Time passed, and finally the sounds stopped. Another life had been terminated. “Clean this mess up,” he said to me. “Make it fast.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. Now hurry.”
Before I could move more than a few steps, the door flew open. I turned in time to see little Gloria standing in the doorway. Her eyes were wide with fear.
“Mommy! Mommy!” she shouted, her eyes staring at the puddle of blood between her mother’s legs.
“Get out of here, Gloria!” James shouted. “Get out of here now!”
The child did not move. She was frozen in some kind of trance. I grabbed her and hurried her out of the room, away from the blood. . . .
Laura could not stop shaking. Neither could Mary.
“It’s true,” Gloria said. “Every word. The nightmare I could never remember . . . this is it. It all came back to me as soon as I read Judy’s words. I could see the blood. I could see Mom’s body sprawled out on the bed. I could see the twisted look on Dad’s face. I even remember see- ing Judy huddled in the corner.”
“He aborted the fetus,” Laura uttered.
Gloria nodded.
Laura stared at her mother, who was quivering as if she were in the grip of a fever. Everything began to click together. “He turned all your tricks against you, Mother,” Laura said. “You ended up being the one who was fooled about the identity of the real father, not him. You ended up being the one tricked into seducing him so that he could impregnate you for real. You were the one who got so caught up in the bliss of fooling James that you dismissed my ‘late arrival’ as your good fortune.”
“And my difficult pregnancy?” she asked.
Laura nodded. “He caused that, too. He kept you drugged out so you wouldn’t be able to guess what was going on. You told me you were feeling sick but were afraid to go to a doctor, right? It would have been too dangerous, you said, because Dad might find out. That gave him the time he needed. You continuously slept with him because you wanted to fool him into thinking he was the father when all along he was trying to get you pregnant for real.”
Gloria moved toward them. “And that answers the question about why Judy waited so long to say something, Laura. When David died, there was no reason to tell you the truth. David was already dead. But when she saw Mark Seidman at the Boston Garden, she must have realized that David was still alive. She knew then that it was not too late to bring you two back together.”
“My God,” Mary managed, “then David is not your brother?”
Laura shook her head.
“Then that gun . . .”
“What gun? Mom, what are you talking about?”
“I thought nothing of it at the time. I figured there had been some trouble at the hospital and he needed it for protection. . . .”
“Needed what?” Laura shouted. “Tell me.”
Her eyes fixed onto Laura’s. “I saw your father leave earlier. He had a gun.”
Laura sprinted to the phone. The house remained silent, everyone lost in her troubled thoughts. Laura quickly dialed. The phone was picked up on the first ring.
“Hello?” the voice said.
“Clip?”
“Oh, hello, Laura,” the old Celtics president said. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Sorry to hear about your aunt. Terrible tragedy. This whole year—”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” she cut in. “I need to speak to Mark Seidman right away. Do you have his phone number?”
“Seidman? Why do you want to speak to him?”
“Please,” Laura begged, “it’s very important.”
“Well, if you really need to reach him quickly, you can head over to the Garden. He’s usually shooting there by himself in the mornings . . . just like David—”
Laura did not hear the rest of his words. She was already sprinting toward the car.
“DISCONTINUE his IV and monitor his vital signs,” James barked in his familiar authoritative voice.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Tell Dr. Kingfield to look in on him. I’ll be in in a few hours.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
James glanced out the booth and into the streets. The Boston Garden was so close now. He only had to drive another hundred yards at the most. “Is there anything else?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Good,” he replied. “I’ll call back in a little while.”
He did not wait for her “Yes, Doctor.” He hung up the phone and strolled as casually as he could back to his car. It was not easy. He was anxious now.
The car started right away. He checked the traffic behind him and moved the car into the flow. A minute later, he turned into the lot at the Boston Garden. The timeworn arena needed so much construction that it was nearly impossible to figure out what should be worked on first. Still, the Garden had a certain majesty to it. He felt an undeniable awe when he gazed upon it. Whether his awe emanated from the building’s history or from the thought of the atrocity he was about to commit within its sacred hall, James could not say.
He parked not too far from the side entrance David had always used in the past. One peek out the windows told him that there was no one around this early in the morning. The area was completely abandoned.
Perfect.
James took his gun out of the pocket. He opened the chamber. All loaded and ready to go. The gun he had used last night to kill Stan was sitting in the bottom of the river. This was a new gun—entirely unrelated to the one that had ended Stan Baskin’s life. Also untraceable. He put it back in his pocket and got out of the car.
He walked over to the heavy exit door and took one more look around. Nope. Nobody in sight. He opened the door slowly. There was no creak. He stepped inside. Behind him, the door began to swing closed. James turned around and realized that the door was going to slam shut. He put out his hand to slow the accelerating movement of the weighty portal. It worked to some degree. The door did not slam, but it did not close silently either.
James was in the dark cavern on the bottom level of the Garden. He turned around. Down the hall was the famous parquet court. In the distance, he could make out the distinct echo of someone dribbling a basketball.
32
DAVID worked on his foul shots. He rarely missed foul shots in a game, shooting a career ninety-two percent—the highest in the league. Missing foul shots was something he had always considered unforgivable. It was a free shot, free points. There were no hands in your face, no players bumping you or trying to swat the ball into the seats. And there was only one thing you needed to do to be a good foul shooter: practice. So many games came down to them. So many games were won or lost on the charity stripe.
