by Harlan Coben
The traffic light in front of her turned yellow. Gloria accelerated. She did not want to get caught at a red light and lose him now. The feeling that had swept over her all day, the feeling that Stan was in imminent danger, had grown stronger with each mile. She had to stay with him.
Her car sped through the intersection, still keeping a safe distance between itself and Stan Baskin. Why was she so worried? She could not say for sure. Stan had been acting strangely all day, more on edge than usual, more contemplative. Something was bothering him. More than that, something was terrifying him.
Oh Stan, what are you up to now?
He could be so foolish sometimes. In many ways, Stan was more insecure than she had ever been. He felt the only way he could get anywhere, the only way he could get people to like him or love him, was to use treachery and deceit. Everything was a scam to him, a con. Even emotions. Love was a tool to control or be controlled. But Stan was learning. He was beginning to trust, beginning to feel. Gloria could tell. They had come a long way since Stan had ripped off $100,000 from her at the Deerfield Inn.
She made a right turn. The sun had set, and even with the heaters on full blast Gloria felt a chill in the air. Yes, she knew all about Stan's little con game with B Man. Not at first, perhaps. At first she had been legitimately terrified and fooled by the whole charade, but when Stan developed no contusions or even minor injuries, she became suspicious. Later that evening, when Gloria was cleaning up the bathroom, she found the remnants of the blood capsules in a waste-paper basket. It did not take a genius to figure out the rest: Fake blood meant a fake beating.
Her first response was to strike back, to have it out with him, to throw him out of her life. But something held her back. Though probably deserving, Stan had been thrown out by everyone close to him all his life. Maybe she was being naive, but Gloria wondered if that was the reason Stan was so self-destructive, if that was why he chose to squander every chance at real happiness. She did not know for sure. She only knew he needed help.
And God help her, she loved him.
So Gloria decided to never say a word about the money. She would just love him the best she could. And it was working. Slowly, layer by layer, the Stan of phony charms fell away and the real Stan began to emerge. The phony Stan was still there, still strong, but its grip on his soul was weakening.
Up ahead, Stan turned down a one-way street and parked his car in front of an alley. Gloria stayed back. The whole area looked like the ruins of a futuristic battlefield. There were no lights, no other cars on the road except for abandoned wrecks. Broken cinder blocks and shards of glass were scattered everywhere. The window holes in the buildings were boarded up with rotted planks.
What was he doing here?
Gloria watched the door on his driver's side open. Stan got out and looked both ways, his eyes somehow missing her car. Then he disappeared down the narrow alleyway. Gloria's car crept down the street. She pulled in behind his car, made sure her doors were locked, and waited.
'You did what?' Mark shouted.
'Just calm down a second,' T.C. said. 'I was just trying to scare Laura off.'
'So you broke into her apartment?'
'Listen to me, Mark. She sneaked over to Australia. She was positive David had been murdered. She had stopped trusting me completely. I had to knock her off the track.'
'What the hell is wrong with you, T.C.? First you threaten Corsel and his kids and then you threaten Laura's family?'
'I did what I thought best.'
'You were wrong. Why didn't you tell me before?'
'You would have stopped me.'
'Damn straight I would have stopped you. I would have punched your goddamn lights out. So what exactly did you do to scare her off -- besides leaving the VCR on?'
'I left a threatening note,' T.C. replied, 'and David's ring.'
'What ring?'
'The championship ring he was wearing when he drowned. I put it under her pillow.'
'Are you crazy?'
'Try to understand what I was trying to accomplish. I wanted to convince her that David's killers were men who played for keeps. Threatening her alone would do no good. But if I threatened her family, if I convinced her that these hoodlums who had David's ring were going to kill her sister or her mother or her father, then she might back off. I used the ring for its shock value. It added authenticity to the threat. It dazed her long enough for me to win back her trust and -- '
Rage overcame Mark. He grabbed T.C. by the lapels and threw him up against the wall. 'You son of a bitch.'
'Easy, Mark.'
'This is Laura we're talking about, not some drug dealer you can abuse with self-justification.'
'I was trying to protect her . . . and you.'
Mark held onto T.C.'s shirt for another moment. Then he let go, spun away, and grabbed his heavy overcoat.
'Where are you going?' T.C. called out.
Mark did not reply. He stormed out the door and into the cold winter night.
Stan looked at his watch, shivering in the bitter cold of the early morning. The killer was already five minutes late. The narrow ghetto alley worked as a wind tunnel making the weather unbearably raw. Stan paced nervously, trying to keep himself warm. Where the hell is the asshole? Stan wondered. And why the hell does the scumbag want to meet here of all places?
