Play Dead

by Harlan Coben

  'Sorry,' Laura offered again.

  Ms Bad Dye glared at her.

  Laura returned the glare. Well, fuck you too, lady.

  She turned back toward her magazine and continued not to read it. The same thoughts kept racing through her brain. Her suspicions about David's death now traveled down a new and frightening avenue. Intuition now steered her. No longer did things merely appear wrong -- they felt wrong. There was a danger here, a danger more horrifying than Laura had previously imagined. She had arrived at a locked closet that held something terrible, something evil, something that threatened to destroy them all. She wanted to run away, to forget that she had ever found this locked door, but her feet were frozen to the floor. Without conscious thought, her hand reached for the deadbolt. She would soon unlock the closet door, turn the knob, peer inside. There was no turning back now. It was too late to stop.

  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 spee
ding 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 ...'

  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.

  Chapter 24

  '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?

  Why did it have to be this way? Even when the eyes were closed the image of Judy's bloodied body kept reappearing before the killer. And that meant there would be nightmares for a very long time after today. Poor Judy. Poor loving, sweet Judy. Why does she have to die? Judy could have simply left the past alone, forgotten about it and let it be. But instead she chose to prod it, to poke at it until it awoke and attacked with a torrid vengeance. Now there was only one way to satisfy its growing lust.

  'Goodbye, Judy.'

  A hand wiped away a stray tear, reached for the book of matches, lit one and . . .

  ... and heard a knock on the door.

  The killer's heart rammed up into the throat, cutting off the air supply. Panic moved in with dizzying speed. Oh, God, what now? What now? The flame moved slowly down the matchstick.

  Fire.

  Another knock. Who? Why . . . ? The match came close to the killer's fingers, too close. With a small yelp of pain, the match dropped on top of crumpled papers. They caught fire and began to consume the nearby journals, curling the pages inward as they turned black.

  The die was cast. There was no turning back now.

  Get out! a small voice said as the knocking came again, more urgently now. Get out now!

  But suppose . . . ?

  The legs dismissed the doubt. They sprinted out of the study in a mad dash. The killer closed the study door, trapping Judy and the deadly blaze in the small area. The fire began to grow and fan out.

  As the back door swung open, a voice from the front porch called Judy's name, a familiar voice, a voice so frighteningly, terrifyingly familiar . . .

  The front door swung open slowly.

  Laura moved past the doorway and into the small foyer. The house was dark, the sun having disappeared completely during the past half-hour. A sole street light provided shadowy illumination. Laura's eyes moved from left to right, scanning the entire living-room area. There was no movement, no sounds.

  'Aunt Judy?' she called out, but there was still no answer.

  Laura took another step forward. Her nose twitched again from the strange, pungent odor that permeated the house. Gasoline or oil or something like that. It had to be coming from the garage. The smell was strong, nearly overwhelming. She took a deep sniff. Now that she really thought about it, it was not just a gassy or oily smell, not merely the smell of a gasoline station or some car-repair shop. No, now that she really analyzed it, the smell was more like . . .