Harlan Coben - Play Dead

‘Looking good, Mark,’ the man called out.

The patient stopped. His curly blond hair was getting long now. His eyes were ice blue. His nose was pointed, his cheekbones set high. His face was unusually handsome in a pretty-boy sort of way. He stood about six feet five and his build was rock solid. The patient had never tried weightlifting before but the effects were both enormous and immediate. His body was slimmer, his muscles more defined. He felt strong. ‘Thanks.’

‘Mind if I rebound a few?’

‘I’d appreciate it.’

The patient named Mark shot. The man rebounded and tossed the ball out to him. ‘Let me ask you something, ’ the man began.

‘Go ahead.’

‘How are you going to get a try-out?’ he asked. ‘You’re a complete unknown.’

‘I know.’

‘So how are you going to do it?’

‘I’m playing around with a few ideas,’ the patient answered as he moved in for a hook shot.

‘Like?’

Mark shrugged. ‘Can you get me press credentials?’ ‘Sure. What do you need them for?’

‘I’m working on it. I’ll let you know.’

‘Okay. One set of press credentials. Anything else?’

The patient continued to shoot, trying hard to look casual. ‘How is everyone?’

‘Everyone?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘No, Mark, I really don’t know.’

Mark did not take his eyes off the rim. ‘You’re right. Forget it.’

‘It’s forgotten.’

‘The rules have to be followed.’

‘Right,’ the man agreed.

The patient continued shooting. The man continued rebounding. ‘Mark?’

The patient stopped shooting.

‘Everyone is doing badly.’

Mark’s face caved in. ‘Badly?’

The man nodded.

‘I want to know – ’

The man shook his head and began to walk back toward the house. ‘I shouldn’t have even said that.’

Mark clutched the ball to his chest like a child with a teddy bear. His large frame bent over. He collapsed heavily onto the asphalt surface. An awful mix of emotions whirled painfully through his head like a sharp propeller.

The man continued to walk away.

‘T.C.?’ Mark cried out.

The man stopped and turned around.

‘Make sure nothing bad happens to them.’

The man called T.C. took out a cigar. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he replied, even though he knew that he was powerless to do anything.

May 29, 1960

‘Bastard.’

The gun exploded. A bullet sliced through Sinclair’s skull. Blood splashed onto the walls, the sticky, red mist spraying the killer’s face. Clumps of brain tissue flew out the other side of Sinclair’s head. The dead body slid off the chair and onto the floor.

Standing over the bloodied corpse, the killer felt a strange exhilaration.

I killed him. I killed the bastard. He’s dead. I didn’t mean to do it, but I killed him. Plain and simple. I’m covered with blood, but oh, did he deserve it. Oh, was he asking for it.

The killer scanned the room. The music outside on the commons blasted so loudly that the students did not hear the bullet or, if they did, they must have thought it was a firecracker or a car backfiring. Still, time was short. The killer had to act fast.

Just relax. Don’t panic. You’re in control. Now just think. Something will come to you.

The killer looked at what had been a man’s head. It was now an unrecognizable mass of blood, flesh and bone fragments.

I shot him in the head. That was good. That was smart. Now I can make it look like a suicide. Everyone knew the bastard had problems. A suicide would barely be questioned.

The killer locked the office door, wiped the gun clean of any fingerprints and placed the gun snugly in the dead man’s hand.

There. It’s done. Perfect. No one would ever suspect me. All I’ve got to do is sneak out the back before the police get here and -

The killer stopped abruptly, remembering something very bothersome.

What was the name of that T.V. show? Or was it a movie? Or a book? Not important. There was a situation similar to this one. A man was found dead with a bullet hole in his head and a gun in his hand. An apparent suicide. But the detective figured out it was really a murder. But how?

Fingers snapped. The killer smiled.

The detective had the victim’s hand checked for traces of gunpowder or something like that. None was found. In fact, the hand showed absolutely no signs of trauma, so the victim could not possibly have fired the gun. Conclusion: he had been murdered.

Fear crept in along with an idea. The killer sprinted back toward the body, lifted the hand with the gun, and pressed Sinclair’s finger on the trigger.

The gun fired. The bullet lodged into the wall near the bookshelf.

Relief settled onto the killer’s face. The hand now had the gunpowder or whatever on it. The police would be here soon. They would investigate the matter completely and come up with one of two scenarios: 1) after shooting himself, Sinclair’s hand spasmed in death, firing another bullet; 2) Sinclair had chickened out at first, pulled the gun away from his head as he fired, then worked up the courage to kill himself for real.

The killer headed out the back entrance and into the sunshine, confident that no one was watching.

That was wrong.

From behind the couch two scared eyes had seen everything. But the killer did not look behind the couch. The killer just continued to make his escape, thinking:

I did it. I killed the bastard. And now he has left me no choice. There is only one way to right the wrong, only one way to put everything back in place.

The killer swallowed.

I have to kill again.

Gloria had never been so happy. The weekend in Deerfield was turning out better than she could have imagined. There was no greater high than being in love. And this was love. Real love. This was not a contest where one combatant tried to abuse and hurt the other.

Real love.

True, they had only been together for a short time, but Gloria knew. She had never been so sure of anything in her life.

Gloria turned her gaze toward Stan. He smiled back at her. A warmth quickly spread throughout her body. She did not want to eat or sleep or do anything but be with Stan.

They strolled down the deserted street toward the Deerfield Inn. The small New England town was straight out of a postcard. It was September, still a little early for the leaves to change color, but the sparse population and the sun creeping through the thick branches more than made up for it. It was warm. Both of them wore shorts and a T-shirt. In their haste to get out of the city, Gloria had forgotten to bring a T-shirt, so she had to borrow one from Stan.

There were only twelve rooms in the Deerfield Inn’s main building. The back annex held about a dozen more. But on this particular weekend, business was not too brisk, which suited Gloria just fine. Last night, they had dined, walked through the Deerfield Academy campus and sat quietly in front of the fireplace in the inn’s back room. The silence worked on her like the most relaxing masseurs.

Stan put his arm around her shoulders. Gloria nestled in closer against his chest. She felt safe and snug and deliriously happy. The inn was coming into view around the corner.

Stan stopped and turned toward her. ‘I love you, Gloria. I know we’ve only known each other a short time but – ’

‘I love you too.’

Her heart burst with joy as he bent down to kiss her. When he pulled back, she could see his face was troubled. ‘What is it, Stan?’

His eyes swerved around for a moment. ‘It’s so beautiful out here. I wish we could stay here forever.’

‘So do I.’