Harlan Coben

by Play Dead

  The diary was facedown, but Laura knew what it was even before she turned it over. “That’s it.”

  “What?”

  Laura picked it up.

  Diary 1960

  Gloria inhaled sharply. “Nineteen sixty. Isn’t that the year they had the affair?”

  Laura nodded. “This is what the murderer was trying to destroy in the fire. Judy kept all her diaries behind her desk in the study. The blaze destroyed them all.”

  “Except this one.”

  “Right.”

  Laura held the old volume in her hands. She opened it up and recognized Judy’s handwriting. It had not changed much in thirty years. Some of the letters looped a little higher back then. The pen had a lighter touch against the paper. But there was no mistaking the penmanship.

  Gloria moved closer. “Start reading, Laura.”

  JAMES grabbed an apple from the refrigerator. His wife was upstairs in bed, the lights out, her eyes open. None of them were going to get any sleep tonight, he thought. Words had been uttered that were best left unsaid. Secrets had been stirred that were best left to sleep.

  He took a bite out of the apple. James was compulsive when it came to health. He allowed no cookies in his house, no cakes, no ice cream. Sherbet was okay because he felt it improved digestion. Snacks consisted of raisins, nuts, rice cakes, and a variety of fresh fruits. Apples were his favorite. McIntosh.

  He sat alone in the kitchen with the light off. The lamp from the hallway provided enough illumination, casting giants shadows across the spacious white kitchen. James felt cold in his pajamas and robe, cold and alone. He had worked so hard to keep his family together, to provide for them and care for them. When had it all gone wrong? When had everything that mattered to him been leveled by deceit and lies?

  He took another bite. He almost felt tears but quickly pushed them away. James Ayars did not cry. He was strong. He would remain strong and somehow save his family from the past. Thirty years ago, his wife had tried to deceive him. She had packed her lies into a snowball and let it roll down the slope, growing bigger and bigger with the years. Nothing had changed. Lies still ruled their lives. Tonight was a perfect example.

  Mary. His achingly beautiful wife could charm him, seduce him, convince him to ignore or forget things that she had done. But when she lied to him, James always knew. He could always tell when she was trying to deceive him. Deep in his heart, he had known about Mary’s affair thirty years ago—even before he received oral confirmation. He had not known with whom or when or even how. But he knew.

  He stood, tossed the apple core into the garbage, and headed down the corridor to his study. Tonight, Mary had lied again. So had Laura. He had not interrupted a casual mother-and-daughter chat. No, their conversation went well beyond that. Laura had learned something during her excursion to Chicago. When she had arrived back in Boston, she immediately came here. She pressured her mother until Mary cracked.

  How much had Mary told Laura?

  James did not know. As little as possible, he was sure. But Mary had undoubtedly opened her mouth and let the past rush out. She had told Laura enough to threaten the very fabric of the family he so cherished.

  Everything was going wrong now. The deceptions that held their lives together were coming unglued in front of his eyes. He had to do something to hold the pieces together before they blew away like tiny grains of sand.

  But what? What could he do to save his family?

  Whatever it takes, he thought. He reached his study and flicked on the light. His long overcoat hung on the tall brass rack Mary had given him on their anniversary last year. He loved that rack. It fit in perfectly with the polished oak bookshelves of medical textbooks, the antique globe, the Persian carpet. The study had always been the most important room in the house for James. This was where he did all his serious thinking, where he planned for life’s blows and the strategies he would use to fend them off.

  He reached into the pocket of the overcoat. His hand withdrew a gun. He stared at the weapon for a moment, almost hypnotized by its power. He crossed the study, flicked off the light, and moved out the front door without looking behind him.

  If he had, he might have noticed his wife standing in the shadows.

  HOURS passed. How many? Laura and Gloria could not say. The clock seemed to speed around like some cartoon prop. The sun started to rise. Laura kept on reading. Her eyes filled with tears. These words had been written by a Judy Simmons that Laura had never known. The author of this diary had been filled with such hope, such dreams, such youthful optimism. In many sections, Judy rambled randomly about a budding flower or a blue sky or her burning desire to be a novelist. She dreamed of living in Paris, of having a family, of spending summers in Cannes, of writing bestsellers.

