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 his 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 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.
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 blonde 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 lay-up, always a favorite move of his when he was up against a 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 an 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 jumpshot, 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.
She 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 1960.’
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 water cooler, 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 panicked. She flailed around until she awoke the sleeping past. The mask that hid 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.