Play Dead

He had made twelve foul shots in a row when he heard a faint noise. Someone had just come in via his side entrance. David grabbed the ball and speed-dribbled down to the other end of the court. Sweat trickled down his body. His hair, now curly blond instead of wavy brown, was matted against his forehead.

His ears did not detect footsteps. Strange. The sound of the door closing was fairly unmistakable. Very few people knew that he kept that particular door unlocked when he was working out in the mornings. There were his teammates of course. Clip and the coaching staff. T.C., Laura, Gloria, and James. And that was about it.

So who was here now?

He drove hard to the basket and took a reverse layup, always a favorite move of his when he was up against a much taller player. He would leap in the air, use the rim for protection against the long arm of the defender, and drop the ball against the backboard on the other side. Two points. Three, if he could draw the foul.

Since becoming Mark Seidman, he had worked out with Nautilus weight machines four times a week. The exercise regimen had immediate impact on his athletic body. It made Mark Seidman’s physique somewhat thinner and more toned than David Baskin’s. David found this also increased his foot speed and leaping ability to some degree.

Still no sounds from the entrance ramp.

He shrugged. Maybe it had been the wind against the metal door. Maybe it was just one of the towel boys doing some early laundry in the locker room. Whatever.

After another few seconds, David forgot all about the slamming door. He tried to concentrate on his long-distance jump shot, but other images jumped in the way.

GLORIA’S car swerved off Interstate 93 and onto the exit ramp. Her eyes stared out the windshield, seeing nothing but the road in front of her. Her foot pressed down harder against the accelerator. The car lurched forward.

In the passenger seat, Laura sat with the diary laid open on her lap. She read and read but still one thought kept going through her head—one thought that pushed away the mounting horror of the past.

David. David was still alive.

Laura looked over at Gloria. “Are you okay?”

“Dad murdered Stan,” she answered. “He killed the man I loved.”

“I know,” Laura said softly.

“How? How could he do that?”

Laura’s voice was barely a whisper. “You read the diary. He’s a sick man. He’s out of control.”

“Did you get through the month of June yet?” Gloria asked.

“Just about.”

“Then you see the full scope of what he did. Dad kept drugging Mom so she wouldn’t figure out what he had done. Then he kept sleeping with her until she was pregnant again—except now the baby was his, not Sinclair’s.”

“And Judy said nothing,” Laura added. “She was terrified of what would happen if the truth came out.”

The car turned right. They were not very far away now. “They lived with that secret for all those years. They just pretended nothing had ever happened.”

“I don’t think it was all that simple,” Laura said. “I doubt a day went by that they didn’t think of what happened in May of nineteen sixty.”

Gloria’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “I just can’t believe it. I mean, what could have twisted Dad’s mind like that?”

“I don’t know,” Laura said. “His blind obsession with Mom maybe, with the whole idea of family.”

“How can he act like he loves us so much and still be a killer?”

“It’s no act,” Laura replied. “At least, I don’t think it is. He loves us—maybe too strongly. He has always been the one to take on responsibility without help, protecting his girls from harm. Whenever there was a problem, Mom never raised a hand to help him. She just sat back and relied on Dad. Somewhere in his mind, he believes he has done all of this to protect his family.”

“All this time . . . and we never knew.”

Laura nodded. She tried to look down and continue reading the diary, hoping to block her thoughts from what was about to occur. But it was senseless. Anticipation rubbed against her raw nerves. David. After all this time, David was still alive. She was going to see him soon, hold him, tell him that they were never meant to be apart.

Just a few more minutes.

JAMES crept down the darkened hallway. He moved past a media room, past an empty watercooler, past the visiting team’s locker room. On his left, he saw a large garbage canister stuffed full with paper cups and programs. He checked the other end of the corridor. Nobody in sight.

Everything had been going so well until Mary realized that David Baskin was Sinclair’s son. Then she’d panicked. She flailed around until she awoke the sleeping past. The mask that hid away all of his deceptions—his useful deceptions—began to crack and fall away. He tried to keep Mary still, but how could he protect Laura and David’s relationship without telling his wife what she had made him do all those years ago? The whole foundation that supported his family would crumble into worthless ruins. Families, like lives, are fragile things. They are held together with flimsy tissue. Stretch that tissue too far . . .

He moved forward. Up ahead, he could see the entrance ramp. The players jogged down this very hall and out that ramp to the sound of swelling applause or boos. Light cascaded in from the playing area. The sound of dribbling became louder.

James had been in this building just a few days ago for the opening game of the Celtics’ new season. He had come with high hopes, with the genuine belief that the worst was behind them. But he was so wrong. That visit to the Garden, that damn opening game, had unraveled the spool of lies like no other occasion ever had. Judy had been only one loose thread that needed immediate attention.

The other had been Stan Baskin.

Stan had recognized James at the basketball game. He knew that James had killed his father. But instead of seeking vengeance, Stan Baskin had decided to turn a profit by playing a little game of blackmail. Disgusting. What kind of sense of family did a man like that have? James quickly realized that a payoff would do no good. Any man who could be bought off by his father’s murderer could not be trusted to remain silent. Furthermore, this scum was seriously involved with his older daughter. James would not allow Gloria to fall in love with such a man. So once again, what choice did James have? Only one, really.

He had silenced Stan for good.

The entranceway was only a few yards away. The time had come. No more mere clipping away at the weeds to improve the appearance. He needed to dig deep and rip up the evil by the roots, to destroy it in one bold stroke. Then they would all be safe.