by Harlan Coben
The patient stopped shooting.
'Everyone is doing badly.'
Mark's face caved in. 'Badly?'
The man nodded.
'I want to know -- '
The man shook his head and began to walk back toward the house. 'I shouldn't have even said that.'
Mark clutched the ball to his chest like a child with a teddy bear. His large frame bent over. He collapsed heavily onto the asphalt surface. An awful mix of emotions whirled painfully through his head like a sharp propeller.
The man continued to walk away.
'T.C.?' Mark cried out.
The man stopped and turned around.
'Make sure nothing bad happens to them.'
The man called T.C. took out a cigar. 'I'll do my best,' he replied, even though he knew that he was powerless to do anything.
Chapter 10
May 29, 1960
'Bastard.'
The gun exploded. A bullet sliced through Sinclair's skull. Blood splashed onto the walls, the sticky, red mist spraying the killer's face. Clumps of brain tissue flew out the other side of Sinclair's head. The dead body slid off the chair and onto the floor.
Standing over the bloodied corpse, the killer felt a strange exhilaration.
I killed him. I killed the bastard. He's dead. I didn't mean to do it, but I killed him. Plain and simple. I'm covered with blood, but oh, did he deserve it. Oh, was he asking for it.
The killer scanned the room. The music outside on the commons blasted so loudly that the students did not hear the bullet or, if they did, they must have thought it was a firecracker or a car backfiring. Still, time was short. The killer had to act fast.
Just relax. Don't panic. You're in control. Now just think. Something will come to you.
The killer looked at what had been a man's head. It was now an unrecognizable mass of blood, flesh and bone fragments.
I shot him in the head. That was good. That was smart. Now I can make it look like a suicide. Everyone knew the bastard had problems. A suicide would barely be questioned.
The killer locked the office door, wiped the gun clean of any fingerprints and placed the gun snugly in the dead man's hand.
There. It's done. Perfect. No one would ever suspect me. All I've got to do is sneak out the back before the police get here and -The killer stopped abruptly, remembering something very bothersome.
What was the name of that T.V. show? Or was it a movie? Or a book? Not important. There was a situation similar to this one. A man was found dead with a bullet hole in his head and a gun in his hand. An apparent suicide. But the detective figured out it was really a murder. But how?
Fingers snapped. The killer smiled.
The detective had the victim's hand checked for traces of gunpowder or something like that. None was found. In fact, the hand showed absolutely no signs of trauma, so the victim could not possibly have fired the gun. Conclusion: he had been murdered.
Fear crept in along with an idea. The killer sprinted back toward the body, lifted the hand with the gun, and pressed Sinclair's finger on the trigger.
The gun fired. The bullet lodged into the wall near the bookshelf.
Relief settled onto the killer's face. The hand now had the gunpowder or whatever on it. The police would be here soon. They would investigate the matter completely and come up with one of two scenarios: 1) after shooting himself, Sinclair's hand spasmed in death, firing another bullet; 2) Sinclair had chickened out at first, pulled the gun away from his head as he fired, then worked up the courage to kill himself for real.
The killer headed out the back entrance and into the sunshine, confident that no one was watching.
That was wrong.
From behind the couch two scared eyes had seen everything. But the killer did not look behind the couch. The killer just continued to make his escape, thinking: I did it. I killed the bastard. And now he has left me no choice. There is only one way to right the wrong, only one way to put everything back in place.
The killer swallowed.
I have to kill again.
Chapter 11
Gloria had never been so happy. The weekend in Deerfield was turning out better than she could have imagined. There was no greater high than being in love. And this was love. Real love. This was not a contest where one combatant tried to abuse and hurt the other.
Real love.
True, they had only been together for a short time, but Gloria knew. She had never been so sure of anything in her life.
Gloria turned her gaze toward Stan. He smiled back at her. A warmth quickly spread throughout her body. She did not want to eat or sleep or do anything but be with Stan.
