by Harlan Coben
He wove toward the stall, his right shoulder ramming against the metallic side. If he were sober, Stan undoubtedly would have noticed the throbbing pain in his shoulder blade. Fortunately, the alcohol snuffed it out. Stan dropped to his knees, clutched the cold toilet on either side and waited.
That was when he felt someone grab him by the hair.
'What the -- ?'
The rest of his words were lost in the icy water. Whoever had grabbed him was strong. Stan's face lunged forward into the toilet bowl, crashing into the bottom. He could no longer breathe. Panicked, he shook his head back and forth violently, but he could not get free from the vise-like grip, could not find an air-pocket so that he could gather even one more breath into his heaving chest.
'You son of a bitch!'
Stan could barely make out the words being shouted at him, the toilet water splashing against his ears. I'm going to die, he thought. I'm going to drown in a fuckin' toilet.
His lungs were ready to burst. Water seeped down his throat. He felt himself choke. His eyes bulged. Thoughts flew out of his mind, replaced by primitive instinct. One primitive instinct. The instinct of survival. He became like any other mammal trapped underwater and unable to breathe. He jerked and bucked and kicked out, but the hand on his head held him down. The assailant shoved Stan's face further into the water, crushing his nose against the hard bottom of the bowl. Stan saw his own blood flow past him.
His throat burned. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. Death. Drowning. Like David. Is this what it was like, little brother? Is this . . . ?
The powerful grip pulled Stan's head out of the water and dropped it like an inanimate object. His skull bounced off the porcelain seat and crashed onto the tile floor, but Stan did not notice or care. He gasped and wretched uncontrollably, his hand wrapped around his throat in some bizarre attempt to lessen the pain. He rolled on the floor, desperately trying to put some oxygen back into his sore lungs.
Then he felt the hand clutch his hair again.
'Oh God, please,' he managed.
The hand roughly jerked his head back toward the rim of the bowl. It began to push his face downward, stopping less than an inch above the water. Stan's chest still heaved spasmodically.
'No, please . . .'
Stan felt the assailant lower himself toward him, the hold never loosening. Warm breath pricked Stan's ear and neck. 'If you ever go near her again,' the male voice said slowly, 'I'll kill you.'
The punch came from nowhere. Stan's head snapped back from the blow. His body went limp. He slid to the floor as unconsciousness mercifully kicked in.
Mark looked down past his shaking hands to Stan's still form below him. He clenched his fists, trying to fight off his turbid fury against the no-good son of a bitch. He had never lost control like that, never knew he was capable of such violence against any man. But then again, Stan Baskin was not just any man.
With one foot, Mark flipped Stan onto his back. Stan's face was covered with blood. Nothing to worry about really. He had not hit him with anything near full force, but in Stan's inebriated state a love tap would have been enough to knock him out. He still could not believe his eyes. Stan was back. Stan had always been scum and judging by the bits and pieces of conversation between Laura and Stan he had overheard, nothing had changed. Stan was still a sick, demented man.
Why had Stan come to Boston? The answer was fairly obvious: money. Stan figured that the wealthy widow of his late brother would be an easy mark for his cunning ways. And, Mark realized with mounting rage, the fact that Laura happened to be lonely, vulnerable and gorgeous just made her all the more irresistible to lure into his lair.
Son of a bitch.
There was a knock on the door. 'Mark? You in there?'
Mark quickly moved out of the stall. 'Are you alone, T.C.?'
'Yes.'
He reached the door and pulled back the deadbolt. T.C. entered. Mark slammed the door behind him and replaced the lock.
'What the hell is going on?' T.C. asked. Then he spotted the open stall door. Glancing into the cubicle, he found Stan's crumbled body on the floor.
T.C. whistled. 'What did you do to him?'
'Played a little game of dunk. Why the hell didn't you tell me he was here?'
T.C. turned away from the tile floor and shrugged. 'It was none of your business.'
'None of my business? Don't you think you're taking this -- '
That was when it hit him. Mark clutched his head between his hands, his fingers clawing at his temples. Pain came at him in great, unbearable waves. He sunk to his knees.
