Play Dead (2010)

by Harlan Coben

  With a sigh, he reached for the stack of fishing licenses. He began to thumb through them when the phone rang.

  'Sheriff's Office.'

  'Graham? Is that you?'

  Graham recognized Gina Cassler's voice immediately. 'How's it going, Gina?'

  'Answering your own phone, Graham?'

  'This isn't a hotel, luv. I don't have a receptionist. What's up?'

  'We should have the passport cards in another day or so,' Gina began, 'but my nephew came through already. I have the phone bills right here.'

  The sheriff felt a jolt of excitement race through him. 'Any calls to America late that night?'

  'Yes,' she answered. 'And they were made from the lobby phone at right about the time you expected.'

  'Sweet Jesus,' Graham said softly. He cradled the phone on his shoulder and reached for his car keys. 'I'm on my way over there now.'

  Chapter 20

  Hordes of Celtics fans beset the entrance ramps of the Boston Garden for the long-awaited opening game. They scrambled through the stairwells, the concession stands, the long aisles. Wealthy season-ticket holders with their courtside seats greeted the long-time ushers like old friends at a reunion. The masses in the upper deck stared in familiar awe at the championship banners and retired numbers that hung from the rafters. At halftime of tonight's game, two new banners would be added to this historic collection: the 1989 Championship and David Baskin's uniform.

  Six months had passed since David had led the Celtics to that NBA championship flag. Six months had passed since White Lightning had been awarded the league's Most Valuable Player Award. And six months had passed since David Baskin had drowned off the coast of Australia.

  The mood was ambivalent. The fans were in a quiet and yet frenzied state. A slight hush glided across the parquet floor, for things were not the same on this cool November evening: White Lightning would strike no more.

  Laura and Serita stood by the court-level entrance. From this spot the players would soon sprint out to the deafening ovation (Celtics) and boos (visitors) of the fans. Tears prickled Laura's eyes as she peeked out at the familiar arena. She had not been here since the championship series last season, but nothing had changed. The paint was still chipped, the climate still unbearably stifling.

  Two security guards stood next to her. Serita took her hand. 'Ready?' she asked.

  Laura nodded. The two guards whisked them out of their protective hideaway and into the bright glare of the Garden's spotlights. Laura and Serita tried not to move too quickly, tried not to look too conspicuous. No one seemed to have noticed them, or if they had they did not say anything. Laura proceeded forward without turning her head to the left or right. She could sense rather than hear the crowd quieting, but she dismissed that as a byproduct of her overactive imagination. Still, something was strange. No one was staring at them. No one was catcalling. No one was pointing.

  When they reached their seats, Laura saw that Stan and Gloria were already there. Stan stood and smiled brightly. 'Ah, Laura, how nice to see you again.' He took her hand and kissed it lightly.

  Laura closed her eyes to avoid Stan's customary smirk. Not now, she told herself. Not tonight. For one night, pretend he is David's brother and not some maggot. 'Thank you, Stan. This is my friend Serita.'

  Stan turned his attention toward Serita. 'Another lovely creature,' he said, taking her hand and kissing it. 'Sitting with three such ravishing beauties -- I will surely be the envy of every man in the arena.'

  Serita choked back a laugh. She and Laura exchanged kisses with Gloria and then took their seats. Serita leaned over and whispered, 'Is he for real?'

  Laura shrugged.

  Stan hopped out of his seat and into the aisle. 'I'm going to grab some popcorn. Would you ladies care for anything?'

  'No thank you,' Laura said flatly.

  'Nothing for me,' Gloria added.

  Serita said, 'Can you get me a soda?'

  'Sure,' Stan replied. 'What kind?'

  'Diet Coke.'

  'Diet?' Stan repeated, his smile on automatic. 'Why would someone with your figure need diet?'

  Serita rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and held back a chuckle. She waited until Stan had headed out of ear-shot before leaning toward Laura. 'Another good line,' she said in a whisper dripping with sarcasm.

  Laura shushed her and turned toward her sister. 'How are you, Gloria?'

  'I'm doing great,' Gloria said. 'How was your trip?'

  'Productive, I guess. Where are Mom and Dad?'

  'They were going to pick up Aunt Judy at the Sheraton, ' Gloria answered. 'They should be here any minute.'