Stan's face twisted in disgust as the foul odors of garbage and urine reached his nostrils. Dirt. Filth. Scum. Behind him, a passed-out or possibly dead drunk lay buried under the heaps of refuse. This was not a place where Stan imagined the killer hanging out. No, the person who murdered his father was used to more plush decor, a more controlled environment. Stan had been the one who'd spent most of his life in the gutter. He reached into his pocket and touched the switchblade. He would have the advantage on this turf.
He took another glance at his watch. Ten minutes late. Stan wished the killer would hurry up and get here so he could get the hell out of this shit-hole.
Stan stopped pacing, the night chill nibbling through his skin. No sense denying it, he was jittery, anxious. He wasn't sure why. The killer was only ten minutes late. Nothing to get excited about.
'Hello, Stan.'
He spun around. 'Hello.'
'Sorry I'm late.'
Stan shuffled his feet. 'That's okay.' Listen to this conversation, he thought. He was exchanging pleasantries with his father's murderer. 'Do you have the money?'
Don't take it, Stan. Run . . .
The killer held up an airline bag. 'It's all here.'
Stan could smell the fear coming off the killer. The eyes were darting all about the alley, the eyes of a frightened doe. 'Don't like it here, do you?' Stan sneered.
'Not particularly,' the killer confessed.
Stan smiled. His own fear was slipping away as he watched the killer's grow. 'It looks like you're actually sweating under that fancy coat. How come?'
'No reason.'
'Give me the money.'
The killer put down the bag and stepped back.
'I said give it to me,' Stan snapped.
'It's right there. Just pick it up.'
'Give it to me now!'
The killer's eyes continued to shift from side to side, trying to guard all angles. 'Okay.'
Slowly, the killer took hold of the bag and walked toward Stan. Stan's confidence grew. He was taking a bizarre satisfaction in barking out orders.
'Hand it to me.'
The killer did just that, stepping back quickly after Stan had the money in his hands.
'This is just your first payment,' Stan said.
'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.
Helplessness overwhelmed her. There was no phone nearby, no way to move Stan toward the car and safety. She took off her coat and pressed it against the wound, tears streaming down her face.
'I'll be right back,' she said. 'I'm going to get help.'
Stan looked up at her through his dying eyes. Delirium was beginning to set in. He was going to die, goddamn it. He was finished, through. There was no pain now but he could feel his soul slowly being torn away from his body. Something was tugging at him, dragging him away from this cold alley.
Stan could make out Gloria's concerned eyes. Another woman looking down at him with pity. Women had been the bane of Stan's short, miserable existence on this planet. They had punched him, abused him, hated him. They had ripped deep into his soul, leaving scars and wounds maybe death would finally heal. But Stan still craved vengeance on them, on the whole vile gender.
As Gloria looked down upon him, he had one last chance before he died. He had one last opportunity to crush a woman like an insect. He would tell her that he had never cared for her, that he only used her, that she was nothing but a worthless whore like all the others.
She rose to leave but his hand reached out and grabbed her. Now she would know pain, he thought. Now she would know what it was like to have your insides shredded.
'Gloria?'
'I'm right here.'
Death crawled toward him. His eyes began to roll back and close. 'I love you.'
Chapter 28
They were only one block away now. The time had arrived. In a few moments, Laura would see her mother.
Serita drove the car slowly. She resisted the temptation to gun the engine, to speed her white BMW down the road and past the driveway up ahead. In many ways, she wished that the ride would last longer, that they would never get out of this car, that they would never find out the truth about David's death. She felt like they were sitting alone in a doctor's office waiting to hear the results of some life-and-death test, trying to distract themselves by reading the diplomas on the wall and the useless health pamphlets.
'Laura?'
Laura's breathing came in short gasps. Serita could almost feel her friend's mind pulling in different directions, stretching to the point where it would not snap back. 'What?'
'You sure you don't want me to go in with you?'
'No,' Laura said firmly.
'What time do you want me to come back for you?'
'I'll make my own way home.'
'Humor me, Laura. I'll come back in a half-hour and wait out here until you're ready, okay?'
'Okay,' Laura replied.
Serita flipped up the blinker. There was no way to put it off any longer. She swung the car into the driveway, her headlights dancing across the bushes as though searching for an intruder. She drove the BMW up to the front door of the house. No lights shone through any of the windows. No lights illuminated the outside of the familiar home. Laura opened the door and stepped out.