Play Dead (22 page)

What was Laura going to do?

The answer came to her. She would call Gloria's psychiatrist Dr Jennifer Harris. Dr Harris would know what to do. Though psychiatry had a strict rule protecting patient confidentiality, Gloria had insisted from the beginning that Laura be involved in her treatment. After seeing the two sisters together, Dr Harris had agreed.

Laura sat down at her desk and made the call. They exchanged pleasantries and then Laura told Jennifer Harris the entire story. She started with Stan's first visit at the funeral and ended with him storming out of her office.

When she was finished, Dr Harris was silent for a moment. 'Gloria has mentioned Stan Baskin to me. You're right. I think she is somewhat infatuated with him.'

'What should I do?' Laura asked.

'Gloria has not come close to risking a relationship with a man since her breakdown,' Dr Harris explained. 'If she finally did sleep with someone, it was by no means a quick decision. She's probably very scared right now, wondering if she made the right choice. But understand this, Laura: if she thought there was the slightest chance that Stan Baskin did not have strong feelings for her, she would have never risked it. In other words, there was no risk in her mind. Deep down, she was sure he cared about her.'

'But he's scum, Doctor.'

'Not exactly a medical term but I get your meaning. You have to tread very gently here, Laura. You can't just burst into Gloria's office and tell her that the man she cares about is a louse.'

'But I can't just sit back and let her keep falling for him either. I have to tell her the truth.'

Again a pause. 'Yes and no.'

'I don't understand.'

'You might want to try subtle disapproval but I wouldn't go into too many specifics right away.'

'Why not?'

'Because if Gloria really has fallen for this man, then she won't listen to you. She'll get defensive and isolate herself from your words. You may actually end up pushing her toward Stan rather than away from him.'

'So what am I supposed to do?'

'You can help her, Laura, but in the end Gloria has to come through this by herself. We can't force her to see what she doesn't want to.'

Laura considered Dr Harris's words. 'Gloria can be stubborn,' she agreed.

'Yes, she can.'

'But I have to do something.'

'Agreed. But talk to her gently, Laura. Don't hit her with all of this at once. Don't force it on her. Help her see the truth on her own. And bring her in to my office as soon as you can.'

'Okay,' she replied. 'Thank you, Doctor.'

'Laura?'

'Yes?'

'How have you been lately?'

'Just fine.'

'No problems you want to discuss?'

'None. I'm doing just great.'

An uncomfortable silence traveled across the phone line. 'I have a free hour at noon,' Dr Harris finally said. 'How about coming down to my office for a little chat?'

'I don't think . . .' Laura stopped, swallowed. Her hands were shaking. 'That would be nice, Jennifer. Thank you.'

'I'll see you at noon. Goodbye, Laura.'

Laura replaced the receiver and headed down the hallway to Gloria's office. When she reached the door, a voice called out to her.

'Laura?'

It was Gloria's secretary. 'Yes?'

'Gloria's not here.'

'Where is she?'

The secretary shrugged and smiled. 'She just ran out of here with a beaming face. She left this note for you.'

Laura opened the envelope and read the note: Laura, I've gone away until Monday. Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. I'll call you when I get back. I love you.

Gloria

The man shaded his eyes from the harsh glare of the sun and watched the patient pace off twenty-three feet from the basket. The patient drew a line with chalk. Yeah, the man thought, that was about the spot where the three-point line was. Only the best shooters would dare launch a shot from that far away.

The patient began to shoot the ball, rebound, shoot the ball, rebound, shoot the ball. He moved effortlessly, his shooting motion almost a poetic flow. Shot after shot found its way through the metallic hoop with a swish. The ball hardly ever touched the rim.

'Looking good, Mark,' the man called out.

The patient stopped. His curly blond hair was getting long now. His eyes were ice blue. His nose was pointed, his cheekbones set high. His face was unusually handsome in a pretty-boy sort of way. He stood about six feet five and his build was rock solid. The patient had never tried weightlifting before but the effects were both enormous and immediate. His body was slimmer, his muscles more defined. He felt strong. 'Thanks.'

'Mind if I rebound a few?'

'I'd appreciate it.'

The patient named Mark shot. The man rebounded and tossed the ball out to him. 'Let me ask you something, ' the man began.

'Go ahead.'

'How are you going to get a try-out?' he asked. 'You're a complete unknown.'

'I know.'

'So how are you going to do it?'

'I'm playing around with a few ideas,' the patient answered as he moved in for a hook shot.

'Like?'

Mark shrugged. 'Can you get me press credentials?' 'Sure. What do you need them for?'

'I'm working on it. I'll let you know.'

'Okay. One set of press credentials. Anything else?'

The patient continued to shoot, trying hard to look casual. 'How is everyone?'

'Everyone?'

'You know what I mean.'

'No, Mark, I really don't know.'

Mark did not take his eyes off the rim. 'You're right. Forget it.'

'It's forgotten.'

'The rules have to be followed.'

'Right,' the man agreed.

The patient continued shooting. The man continued rebounding. 'Mark?'

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?'