Harlan Coben - Play Dead

Laura tuned him out. She watched out the window as the car traveled along a seemingly empty road. Only occasionally did another car go past them in the opposite direction. There were no vehicles in front or behind them – just snow piled high on the side of the road.

The land was still, peaceful, quiet. Laura soaked in the tranquillity. She had always liked visiting this area. Her mind and body let the surroundings work on her tense muscles. Yes, it was a beautiful place to visit for a few days. Stay longer than that and you start going stir crazy. Solitude was nice every once in a while, but as a way of life? Uh, uh. Not for her.

‘Faculty housing, right?’

‘Right.’ Laura said.

The taxi pulled onto the campus grounds and headed toward the left. Laura looked around the still campus, her thoughts on David. She couldn’t help but feel that all of this was coming to an end, that she would soon know what had really happened to David in Australia. And then what? She would be alone. David would still be gone and Laura would be left with no potent distraction. But it was better not to think too far ahead, better not to consider the future.

The taxi slowed to a stop. ‘We’re here,’ the driver said cheerily.

Laura looked out at Judy’s small home. There was no movement anywhere in sight. She quickly paid the driver and slipped her arms into the sleeves of her coat. She left the comfort of the taxi’s heater and headed into the cold of northern New York. The taxi drove off as she headed up the path.

Her hands dove into her pockets, her arms huddling against her sides in order to keep warm. As she moved closer to the house, she still saw no movement. One hand came out of the pocket just long enough for Laura to catch a glimpse of her watch.

Seven o’clock on the button.

When she reached the door, Laura rang the doorbell. She could hear the chime echo through the small dwelling before fading away into silence. There were no further sounds. She tried it again, waiting anxiously to hear footsteps heading her way.

No dice.

She tried the bell one more time, waited, but still no one came toward the door. She heard nothing -

No. That was not exactly true. She heard a shuffling noise.

‘Aunt Judy?’ she shouted.

No answer. No sounds at all. The shuffling noise, if there had indeed been a shuffling noise, was now gone. Laura reached forward and tried the door. The knob turned easily in her hand. The door was unlocked.

Two things occurred simultaneously as Laura pushed open the door and walked into Judy’s house: the killer sneaked out the back, and Laura detected the not-so-unpleasant odor of kerosene.

‘Well, well, what have we got here?’

‘Shit! It’s the sheriff!’

Graham Rowe approached the two youths. It had not taken him long to find them. Old Mrs Kelcher had pinpointed the spot on Route 7 where the eggs had first catapulted toward her car. Right away he knew the perpetrators of said offense had to be hiding on top of Wreck’s Pointe. Pain in the ass getting the car up here. No one ever drove the old, unpaved road to Wreck’s Pointe, but if the good folks of Palm Cove thought that Sheriff Graham Rowe was about to scale the side of a mountain to catch a couple of punks chucking eggs, they had another think coming. ‘Throwing eggs at passing cars, boys?’

The taller of the two boys stood. An egg was still in his hand. ‘We didn’t mean no harm, Sheriff Rowe.’

‘Well, you caused it, Tommy. Aren’t you boys a little old to still be into this kiddie crap?’

Both boys, brothers actually, lowered their heads.

‘What’s your dad going to say about this? Tommy? Josh?’

Neither spoke.

Graham took a step toward them. He readied himself for his standard lecture designed for the chronic mischief-maker – his stern man-to-punk chat, so to speak – when the radio in his squad car squawked his name. Graham sighed heavily. ‘Get out of here, the both of you. If I catch either of you causing trouble again, I’m going to stick you in a cage with a hungry crocodile. You understand?’

‘Yes, sir, Sheriff.’

‘Yes, Sheriff.’

‘Good. Now get lost.’

The brothers ran down the hill and out of sight.

Graham heard the radio shriek his name again. Damn radio was a piece of crap. Had more static than a cheap sweater rubbed on an even cheaper carpet. Graham half sprinted toward the car and picked up the microphone. ‘Sheriff Rowe here. What’s up?’

His deputy’s voice was barely intelligible through the blown speaker. ‘Mrs Cassler from the Pacific International Hotel called for you.’

‘And?’

‘And she wants you over there right away.’

‘What’s up?’

‘She has the passport cards you were looking for.’

Graham had already started his car. Now he turned on his siren and slammed his foot on the gas pedal. ‘Tell her I’m on my way.’

The killer stood over Judy’s still body. The first murder weapon had been a gun. The second, a sharp blade. Now the third, the third weapon was…

… Fire.

Judy’s breathing came steadily. Her eyes were closed. She almost looked as though she were sleeping, her chest rising and falling as though in heavy slumber. But Judy’s body was still, oh so still. A small pool of blood had formed on the floor near the back of her skull where a bronze bust of Keats had made impact. Such violence from such a non-violent soul – it saddened the killer.

I have to move fast, have to get rid of all the evidence. How? How do I make sure no one reads any of Judy’s diaries or sees any of her old photographs? How do I silence her forever?

The answer was almost too simple.

Fire.

Highly flammable kerosene had already been strewn throughout the tiny study and over Judy’s body. Loose papers were strategically laid about. Not too much kerosene and not too many papers. So far, so good, but there was no reason to get cocky.

After the killer had entered the house, everything had gone better than hoped. Judy had led them both down a thin corridor filled with poster prints by Chagall and Dali and even McKnight. When they reached the end of the hallway and stepped into the cluttered study, Judy made a key error.

She turned her back.

That was all the killer needed. The bust of Keats sat on its own podium by the study door. The bronze likeness was surprisingly heavy and a struggle to lift, but once the killer had it in the air, it swung down easily upon the back of Judy’s head, landing with a sickening thud. Her body folded before crumbling to the ground.

The killer glanced around. The diaries were kept in this study, dangerous journals dating back more than thirty years ago. There was no need to check or read through them. Judy kept all her important papers in this study. Once they were destroyed, once they were consumed by the flames along with their author, no evidence would remain. Nothing would be able to tie the past with the present. They would all be safe again.

A cold gust of wind chilled the room, whispering a warning that something was being overlooked, that the past could not be so easily laid to rest.

The whisper mercifully faded away.

The killer’s face twisted in thought. The fire marshals were sure to figure out eventually that this was no accident, that kerosene had played a key role in the spread of the fire, that this was indeed a case of arson. But by that time, the trail would have gone cold. The snow would have covered the tracks made by the kerosene containers. The rented car would be returned. The killer (now arsonist) would be long gone without so much as a trace left behind.

Perfect. Everything was so perfect.

So how come the tears were starting to flow again?