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. Now hurry.”
Before I could move more than a few steps, the door flew open. I turned in time to see little Gloria standing in the doorway. Her eyes were wide with fear.
“Mommy! Mommy!” she shouted, her eyes staring at the puddle of blood between her mother’s legs.
“Get out of here, Gloria!” James shouted. “Get out of here now!”
The child did not move. She was frozen in some kind of trance. I grabbed her and hurried her out of the room, away from the blood. . . .
Laura could not stop shaking. Neither could Mary.
“It’s true,” Gloria said. “Every word. The nightmare I could never remember . . . this is it. It all came back to me as soon as I read Judy’s words. I could see the blood. I could see Mom’s body sprawled out on the bed. I could see the twisted look on Dad’s face. I even remember see- ing Judy huddled in the corner.”
“He aborted the fetus,” Laura uttered.
Gloria nodded.
Laura stared at her mother, who was quivering as if she were in the grip of a fever. Everything began to click together. “He turned all your tricks against you, Mother,” Laura said. “You ended up being the one who was fooled about the identity of the real father, not him. You ended up being the one tricked into seducing him so that he could impregnate you for real. You were the one who got so caught up in the bliss of fooling James that you dismissed my ‘late arrival’ as your good fortune.”
“And my difficult pregnancy?” she asked.
Laura nodded. “He caused that, too. He kept you drugged out so you wouldn’t be able to guess what was going on. You told me you were feeling sick but were afraid to go to a doctor, right? It would have been too dangerous, you said, because Dad might find out. That gave him the time he needed. You continuously slept with him because you wanted to fool him into thinking he was the father when all along he was trying to get you pregnant for real.”
Gloria moved toward them. “And that answers the question about why Judy waited so long to say something, Laura. When David died, there was no reason to tell you the truth. David was already dead. But when she saw Mark Seidman at the Boston Garden, she must have realized that David was still alive. She knew then that it was not too late to bring you two back together.”
“My God,” Mary managed, “then David is not your brother?”
Laura shook her head.
“Then that gun . . .”
“What gun? Mom, what are you talking about?”
“I thought nothing of it at the time. I figured there had been some trouble at the hospital and he needed it for protection. . . .”
“Needed what?” Laura shouted. “Tell me.”
Her eyes fixed onto Laura’s. “I saw your father leave earlier. He had a gun.”
Laura sprinted to the phone. The house remained silent, everyone lost in her troubled thoughts. Laura quickly dialed. The phone was picked up on the first ring.
“Hello?” the voice said.
“Clip?”
“Oh, hello, Laura,” the old Celtics president said. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Sorry to hear about your aunt. Terrible tragedy. This whole year—”
“I’m in a bit of a hurry,” she cut in. “I need to speak to Mark Seidman right away. Do you have his phone number?”
“Seidman? Why do you want to speak to him?”
“Please,” Laura begged, “it’s very important.”
“Well, if you really need to reach him quickly, you can head over to the Garden. He’s usually shooting there by himself in the mornings . . . just like David—”
Laura did not hear the rest of his words. She was already sprinting toward the car.
“DISCONTINUE his IV and monitor his vital signs,” James barked in his familiar authoritative voice.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Tell Dr. Kingfield to look in on him. I’ll be in in a few hours.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
James glanced out the booth and into the streets. The Boston Garden was so close now. He only had to drive another hundred yards at the most. “Is there anything else?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Good,” he replied. “I’ll call back in a little while.”
He did not wait for her “Yes, Doctor.” He hung up the phone and strolled as casually as he could back to his car. It was not easy. He was anxious now.
The car started right away. He checked the traffic behind him and moved the car into the flow. A minute later, he turned into the lot at the Boston Garden. The timeworn arena needed so much construction that it was nearly impossible to figure out what should be worked on first. Still, the Garden had a certain majesty to it. He felt an undeniable awe when he gazed upon it. Whether his awe emanated from the building’s history or from the thought of the atrocity he was about to commit within its sacred hall, James could not say.
He parked not too far from the side entrance David had always used in the past. One peek out the windows told him that there was no one around this early in the morning. The area was completely abandoned.
Perfect.
James took his gun out of the pocket. He opened the chamber. All loaded and ready to go. The gun he had used last night to kill Stan was sitting in the bottom of the river. This was a new gun—entirely unrelated to the one that had ended Stan Baskin’s life. Also untraceable. He put it back in his pocket and got out of the car.
He walked over to the heavy exit door and took one more look around. Nope. Nobody in sight. He opened the door slowly. There was no creak. He stepped inside. Behind him, the door began to swing closed. James turned around and realized that the door was going to slam shut. He put out his hand to slow the accelerating movement of the weighty portal. It worked to some degree. The door did not slam, but it did not close silently either.
James was in the dark cavern on the bottom level of the Garden. He turned around. Down the hall was the famous parquet court. In the distance, he could make out the distinct echo of someone dribbling a basketball.
32
DAVID worked on his foul shots. He rarely missed foul shots in a game, shooting a career ninety-two percent—the highest in the league. Missing foul shots was something he had always considered unforgivable. It was a free shot, free points. There were no hands in your face, no players bumping you or trying to swat the ball into the seats. And there was only one thing you needed to do to be a good foul shooter: practice. So many games came down to them. So many games were won or lost on the charity stripe.