  Regret echoed through Laura’s heart. Judy had ended up doing none of those things. Somewhere along the way, her dreams had been derailed and lost forever. When Laura reached February 16, she learned how the derailment had begun:

  February 16, 1960

  I met the most handsome and charming man in the world today. He is a professor at Brinlen College and his name is Sinclair Baskin. Now I understand what books mean when they speak of unbridled passion, of heroines who would do anything to stay with their man… .

  Laura read parts out loud, skimmed through others. The relationship between Judy Simmons and Sinclair Baskin progressed rapidly. Judy soon learned that Sinclair Baskin was married with two children, but by then it was too late. As Judy herself admitted, love can make you more than blind; it can make you cruel and selfish. It could make you do things you never imagined:

  February 24, 1960

  I love him. I cannot help my feelings. Emotions are not water faucets that can be turned on and off or made warm and cold, as I please. I know about his past. I know that I am not his first. But still I know that I am special to him. Most would dismiss me as terribly naive but I know the truth. I can see it in the way he looks at me… .

  Laura felt ensnared by Judy’s words. She was trapped in nineteen sixty with no possible escape but to read on. Laura wanted to go back and warn Judy to stay away from Sinclair Baskin. She wanted to reach right through the pages and shake Judy to her senses.

  March 18, 1960

  I have never been so happy, never known such happiness existed. Losing James has ended up being a blessing in disguise. Mary and James are happy and now I’m ecstatic! Could life be better? I doubt it. I am so filled with feelings of love that I am sure I will burst. I want to shout from the top of tall buildings, “I love you, Sinclair!” He has started talking about divorce even though the idea of hurting his two sons is tearing him apart. Stan is only ten years old. David just a few months. But we are meant to be together and soon we will be. I must have patience… .

  More love notes followed. Pages and pages of sonnets that brought tears to Laura’s eyes. She read about the softball game where the photograph had been taken, about walks in the day and lovemaking in the night. The diary was like some bizarre novel whose characters were all too real. Laura watched Judy merrily skip down a path filled with hidden mines. She called out a warning, but Judy would not hear her. Right now it was March 1960. Young Judy cared not for what was to come. The world was bright and sunny, and no one could tell her otherwise. Laura wanted to lock her in, to somehow suspend her aunt’s memory in March 1960. But the diary had to move on. When Laura turned the page, it was April. March 1960 was gone forever.

  April 3, 1960

  We’re going to visit my family today. I don’t expect them to be thrilled for me. I doubt they will understand. But how can they deny the glow in my face? How can they be upset when they see how happy we are? They will have to accept us. They will want to accept us. Of course, my parents are going to be upset about his being married, but love conquers all, right? I’ll let you know how it goes when we get back.

  Later:

  Something changed today. I don’t know what. Everything went well with my family—as w
ell as could be expected. My parents were upset but managed to remain fairly polite. Mary got along very nicely with Sinclair, as did James. In truth, my family reacted just as I suspected they would. So why this dark feeling inside? It’s Sinclair. He was different today. Oh, he still looked at me with love. He still kissed me good night and told me that he loved me. But something was … off. He was distracted, not completely there. Of course that’s understandable. Today was a stressful day for him, too. But still, there was something wrong. Something in the air …

  “Listen to that something,” Laura said out loud, calling through time itself to patch wounds that still bled. “Get away from him.”

  “She was young,” Gloria said. “She was in love.”

  “He was a married man, Gloria.”

  Gloria smiled sadly. “If you had learned David was married, would it have changed anything?”

  “Of course it would—”

  “Really? Be honest with yourself, Laura.”

  Laura tried to push the allegation to the side and read on, but it remained there, swaying occasionally but never fully leaving.

