Harlan Coben - Play Dead

What was behind the locked door? Laura did not know. In a few minutes the plane would land in Ithaca. A taxi would take her to Aunt Judy. Once there, the closet door would be opened.

The killer read the sign:

COLGATE COLLEGE

The car turned right and entered the campus. The campus was storybook small college. Buildings that would be covered with ivy if it were not for the snow dotted the barren campus. The place reeked of liberal arts. Students here engaged in intellectual discussions on Hobbes and Locke, on Hegel and Marx, on Tennyson and Browning, on Potok and Bellow. During the day, they went to classes, met friends in the cafeteria, picked up mail at the P.O. At night, they studied in the library, flirted during strategic study breaks, had a few beers at a frat house, engaged in whatever with members of the opposite sex.

To these undergrads, nothing existed outside of the campus. Somehow, the whole world with all its problems and complexities had shrunk down into the boundaries of this idyllic, upstate campus. And life would never be this good again for most of them. They would never again have a chance to care so passionately about things that did not affect them. They would never again be able to enjoy a dress rehearsal for the real world.

The car slowed. There were very few students around right now. That was good. That was what the killer wanted.

I’m here, I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe what I am about to do.

The temperature had to be below zero with the wind-chill factor. Icicles hung off the gutters on the library. The snow had to be nearly a foot deep. The killer braked at a speed bump and looked out the passenger window for a brief moment. Without warning, the tears returned.

Why do I have to do this? Why? Isn’t there another answer?

But the killer knew that the answer was no. The past was using Judy as its outlet into the present, and so she had to be stopped. She had to be silenced before she could tell Laura what had happened thirty years ago.

Light flurries gently kissed the front windshield. Another left and the car entered the faculty housing area. Up ahead, the killer could now see the small brick building inside of which Judy Simmons was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking Lipton tea.

Laura hurried off the plane and across the small terminal. Had the flight been bumpy or smooth? Good or bad? Had they served food or drinks or nothing? Laura did not know the answer to any of those questions. She did not know what type of airplane she had been on, what airline she had used, what seat she had been in. The only memory that made its way past her murky haze was of a blue-haired woman dressed in Early Mayberry who resembled a waitress at a roadside diner. The woman had spent the flight alternating between practicing her look of disgust and snoring as she cat-napped. A pleasant companion.

But Ms Psychedelic Hairdo had been a welcome distraction from the agony of the unknown. Minutes on the plane aged Laura like years. Her hair was a mess, her thin layer of makeup smeared on her face like so much finger-paint. Laura did not realize any of this. She did not care. Laura had but one mission: get to Aunt Judy’s house. That was all she was concerned with right now.

Laura glanced at her watch. It was nearly six-twenty and she wanted to be at Judy’s promptly at seven o’clock. She picked up her pace and realized that she was nearly sprinting. A sign said the taxi stand was on her right. She veered and the electric glass doors opened. Cold wind whipped her face and neck. Up ahead, she spotted a sole taxi waiting at the stand. She broke out into a full run now, heading in a straight line toward the yellow cab. Her legs pumped hard, lifting her feet up and over the snow banks.

When she reached the car, her hand grabbed the door handle and pulled. Nothing happened. The door was locked. She lowered her head and squinted into the locked taxi. She was greeted with a now-familiar glare. Inside the taxi, taking off a heavy overcoat and jabbering with the driver while staring at Laura, was the blue-haired woman from the plane.

Laura stepped back as the taxi drove off.

The killer parked the car in a wooded area behind Judy’s house. No one would be able to see it there. Entering and exiting without being seen was very important. No witnesses. No one must see a thing.

The killer stepped out of the car and opened the trunk. A quick look around proved no one was in the area. Good. Very good. A hand reached into the trunk and pulled out a kerosene container. The hand shook wildly, spilling some of the flammable liquid onto the snow.

Stop that shaking. This is no time to go soft. Brace yourself. Steady yourself. Don’t be weak. Not now. This is too important. It has to be done.

Through the woods, the killer could make out the brick building where Judy lived. The house was a hundred yards away, then fifty, then twenty. One foot stepped, the other messed up the tracks. No use in letting the police see the shoe size in a snowprint.

A few seconds later, the killer was in the backyard. The container of kerosene was placed behind a garbage can. But just for the moment. Soon the kerosene would help light Judy’s house in a bonfire of death.

The killer moved toward the back door and prepared to knock. A quick glance in a window revealed Judy having a cup of tea in the kitchen.

It was to be the last cup of tea Judy would ever have.

Judy looked up sharply from the kitchen table. She could hear footsteps trudging through the deep snow outside of her window. Someone was outside in the backyard. Someone was walking around back there. Someone was heading toward her back door.

A chill glided through her. She sat up straight, wondering why anybody would come through the back when the front path was cleanly shoveled. No one ever used her back door. The only things back there were woods and shrubs and now snow.

Unease fell over her. She glanced at the clock: 6:45 p.m. It could be Laura or, more probably, Mark. Mark would not want to be seen coming here. He would not want anyone to make the connection between Judy and himself.

The knock on the door startled her. It had to be Mark Seidman, she thought now, her pulse racing fast. She grabbed her empty cup and stood. She put the cup in the sink as she made her way to the back door.

Judy’s hand reached up and pulled away the chain-lock. She grabbed the knob and turned it. Slowly, the door swung open. When Judy looked out, a face in front of her smiled brightly.

‘Hello, Judy.’

‘Say, you’re that model, aren’t you? Laura Ayars, right?’

It had taken Laura another ten minutes to dig up a taxi. ‘Yes. How much longer until we get there?’

The driver let go a laugh. ‘Laura Ayars in my cab. My wife will never believe it. I bought your swimsuit calendar one year.’

‘Great. Can we go any faster?’

He shook his head. ‘I’d like to. I mean, that way I can get more fares. More fares means more money, you know? And I like driving fast. I mean, I’m no New York City cabbie. They’re crazy. Have you ever been in a New York taxi?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, then you know what I mean. They’re crazy. But back to your question. I’d like to go faster. I really would, but I already got two speeding tickets this month. Can you believe that, Laura? Can I call you Laura?’

‘Please do.’

‘Two speeding tickets, Laura. Cops around here have nothing better to do than protect sheep from college pranks and give a guy trying to make an honest buck a hard time. But hell, they don’t bother me much. The problem, Laura, is the snow and ice. I took a turn too quickly around here last year and ended up in a ditch. No kidding. I must have driven on that stretch of road a million times, knew it better than the back of my hand. But this time, it was a coat of ice. Whoosh, the car went right over…’