if you really want to.'

  'I do. I promise. I'll never gamble again.'

  'Good,' Gloria answered. 'We're going to need a first-aid kit. Will you be okay while I run down to the front desk and get it?'

  'Sure,' he managed. 'I'll be in the shower when you get back.'

  She started toward the door. 'Gloria?' he called to her.

  'Yes?'

  'I love you,' he said.

  'I love you, too, Stan.'

  She closed the door. Stan listened to her footsteps echo down the hallway. He quickly moved toward the phone and dialed.

  'Hi, it's Stan,' he said, 'Put five hundred dollars on Broadway Lew in the third race.'

  Monday morning came to Brookline, Massachusetts. T.C. drove Mark through Brookline's town center on the way to the college's gymnasium. Mark had been silent for most of the trip, which was no surprise to T.C. After all, today was the big day. T.C. and Mark had spent nearly all the weekend going over the plan, trying to figure out a solution to every conceivable problem that could arise. T.C. thought that they had covered it all. The plan was actually very simple -- and completely dependent on Mark.

  Would he be able to pull it off?

  Up ahead was the school's gym. T.C. glanced at his companion. Mark was stone-faced, his blue eyes staring straight ahead, his curly blond hair pushed back. He remained silent as he stepped out of the car.

  'Thanks,' Mark said when he closed the door.

  'Good luck,' T.C. answered.

  T.C. watched Mark walk into the gym. The Boston cop realized that today was
the biggest day in the life of Mark Seidman, that there was little room for mistakes. T.C. also knew that a few months ago, Mark's plan would have had no chance of failing. But a lot had happened in the last few months, things that had changed both of their perspectives and goals. A few months ago, Mark might have pulled this maneuver to bring happiness and joy into his life. But that was when things like happiness and joy meant something to him.

  Now, this plan was his only chance for survival.

  Chapter 12

  The intercom buzzed.

  'Yes?' Laura replied.

  'Gloria just arrived in her office,' Estelle announced.

  'Thank you.'

  Laura pushed back her chair. Gloria was back. With a deep sigh, Laura stood and made her way to the door. She walked past Estelle, who was typing a letter. Estelle did not look up. Her boss was in a mood this Monday morning -- something to do with her sister -- and when Laura was in a mood, it was best to be as inconspicuous as possible, lest one get in the way of her wrath.

  'I'll be back. I'm not taking any calls.'

  Laura disappeared around the corner, her back straight, her mind fighting off the mounting anger. She reminded herself of what Dr Harris had said about treading gently with Gloria. It was not going to be easy. Her sister had been missing all weekend, had just up and left without telling anyone where she was going. Of course, Laura told herself, it would be wrong for her to jump to any conclusions. She didn't even know for sure that her sister had spent the weekend with Stan.

  Bullshit.

  Laura fumed. To think she had been taken in by that demented psychopath . . . True, she had been vulnerable, but it frightened her that she could be so easily conned.

  Laura entered the marketing department and knocked on a door that read Gloria Ayars.

  A cheerful voice chirped, 'Come in.'

  Laura peeked her head into the doorway. 'Hey, sis.'

  Gloria crossed the room, her face bright. 'Laura! Come on in.'

  'Thanks. How's it going?'

  'Great,' Gloria replied. 'I'm sorry about running out on Friday.'

  'No problem,' Laura said, plastering a fake smile onto her face. 'You've been working hard lately. You deserved a little time off.'

  'Still, I feel bad about just leaving.'

  'Forget it. Mind if I sit down?'

  'Of course not.'

  The two sisters sat down and faced one another, both smiling pleasantly like a couple of game-show hosts. Laura felt ridiculous. 'So did you have a good time on your mystery weekend?'

  'The best!'

  Laura tried to maintain the smile. 'Oh? Where did you go?'

  'Up to the Deerfield Inn. Remember when we used to go there as kids?'

  Laura remembered. 'Sounds like fun.'

  'It was. Laura?'

  'Yes?'

  'I'm in love.'

  Laura felt her heart sink, but she locked her smile onto autopilot. 'Really? Who's the lucky guy?'

  'Stan!' Gloria enthused. 'Can you believe it? Isn't it great?'

  Laura nodded mechanically. 'So when did all this start?'

  'Last week. I know I haven't known him for long but he's so wonderful. He's so warm, caring, funny . . . well, you know him! He's just like David.'

  Laura winced at the comparison. 'You should forget about David,' she said. 'You should judge Stan like you would any other man.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Nothing really,' Laura ventured. 'I'm just saying that you should treat Stan Baskin the same as you would any other man you've only been seeing for a week. Don't behave differently just because he's David's brother.'

  Gloria's puzzlement turned into a smile. 'Oh, I get it. You know about his past. You're worried about it.'

