Play Dead (53 page)

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.

'Looks like nobody's home,' Serita said.

'Not yet,' Laura answered. 'My father is working late tonight. My mother should be home in a few minutes.'

'Are you going to wait out here?'

'I have a key.'

'Right,' Serita said. 'Well, good luck, Laura. Keep your cool.'

'I will.'

Laura turned away from the car and made her way to the door. She fumbled through her purse, found her key, placed it in the lock. The door opened easily. She moved into the house and closed the door behind her.

Her hand located the light switch from rote memory. She had been flicking that switch since she was a fat infant who had had to stand on her tippy-toes to reach it. She glanced about the surroundings of her youth as though they were all new to her. The familiar house seemed different today, like a book she had only skimmed through but never bothered to read from cover to cover.

Laura climbed the steps to the upper level of the house. She knew exactly where she was heading. At the very least, her mother was an organized person. Everything had its place. Mary Ayars lost nothing. It was a characteristic her youngest daughter had not inherited. Whenever Mary had visited Laura's office, she invariably asked, 'How can you work in this mess? How can you find anything?'

The truth was that half the time Laura could not find what she was looking for, but then again that was why she had Estelle. Estelle, who was up at Colgate with Judy's mystery key, kept great files, freeing Laura to create mass disarray in peace. Laura's mind worked fast, too fast sometimes. Ideas flew in and then details would slip out. Not so with her mother. Her mother was a plodder. She did one thing at a time and she did not take on a new task until the prior one had been completed.

My mother would never hurt me, never hurt our family. She loves us . . .

Laura's head pounded. Her mother. Her beautiful, loving, often smothering mother. Mary Ayars had taken care of her daughters when they were sick, had held them when they were scared of the dark. She had read them stories before bed and tucked them in with a kiss before sleep. Could it have all been a lie? Did Laura ever really know her mother? Questions like these ate away at Laura's brain, ate away at her ability to be rational. So few things in life were consistent. Her mother had always loved her unequivocally and unselfishly, but now Laura was forced to wonder about the very foundation of her life. Mary Ayars's ravishing facade was being slowly peeled away, and Laura no longer wanted to see what was underneath it.