Harlan Coben - Play Dead

‘What? You said on the phone – ’

‘Don’t worry about what I said on the phone. I want another ten thousand next week. Do you understand me?’

‘I just can’t keep giving you cash. When will it end?’

‘When I say so,’ Stan said coolly.

‘But – ’

Rage had now fully replaced Stan’s fear. ‘You killed my father.’

‘It was an accident.’

‘An accident? I was there, remember? You shot my father right through his forehead. You took my childhood away from me.’

‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘Bullshit!’ Without thinking Stan stepped toward the killer. ‘You called him a bastard before you fired.’

‘You don’t know what he did to me.’

‘And I don’t care.’ Stan moved closer.

The killer’s face was completely white now. Frightened eyes searched for an easy exit. ‘You have your money. I’d like to go now.’

‘I don’t want your goddamn money,’ Stan shouted.

The killer’s back was flat against the wall. ‘What…?’

Stan took another step forward. ‘There’s no place to run,’ he said. ‘No one will hear you scream.’

‘Please, just leave me alone. I’ll pay you anything you want. Anything.’

Stan closed the gap between them to less than a yard. ‘No good. Money can’t bring back my father. Money can’t give me back my childhood.’

‘You don’t understand – ’

‘Save it,’ Stan said, his fury forcing the tears out of his eyes and onto his cheeks. When was the last time he cried? He did not remember. But it felt right, oh so right. For the first time in his life, everything felt right. Gloria, Boston, no booze, no gambling. Everything just felt so right. ‘Someone has to avenge my father’s death,’ he said. ‘And someone has to pay for what happened to him. And to me.’

‘No, listen – ’

‘I bet he thought that he could just toss you to the side,’ Stan continued, reaching into his pocket. ‘I bet my old man thought you were completely harmless.’

As Stan moved in, the killer’s hand came out from underneath the long overcoat. ‘And he paid for it, Stan. Just like you.’

The gun fired. A bullet tore through the night air.

Richard explained the whole situation to Naomi. She sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee from the mug Peter had made her in school. ‘World’s Best Mom’ was crookedly hand-painted on the side. Rog had made a ‘World’s Best Dad’ mug for Richard the same year. She did not say one word while he spoke, did not interrupt even once as Richard recounted every detail. He told her about David Baskin’s first phone call from Australia, about Laura’s visits, even about the crazed psycho with the knife who had threatened the twins. He left out nothing.

Naomi’s expression did not change. She was a short woman, cute and tiny with curly dark hair and a bright, friendly smile she used to disarm any potential hostility. She sat calmly now, sipping at her coffee. Surprisingly, the twins had gone to bed a half-hour ago without the usual kicking and clawing. In fact, they had actually gone to bed an hour earlier than their standard bedtime. Miraculous really. They had a soccer game tomorrow, the twins explained, and Coach Duckson had said that sleep would enhance their performance. So Roger and Peter strolled past their stunned-speechless parents and headed up to bed. Now, like most nights after Roger and Peter had been tucked away, the house was strangely quiet. Each sound was amplified, echoing throughout the still environment.

‘So what do you think I should do?’ Richard asked when he had finished. ‘Should I tell Laura what she’s up against or keep my mouth shut?’

Naomi stood and walked over to the Mr Coffee. She poured herself a second cup. Second cup after dinner – no good. Too much caffeine. But Naomi had a feeling she would be up most of the night no matter what she did or did not drink. ‘So this is why you’ve been acting so weird lately?’

Richard nodded.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about this before?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I sort of hoped the problem would just go away.’

‘Just go away? How?’

He shrugged. ‘I didn’t say it was a realistic hope, Naomi, just a hope. What do you think I should do?’

‘You’re a good man, Richard.’

‘Huh?’

‘You’re a good father, good husband, good provider, good son to your parents, good friend.’

‘I don’t see what you’re getting at.’

Naomi took another sip of coffee. ‘I married a good man, that’s all. Most people can’t be bothered with somebody else’s problems. Most people would have forgotten the whole thing a long time ago. But not you, Richard. This whole thing has really been tearing you apart, hasn’t it?’

He hesitated and then nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘it has.’ ‘The way I see it then,’ Naomi continued, ‘you have no choice.’

‘You mean…?’

‘Sure I’d love to forget the whole thing,’ she said. ‘I probably could too. But you can’t, Richard. You’re not built that way. You’ll drive yourself crazy and I don’t want a good crazy man for a husband. So this is what we’ll do. Until this thing is settled, you’ll have to drive the twins to school in the morning. I’ll pick them up in the afternoon. Their activities will have to be curtailed a bit. We won’t live in pure fear, but we’ll have to be more careful for a while.’

Richard said nothing. He lowered his eyes and slid his hand across the table. Naomi grasped it. On the outside she may have been composed, but Richard knew that an earthquake of pain was erupting inside of her. Her hand gripped tighter. He looked up and saw that she was crying.

Gloria adjusted the car mirrors to cover all possible routes that could be used to sneak up on her. Then she tried to settle back, her eyes rotating between the three mirrors and the front windshield. No one had approached her. No one had even ventured onto this street.

Gloria felt like she was being watched.

She knew it was just her imagination, that there was no eye staring out between the cracks in one of the decaying boards. She reached down to turn up the heater. No good. It was already set on full blast. There were no sounds, except for the occasional car horn or screeching of brakes on a nearby road.

What was Stan doing here? What kind of trouble had he gotten himself into this time? Trouble followed a man like Stan. It lagged behind him, tapping him on the shoulder whenever he tried to pick up speed and outrun it.

Be careful, Stan. For God’s sake, be care -

A gunshot shattered the silence of the still night.

Oh God, no. Please…

All concerns for her own safety and welfare fled. Gloria grabbed the door handle, pulled, and rushed out of the car. Her legs flailed wildly as she ran for the alley entrance, her body almost tripping and spilling onto the hard concrete. But she ignored that. She ignored the cold.

Stan. Oh Stan, please be all right…

But something in the wind seemed to laugh at her prayer. She turned the corner. One of her shoes fell off but Gloria did not miss a stride. She kept moving forward, kept running down the narrow alley until…

… until she found him.

‘Stan!’

Footsteps echoed as somebody disappeared around the corner, but Gloria’s conscious mind did not register the noise, did not register any sound at all. Her ears pounded. Her eyes were wide with horror.

When Gloria reached where Stan lay, she knelt down quickly. The bullet had hit his chest, his blood spreading and staining everything in its path. Stan’s hand tried feebly to hold back the blood and stop the flow, but it was not working. He was still breathing, still conscious, but the life was spilling out of him and onto the pavement.