  April 17, 1960

  My life is coming to an end. The sun no longer rises. The flowers no longer bloom. Something has taken away my Sinclair. More than that, something has begun to destroy him. I approached him today in the hopes he would confide in me. He has been acting strangely for two weeks now, ever since our visit to my parents’ house. I asked him what was wrong.

  “Nothing,” he said quietly. “There are problems.”

  “Problems?” I asked.

  He nodded. “I think we have to end this.”

  My heart disintegrated then, right in his stuffy, book-congested office, right in front of the works of Keats and Browning and Shakespeare and Dante.

  I think we have to end this.

  Seven words. Seven words destroyed my life. I of all people should not be amazed by that. Words, I know, can be all-powerful tools. That is all well and good on an analytical front, but the heart is an object that knows merely emotion and feeling. First James was taken away from me and now I am losing Sinclair.

  “What do you mean?” I asked stupidly.

  Sinclair was very upset. He was chain-smoking. His hair was all over the place. He had not shaved in a week. His eyes were bloodshot. “It’s over,” he said matter-of-factly. “I don’t want you to come around here anymore. I have a wife, kids.”

  “That bastard,” Laura said.

  “Keep reading.”

  For the next month or so, Judy delved into her depression. Nothing she tried could make her forget Sinclair Baskin. What could have changed him? Judy wondered. Could she have been so wrong about his feelings for her? Could Sinclair have been lying to her this whole time? She thought not. Young Judy kept blaming something else. Something “alien,” she said, had twisted his perception. Eventually, Sinclair would see the light. She would just have to wait. Sinclair would come back to her if she remained patient. Judy settled into a comfortable unhappiness, secure in the knowledge that one day she and Sinclair would be together for all eternity. Love would, in the end, conquer all.

  Then something happened in late May that altered her outlook—something that made Judy react in a way that changed their lives forever:

  May 27, 1960

  My whole body is still numb. Even picking up this pen to write to you is an arduous, unfeeling task. I cannot comment on what happened today. I can only replay the events as they happened.

  This morning, Mary called me in a panic. “Can I come over? I really need to talk to you.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  I spent the hour straightening up my closet of a dorm room and taking some notes for my new short story. At exactly ten a.m. Mary knocked on the door. When she entered, I was struck anew by her beauty. I had lived with her all my life but her stunning looks still held me in awe. I knew that her beauty was a dangerous weapon. I just had no idea that it could also be lethal.

  “I think I’m pregnant,” she said, her eyes tainted with fear.

  “That’s wonderful,” I naively replied. “Gloria will have a little baby brother or sister.”

  “You don’t understand. The baby …”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s not James’s.”

  I gasped. “What? How can that be?”

  She began to cry. Oh what a devastating weapon even her tears were. “I’m having an affair.”

  “You?”

  Mary nodded. “I never meant for it to happen. I was alone all the time with Gloria. James works so hard and he’s never home. Along came this charming man… .”

  She went on and on, making excuses for her carelessness and putting the blame on everything but herself.

  “Have you told this man?” I asked.

  “He wants me to get a test to make sure.”

  “Sounds like good advice to me.”

  Mary shook her head. “I’ll take the stupid test, Judy, but I know the truth. I know I’m pregnant. I can feel it.”

  I poured us both a cup of tea and asked a casual question that came more from being nosy than concerned. “Do I know the man?”

  Mary’s head shot up. “My God, I forgot. You don’t know… .”

  “Of course not,” I said with my smile still on my face. “How should I know?”

  “I thought maybe he told you.”

  “Who?”

  “Sinclair.”

  I don’t remember what else was said. My mind froze from that moment until the present. Everything around me collapsed when she said Sinclair’s name and yet everything around me became clear. Mary’s beauty. That was the alien force that had taken away first James and now my Sinclair. Why didn’t I stop her long ago? Why didn’t I destroy her ravishing beauty in its infancy? I slept beside it as a child, befriended it, and watched it grow. Now it was destroying me… .

  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 upcourt, 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 jump shot. Having a unique jump shot might 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 jump shot: 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 jump shot 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 d
rowned 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 layups 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.”