T.C. acted without hesitation. He sprinted toward Mark. 'It's okay, Mark. I'm right here.'
Mark looked up at him with eyes distorted by pure agony. T.C. placed his arm around his shoulder and helped his friend to his feet. While pain consumed Mark's every nerve, naked fear seeped into T.C.
It's back, T.C. thought. The demon is back.
Laura excused herself and moved toward the Blades and Boards Club exit. She just needed a moment away from the crush of family and friends, a few seconds to be by herself and think about David. Evenings like these had a way of going by in a murky haze, but Laura knew that she could only block so long before her protective wall crumbled and reality flowed back in.
She strolled aimlessly down the vacant hall, her mind filled with images of David. She had learned over the past six months that people handle death differently. Some wear their grief on their sleeve. Others try to avoid pain by pretending that nothing ever happened, that the beloved never existed. Laura guessed she fell into a third category. Friends had told her to try to put the tragedy behind her -- best to move on, they had said. She understood their reasoning and probably would have offered similar advice if she had been the bereaved friend rather than the widow. But Laura did not want to forget David. She found an odd sort of comfort in thinking about him, in remembering every moment she spent with him. And yes, she cried when she went through photo albums, when she thought of how much he had to live for, when she thought of the happy family that would never be. But crying was okay. There was nothing wrong with crying. Better to cry than to pretend David did not exist. Better to cry than to feel nothing.
T.C.'s voice jolted Laura away from her thoughts and back into the darkened hallway in Boston Garden. His voice was low. She moved closer and tried to listen.
'It's okay,' he said. 'I got you.'
She cocked her head to the side. What was T.C. doing out here? Laura peered around the corner and spotted him right away. Her eyes grew puzzled. T.C. half dragged, half carried Mark Seidman down the hallway. Mark's legs were not functioning. His hands gripped his head as if it were about to split open. A scream was cut off when T.C. clamped his hand over Mark's mouth.
'Hang in there, old buddy. Just lean on me. I'll have you home soon.'
Mark's reply began with another muffled cry. 'I didn't want to see her, T.C. I didn't want to go near her.'
'I know, Mark. I know.'
Laura stood in frozen horror as the two men disappeared around the corner, remembering that T.C. had told her just a few hours ago that he had never met Mark Seidman.
Chapter 22
Judy paced the living room of her one-level home. She had lived in campus housing for over a decade now and she liked it well enough. It was small but there was still a bedroom, a living room, a kitchen, and an office -- plenty of space for her. More rooms would have just meant more places to store mess.
Her mind kept racing through the events of the previous night at the Boston Garden. She would think it over, mentally rewind, review what she had seen and heard, try to draw conclusions. Mark Seidman's first jumpshot had set her mind in a whirling, terrifying spin and now it would not stop. Could it be? Could Mark Seidman have pulled it off? It seemed incredible to her but when she thought the whole scenario through, only one conclusion made sense.
Judy reached into her wallet and grabbed out the familiar old photograph. The picture trembled i
n her hand. She stared at the image of a young, glowing Judy in an embrace with a somewhat older man. The black-and-white photograph had been taken after a faculty softball game on a bright, beautiful Chicago afternoon in 1960. The older man still held the bat in his free hand. His baseball cap was tilted to the side, a smile plastered across his handsome face.
The older man was David's father.
Judy continued to stare, remembering the very moment the photograph had been snapped. She and Sinclair had known each other for about two months on that sunny day and both of them were in love. Neither one of them planned it to happen that way. Neither one of them wanted to hurt anybody. But there had been an instant chemistry there, the kind of reaction that could make a level-headed, proper young woman like Judy fall for a married man.
Yes, Judy heard about Sinclair's reputation as a major womanizer. Yes, she knew that this was not his first experience with adultery, but all the others had been nothing more than empty-headed campus beauties whom he could have fun with and dispense with quickly. Judy was different. While attractive enough, she was certainly no head-turner and, more to the point, their affair was now four months old. Sinclair Baskin loved her, she knew, and he was going to get divorced. Yes, it would be messy. No, her parents would not understand or be supportive at first. But love conquers all, right? What could be stronger than love?
