by Harlan Coben
-- cheering?
She closed her eyes and felt the relief wash through her. The glow of light. The sounds. It was the television. It was only the goddamn television. She shook her head and scolded her overactive imagination. David used to tease her about it all the time. 'You see conspiracy in everything, woman,' he would say whenever she came up with some harebrained scheme.
She took a deep breath and reached for the knob. She began to turn it when Laura had a momentary vision of the television being off when she left the apartment. During that split-second before the door opened, she had time to wonder why -- when the whole apartment worked on one fuse -- the television was now on and the lights were still out. But there was not enough time to think all of this through. The door opened and Laura's attention turned to the images on the television. Her face crumbled in anguish.
David.
It was a basketball game and there was David running up court. The voices were the CBS commentators for the NBA championship series.
'Baskin moves left, fakes, pivots, dishes off to Roberts. Roberts takes the big hook shot. No good. Rebound Lakers ...'
But how . . . ? She looked above the set and felt her legs almost give way. The VCR. She was watching the game on her videotape machine. Someone had been here, may still be in her apartment. She was about to turn around when she saw an envelope taped to the bottom of the screen. Laura's name had been scrawled across the front.
Above the envelope, David made a driving left-handed lay-up. Time out, Los Angeles. The players all gathered around David to congratulate him. Laura watched David smile at Earl and she felt a sharp pain. David's smile. His wonderful, beautiful smile.
Her legs quivered as she crossed the room. She reached forward with her right hand and plucked the envelope off the television. She had still not tried the bedroom light switch but the television offered enough light to read. She ripped the envelope open and suddenly realized there may be fingerprints on it. Again, she shook her head no. Whoever had done this was a professional. He would not carelessly strew fingerprints around the apartment. Laura carefully lifted the note out of the envelope and read: Laura, I truly hope you enjoyed your little trip overseas. I missed you. This is just a friendly note to let you know that I can do whatever I want. You are not safe. Neither is your mother or your father or your sister. You can do nothing about it. But if you forget about me, I'll forget about you and your family. If not, I will kill them one by one. What do you say?
A friend
P.S. Look under your pillow.
Thick bile settled into Laura's throat. She moved toward the bed and tried the lamp. This time, the light went on. The sudden brightness made Laura shade her eyes. She reread the note and lifted her pillow. She squinted at the object under it.
Her scream pierced the still night.
The lamp's light reflected the gold into her eyes. But it didn't matter. Laura could still make out the inscription on David's ring: 1989 NBA CHAMPIONS -- BOSTON CELTICS
The blood. So much blood . . .
'Mommy! Mommy!'
'Get out of here, Gloria! Get out of here now!'
So much blood. Everywhere blood . . .
Gloria screamed.
'What? Wha . . . Gloria?'
She shot up in the bed. Her eyes flew open. Her body went stiff.
Stan shook himself awake. 'Gloria?'
Her breathing came in spurts.
'It's all over now,' Stan whispered softly. He moved over and put his arm around her. She hesitated and then snuggled up to him. He felt her tremble against his chest. 'It's okay now, sweetheart. It's all over.'
She looked up at him with the eyes of a cornered animal.
'Are you okay?' he asked.
'Y . . . Yes.'
'Bad dream?'
She nodded, her breathing beginning to even now. 'Do you want to tell me about it?'
Gloria nodded again but did not speak for nearly a minute.
'You don't have to tell me if you don't want to,' he said.
'No,' she answered, her voice shaky. 'I do. I'm just not sure how to begin. You see' -- she hesitated, searching for the right words, any words really -- 'it's not the first time I've had this dream.'
'Oh?'
'When I was young, I had it a lot. I used to wake up screaming and crying and I wouldn't be able to stop. I remember how my mom and dad would come in and try to calm me down. They would try to hold me and tell me it was just a dream, but nothing they could do would comfort me. Then Laura would come running in -- she was just a fat little kid back then, if you can believe it -- and somehow she'd be able to soothe me. I wouldn't go back to sleep until Laura promised to stay with me. She would crawl in the bed and hold my hand. Only then would I be able to sleep.'
