Play Dead

2

‘The call will be put through in a moment, ma’am.’

‘Thank you.’

Laura sat back and stared at the telephone. With the time difference, it was nearly nine p.m. yesterday in Boston and she wondered if T. C. was going to be home yet. His shift normally ended at a little past eight and she knew that he often stayed a lot later.

Laura’s hands trembled, her face and eyes harried and swollen from the torment of the seemingly endless night she had just endured. She glanced out the window and saw the sun shining. The bright rays and the clock beside her bed were the only clear signs that last night had turned into today, that the night had indeed given way to morning. But for Laura, the night continued, her heart squeezed in a nightmare that would not move on.

She closed her eyes for a moment and remembered the second time David Baskin had entered her life. It was three weeks after their initial encounter at the Boston Pops, three weeks in which their short conversation constantly jabbed at the back of her mind like a dull ache, never all-consuming but still bothersome enough to make its presence felt whenever she tried to forget about it.

Subconsciously (or so she would claim), Laura began to skim through a few of the many articles about him. Though the press could not shovel enough praise about David’s talent, sportsmanship and positive influence on the game, Laura was more fascinated (well, not fascinated, she told herself; more like interested) by the few sprinkles of information about his upbringing, his academic prowess at the University of Michigan, his time spent in Europe as a Rhodes Scholar and his selfless work with the handicapped. She found herself feeling oddly guilty about the way she had treated him, as though she had somehow to even the score or stay forever in his debt. It might be nice to see him again, she told herself, and maybe just apologize so he would see that she wasn’t really a cold person.

That was when she began to accept invitations to functions and gala parties that he was likely to attend. She, of course, would never admit that David Baskin had anything to do with her social calendar. It was just coincidence, she would claim. Svengali needed her exposure at these events and if David Baskin happened to be there, well, life sometimes works that way.

But to her inward dismay, David only made token appearances, smiling broadly as people gathered around him to shake his hand and slap his back. Laura thought she noted a wince or small look of repulsion on his face as these phonies reached out to touch him, but it may just have been her imagination.

David never approached her, never so much as glanced her way. Finally, Laura decided to do something truly childish. Spotting him by the bar at one such event, she took what has been termed by teenage girls as a ‘strategic walk’ – i.e., a casual stroll where she would ‘accidentally’ bump into him. It worked. He spotted her. He smiled cordially at her (or was there something else in the smile? like mockery?) and then moved on without a word. Her heart sank.

Laura returned to her office, fuming. She felt embarrassed at her behavior, upset she was acting like a high-school girl with a crush on the football captain. She could not understand why she felt this need to confront him again. Was it simply because he had bested her, made her reconsider her normal behavior and defense mechanisms? Or was there an attraction – albeit dormant – causing this static electricity in her brain? True, he was not bad-looking, rather handsome in a non-conventional way. His face and body were dark and strong like a lumberjack on a lite beer commercial. His green eyes were warm and friendly, his thick hair groomed short. Actually, he was quite attractive, more natural and real-looking than the supposedly gorgeous male models she used to work with.

But even if Baskin wasn’t a typical, self-centered, immature jock, he was nonetheless a jock, hero-worshipped by adolescents of all ages, a man who played a child’s game as a career. Undoubtedly, he was playboy-athlete, surrounded by airy bimbos who sought the spotlight and wanted to get on television with the other wives in the stands. And Laura wanted nothing less than to be considered another bimbo, another conquest by the immortal Celtic great. Clearly, David Baskin was the very antithesis of what she would want in a man, if indeed she had been interested in a relationship at all. Right now, there was no room for a man. Svengali was her ambition, her life-long dream and partner.

Laura tilted her chair back and put her feet on her desk. Her right leg shook as it always did when she was somehow uptight or in deep thought. Her father had the same annoying habit. They both drove people crazy because the movement was no mere quiver – it was a full-fledged shake. When she or her dad really got that right leg going, the chair, the desk, the very room would vibrate under the leg’s tenacious assault. For those in the area, it was an unnerving spectacle, one that Laura had tried unsuccessfully to stop herself from doing.