They strolled down the deserted street toward the Deerfield Inn. The small New England town was straight out of a postcard. It was September, still a little early for the leaves to change color, but the sparse population and the sun creeping through the thick branches more than made up for it. It was warm. Both of them wore shorts and a T-shirt. In their haste to get out of the city, Gloria had forgotten to bring a T-shirt, so she had to borrow one from Stan.
There were only twelve rooms in the Deerfield Inn's main building. The back annex held about a dozen more. But on this particular weekend, business was not too brisk, which suited Gloria just fine. Last night, they had dined, walked through the Deerfield Academy campus and sat quietly in front of the fireplace in the inn's back room. The silence worked on her like the most relaxing masseurs.
Stan put his arm around her shoulders. Gloria nestled in closer against his chest. She felt safe and snug and deliriously happy. The inn was coming into view around the corner.
Stan stopped and turned toward her. 'I love you, Gloria. I know we've only known each other a short time but -- '
'I love you too.'
Her heart burst with joy as he bent down to kiss her. When he pulled back, she could see his face was troubled. 'What is it, Stan?'
His eyes swerved around for a moment. 'It's so beautiful out here. I wish we could stay here forever.'
'So do I.'
He nodded. 'It's time I told you everything about me, Gloria. The good and the bad.'
She hugged him. 'There is no bad.'
'Yes, there is.'
'You don't have to tell me.'
'Maybe that was true before I fell in love,' he said, 'but now I have no choice.'
She looked up at him with scared eyes. Stan stepped back and paused. 'I'm a gambler,' he began slowly. 'Baseball, football, horse-racing, you name it. It's a disease, Gloria, like what you went through with drugs. I have cravings that I can't control. Sure, I've tried to stop, but I just can't do it. I gamble and I gamble until I lose everything I have. And then I still can't stop. I borrow money and build up an even bigger debt which I can't pay back.'
He started to walk back toward the inn. Gloria followed silently, watching him stride purposefully. 'Sometimes, I do criminal things to pay the money back,' he continued. 'You see, the men who I owe money to are gangsters. They hurt people who are late with payments. I even owe them money now, and I still can't stop betting. Gloria, do you remember what it was like when you were cut off from drugs? Do you remember the cravings in your bloodstream until you thought the agony of withdrawal would drive you insane?'
Gloria nodded. She had felt those cravings. They had nearly killed her.
'Money to gamble with is my fix. I've tried to cure myself but I guess I don't have the strength you have.'
Gloria reached out for his hand. 'But that's because you've never had any support,' she assured him. 'I could never have done it without Laura. Not in a million years. But you can beat this thing, Stan. I know you can.'
Stan looked at her hopefully. 'Will you help me?'
She hugged him again. 'Of course I will. We'll beat it together.'
'I love you, Gloria.'
Her face lit up. 'I love you too.'
They walked together holding hands until Gloria spoke again.
'You said you owe money?' she began.
'Nothing for you to worry about.'
'But I have money, Stan. I can help.'
'No chance. I don't want you involved in this.'
'But -- '
He gently put his finger up against her lip. 'End of discussion, my love.'
They reached the entrance to the Deerfield Inn. Stan kissed her again and they disappeared into the lobby.
Two men -- one normal size, the other monstrously huge and hairy -- watched the kiss from a parked car in front of the inn.
'Is that them?' the big man asked.
B Man nodded.
'Did you see her body?'
'Very attractive, Bart,' B Man agreed.
'She should be a movie star!' enthused Bart. 'Boy, I'd love to fuck her.'
B Man patted his giant friend on the back. 'Bart my boy,' he said, 'you might just get the chance.'
Gloria grabbed a quick shower. When she stepped out, Stan was there to dry her off.
'You are so incredibly beautiful,' he said. 'Am I getting repetitive?'
'Never. Say it again.'
He put down the towel and began to caress her body. 'You're beautiful.'
A knock at the door interrupted their foreplay. 'Talk about timing,' she said. She picked up the towel and tied it around her.
'Who is it?' Stan asked.
'Room service. A little champagne on the house.'
Stan smiled. 'Stay here, my little dove. And don't you dare put on one shred of clothing.'
Gloria giggled.
'I'm coming,' Stan said as he headed for the door. He turned the knob. Without warning, the door flew backward. The wood smacked Stan's forehead, knocking him to the floor.