Stan smiled gently. 'Do you think I can take Laura's place for tonight?'
She returned the smile. 'I think so.'
Stan looked at her. God, she was good-looking. Cute and built with a body that didn't rest for a minute. He stared at the thin material of her negligee and at her delicious cleavage. Gloria turned him on like no other chick in the world -- except for her younger sister. And that, friends and fans of ol' Stan My Man, was the reason he stayed. Yes, folks, he had figured it out last night. B Man didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. Stan wasn't falling for this chick. It was just that, well, she was hot in the sack, and more important, little Miss Instability was a rung on the ladder to his ultimate achievement: Screwing the delectable Laura Ayars-Baskin.
But even as he thought the words, Stan knew that they were not true. Like it or not, Gloria meant something to him.
'Tell me about your dream,' he said.
Gloria lowered her head and gripped him tighter. 'I don't remember it very well.'
'What do you remember?'
She shrugged nervously. 'Blood.'
'Blood?'
She nodded. 'I'm a little girl in the dream -- no more than five or six. We hadn't moved to Boston yet. We were still living in this little house in the suburbs of Chicago. It's late at night and I'm walking down the hall when I hear a noise from my parents' bedroom. I slowly move toward the door, turn the knob, and . . .'
'And?'
Gloria shook her head. 'I always scream and wake up before I can really see what's going on. I only remember blood. I remember it flowing and oozing everywhere. And someone's watching it all with an awful, hideous smile and, and -- '
'Shhh, it's okay now.'
She took in deep breaths and struggled to put on a nervous smile. 'Sounds crazy, huh?'
'Not at all,' Stan assured her. 'We all have our childhood nightmares.'
She sat up and faced him. 'Do you?'
'Sure. Well, not exactly a nightmare.'
'What, then?'
He lay back, his eyes staring up. 'Something very strange happened to me when I was about ten years old.'
'What?'
Stan continued to gaze at the ceiling. He wondered why he was about to tell Gloria a secret he had kept locked within himself for nearly thirty years -- especially when he had just convinced himself that Gloria didn't mean a mule's load of shit to him. And he had sworn to himself that he would never tell another soul this story. Never. But David was dead now. So was his mother. How could the truth hurt him anymore? He lowered his eyes toward her and just stared for a long moment. 'I saw my father being murdered.'
Gloria gasped. 'But . . . but I thought David said he -- '
'Committed suicide? I know. That's what everyone thought. But he didn't. Somebody shot my father in the head and then put the gun in his hand to make it look like a suicide.'
Gloria's face turned white. 'But . . . I don't understand. How did you get away?'
'Simple,' Stan continued. 'No one saw me. I was hiding behind the couch. You see, I used to play in my dad's office all the time, even though it drove him crazy. He used to get so pissed off when I sneaked in there and messed up all his important papers with my little games. So when I heard him coming back
early, I quickly hid behind the couch. But I saw the whole thing. I saw the gun pressed against my dad's temple. I saw the blood shoot out from his head. I'll never forget that sight, Gloria. Never.'
'But why didn't you tell anybody?' she asked.
Stan shrugged. 'Good question. I don't know really. At first, I was in shock. And then I was so scared.'
'Scared?'
'Of the killer. I was afraid the killer was going to come after me, too. And one other thing.'
'Yes?'
'I think the police knew my father hadn't committed suicide.'
'But why -- ?'
'Because of pressures from the college board. You see, my father taught at Brinlen College -- '
'Brinlen? That's near where we lived in Chicago.'
'It's in the Chicago suburbs,' Stan agreed. 'Anyway, Brinlen was one of those elite schools for the preppie upper class. A suicide would be a bad enough scandal for the school, but a murder? That would have been devastating to the college's haughty image.'
Gloria sat back. 'I don't know what to say.'
