Play Dead (2010)

by Harlan Coben

  In less than three hours? Talk about breaking speed records.

  'Where is the doctor?' James asked, trying like hell to sound like his usual cool, controlled self.

  'He's in with Laura. He said she's doing just fine.' Mary started to cry. 'Oh James, say it isn't true. Not Judy. She can't be dead. She just can't be.'

  James took her in his arms and held her closely. His eyes closed and a transformation took place within him. This, after all, was what it was all about. He loved her. God forgive him, he loved her so damn much. She had sinned and done some horrible things, things most husbands would never forgive. But try as he might, James could not help but love her more every day. She was so seemingly innocent, so helpless and beautiful. He had to protect her . . .

  ... no matter what she may have done in the past.

  'It's okay, my love,' James whispered, his eyes still tightly shut. 'I'm here now. Everything is going to be okay.'

  The tender moment, perhaps the last Mary and James would ever share together, came to a sudden halt when the door of room 117 opened. James released his wife and automatically fixed his professional mask back onto his face. He turned toward Dr Eric Clarich.

  'Dr Clarich?'

  'Dr Ayars?' Eric asked. They shook hands. 'Glad you both are here.'

  'Is she all right?' James asked. 'Can we see her?'

  'She's doing just fine,' Dr Clarich assured him. 'She'll be out of here in no more than a day or two.'

  'That's wonderful,' Mary said.

  'She is a bit shaken up. It was quite a harrowing ordeal.'

  'Can you tell us what happened, Doctor?'

  Eric led them over to a waiting area where they all sat down. 'Apparently, your daughter walked in on a fire at Professor Simmons's home. According to Laura, she opened the study door and found Professor Simmons on the floor. She tried to rescue her aunt and in doing so she nearly got herself killed. You see, Laura got trapped in the study. She tried to pull Professor Simmons out but the smoke was too much. Laura passed out.'

  Mary looked at the doctor in horror. 'Passed out? Then how did she . . . ?'

  'Get out alive?' Eric finished for her. 'A bit of a mystery, I suppose. A man who has since chosen to remain anonymous pulled your daughter out of the fire. If not, she would undoubtedly have died in your sister's study.'

  'Can we see her?' James asked again.

  'She's napping right now. She should be awake in a few hours.'

  'We'll wait,' James said, taking his wife's shaking hand into his own. 'Are you okay, Mary?'

  She nodded.

  'I contacted Gloria,' James continued. 'She and Stan are on their way up.'

  Another nod.

  James turned his attention back toward his fellow physician. 'Do they know what caused the fire?'

  'Not for sure,' Eric replied, 'but they suspect arson.'

  Dr Eric Clarich watched as whatever little color had been left in their faces vanished with his words.

  Later that night, there was a soft knock on Laura's door.

  'Come in.'

  The door swung open and a head of blond hair peeked around the corner. 'Hi.'

  'Gloria!' Laura said as a smile jumped to her lips. 'I'm so glad you're here.'

  Another female voice came from behind the door. 'What about little ol' me?'

  'Serita,' Laura chuckled. 'How the hell did you two get here so fast?'

  Gloria and Serita came in, the door closing behind them. They kissed Laura and sat on the corners of her bed. 'You will never guess in a million years,' Serita replied.

  'Huh?'

  'Stan drove us,' Gloria explained.

  'And Laura, he was a perfect gentleman.'

  'Where is he now?' Laura asked.

  'Go on, Gloria. You tell her.'

  'He left,' Gloria explained. 'He told us that he said some really stupid things to you the other night and that he couldn't face you yet.'

  Laura looked puzzled. 'He told you that?'

  Both women nodded.

  'And now he's heading back to Boston?'

  'That's right, honey. Can you believe it? The guy played chauffeur for the last six hours and now he's shlepping all the way back.'

  'He was very drunk the other night, Laura,' Gloria added. 'He really feels terrible about it.'

  Laura did not know what to say. 'Forget it.'

  'So how you feeling, champ?' Serita asked.

  'Not bad.'

  Gloria wrung her hands. 'I can't believe this. Aunt Judy dead. It's so horrible. Mom and Dad are in shock.'

  'I know,' Laura said. 'They were in here a little while ago.'