B Man and his gorilla/henchman stepped in and quickly closed the door behind them. Gloria gasped.
The blond man smiled down at Stan. 'Isn't this nice?' B Man began. 'A nice quiet weekend in the country. Isn't this just wonderful, Bart?'
'Wonderful, B Man,' the gorilla agreed.
Stan struggled to his feet. 'What do you want?'
B Man ignored his question, circling instead toward the other side of the room where Gloria stood trembling. 'Who is this lovely lady?'
'Just leave her alone,' Stan said sternly. 'She's got nothing to do with this.'
'True enough,' B Man replied, turning back toward Stan. Gloria remained huddled by the wall, noticing that the ugly giant had not yet taken his eyes off of her. She had seen that leer before, and she suddenly felt very exposed in just a towel.
'Do you have the money?' B Man asked.
'I told you,' Stan replied. 'I'll have it for you in a week.'
'Not good enough.' B Man turned his attention back to Gloria who was still crouched against the corner, looking at Bart with frightened eyes. 'Did Stan tell you how he hurt his finger, lovely lady?'
'I said leave her out of this.'
Again B Man ignored Stan. 'You see, lovely lady, Stan has not lived up to his obligations, his responsibilities. I found this most troubling. He left me no choice but to bend his middle finger back until it cracked in half. It was a most unpleasant noise.'
The blood drained from Gloria's face.
'Enough, B Man,' Stan shouted.
'But do not worry, lovely lady,' B Man continued. 'A broken finger is paradise compared to what I have in store for him now.' He signaled to his gorilla who was still staring at Gloria. The gorilla snapped out of his trance and began to walk toward Stan.
'Wait a second,' Stan said. 'Just let her get out of here. I don't want her involved in any of this.'
'I'm sorry, Stan,' B Man said with a slow shake of his head, 'but it's too late. Bart here has a crush on your lady friend.'
Bart leered at Gloria, spit forming in the corners of his lips.
Stan stepped forward, blocking Bart's path. 'Do what you want with me, B Man, but leave her alone.'
B Man looked at him, surprised. 'This is a switch, Stan. Since when do you care about somebody else?'
'None of your business. Just let her leave.'
B Man smiled. 'I'm curious, Stan. Suppose I promise to wipe away your debt if you let Bart have his way with your friend here? How would that sound?'
Stan stood firmly. 'Go to hell.'
'My, my, we really seem to be smitten. I admire that, Stan. I really do.' B Man smiled at Gloria, a smile that chilled her skin like cold gusts of wind. 'But alas, Bart is a faithful employee. And he asks so little of me, dear child. I would feel disloyal if I denied him this one small pleasure. You understand.'
B Man nodded toward Bart. The big man smiled at his helpless prey. Then Bart cocked his fist and slammed it into Stan's stomach. Stan collapsed on the ground.
Bart moved around the fallen man toward Gloria. He quickly cornered her, returning her look of mercy with one of pure lust. He licked his lips and reached out toward her towel.
'No!' she cried.
Bart's rough hands were no more than two inches away from her towel when he was tackled from behind. Stan had recovered. He attacked Bart with a fury. But Bart quickly flung Stan off of him. Stan's determination was no match for a man of Bart's size. Still, Stan kept fighting. He bravely grappled the much larger man, fighting to save Gloria from his savage assault.
Then B Man stepped in.
One man double his size would probably have been too much for Stan to handle. And now a second man had entered the ring. B Man quickly delivered a blow to the back of Stan's neck. Stan dropped to the floor.
'Run, Gloria!' Stan managed. 'Get out of here!'
Gloria tried to listen but her legs would not respond. She was frozen with fright as the two men began to kick Stan in the stomach.
Bart's face was red with rage. 'I'm going to kill the son of a bitch!'
The two men continued their onslaught without pause. Their blows did not stop coming. Each kick and punch seemed to be well placed and not rushed. Grunts forced their way passed Stan's lips. Gloria could also see blood trickling out of his mouth. His eyes rolled back and then closed.