As it turned out, love proved no match for jealousy, beauty, deceit and rage.
The affair had been tough on Sinclair too. He had a ten-year-old boy and an infant son, both of whom he loved dearly. Judy smiled sadly. Little, mischievous Stan was now forty years old. The little baby boy named David had grown up to be a wonderful young man and a sport's hero. How proud Sinclair would have been of David. How crushed he would have been when David drowned . . .
But of course, that would never have happened. If Sinclair were here, David would be too.
Judy continued to gaze at the familiar photograph. Her thoughts glided easily from the past to the present. Such a thin line separated Boston in 1990 from Chicago in 1960. Her beautiful niece had also loved a Baskin man. David Baskin. Sinclair's baby boy. Laura had put her whole life into loving him. Her dreams, her hopes, her love, her life - all gone now. Gone.
But there were major differences between Judy's tragedy and Laura's. For one, David had loved Laura with everything he had, no questions asked. In the end, Judy could not say the same thing about Sinclair. But more important, Laura was completely blameless in the death of the man she loved.
Judy was not.
Damn you, Sinclair Baskin. Why did you make that one dreaded mistake? And why was I so stupid? Why did I react so impulsively and strike without thinking? Everything was perfect, you idiot. Perfect.
Gone. Dead. Over. For Judy, there was nothing left. But what about Laura?
Her hand reached for the telephone. There still might be hope for Laura. She grabbed the receiver, picked it up, dialed.
Her decision was made.
When practice ended, Mark Seidman silently showered and dressed. The locker room was quiet, the players still somber from last night's ceremony. No tape deck blasted the latest long-play single from Chaka Khan or Samantha Fox. There was little conversation going on, which made it easier for Mark to avoid conversing with his teammates. In the past, Mark had always enjoyed the camaraderie of his teammates. He recognized that there was a direct correlation between winning basketball games and having fun. When basketball became merely a job, the level of play always dropped off.
All that being said, Mark could not get himself to warm up to his teammates, nor did they accept him with open arms. It bothered him, and yet he knew that getting friendly with any of them could be catastrophic. Earl was not stupid. Neither was Timmy, Mac or Johnny. While he doubted that they could ever put the whole thing together, the risk was still too great.
He grabbed his gym bag and headed toward the exit. As he passed by Earl's locker, he heard, 'See you tomorrow, Mark.'
Earl had barely spoken a word to him all season. 'Yeah,' Mark said unsurely, 'see you tomorrow, Earl.'
'Nice game last night.'
Mark swallowed. 'You too.'
They both stood uncomfortably. With an uneasy smile Mark turned away. He pushed the door open and vanished into the lobby.
One of the towel boys ran after him. 'Mark?'
He turned. 'Yes?'
'There's a telephone call for you.'
'Tell whoever it is I'm not here.'
'She said it's urgent.'
'She?'
The boy nodded. 'She said you would know her. Judy Simmons.'
Mark felt something rip through his stomach.
'You all right, Mark?'
He nodded, his body numb. 'I'm fine,' he said. 'I'll take the call in room five.'
Mark tried to remain calm, composed, unruffled. He reached room five, closed the door for privacy, and picked up the phone.
'Hello?'
'Mr Seidman?'
'Yes?'
'This is Judy Simmons. We met last night.'
His mouth felt incredibly dry. 'Yes, of course. Is there something I can do for you, Miss Simmons?'
'How do you know I'm not married?'
'Excuse me?'
'You just called me "Miss". How do you know I'm not married?'
Mark closed his eyes. Every word had to be watched before it passed his lips. 'I . . . I noticed last night that you weren't wearing a wedding band.'
She paused as if she were mulling over his explanation. 'I see.'
'You said it was urgent.'
'It is,' she said. 'Do you mind if I call you Mark?'
'Please do.'
'Good,' Judy replied. She hesitated for a brief moment before speaking again. 'Do you mind if I call you David?'
