Harlan Coben - Play Dead

‘Stop! Please!’

‘And he drowned there, Mother. The man I loved perished there because you didn’t like athletes, because – ’

‘I had my reasons!’ Mary shouted back.

‘What were they? What were your reasons?’

But the only answer Laura received was more sobbing, uncontrollable sobs that racked Mary’s body. Her shoulders and chest heaved. Laura looked at the pitiful figure that was her mother and took hold of herself. What have I done, Laura asked herself? She had come here to forgive her mother, to release her from the undeserving torment she had suffered at Laura’s hands over the last few months. Instead, Laura had attacked her with a vengeance that left them both trembling.

‘I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean it. I just hurt all over and sometimes I just attack…’

She took her mother in her arms and together they both cried. Laura stroked her mother’s hair. Some secrets defy death, Laura realized, and some truths are best kept buried deep in the past. Laura understood that. She knew the truth was not always a good thing. The truth could cause pain. Devastating pain. Pain that could destroy lives.

But that did not mean Laura would allow herself to be protected from the truth, to live a life where ignorance was bliss. Not when it came to David. After all, Laura’s heart had already been torn from her chest. What further harm could the past do to her now? No, Laura decided, I will seek the truth.

And find it.

All eyes were on Mark Seidman. ‘I can shoot better than any man alive.’

‘Who the hell are you?’ a reporter yelled out.

‘Mark Seidman from the Boston Eagle Weekly.’

‘The what?’

‘Don’t pay any attention to him, fellas,’ Clip interrupted. ‘He’s just some pain-in-the-ass heckler. Ignore him. To answer your question, Mike, the finest shooter in the game today is Timmy Daniels.’

‘Wanna bet?’ shouted the blonde heckler.

Clip looked over to the security guards. ‘Okay, that’s it. Throw the bum out.’ The uniformed guards strolled over to the bleachers.

Mark quickly stood. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of green bills. ‘Ten thousand dollars,’ he shouted. ‘One hundred portraits of Ben Franklin on crisp, new bills says I can beat Timmy Daniels in a three-point shoot-out.’

The gymnasium fell silent. Mark watched Clip’s face turned red with fury. ‘I said throw the bum out!’

Reporters started snapping pictures. Mark waved the money. ‘Ten thousand dollars for the charity of your choosing, Mr Arnstein. You put up zilch. Any charity you choose. No risk at all – unless you’re a little afraid your shooting star’s ego will be bruised by a stranger off the street.’

Timmy leaned toward Clip. ‘Let me shut this punk up.’

‘Yeah, Clip,’ one of the reporters added. ‘Let Tim take this kid’s dough.’

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the gymnasium.

Clip’s face was still red. ‘You mind if I count the money, big mouth?’

‘Not at all,’ Mark replied. ‘You can even hold it while we shoot.’

Mark walked down the bleachers and handed the money to Clip. He looked at the older man’s angry eyes. If looks could kill. Whispers from the others: ‘What do you figure?’ ‘Some wealthy punk with money to burn.’ ‘He’s no reporter.’ ‘Rich bastard.’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Timmy will teach him a lesson.’ ‘Weirdo.’

Clip counted the money and then sighed. ‘Okay, let’s get this over with.’

A coin was tossed. Mark won and chose to shoot second. A ball boy quickly set up the balls in various positions over twenty feet away from the basket where only the finest shooters dare roam. Mike Logan watched with interest. He had covered last year’s three-point contest before the All-Star Game in Dallas. David Baskin had won, shattering his own record by hitting twenty-two shots in the one-minute time period. Twenty-two. It had been truly incredible. Timmy Daniels had placed second with twenty; Reggie Cooper of the Chicago Bulls was third with nineteen.

Timmy Daniels approached the first cart of basketballs on the left side of the basket, his eyes concentrating on nothing but the rim of the basket. He crouched and waited for the timer.

‘One minute of shooting. Ready, go!’

Tim started shooting. He moved from the left side of the basket to the middle, his rainbow-like shots heading toward the cylinder.

Swish, swish, swish. Timmy shot as well as he had ever shot before.

‘Thirty seconds!’

‘He already has twelve!’ someone shouted. ‘He’s heading for a record!’

Mark closed his eyes and hoped Tim would miss more often. But Timmy continued to shoot exceptionally well. His hands moved with precision, the same fast movement every time he shot.

‘Time!’

The counter looked up. ‘Holy shit! Twenty-three! A new record! He shattered White Lightning’s record!’

Applause and cheers filled the small gymnasium. Timmy’s teammates, including Earl Roberts, went over and congratulated their shooting champion. Clip patted him on the back. Reporters took notes. Even Timmy seemed somewhat taken aback by what he had done.

Clip reached into his pocket and took out a victory cigar. The small crowd went wild.

‘Not so fast, Mr Arnstein.’

Clip looked past the front of his cigar at Mark. ‘Son, you might as well just head on home now.’

Murmurs of agreement.

‘Not yet,’ Mark replied calmly. But he was worried. Timmy Daniels had indeed shot brilliantly. ‘I still get my turn.’

‘Why waste our time, son?’

‘The name is Mark Seidman, Mr Arnstein, and this contest is not yet over.’

Clip lit his cigar. Everyone laughed. ‘Well, let’s get a move on, Mr Mark Seidman. There’s a team practice being held up because of you.’

The ball boys quickly retrieved the balls and set them up for Mark’s turn. He walked over to the left side of the basket and turned back toward Clip.

‘Extra wager?’ Mark asked.

‘What? You crazy, son?’

‘Extra wager or not?’

Clip smiled. ‘Name it.’

‘If I win, you give me a try-out with the team. If I lose, your charity gets another ten grand.’

Again the laughter echoed through the warm building. ‘Done,’ Clip shouted.

Mark nodded and waited; his muscles tensed. Everyone was watching him with mocking eyes. He could hear his heart pounding.

‘Ready, go!’

Mark grabbed a ball off the rack and quickly launched his first shot. Too quickly. The ball banged off the rim. The crowd laughed. The next shot found its mark. So did the next, and the next…

‘Not bad. He may even hit fifteen.’

‘No way.’

… the next, the next…

‘The kid can shoot.’

‘He’ll never even hit sixteen.’

… a miss, a make, a make, a make…

‘Funny way of shooting, huh?’

‘Yeah. Quick release. Reminds me a little of Baskin.’

‘Hey, Clip, what do you think?’

Clip Arnstein said nothing. He watched the awkward yet graceful shooting. Mark’s hands were a blur.

‘Thirty seconds.’

‘Christ, the kid has ten!’

Everyone watched now as Mark moved toward another rack of basketballs. He was still behind Timmy Daniels and no one gave any serious consideration to the blonde’s chances of beating him, but only seven professional players have broken the eighteen basket mark and the heckler had a real chance of hitting that milestone. Mark continued to shoot, ignoring his score, lost in the bliss of basketball. His shooting motion was fluid; the ball had perfect backspin as it dropped through the net.

‘Time!’

Stunned silence. The counter looked up. ‘Twenty-four,’ he said softly. ‘The kid just broke the record.’