Play Dead (9 page)

'Anything wrong, David?'

David. He chuckled again. 'Just thought of something funny.' He looked at her again, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Maybe he was being unfair. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he should reconsider. After all, she did have big tits . . .

Nah.

It would be more fun to stand her up. Besides, he had big plans for tonight. It was time to introduce Stan Baskin to the city of Boston, to the press . . .

. . . and to Laura Ayars.

It made international headlines.

David's death was truly a story no newsman could resist. More than any other athlete, David Baskin had gained international fame through not only his pro basketball excellence, but for his Olympic heroics, his domination of European basketball during his stint as a Rhodes Scholar and, most of all, his tireless work with handicapped children. Add to this the fact that he was married to gorgeous supermodel Laura Ayars, the founder of the Svengali line, and just watch the reporters salivate.

What could make the story even more stimulating? Tragedy striking the happy couple. While eloping and secretly honeymooning in Australia, the great White Lightning drowns in a freak accident, leaving behind his beautiful widow to mourn the cruelty of it all.

Newspapers from Warsaw to New York, from Bangkok to Leningrad, gave the story prominence. Every spectrum of the journalism world, from supermarket tabloids to government-run newsletters, covered the sad event.

There were all kinds of clever headlines about how White Lightning would strike no more, how nature was finally able to stop David when no man in a basketball uniform could, but more than any of the others, Laura thought that the Boston Globe, the Celtics' hometown newspaper, struck closest to the bone. In simple, huge, sad block letters, the front page screamed in pain:

Laura laid the newspaper in the bed, leaned back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. Her eyes blinked spasmodically. Serita had tried to keep the newspapers away from her, but Laura had been insistent and Serita was hardly the type to tell her what she could and could not do. Now, as she lay in the spare bedroom in Serita's apartment for the third straight day, she recalled one particular paragraph she had read claiming that David's body was found 'bloated' and 'mutilated beyond recognition.'

The tears started to come again and yet they did not seem to come from her. She was too numb, too anguished merely to cry. Crying served her no purpose. The pain went far beyond anything tears could help to drown out. She knew the media were searching for her, but very few people knew where she was hiding, and Serita watched over Laura like an Israeli airport security guard.

She also knew that today she would have to rise from this bed, that today she would have to leave the protection of Serita's apartment and face the world for the first time since her David had . . .

He can't be dead. He just can't be. Please tell me it's not true. Please tell me that this is just a stupid joke and when I get a hold of him I'm going to beat the shit out of him for scaring me like this. Please tell him enough is enough, that I know he's okay, that I know his body was not shredded on coral and rocks.

'Laura?'

Laura looked up at her long-time friend. Serita was a devastating beauty, one of the few women in the world who could compete with Laura in the looks category. She was nearly six feet tall, her body thin and very muscular with the most beautiful ebony skin. Serita (she never used a last name) had been the world's top black model since she and Laura had first met six years ago on the modeling circuit. Serita had also become good friends with David over the last two years. In fact, David had liked her so much he had set her up with his closest friend on the Celtics, Earl Roberts, the seven-foot center.

'Yes?'

'Honey, you got to get out of bed now. Gloria called. She and your father are going to pick you up in an hour.'

Laura did not respond.

'And Gloria wants to speak to you first.'

'About what?'

Serita paused. 'Your mother.'

Laura's eyes grew angry. For the first time since David's death, they showed some sort of life. 'What about my mother?'

'She wants to come to the memorial service.'

'Fuck her.'

'That's your answer?'

'That's my answer.'

Serita shrugged. 'I'm but the secretary. Now get your ass out of bed.'

Though Laura had spent the last three days in this bed, sleep never visited her, never gave her an opportunity to escape the nightmare that reality had become. And now she did not want to get out of the bed, did not want to get dressed, did not want to attend a public memorial service at Faneuil Hall.

I love you so much, David. You know I can never love anyone else. Please come back to me. Please come back and hold me gently and tell me all over again how much you love me and how wonderful our life together is going to be. Tell me again about the things we're going to share, about the children we're going to raise.

'They're expecting massive traffic delays,' Serita continued. 'I think everyone in Boston is going to be jammed into Quincy Market for this. I sure hope Earl doesn't screw up his speech.'

Try as she might, Laura felt the tears sliding down her face again.

'Come on, Laura.' Serita gently pulled the covers off her friend and helped her sit up. 'You have to be there.'

'I know.' She wiped her face with her sleeve. 'I'm glad Earl is going to do a eulogy. And I'm glad you two are together.'

'We're not together,' Serita stressed, 'only fucking.'

Laura forced out a chuckle. 'Wonderful.'

Serita was the best friend Laura had with the exception of her sister Gloria, if you wanted to count a sister as a friend, and Laura had befriended very few models during her magazine-cover days. This was not because of the ridiculous stereotype that models are dumb. They're not. Actually, they're a rather crafty and intelligent group. But sometimes their self-image got in the way of uncovering the real them. Plus, with Laura being unquestionably the world's number-one model, many of the other women were somewhat jealous of her. And jealousy was an emotion Laura doubted Serita had ever experienced.

Today, the city of Boston was dedicating a bronze statue to David to be placed in Faneuil Hall, near Clip Arnstein's own likeness. Clip was the Celtics' seventy-year-old president, a man who David had both loved and respected. He, along with the mayor of Boston, Senator Ted Kennedy (a man David had never cared much for), Earl, and Timmy Daniels, another Celtics teammate, were going to eulogize her husband.