Her words hit him like a powerful blow. Just keep cool, Mark. Just keep cool. 'Is this some kind of joke?'
'No.'
'Look, I don't know what this is all about, but I do not appreciate your calling me under the pretense of an emergency -- '
'Don't play games with me, David,' she interrupted. 'That is your real name, isn't it? David Baskin.'
'No, it is not,' he shot back confidently. But he was scared, oh so scared. 'I don't know what you're talking about and frankly, I don't care. I'm sick of hearing the man's name already. I know that your family has suffered a tragedy, Miss Simmons, and I know that my jumpshot is similar to his. But I am Mark Seidman, not David Baskin. Do you hear me? I am not your niece's dead husband.'
'Wait a sec -- '
'No, you wait a second. Tragedies happen, Miss Simmons. They are indiscriminate and cruel. I know that the death of a man as young and healthy as David Baskin is hard for everyone to accept. The press and fans can't even accept it. They call me White Lightning II as if I were David reincarnated. I'm sick of it, do you hear me? Do yourself a favor. Accept the truth and help your family do the same. David Baskin is dead. I happened to replace him on the basketball court. That's all.'
There was a long silence before Judy spoke again. 'You don't understand anything, do you?'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean that you think you know what you're doing, but you don't. There are things about this whole situation that have been kept from you.'
'I don't know what you're talking -- '
'Fine, Mr Seidman or whatever your name is. If you want to continue your strategy of feigning ignorance, I am truly left with no defense. But if you want to learn what really happened thirty years ago, if you ever want to save Laura from unspeakable cruelty, come up to Colgate tomorrow evening at seven. I'll explain everything to you then. After you listen to what I have to say, I will live with whatever decision you make. I will never speak of this again. But if you do not come, I am left with no choice but to find another way of handling this. You may not like what I come up with.'
Mark swallowed hard. A tear came to his eye. 'Tomorrow night, Mr Seidman. Seven p.m.'
She hung up. Mark quietly re
placed the receiver and moved toward the car waiting for him outside. He opened the passenger door and got in. 'I just got a call from Judy Simmons.'
T.C.'s reaction was swift and predictable. 'What did she say?'
'She thinks I'm David Baskin. She says Baskin was not told the whole truth.'
'Not told the truth? What the hell does that mean?'
'I'm not sure. She said it had to do with what happened thirty years ago.'
T.C. bit off the end of a cigar. 'Interesting, no?'
Mark shrugged. 'Depends on what she means.'
'Could she be right?' T.C. asked. 'Could Baskin have been deceived?'
'You're the detective. You tell me. I mean, I guess it's possible. But how? And more important, why? What would have been gained?'
'I don't know,' T.C. agreed, 'but she really has no idea what Baskin knew, does she?'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning she might think Baskin didn't know the whole story when in fact he did.'
The car pulled out of the parking lot. Mark stared out the side window. 'She also said that if I ever wanted to save Laura from what she called unspeakable cruelty, I should go to Colgate tomorrow night.'
'What else did she say?'
'That if I did not go, she would find another way of handling it.'
'She said that?'
Mark nodded.
T.C. gripped the wheel firmly, his face tightening. 'Well, we certainly can't let her do that, now can we?'
Riiiiing. Riiiiing. Wake up, Stan! Time to call your daddy's murderer!
'Ooooooh, my fuckin' head.'
Stan rolled over onto his back. What a goddamn hangover. Just like the good old days. His hand reached out, smacked the alarm clock and pulled it toward him.
One p.m.
He put the clock back onto the night-table. Breathing through his nose hurt like a son of a bitch. It was probably broken. He'd have to get it taken care of at the hospital. Later. He had things to do now.
He stood and walked over to the mirror. His face looked like shit. Both his eyes were black from the broken nose, and his complexion was white from vomiting up a storm last night. Bits and pieces of the incident in the bathroom came to him, but it was all so fuzzy. A man jumps him, dunks his head in a toilet bowl till he nearly drowns him, then knocks him out. Strange but true. And what had the guy said to him? Something about keeping away from 'her.' He assumed 'her' meant Laura.