'Don't say anything,' he replied. 'And please don't tell another soul.'
'Never,' she promised. 'Stan, can I ask one more question?'
'Sure,' he said softly.
She moved her fingers across his hair in long, soothing strokes. 'Did you recognize the killer? I mean, was it somebody you knew?'
'No,' he replied, 'but I still remember the face.' Stan closed his eyes. Oh yes, he remembered the face, that twisted expression of pain that still haunted his dreams. He was sure he would never see that face again.
He was wrong.
'Let me get this straight,' the taller of the two police officers who had responded to Laura's call began. He was ultra-thin, almost emaciated, with a bobbing Adam's apple. He strongly resembled Ichabod Crane. 'You were out of town for a couple of days, correct?'
'Yes,' Laura replied.
'You flew back home and took a taxi to your apartment. You headed up the elevator, got out, walked to your door -- was the door locked?'
'Yes.'
'Okay, door locked,' he repeated, writing in a small pad. 'Where were you coming from, Mrs Baskin?'
'What difference does that make?'
'Well, its -- '
A voice interrupted him. 'I'll handle this, Sleepy.' The tall officer nicknamed Sleepy (short for Sleepy Hollow) spun toward the voice. 'Hey, T.C.! How's it going?'
'Not bad, Sleepy,' T.C. answered. 'What's going on here?'
'Break-in,' Sleepy said.
'You mind if I take over?'
Sleepy shrugged. 'All yours. Joe's in the other room. We checked around. No fingerprints. It's kinda weird, T.C. Some guy breaks in, turns on the VCR -- '
'Thanks, Sleepy. I'll take it from here.' T.C. glanced quickly at Laura. She was staring back with fury in her eyes.
'Suit yourself,' Sleepy said. 'Joe,' he shouted, 'let's go.'
'Huh?' Joe called back.
'T.C.'s here. He feels like taking over.'
Joe came out from the bedroom and greeted T.C. He and Sleepy quickly left, closing the door behind them and leaving Laura and T.C. alone in the apartment. Neither spoke. T.C. stood and stared at the closed door; Laura kept her eyes on him. After some time had passed, T.C. swung his line of vision toward her.
'You don't trust me anymore, do you, Laura?'
Laura tried to hide her panic. 'Should I?'
'I wish you had, Laura,' he said. 'I wish you did.' He took a cigar out of his shirt pocket. 'Do you mind?'
She shook her head.
He lit the stogie and puffed. 'What happened here?'
'My house was broken into.'
'And?'
'And that's all.'
T.C. shook his head. 'Laura, I'm going to find out anyway. Wouldn't it be easier if you just told me?'
She continued to study his face. Did you kill my husband, T.C? Were you somehow involved in his death? How could you, you who he trusted and loved so? 'I was away for a few days. When I came home, the VCR was playing the last game David played in.'
'The tape was still on?'
'Yes.'
'Then whoever broke in timed the whole thing. He knew when you were coming home.'
'Sounds logical,' Laura agreed.
'Who knew your schedule?'
'Nobody.'
'Are you sure?'
'Just Serita.'
'Well, we can rule out her. Where were you anyhow?'
'On business.'
T.C. looked at her for a long moment. 'You really don't trust me, do you, Laura?'
'I don't know what to think.'
'Do you honestly believe I would do something to hurt David?'
Laura hesitated, her mind tugging her thoughts from one extreme to the other. No, I don't think that. In a million years, David would never believe you would do anything to harm him. He would prefer death to your betrayal. But could you have done it, T.C? Is it even a possibility? If I look at the facts coldly, you have to be my major suspect. But when I look at your face, when I remember the times you and David shared . . . 'No, I don't think you could hurt him.'
T.C. released a long breath. The relief on his face was visible. 'So where were you?'
'I was in Australia.'
'I know.'
'You know? How could you have -- '
'I have my sources,' he explained.
'T.C.,' she said slowly, 'do you think David was murdered?'
His simple answer tore a hole through her heart. 'Yes.'