  'Well maybe a little . . .'

  'He told me all about it,' Gloria continued. 'I know all about his gambling problem. He's going to get help.'

  Bullshit, Laura thought yet again. Dr Harris had told her not to push too hard so there was no way she could tell Gloria about all the wonderful things that warm, caring Stan had done to his family. She bit down on her tongue for a moment. 'Still, Gloria, you should keep both eyes open.'

  'The past is the past, Laura. You said so yourself when he first came to Boston.'

  'Yes, I know I did. I just want you to be careful, okay?'

  'Careful?' Gloria repeated, her smile fleeing off her face. 'Stan and I are in love.'

  'I'm not denying that,' Laura said, trying her best to sound diplomatic, 'but didn't you think the same thing in the past? What about that guy in California?'

  Gloria's eyes narrowed. 'I'm not the same person I was back then.'

  'I know,' Laura assured her, 'but maybe you shouldn't rush into anything.'

  'Laura, what are you trying to say?'

  'Nothing.'

  'Come off it, Laura. It's his past that's bothering you, isn't it? I thought you said that the past was not important.'

  'It's not. Really. But you shouldn't completely ignore it either.'

  'Oh, now I see,' Gloria said slowly, her voice growing loud with anger. 'The past does matter! You're wondering why Stan would want someone with my past . . .'

  'No, not at all!'

  'A drugged-out slut! A no-good whore . . .'

  'That's not true! That's not what I'm saying at all! The man who wins your heart will be the luckiest man in the world. I'm just not sure Stan Baskin is the right man.'

  'And what makes you say that?' Gloria asked.

  'I . . . nothing, Gloria. I just have a feeling, that's all.' Gloria stood. 'Laura, you know how much I love you. I owe you my life.'

  'You don't owe me anything. We're sisters. You've helped me. I've helped you.'

  'Fine, but you want me to stop seeing Stan, right?' Laura hesitated. 'I'm not exactly saying -- '

  'You don't fully approve,' Gloria tried.

  'I'm not sure, that's all.'

  'But you won't tell me why you feel this way.'

  Silence.

  'Look, Laura, I'm over thirty. Hard to believe, isn't it? Stan is just about forty. We're not children anymore. I love him, Laura. I love him very much.'

  'I don't mean to try -- '

  'I really hoped you of all people would be happy for me,' Gloria interrupted. 'But if you're not, it doesn't change a thing. I'm in love and I'm going to keep on seeing him.'

  'You don't know what you're saying,' Laura snapped. 'He's wrong for you.'

  'Who the hell do you think you are?'

  'He's crazy, Gloria! He hurts people! He's even -- '

  'I don't have to listen to this! You're not my keeper!'

  Gloria stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind her.

  Laura fell back in her chair. Good going, Laura. Way to be. Keep your cool. She sighed. Her whole body felt drained by the encounter. What was she supposed to do now?

  She went over their conversation in her head. Something kept gnawing at Laura's subconscious, something her sister had said. Laura thought for a moment. When she realized what it was, her whole body went cold. Gloria's words of defense . . . they rang so familiar in Laura's ears. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Gloria was, after all, right. When you thought about it, what right did Laura have to interfere in Gloria's love life? Her sister was an adult. She had the right to do as she pleased. Laura replayed her conversation with Gloria in her mind one more time. The whole scenario reminded Laura of . . .

  . . . of her and David.

  Her throat clenched. The parallel dug painfully into her. Oh, God, hadn't her mother said the same thing to her about David? Hadn't she warned Laura to stay away from David, warned her without any discernible reason?

  'Please, Laura, trust me. Stop seeing him.'

  'But why?'

  'I beg you. He's not right for you.'

  Laura had not uttered a word to her mother since David's death. What had she been trying to say back then?

  'We may get married.'

  'Never, Laura. I will not let
you marry that man under any conditions.'

  But she had defied her mother. She had run off to Australia and married him anyway and now Laura understood something else: her words alone could never stop Gloria from seeing Stan, just as her mother had been powerless to stop her from seeing David.

  Laura stared out the window. She wanted to sprint down the hallway, corner her sister, and force her to hear the awful truth. But she knew she could not. Had her mother been in a similar position? Was there something terrible she had wanted to tell Laura about David but for some reason couldn't? And now a crucial question poked at Laura's heart with a finger of bone, a question that finally had to be answered: What had her mother been hiding about David?

  Mark Seidman took his usual seat on the uncomfortable wooden benches. He spotted Timmy Daniels practicing his jumpshot. It was an impressive spectacle. Orange rainbow after orange rainbow ended with the ball dropping through the metal circle. Mark's eyes slid away from the basket and toward Clip Arnstein and the media who were standing off to the side admiring Timmy's flawless performance.

  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.'