The vibrations her leg caused eventually knocked her pencil-holder off the desk, but she did not stop to pick it up. After a few more minutes of leg shaking, Laura managed to dismiss the basketball player from her mind as Marty Tribble, her Director of Marketing, entered her office with a large smile.

Marty Tribble was not a man who smiled all that often during working hours. Laura watched him confidently stroll into her office, his hand pushing away the few strands of gray hair that had lasted the five decades of his life, his face beaming like a Little Leaguer after his first homerun.

‘We’ve just made the advertising coup of the year,’ Marty exclaimed.

Laura had never seen him act like this before. Marty Tribble had worked with Laura from Svengali’s conception. He was a serious-faced executive, a down-to-earth conservative in a rather liberal, flighty business. His sense of humor was famous around the office only because no one believed he had one. Crack a joke in front of ol’ Marty and you’d see the same reaction if you tickled a file cabinet. He was the office rock, not a man who became excited over trivialities.

‘Which product?’ she asked.

‘Our new line.’

‘The casual walking shoes and sport sneakers?’

‘The same.’

Her eyes met his and she smiled. ‘Sit down and start talking.’

The plodding Marty (he wanted to be called Martin but everyone called him Marty for that very reason) practically leaped into the chair, his legs showing a spry-ness not yet seen in the downtown Svengali headquarters.

‘We’re going to run a national advertising campaign on television starting this fall. We’ll introduce the entire line to the public.’

Laura waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. He just continued to smile, looking like a game-show host who was trying to build suspense by not revealing the answer until after the last commercial. ‘Marty, that’s hardly an earth-shattering announcement.’

He leaned forward and spoke slowly. ‘It is when your spokesman is the sport’s idol of the decade. It becomes even more earth-shattering when that sport’s idol has never endorsed a product before.’

‘Who?’

‘David Baskin, alias White Lightning, the Boston Celtics superstar and three-time league MVP.’

His name struck her like a sharp slap. ‘Baskin?’

‘You heard of him?’

‘Of course, but you say he’s never done any endorsing before?’

‘Only those ads for handicapped children.’

‘Then why us?’

Marty Tribble shrugged. ‘Beats the hell out of me, but Laura, all we have to do is throw a good advertising blitz during basketball games in the fall and David Baskin’s broad shoulders will carry Svengali’s sneakers to the top of the sporting world. He’ll give us instant recognition and legitimacy in the market. It can’t miss. I’m telling you the public loves him.’

‘So what’s our next step?’

He reached into his breast pocket where he neatly kept his matching Cross gold pen and pencil. His fingers plucked out two tickets.

‘You and I are going to the Boston Garden tonight.’

‘What?’

‘We’re going to watch the Celtics play the Nuggets. The contracts are to be signed afterwards.’

‘So why do we have to go to the game?’

Again he shrugged. ‘I don’t know. For some strange reason, Baskin himself insisted on it. He said it would be good for your soul or something.’

‘You’re kidding.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s part of the deal.’

‘Wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me that if I don’t go to this game – ’

‘Then the deal is off. Right.’

Laura tilted her chair back again, her fingers interlocked, her elbows resting against the arm-rests. Her right leg started doing its gyrating dance of annoyance again. Slowly, a smile formed on her lips. She began to nod her head, quietly chuckling to herself.

Marty eyed her worriedly. ‘So, Laura, what do you say?’

For a moment, the room was still. Then Laura turned her eyes toward her Director of Marketing.

‘It’s game time.’

The Boston Garden experience had been nothing short of shocking. When Laura first entered the old eyesore in North Station, she was skeptical. The Garden? This decrepit old building was the Boston Garden? It looked more like the Boston Penitentiary. Most arenas in the country were modern glass and chrome towers, shining and sleek with air-conditioning and cushioned seats. But not the Garden. The Celtics’ home was a run-down, seedy hunk of cement with a beer-stale odor and an oppressive heat all its own. The splintered seats were hard, broken, uncomfortable. Glancing around her, Laura was reminded more of a Dickens novel than a sporting event.