The work on the statue had been started months ago but for a whole different purpose. Originally, it was to be placed in a small playground at a school for handicapped children in honor of David's work. Now, it had been speedily completed and moved to Faneuil Hall to stand in memory of his premature death. Laura sighed. She could not help but think that David would have preferred to keep the statue in the small playground.

After the dedication, there would be a private burial. Burial. Funeral. Laura shook her head as Serita led her into the bathroom. She heard Serita turn on the water.

'Go on. Get in there.'

Laura stepped into the shower, the water cascading over her naked body.

Don't make me go to some service, Serita. There's no reason really. You see, David is not dead. It's all a lie. David is just fine. I know he is. He promised he would never leave me. He promised that we would be together forever. And David never broke a promise. You know that. So you see, he can't be dead. He can't be dead. He can't be . . .

Her body slowly slid down the shower's tile wall until she lay huddled in the corner of the stall. Then she placed her hands over her face and cried.

The surgeon looked at the clock on the far wall.

4:45 a.m.

He took a deep breath and continued stitching. A few minutes later, the wounds were all closed.

Six hours of surgery.

The surgeon walked out of the makeshift surgery room, untied his mask and let it fall onto his chest. He approached his friend and business associate. The surgeon noticed that his friend was much more nervous this time than usual.

But that was understandable.

'How did it go?' the man asked the surgeon.

'No complications.'

The man seemed very relieved. 'I owe you one, Hank.' 'Wait until you get my bill.'

The man chuckled nervously at the joke. 'What now?'

'The usual. Don't let him do anything for at least two weeks. I'll check in on him then.'

'Okay.'

'I'll leave a nurse with him.'

'But -- '

'She's done this type of thing before. She can be trusted.'

'This is a little different, don't you think?'

The surgeon had to agree. This was most definitely different. 'I assure you she can be trusted. She's been with me for years. Besides, he has to have a nurse.'

The man thought for a moment. 'I guess you're right. Is there anything else?'

A million questions swirled through the surgeon's head but he had been in this business long enough to know that the answers to such questions could be dangerous. Even fatal.

He shook his head. 'I'll see you in two weeks.'

Chapter
4

Judy Simmons, Laura's aunt, was packing for the trip to Boston when the phone rang.

David is dead, Judy. Pretend all you want but you're to blame . . .

She closed her eyes, struggling to shove the cruel voice away, but the accusations continued to echo across her mind.

You could have stopped it, Judy, but now it's too late. David is dead and it's your fault . . .

She refused to listen anymore. Judy had recently turned forty-nine, lived alone, had always lived alone, had never wanted to live alone. It wasn't her fault. It was just that when it came to men she had the luck of Wiley Coyote chasing the Road Runner. To be more precise, her relationships with the opposite sex ended up being disasters of Hindenberg-like proportions. Though she wasn't any great beauty like her sister Mary, she was attractive enough by most standards. Her face was pretty, if somewhat plain, and she had a very nice figure. Her most noticeable feature was her auburn hair, which she wore at shoulder length. Men had always liked her. The problem was that for some reason she always attracted the wrong kind of men.

That isn't exactly true. I almost had the best. Twice.

But that was a long time ago. Best forgotten. Besides, she was happy enough. She was an English professor at Colgate College and while the winters got cold, she liked the small community lifestyle. She was content, satisfied . . .

Bored.

Maybe. But a little boredom was not always such a bad thing. Right now, she hoped for boredom, begged for it. She wanted no new surprises.

Her poor beautiful niece. Such an awful thing to have happen to Laura. But perhaps it was divine intervention, Judy thought, though it was strange for a woman who was in no way religious, for a woman who had always despised those 'comforting' words that glossed over tragedy as 'God's will,' to have such thoughts.

But maybe that's what it was. God's will. Please let that be what it was. David's death had to be God's will. Or some bizarre, tragic coincidence. Or . . .

The alternative was too horrifying to even consider. She placed her heavy sweater in the Samsonite as the phone rang again. Her hand reached for the receiver.

'Hello?'

'Judy?'

It was her sister. 'Hello, Mary. How are you feeling?'

Tears were her answer. 'Awful,' Mary said. 'Laura still won't talk to me. She hates me, Judy. I don't know what to do.'

'Give her some time.'

'She'll always hate me. I know it.'

'Laura is in a lot of pain right now.'

'I know that,' Mary snapped. 'Don't you think I know that? I'm her mother, for chrissake. She needs me.'

'Of course she does.'

'Judy?'

'Yes?'

There was a pause. 'I didn't tell you everything.'

'What do you mean?'

More weeping came through the telephone line. 'I should have called you earlier. I wanted to. Really. But I know you would have tried to talk me out of it.'

Judy's heart lurched. 'Mary, what happened? You didn't . . .'

Still more tears. 'What would you have done? Don't you see I didn't have any choice? She's my daughter. I couldn't just sit back. And now . . . Oh God, I never wanted this to happen.'

Judy's fingers nervously twisted the telephone cord. Her mind jerked back. How long? How many people must pay before it all ends? And why must the innocent have to suffer too? Why must they pay for the sins of others?

Judy fought to keep her voice calm. 'Just tell me what happened.'

Laura's dark sunglasses helped cut down on the warm, summer glare, but that was not the reason she wore them. They served the larger purpose of hiding her puffy eyelids from both the world and cameras that surrounded her. She sat on the dais, T.C. on her right, Serita on her left. Earl was on the other side of Serita. The photographers were pushing to get closer to the pale widow, their cameras clicking at warp speeds. Laura noticed the way T.C. glared at them, his fists clenched in his lap.