'Stop!' she shouted. 'Leave him alone!'
B Man and Bart hesitated for a moment and looked up. Stan was not moving.
'Pl . . . Please,' she begged, 'I'll give you anything you want. Just leave him alone.'
B Man moved toward her. 'Sweetheart, he owes a hundred thousand dollars.'
'I'll write you a check. Just please don't hurt him anymore.'
B Man thought a moment. 'You want to help him?'
She nodded. Stan had risked his life for her. Sure, he had a problem. He had admitted it to her, had asked for her help. Once she paid off these criminals, she could help him heal in much the way Laura had helped her. 'Please. Don't hurt him anymore.'
B Man shrugged. 'Leave him alone, Bart. Wait for me downstairs.'
'But, B Man -- '
'Go.'
Reluctantly, Bart left the room.
'My . . . my purse is in the bathroom,' Gloria stammered. 'I'll be right back.'
When she had gone into the other room, when she was completely out of sight, Stan raised his head toward B Man. Stan took the remains of the blood capsule out of his mouth and put it in his pocket.
'Thank Roadhouse for me,' Stan whispered.
Then the two men shared a smile and a wink.
Mark Seidman showed the press pass T.C. had secured for him to the security guard. He moved past him and sat on the wooden benches with the other reporters. Hellenic College in Brookline, Massachusetts was home of the Soaring Owls. Their basketball program had been dumped off the curriculum twelve years ago after yet another pitiful season. If they had drawn thirty people for a basketball game, including the players and coaches, it would have been considered a major sell-out. But Mark Seidman and the handful of spectators were not there to watch the Soaring (or Wingless, as the school newspaper had labeled them) Owls. No, the gymnasium at Hellenic College was better known for their current guests: The Boston Celtics.
Here was where the final try-outs were held before the pre-season games began
. The seventeen players on the court would be trimmed down to twelve soon, leaving five crushed dreams on this wooden floor in Brookline. The Celtics were having double sessions this week. That meant two practices a day. The morning practice was an intense workout, but in the afternoon the mood was a bit more relaxed. Members of the press with the proper credentials were encouraged to come in and watch the players for a while.
Today, Mark Seidman was one such reporter.
Celtics coach Roger Wainright ran the players through a few simple drills and then gave the players time for free shooting. It was a quiet day for the Celtics. Mark counted only eight reporters in the stands. Not even Clip Arnstein was here. Mark watched the players shooting. Earl Roberts was working on his hookshot. Johnny Dennison dribbled laps around the court. And Timmy Daniels, the press's pick to be this year's best outside shooter, was practicing his long-range jumper with one of the towel boys rebounding for him.
Mark could see the smile on Coach Roger Wainright's face as he watched his young guard put shot after shot through the cylinder. Suddenly, an idea surged into Mark's head. He sat upright, mulling the idea over in his mind. It would work, he was sure of it. There was a big risk, but after all, what did he have to lose? He felt anxious, wanting to just get it over with. But Mark knew better than to try it today. No way. He would only get one chance. If he blew it . . . well, that was it. The end. Mark needed to get some money and wait until Clip Arnstein and the media were around. His scheme would fail without them.
Mark stood and stepped off the bleachers. He would have to wait until the team held its next press conference before putting his plan into action. The press conferences were usually the same -- reporters asking about the team's chances of winning the championship, and Clip Arnstein answering with either a joke or a sports cliche. Occasionally, the press would ask about a trade rumor or a change in personnel, but for the most part, press conferences were routine and not very exciting events.
Mark Seidman was about to change all that.
Gloria came out of the bathroom with her checkbook in hand. She spotted Stan's body on the floor. He lay still, too still. She managed to write a check for $100,000 through her shaking fingers. She tore it out of the book and handed it to the bleached-blonde standing over Stan's body.
B Man smiled graciously as she cringed away from him. 'Thank you, lovely lady,' he said, pocketing the check. 'I assume you can cover this rather considerable sum?'
She nodded.
'I would not advise your calling the authorities or trying to stop payment after I depart. My reaction to such a move would be, well, let's say unpleasant. Do you understand?'