She felt his words dry up her throat. 'Did you kill my husband?'
'No.'
'Who did?'
T.C. shrugged. He crossed the room and glanced out the window. 'I don't know. Yet.'
'Yet? You mean you're close to finding out?'
'I was a lot closer before you started stumbling around Australia.'
'How did you know about that?' Laura asked again.
'Come on, Laura,' he began. 'Open your eyes and take a look around. You're playing in the big leagues now. Do you think I'm the only one who knew about your trip? Do you think that whoever broke into your place was an amateur?'
'So how did you find out?' she insisted.
'Believe me,' he said, 'it was no problem for me and more important, it was no problem for them. You're out of your league here, Laura. Stop playing games and tell me what you learned over there.'
Laura stared at him for a brief moment and then everything spilled out all at once. She did not hold anything back. If T.C. had killed David, then she did not care what else happened. Et tu, Brute. But he had not killed David. She was sure of it. He had loved David. No one was that good of an actor. Laura may have been burned by Stan, but she had known T.C. for years, had seen him interact with David under all kinds of circumstances. No, there was no way he could hurt David. His strange behavior was clearly a case of him trying to protect her from something -- not because he was trying to cover up a murder plot.
And God, it felt good to trust him again. It felt good to let it all out, to share her secrets and fears, to once again be able to lean ever so slightly on him.
When she finished speaking, Laura handed T.C. the ring she found under the pillow.
'Did you show this to Sleepy or Joe?' T.C. asked.
She shook her head. 'I was going to, but I wasn't sure I should. What does it mean, T.C.? What's going on here?'
T.C. stubbed out his cigar, picked at the ashes with the end of a used match and sat down. He examined the ring like a jeweler pricing a diamond. 'There are things,' he began, 'I didn't want to tell you -- things you're better off not knowing.'
'Like what?'
'Please, Laura, just let it rest.'
'Why didn't you tell me David was murdered?'
'I was just looking out for your welfare.'
'How? By coddling me? By lying to me?'
'By protecting you,' he corrected. 'Laura, look what these people have pulled off. Christ, they even timed your return to the apartment.
And what good would telling you have done? You've already put your life in jeopardy and now you've chased away the killer. I wanted them to think they were in the clear. It makes them careless.'
'What are you saying?'
'Stay out.'
Laura's voice was nearly a whisper. 'I can't.'
'For your sake.'
'I don't care -- '
'About yourself?' T.C. interrupted. 'Well, David would. David wouldn't want anything to happen to you. He loved you, Laura. He made me promise to watch out for you.'
Laura closed her eyes, trying to silence him by turning away.
'And what about your family?' he continued. 'Are you willing to put them in danger too?'
Laura remembered the note taped to the television. 'Do you really think the killer would ...'
'Go after them? These guys play for keeps, Laura. They kill people as easily as they say hello.'
'But why? Why did they kill David?'
T.C. thought for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. 'I don't know, Laura. But I intend to find out.'
Graham Rowe clicked on the fan. Damn, it was hot. Living in Palm Cove, you get used to hot but today was one for the record books. The humidity was thick enough to coat your skin.
He sat back in the chair and glanced around the office. There was paperwork to do and Graham hated paperwork. He glanced at his guns, the empty cell, anything as long as it would help him avoid doing that damn paperwork for another minute and a half.
He felt sticky, his shirt pasted to his skin. He pulled the front of it away from his body for a second and then let it drop back. Yuck. He was in desperate need of a shower. Maybe he should run home and quickly shower and change. That would make him feel better. Then he could come right back and be ready to really get down and do the entire week's paperwork with no worries. Yes, that's what he should do. No worries.
He started to rise, stopped, sat back down, smiled. You are one major procrastinator, Sheriff Rowe. You should be ashamed of yourself -- trying to sneak out of here like that to shower and change clothes. You know very well that in this friggin' heat your fresh clothes will be as sopped as these before you finish the walk back to the car.