  'Good.'

  'Laura,' Gloria continued, 'I want to ask you a favor.'

  Laura's eyes met her sister's, knowing what Gloria was going to say and wondering what she should say in return. 'Name it.'

  'It's about Stan.'

  'What about him?'

  'I know you two have your trouble,' she began. 'I don't know what it's all about, but I love him, Laura, really love him. Can't you give him another chance? For me? Please?'

  Laura took a deep breath, a maneuver she used frequently to stall for a little extra time. It worked. When she finally opened her mouth, her reply was interrupted by the arrival of her parents and her aunt. Laura, Gloria and Serita greeted James, Mary and Judy. Everyone busily exchanged embraces and kisses. Laura hugged each one of them tightly, holding on for a few extra moments as though she were gaining strength from each embrace. It felt nice.

  James returned her hug with surprising vigor. 'How's my little girl?'

  'I'm fine, Daddy,' Laura said.

  'Bullshit,' he whispered.

  Laura managed a small laugh. 'I miss him so much,' she whispered back.

  'I know, honey,' he said. 'I know.'

  They managed to release one another. Laura looked at her father. David's death had aged him too. James Ayars's face was a bit more worn; a few new worry lines had been etched into it. As always, he was dressed immaculately. His suit was covered with a Burberry trenchcoat, matching scarf, matching hat, matching gloves.

  Mary was taking off her heavy overcoat. Laura noticed that her mother still trembled fiercely. The combination of sleepless nights and a few too many wines with dinner had continued to change Mary's rosy complexion into a pasty one.

  'Where's your new young man?' James asked Gloria.

  Gloria beamed. 'He'll be here in a minute. He just went to get some popcorn.'

  Dr Ayars smiled encouragingly at his oldest daughter. 'We're all looking forward to meeting him.'

  'I just know you're going to like him,' Gloria added.

  'I'm sure we will,' he replied gently.

  Laura eyed her mother with concern. Despite the Garden heat, Mary's body trembled like she had been left out in the frigid cold. 'Are you okay?' she asked her mother.

  Mary tried to force on a smile but it never made it to her eyes. 'Just a little cold. Nothing to worry about.'

  For a moment, no one spoke. They all just glanced around the Garden, glanced at the parquet floor, glanced at one another.

  'There he is!' Gloria cried.

  Laura looked behind them. Stan moved briskly down the stairs. He smiled at Gloria as if he only had eyes for her. What a slug, Laura thought, but she had to admit to herself that his lovesick puppy act was good. Very good.

  Heads swirled in the general direction of Stan as he continued his trip down the aisle. He was practically skipping, joy in his every step. He bounced down to their row and greeted Gloria with a quick kiss on the cheek. Gloria blushed and grabbed his hand.

  'Mom, Dad, Aunt Judy,' she began, 'I'd like you to meet Stan Baskin.'

  Stan turned toward them, stuck out his hand and froze. His smile disappeared. The color in his face ebbed away. His mouth dropped open.

  Mary and Judy stared back at him with looks that mirrored his own. Only James ignored Stan's expression. Dr Ayars stood and took the outstretched hand. 'Nice to meet you, Stan,'
he said.

  Like a boxer who uses the standing eight count to get his bearings back, Stan began to recover. His smile returned, though not to its original potency. He shook James's hand. 'Pleasure to meet you, sir.' He then greeted Judy and Mary cordially, not meeting their eyes and they not meeting his. Finally, he sat down.

  'What the hell was that all about?' Serita whispered to Laura.

  'Beats me,' Laura replied. 'Weird, huh?'

  'At the very least.'

  Laura watched her mother visibly sag and now even Aunt Judy looked worn. What the hell was going on? An uncomfortable silence hung over them. The seat on Laura's left was left open for T.C., who had told her he was going to be a little late. Laura wished he were here. She'd like to know what he would have made of Stan's introduction to her family.

  An uncomfortable silence circled around them until Laura turned toward Judy. 'Tell us about Colin,' she said.

  Judy seemed relieved at the break in tension. 'He's a geology professor at Colgate. Head of the department.'

  'And?' Serita encouraged.

  Judy smiled. 'And he's terrific.'

