Play Dead (52 page)

The gun sat in the glove compartment. It had been a long time since the killer had fired a gun, not since the barrel had been pressed against Sinclair Baskin's skull. The killer had watched while Sinclair's head exploded into small pieces. Blood splashed. Fragments of bone and tissue flew in every direction.

It had all been so simple. With one pull of the trigger Sinclair Baskin had been reduced from a human being with emotions and hopes and dreams to a worthless pile of decaying flesh.

So simple.

And it would not be too different with Stan Baskin. He was truly his father's son. Blackmailing a murderer. And not just any murderer but the murderer of his own father. Only a low-life would conjure up such an idea. Imagine: Stan Baskin wanted to turn his father's murder into a profit-making venture. What kind of depraved creature could do such a thing?

It boggled the mind.

The killer parked the car two blocks away from the alleyway. Time check: 8:10 p.m. Perfect. Twenty minutes to check out the surrounding area. What was the killer going to look for? No idea really. It just seemed the right thing to do; that is, to make oneself familiar with the murder scene before committing the foul deed. Just in case. This way, if something was wrong or had been overlooked, perhaps it would become obvious. Better safe than sorry.

The glove compartment fell open. A hand reached in and closed around the gun. It felt oddly comforting to handle such a powerful weapon -- especially in this neighborhood. South Boston was the perfect place to commit a murder. The sound of a gunshot is more common to the inhabitants of this neighborhood than a school bell.

Would this be the last murder? Unfortunately not.

Not again. Please, not again . . .

After Stan was discarded, there was still one more person who had to die, one more weed to be pulled out by the root.

The car door opened. The killer stepped out and moved quickly through the cold toward the alleyway.

Stan pulled out of the parking space and onto the road. Finding a spot near Gloria's apartment was like finding a black man at a KKK rally. Not easy. This coveted space was claimed by another car before Stan had managed to unlock the door and get in. He would probably have to stick it in a garage when he got back. Twenty-five bucks to park. Highway robbery. But soon Stan would have one hundred thousand dollars. Soon he would have all the money he needed and there would be no need to circle the block four hundred times just to find a parking space.

Don't take the money . . .

The annoying voice in his head was babbling nonsense again. Of course he should take the money. Of course he should bleed the maggot for every cent he could get.

Don't go, Stan. Stay away . . .

He shook his head no. True, blackmail was a dangerous game. Very dangerous. But Stan had a switchblade with him and, more important, he was dealing with an amateur. This wasn't B Man or somebody like that. He wasn't screwing around with the big-time. His victim was a scared rabbit. Harmless.

That's right, Stan My Man. Harmless. Just ask your father . . .

Stan's mind journeyed back to May 29, 1960. The look on the killer's face as the gun went off, the hatred in the cold eyes . . . that face could kill again. That face may appear innocent and innocuous on the outside, but Stan had witnessed the rage behind the facade. Stan had seen what a normal, civilized citizen could become if pushed too far.

You don't want to do this, Stan. You don't want to take money from your father's murderer . . .

Then what was he supposed to do instead? Forget he had ever seen the killer? Seek vengeance? Tell the police? Walk away? What? What was he supposed to do?

Stan pushed the voices out of his head. Money. Lots of it. That's what he was heading for right now. To hell with studying the morality involved. What was he supposed to be anyway, a saint? Don't make me laugh. Stan Baskin did not let a good scam go by because of an irrational voice in his head. Stan Baskin did not let easy money just float on by him.

He turned left and headed into South Boston. He did not bother to look in his rearview mirror. If he had, he may have noticed a familiar red car following him.

Gloria stayed about fifty yards behind Stan's car. She was no detective and she had no idea of the mechanics involved in tailing a car, except for what she had seen on television and in the movies. This area of Boston was foreign to Gloria. She had no idea where Stan's final destination was, but she was sure there had to be a safer way of getting there than driving through this concrete jungle of muggings, crime and murder. What was Stan doing here?

Spying on a loved one was not something Gloria did often -- never, to be more precise -- and she was scared. But Stan was in trouble, big trouble. Every part of her knew it. Her body kept shaking as the familiar, unsettling cravings knocked on her door like an old friend.

Come on, Gloria, the cravings would say. Just take a little snort and you'll be free. A little high never hurt anyone. You can control it now. Come on. Heck, you should have no trouble finding a little something to get you nice and high in this neighborhood. Just stop the car near that park over there.

She could almost feel her hands listening to the cravings, turning the wheel toward the park. But she fought it off. Most people thought that drug addiction was a disease that could be cured. But that was wrong. Gloria had learned the painful truth: you are never fully cured. You may think everything is okay for a day or a week or even a month, but then something will happen. Something will go wrong with your life and you will feel all alone. That is when the addict in you strikes -- not when you're strong and prepared to do battle, but when your defenses are down. Drugs, your addict reminds you, are your only real friends. They're there when you need them. They never disappoint or let you down. They make you feel good. They let you forget about the rest of the world.

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.'