  'Such a terrible accident,' Serita added.

  'No accident.'

  Laura's sister and best friend stared at her. 'What did you say?'

  'It was no accident,' Laura repeated. 'Aunt Judy was murdered.'

  'Are you sure?' Serita asked.

  'Arson. The house was doused with kerosene and Judy had been knocked unconscious.'

  'But who would do such a thing?'

  Laura knew it was unsafe to involve anyone else in this, but her feelings of loneliness and despair made her reach out. She had to confide in someone. 'You have to promise me you won't say a word about this to anyone. Not one word. It could be a matter of life and death.'

  'Not a word,' Serita replied while Gloria nodded her head in agreement.

  'I don't know who killed Aunt Judy, but take a look at this.'

  Laura reached into her bag and pulled out the old black-and-white photograph. She handed it to Gloria, who looked at it and then passed it on to Serita.

  'I don't get it,' Gloria said. 'It's an old picture of Aunt Judy, but who's the guy?'

  'Any guesses, Serita?'

  'He looks familiar ...'

  'Like David . . . or maybe Stan?'

  'A little, I guess.'

  'What are you getting at?' Gloria asked.

  'The man in the photograph is Sinclair Baskin. Stan and David's father.'

  Gloria gasped. She remembered Stan's words about his father's death and she began to shake.

  'I don't get it,' Serita said. 'What does this have to do with Judy's death?'

  'I don't know yet. But take a look at them. This is no casual pose.'

  'No,' Serita agreed, 'they definitely seem fond of one another.'

  'And take a look at that banner in the background. Brinlen College 1960. That's where Sinclair Baskin taught. And 1960 -- that's the year he died.'

  Serita continued to stare at the picture. 'I still don't get it. So your aunt might have had an affair with David's father before he died in 1960. What does that have to do with the fire today?'

  'I haven't figured out the connection yet, but I know one exists. I have to go to Chicago and find it.'

  'Chicago? Why Chicago?'

  'Brinlen College is in Chicago. My mother and Aunt Judy were raised there.'

  Gloria finally spoke, her words coming from a fog. 'We used to live there, Laura, before you were born.'

  'I know. There has to be a connection somehow. There has to be a link between Judy's murder and Sinclair Baskin's suicide.'

  Gloria nearly screamed. She put her hand in her mouth, her teeth biting down hard upon her tender skin. A small shriek made its way past her lips.

  'What is it, Gloria? What's the matter?'

  Gloria took her hand away. She remembered what Stan had told her just a few nights ago, just after she had woken from her nightmare. Her eyes bounced about the room as though looking for a place to hide. 'I . . . I can't say.'

  Laura sat up and grabbed her sister's shoulders. 'This is important, Gloria. Whoever killed Judy may have killed David too.'

  'Wha . . . ? Killed David? But he drowned.'

  'Maybe. Maybe not. Tell me what you know.'

  'But I promised.'

  'Promised who?'

  'Stan. I promised him I wouldn't say anything.'

  'You have to tell me, Gloria. You could be in danger. Stan could be in danger.' />
  'I don't know . . .'

  Laura began to shake her. 'Tell me. Tell me.'

  Serita stepped in and disengaged the two sisters. 'Just relax a second, Laura.'

  Laura let go and lay back down. 'I can't relax. The killer is still out there.'

  'You're not making any sense, girl. Pictures from thirty years ago. Murderers running around. A suicide that's thirty years old -- '

  'Not a suicide!' Gloria shouted.

  Laura and Serita spun toward Gloria's voice. She was huddled in a corner, her whole body quivering and quaking as though she were caught in the grip of a fever. 'He didn't commit suicide,' Gloria said.

  Laura could not believe what she was hearing. 'What are you talking about? Of course he committed suicide.'

  Gloria shook her head violently. 'He was murdered. Sinclair Baskin was murdered.'

  'What?'

  'Stan was hiding behind the couch in his father's office. He was only ten years old but he saw the whole thing. Somebody murdered Sinclair Baskin.'

  'But . . . ?' Laura's mouth fell open. She stared dumbstruck. 'My God,' she finally managed. 'Does Stan know who did it?'

  'No. He didn't recognize the killer. But he remembers the face ...'