  'That's wonderful,' Gloria enthused.

  'Yeah, well, enough about me,' Judy said. 'I hear the Celtics got a great prospect in this Seidman kid.'

  Mary Ayars tried her best to pretend everything was normal, that everything was just fine. 'You're not still a basketball nut, are you, Judy?'

  'Are you kidding?' Judy answered, also trying like hell to keep the mood upbeat. Between David's memorial and Stan's reaction to seeing them . . . 'I got tickets to the Final Four already and I put in MSG so I'll be able to see all the Knicks games this year.'

  Mary looked puzzled. 'What is a Knick? And what on earth is an MSG?' she asked.

  Judy chuckled. 'Forget it.'

  Their conversation came to a halt when the loudspeaker blared, 'Ladies and gentlemen, the 1989-90 Boston Celtics!'

  A sudden roar blared out from all points, consuming the arena in waves of sound. Twelve men with green warm-ups jogged onto the court and the roar became impossibly louder. For a split second Laura looked for David on the familiar parquet floor. When she realized that he was not there, that he would never again be there, the familiar pain ripped into her heart.

  The players circled the floor a few times and then some began to stretch out while others grabbed basketballs from the rack and took some shots. Laura spotted Earl standing under the basket. He half waved in their direction. Serita returned the wave by blowing him a kiss and winking suggestively. Laura scanned the other familiar faces. David's teammates all caught her eye and smiled warmly, sadly. Timmy Daniels, Johnny Dennison, Mac Kevlin, Robert Frederickson . . . all except one.

  Number thirty.

  Number thirty was the only face Laura did not recognize. He was about six-five with curly, blonde hair. His body was well-toned and defined -- a nearly perfect physique. She watched as he took lay-ups in a relaxed manner, flipping the ball casually onto the backboard without really looking, knowing it would hit on the precise angle and go in. Laura realized that this had to be the rookie Earl and Serita had talked about last week. What was his name again? Aunt Judy had just mentioned it. Seidman. Mark Seidman. The man from nowhere.

  Mark Seidman.

  As though hypnotized, Laura watched the new Celtic weave through the lay-up drill: waiting on line, shooting, waiting on line, rebounding. Mark Seidman moved smoothly and without hesitation. He seemed loose, incredibly loose for a first-game rookie whom the press had built up as the Celtics' new savior.

  T.C. arrived as the referee tossed the ball in the air to begin the game. He said hello to everybody (except Stan) and gently slid past them (except Stan -- T.C. purposely stepped on his foot). 'Sorry about that, Stan ol' boy,' he said with deep regret. 'It was an accident.'

  T.C. Ignored Stan's angry glare and collapsed heavily into the empty seat next to Laura. 'How's it going, champ?'

  'Not bad,' Laura said.

  'Sorry about being late.'

  'You only missed the opening tap.'

  They turned their attention toward the game. Johnny Dennison passed the ball to Timmy Daniels. Timmy looked around before tossing it inside to Big Mac Kevlin. Mac was double-teamed. He passed it out to Mark Seidman. Seidman was trapped in the corner.

  'He's going to have to shoot,' T.C. remarked. 'The shot clock is ticking down.'

  As if on cue, Mark Seidman leaped in the air, twisted, and took a fade-away jumpshot. The ball touched the backboard and fell in, Laura felt the breath shoot out of her. Her stomach coiled in pain. That jumpshot. That damn fade-away jumpshot -- no wonder they call him White Lightning II.

  'Jesus, T.C., did you see that?'

  T.C. nodded. 'Hell of a good shot.'

  'Unbelievable,' Judy uttered from their left, her voice cracking.

  Mary did not pay attention to the game. Her eyes darted about, sneaking glances in Stan's general direction. Stan's concentration also wandered away from the parquet floor and toward those with whom he was seated. He gripped Gloria's hand tightly, his face frighteningly pale.

  'You know anything about him?' Laura asked.

  'Seidman?' T.C. replied with a shake of his head. 'Just what I read in the papers. Earl mentioned him to me a couple of times. He said he's quiet, keeps to himself.'

  The game continued with Mark Seidman playing like a man possessed. He scored eight points in the first quarter and added three assists and four rebounds. The Celtics led by seven. By the end of the first half, the Mark Seidman-led Celtics had upped their lead to twelve.

