Harlan Coben - Play Dead

Laura read about the next day. Then she read it again and again, hoping that the words would eventually change. They did not.

‘Laura?’ Gloria called out.

‘Yes.’

‘What’s it say? Read it to me.’

But Laura did not have the strength. She handed the book to her sister.

There were some habits of David Baskin’s that Mark Seidman could not get out of his system. Early morning basketball was one of them. David had loved to go to the Boston Garden first thing in the morning, enter through a side entrance, and shoot baskets by himself for a few hours. It relaxed him, made him forget, let him remember.

No one else was around this early. Joe, the Garden’s head custodian for twenty-some-odd years, did not come in until eight-thirty, so David was truly left alone with his thoughts and the legends that surrounded him. He took the basketball out of his bag and began to dribble on the parquet floor. The sound echoed throughout the arena, from the court to the rafters where the championship flags hung. Fifteen thousand empty seats watched him move up court, the ball dancing between his legs and around his back.

He stopped and jumped. His fingers gently lofted the ball into the air. It went through the hoop with a swish. His jumpshot. Having a unique jumpshot may be effective on the court, but it was a severe handicap in maintaining a new identity. According to Mike Logan of the Boston Globe, only one man had truly been able to duplicate David’s jumpshot:

Mark Seidman.

David shook his head. If Logan only knew the truth. If they all only knew the truth. But the fact remained that they would never guess because there was no reason to suspect that David Baskin might still be alive. Only someone who understood his situation would have any chance of figuring out the truth. For that person, David’s unique jumpshot had led not only to danger but death.

Judy’s death.

Like other sports fans, Judy had seen the similarity between David Baskin’s shooting style and Mark Seidman’s. Unlike everyone else, she knew enough about the past to realize that they were one and the same, that David had not really drowned in Australia, that he had faked his own death and taken on a new identity. From the beginning, David had recognized that there was a chance that she would figure out his secret. He had accepted that risk. After all, Judy knew that David and Laura were brother and sister. She would realize why he had pretended to die. She would not interfere.

‘You don’t understand anything, do you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that you think you know what you’re doing, but you don’t. There are things about this whole situation that have been kept from you.’

Judy had been murdered, he was sure of it. But why? Was someone trying to prevent her from telling the truth, from exposing what had happened? Had Mary been afraid she might tell Laura the truth? Perhaps. But murder? Could Mary murder her own sister?

David did not think so.

He took some lay-ups and wondered what he should do next. He could not just pretend that Judy’s death had been a coincidence, that the fire was unrelated to his disappearance six months ago. The whole situation was still one great big mystery. Nothing made any sense. Why had Judy called him in the first place? Why had she tried to bring them back together? Come to think of it, Judy had always encouraged their relationship – even in the beginning. While Mary fretted and tried anything to separate brother from sister, Judy had been supportive of their love affair. Why? Why had she never tried to break them up?

A whole heap of questions. Absolutely no answers. David circled toward the basket, leaped high in the air, and dunked the ball hard through the cylinder. The whole backboard shook.

‘There are things about this whole situation that have been kept from you.’

But what are those things, Judy? What are they?

Gloria took the diary from Laura. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

Laura shook her head. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘About what?’

She turned away, her features sagging. ‘You’ll see. Read.’

May 28, 1960

Revenge. Is that what I was after tonight? If so, I should have remembered that revenge can be a double-edged sword. I fear I have done something wrong. But alas, dear diary, you do not want my opinions. You want the facts. So here they are:

When I woke up this morning (woke up? I never fell asleep) I knew what I had to do: exact my revenge. Mary had stolen two men away from me. It was time to start returning the favor. I visited James at the hospital today…

Gloria looked up. ‘Oh Christ, she didn’t. Tell me she didn’t.’

‘Keep reading.’

James met me in his new private office. It was all done up in typical, immaculate doctor decor with diplomas and medical journals. He was very proud of it. He boasted that he was the only resident who had his own office. No surprise really. I always knew James would be successful. I loved him at one time. I loved him from the moment we first started dating all the way through his marriage to Mary. I was crushed when he left me for her. I thought my heart would never recover. But it has. It started to heal the day I met Sinclair. He released James’s hold on me, and now James seemed to me no more than a fine man, a very good catch for a husband.

Am I saying that I feel nothing for James anymore? Not exactly. But the truth is that I wanted to take him away from Mary more than I wanted him for myself.

We began by chatting about this and that, but with James casual conversation does not last very long, especially when he has patients waiting. He quickly turned on his cool, calm exterior. His voice became as brisk and professional as his well-groomed appearance.

‘You said you had to see me about something urgent?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m just not sure how to tell you.’

‘How to tell me what?’

I took a deep breath then and feigned looking confused. ‘I just feel so bad.’

‘About what?’

‘I hate to see you play the chump, James.’ I reached across the desk and took his hands. ‘There was a time when you meant a great deal to me. Do you remember?’

‘Yes of course,’ he said impatiently. ‘Now what is it?’

That was when I did it. I told James everything. I told him his wife was having an affair. I told him that Mary was sleeping with Sinclair Baskin. I told him that she was carrying his baby.

At first James did not react. He merely played with the pencil between his fingers. Then his jaw set. His face turned red. His hands clenched, snapping the pencil in half. Suddenly books were flying, then chairs, then furniture. He was a man out of control, completely crazy. I tried to calm him down, tried to warn him that someone would hear him, but he did not pay heed. He tore apart the office he so loved until his rage finally gave way to exhaustion. He crumpled back into his chair (it was the only thing still standing except me) and dropped his head into his hands.

I circled around the desk. ‘Don’t worry, James. I love you. I’ll take care of you.’ I reached his seat and put my hands on his shoulders. He winced in repulsion. My hands flew back to my sides as if his shoulders were on fire. Slowly his head rose. He glared at me with a twisted look, a look of intense hatred.

‘I don’t want you,’ he said. ‘I want Mary.’

Gloria looked up. ‘Dad knew?’

Laura nodded.

‘And he never said anything? He just raised you as his own?’

‘I don’t know but I think we should read on.’

‘Why?’

‘This was written on May 28.’

‘So?’

‘Sinclair Baskin died the next day.’

May 29, 1960

Help me. God, what have I done? The whole situation has become too much for me to handle. It’s completely out of control now. It’s taking on a life all its own, and I don’t know where it will lead. I fear the worst, but what else could possibly happen?