  Laura fell back on the bed. Another piece of the puzzle had been handed to her and, once again, that piece did not seem to fit. Murdered. Sinclair Baskin. David. Judy. Something had happened thirty years ago, something horrible and evil, something that did not end with the passing of a decade or two. Judy's haunting words came back to her, tearing at her heart with sharpened claws.

  ' . . . There are things that you know nothing about. Things that happened many years ago . . . sometimes the past can overlap with the present. That was what happened with David ...'

  'Serita?'

  'Yeah?'

  There was only one way to find the answer to what happened so many years ago, to what happened to David. 'Would you do me a favor?'

  'Sure.'

  'Don't tell my folks or the doctor.'

  'I won't.'

  'Can you get me a plane ticket to Chicago?'

  Chapter 26

  Mark burst through the door. His breathing was uneven, his chest hitching from the mere effort.

  'What the hell happened to you?' T.C. asked. 'You're a goddamn mess.'

  'Get me something to drink. A vodka, anything.'

  'You don't drink.'

  He collapsed into a chair. 'I do now.'

  T.C. grabbed two cans of Budweiser and tossed one to Mark. 'It's the best I can do. Jesus, Mark, your clothes are burned.'

  Mark ripped open the can of beer and chugged half of it.

  'You want to tell me what happened?'

  Mark stood, the can of beer nearly crushed by his grip. His words came fast, his pitch unsteady. 'I got to Judy Simmons's house at seven o'clock just like she said. I parked my car someplace off campus and walked about a mile before I spotted Judy's house. Then ...'

  'Then?'

  He swallowed. 'A taxi pulled up in front of the house. Laura got out of it.'

  'Oh shit.'

  'I ducked behind a tree. It didn't take a genius to figure out what Judy was up to. She must have figured -- '

  ' -- that if she put you and Laura together,' T.C. finished, 'the sparks would really fly.'

  Mark chuckled sadly.

  'What's so funny?' T.C. asked.

  'Nothing is funny,' Mark answered. 'Just ironic.'

  'Huh?'

  'You'll see. Anyway, I'm hiding behind this tree, watching Laura . . .' He stopped talking, his mind drifting back to the memory. Laura. His eyes had crawled over every inch of her with a yearning so great he was sure he would die. Just seeing her again, staring at her lovely face turned red from the cold, watching her walk up the path, made his stomach ache with a sense of loss.

  'Mark?'

  'Sorry,' he said softly. He took a deep breath and continued. 'Laura knocked on the door and waited. No one answered. She called Judy's name. Still nothing. So she tried the lock and opened the door. She went into the house.'

  'What did you do?'

  Mark looked away. 'I just stood there frozen in place. I don't know why. I should have just turned and left. But I couldn't. I stared and stared -- daydreaming, I guess -- until I saw smoke.'

  'Smoke?'

  'A fire broke out.'

  'What?'

  Mark nodded as if to reconfirm his own words. 'The smoke started to billow out of the cracks in doors and windows. It couldn't have happened more than five minutes after Laura entered.'

  'What did you do?'

  'I ran into the house. What a goddamn mess. It was unbelievable. Flames were crawling up the walls.'

  'Jesus.'

  'All I could think about was Laura. Laura is trapped somewhere in here, my mind kept repeating like a parakeet, trapped in the middle of this deadly blaze. Nothing else mattered. It was weird. The fire became nothing more than a diversion to me. I scrambled around desperately, hoping against hope that Laura was still alive.'

  'Don't tell me -- '

  Mark shook his head. 'I found her and pulled her out. The fire hadn't reached her yet. She was unconscious so I called 911 and stayed with her until I heard the sirens. I spoke to the hospital a little while later. She'll be okay.'

  'Thank God.'

  Mark swallowed hard. When he had lifted Laura, when he had taken her in his arms, he wanted so much to never let go, to protect her, to tell her everything was going to be okay. Tears found their way into his eyes before he forced them back down. 'The same,' Mark continued slowly, 'cannot be said about Judy. She's dead, T.C.'

  T.C. shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Mark. I know she meant a lot to you.'

  'Fires don't burn that fast, do they, T.C.? Somebody set that fire deliberately. Somebody murdered Judy Simmons.'

  'You can't be sure of that.'