  Halftime activities pushed by in a murky haze. Laura walked onto the basketball court, silence and stillness devouring the entire arena around her. She went through the motions, accepted the solemn words, watched with a quivering lower lip as Earl and Timmy hoisted David's uniform up into the rafters.

  But Judy Simmons did not watch the proceedings too closely. Instead, she kept her eye on Mark Seidman, trying to see his reaction to David Baskin's memorial. His expression did not change, but Judy noticed that his eyes never went anywhere near Laura.

  Thoughts -- wild, crazy thoughts -- dashed and bounced across Judy's mind. She tried to reach out and grab a few of those irrational thoughts, tried to organize them and create a cohesive theory. But they managed to elude her.

  Separately, Judy knew the facts meant nothing. There were plenty of guys who had successfully duplicated David's fadeaway jumpshot. There was that guy from U.C.L.A. and the point guard from Seattle. And what about that power forward on the Phoenix Suns? Basketball players everywhere were trying to perfect the White Lightning jumpshot, that quick release that made it impossible to block. No, that alone would make absolutely nobody suspicious.

  But that was the problem. It was too perfect. Nobody would be suspicious. Unless of course you knew the background of the situation. Unless you understood completely the strength of the past and how it could twist reality into unrecognizable shapes.

  Laura moved back toward her seat, her head high, her eyes dry. There would be no tears now, Judy thought. The tears would come later, when she was alone and away from everyone. Judy kissed Laura's cheek, trying like hell to dismiss the crazy ideas that kept circulating in her head. After all, she was probably wrong. She was letting her overly suspicious nature get the best of her. Better to think it through carefully before jumping to any conclusions. Better to look at the whole situation coldly before crossing into uncharted minefields.

  But if her suspicions were correct, she would have to trample through that minefield no matter what the costs. If her suspicions were correct, the ghosts of the past were going to rise up yet again and demand to be faced. They would cry out one last time for vengeance and finally, at long last, that lust would be quenched. And this time, there would be no place to run and hide, no one to sacrifice to the ghosts. This time, the guilty would be destroyed.

  Mark lowered his head into his hands. He sat on a bench in front of his locker, trying to dismiss the nois
e of the media frenzy that surrounded him on all sides. Most of the reporters had already left him alone, knowing his reputation for not talking to the press and moving on to the more fruitful and talkative pastures of Earl Roberts, Timmy Daniels and Mac Kevlin.

  But it had been Mark Seidman's game. In his debut, Mark had netted 27 points, twelve rebounds and eight assists as the Celtics coasted to a 117-102 victory over Washington. Normally, the press would pounce upon such a subject no matter what that subject requested, but for the most part they kept away from him, respecting his desire for solitude. They milled about the other players in the locker room, stealing quick peeks at Mark as if he were a grenade with the pin half out. Who could have imagined that the budding hopeful would more than fill expectations in his Boston Garden debut? Doing well in pre-season was one thing. To face the opening game crowd at Boston Garden as a rookie and dismantle the competition . . . that was something else. But Mark looked more like a weathered veteran than a rookie. His intensity on the court was amazing and downright eerie. He never slapped his teammates five, never celebrated a good shot, never smiled, never showed emotion of any kind. It made no sense. Here was a rookie playing in front of a sell-out crowd in the home of basketball legends and he stalked the parquet floor in a cold, unfeeling, technocratic manner. And yet, there was still a beauty to his game, the unmistakable grace of a master at his craft.

  Clip Arnstein came into the locker room, a famous victory cigar clenched between his teeth. The press sprinted toward him. 'What did you think of the game, Clip?' a reporter asked.

  Clip smiled. 'I'm smoking a cigar, aren't I?'

  'And how about the play of Mark Seidman?'

  His answer was an even bigger smile. 'And you can quote me on that, fellas. Now do me a favor, will you? Get out of here for a while. The guys have to get dressed and head down to the reception.'

  Normally, the press would protest. But not tonight. They knew that the Celtics were heading to a reception for David Baskin's family. David had been a favorite of the press: colorful, off-the-wall, fun, polite, and always willing to say something outrageous. White Lightning had the ability to be engaging with the media while not appearing egomaniacal.