  'I want to find that somebody, T.C. I want to nail that son of a bitch to the wall.'

  'Or daughter of a bitch.'

  'Huh?'

  'Think about it a second. Who would want to silence Judy?'

  'You're not suggesting . . .'

  T.C. shrugged. 'Do you remember what Judy said to you on the phone?'

  Mark thought for a moment. 'She wasn't making much sense. She said something about not knowing what I was doing, about not knowing the whole story.'

  T.C. shrugged. 'Maybe,' he concluded, 'we don't.'

  'Mrs Klenke will be with you in a moment.'

  'Thank you,' Laura said. She readjusted herself in the seat. The pain from the burns was greater than she had anticipated. Every move felt like sandpaper rubbing against a fresh wound. In the hospital they had given her painkillers. She had no idea how potent they were. Laura had managed to secure some codeine from a drugstore, but it was far from an adequate substitute.

  Laura looked at her watch. It took her a good portion of the night convincing Serita and Gloria to help her get to Chicago. They agreed reluctantly in the end, probably because they were afraid she would try to get there no matter what they did.

  They were probably right.

  T.C., the crafty son of a bitch, would be proud of her in an odd sort of way. She had spent most of the morning in her hospital bed playing detective. She called Brinlen College, got in touch with various professors and staff members, and asked about Sinclair Baskin. No one knew very much about him. Very few professors were left from 1960.

  But one call paid off.

  'Have you spoken to Mrs Klenke?' an older professor had asked her.

  'No. Who is she?'

  'Well, back then she was Miss Engle. She was Sinclair Baskin's personal secretary and if rumor had it correctly, the word to be emphasized is personal. Get my meaning?'

  The college office still had her name and phone number on file. Laura called up and persuaded Mrs Diana Klenke to see her. Now, just a few hours later, Laura was sitting in the woman's den.

  'Mrs Baskin?'

  Laura turned toward Mrs Klenke's voic
e. She had learned that Diana Klenke had been twenty-seven years old in 1960. That made her fifty-seven now, but she was still something to behold. Her hair had gone gray but her bone structure and smile made her more than just dazzling. She was very tall and lithe, elegantly dressed in a black Svengali suit. Her every move was graceful and subdued.

  'Call me Laura.'

  'Only if you'll call me Diana.'

  'Okay, Diana.'

  Diana Klenke's smile turned gentle as she looked at the younger woman in front of her. 'My goodness, you're stunning. Pictures do not do you justice, Laura.'

  'Thank you,' she replied. Laura wanted very much to return the compliment but whenever she had in the past, people thought she sounded phony and somewhat patronizing.

  'Would you like something to drink?'

  'No, thank you.'

  'Anything at all?'

  'Thank you, no.'

  Diana Klenke sat on the plush chair next to Laura. The room was beautiful and immaculately kept by what had to be a large staff of servants. The Victorian mansion must have held twenty-five rooms, each done in a style that would have made the Palace of Versailles envious. 'How was your trip?'

  'Fine,' Laura replied. 'You have a beautiful home, Diana.'

  Diana Klenke smiled as she nodded. 'My husband loved this house. It was his pride and joy. He died ten years ago. Killed in a car crash on his way home from the airport. As you might have guessed, he was a very wealthy man and now,' she paused, laughing lightly, 'I am a very wealthy widow.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  'Don't be. We were never all that close. Besides, I have the older-man market cornered. They all want my money.'

  'I'm sure that's not true.'

  She shrugged. 'No matter. What can I do for you, Laura? You mentioned on the phone something about Sinclair?'

  'Yes.'

  'I read about your husband's tragic death. So damn sad. He was so young. Sometimes I think there must be a curse on the Baskin men.'

  'It seems so,' Laura agreed.

  'So what can I help you with?'

  Laura's leg shook. It would do no good to try and stop it. The leg would only start up again. She leaned forward. Pain shot through the burns on her back as she reached into her purse. 'Will you take a look at this photograph?'

  Diana Klenke took out a pair of reading glasses. Somehow, they added to her looks, making her appear even more stately and beautiful. Sinclair Baskin's former secretary took the photograph in her hand and studied it for nearly a minute without saying a word. 'That's Sinclair all right. The woman's name is Judy . . .'