But then she watched the thousands of anxious fans fill the Garden like parishioners on Christmas morning. To them, the climate was utopian, the aroma was that of roses, the seating arrangements plush and luxurious. It was as if these people thrived on escaping the niceties of the day to delve into the more perfect dwelling of their Celtics. Here was the Boston Garden, the zenith of the world’s millions of college, high-school, backyard and driveway basketball courts, the place that countless children had imagined hitting the winning jump shot, grabbing the winning rebound. She looked up at the rusted rafters and saw the championship banners and retired numbers standing proudly like medals on a general’s chest. Silly as it sounded, this place was history, as much a part of Boston as the Bunker Hill Monument and Paul Revere’s house, but there was one big difference: the Celtics were living history, constantly changing, consistently unpredictable, always coddled and loved by their fair city.

The frenzied crowd cheered when the players took the floor for warm-ups. Laura spotted David immediately. From her seat in the third row, she tried to catch his eye but it was as if he were alone on the parquet floor, completely oblivious to the thousands who surrounded him. His eyes were those of a man possessed, of a man on a mission from which he could not be diverted. But Laura thought she also noted a peacefulness in the bright green, the calmness of a man who was where he wanted to be.

Next: the opening tap.

Laura’s skepticism dissolved away slowly, like acid eating through a steel chain. By the end of the first quarter, she found herself smiling. Then laughing. Then cheering. Finally awestruck. When she turned around and gave the man behind her a ‘high five,’ she had officially been converted. The basketball game reminded her of the first time she had been to the New York Ballet at Lincoln Center as a wide-eyed five-year-old girl. There was a similar artistry to the basketball players’ movements, like a complicated, well-choreographed dance interrupted by unpredictable obstacles that only made the spectacle all the more fantastic to the eye.

And David was the principal dancer.

She immediately understood the sweeping praise. David was poetry in motion, diving, leaping, swooping, spinning, twisting, chasing, ducking, pirouetting. There was a tenacious, aggressive gracefulness to his movements. One moment he was the cool floor leader, the next a daredevil trying the impossible like some comic-book hero. He would drive toward the basket only to have a man cut him off and then, like a true artist, he created, often in mid-air. When he shot, his eyes would focus on the rim with a concentration so strong she was sure the backboard would shatter. He had a sixth sense on the court, never looking where he passed, never glancing at the ball on his fingertips. When he dribbled, it was like the ball was part of him, just an extension of his arm that had been there since birth.

And then the finale.

Scant seconds remained, the outcome very much in doubt. The beloved boys from Beantown were down by one point. A man wearing the familiar Celtics green and white passed the ball to David. Two men from the enemy camp covered him like a blanket. One second remained. David turned and launched his unique, high-arching, fade-away jumpshot. The shot lofted the orange sphere impossibly high, heading for its target from an impossible angle. The crowd stood in unison. Laura’s pulse raced as she watched the ball begin its descent, the game and hearts of the crowd riding on its slow movement toward the basket. A buzzer sounded. The ball gently kissed the top of the glass backboard, and then the bottom of the net danced as the ball went through for two points. The crowd screamed. Laura screamed.

The Celtics had won another game.

‘Telephone is ringing, Mrs Baskin,’ the Australian accent said.

‘Thank you.’

Laura rolled over on her stomach, the phone gripped tightly in her hand. She wondered if it had been during that fade-away jumpshot that she first had begun to fall in love with David. She heard a click and the ring that originated in Boston traveled halfway around the planet to the small town of Palm’s Cove.

On the third ring, the receiver on the other end was lifted. A voice came through the static-filled wire.

‘Hello?’

‘T.C.?’

‘Laura? Is that you? How’s the honeymoon?’

‘Listen, T.C., I need to talk to you.’

‘What’s up?’

She quickly recounted the past day’s events. T.C. listened without interrupting and, like Laura knew he would, he immediately took control.

‘Have you called the local police?’ T.C. asked her.

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I’ll catch the next plane out of here. Captain said I’m due for a vacation anyhow.’

‘Thanks, T.C.’

‘One more thing: stress to the police the importance of keeping this quiet. The last thing you need is a plane-load of reporters pounding on your door.’

‘Okay.’

‘Laura?’

‘Yes?’

He heard the strain in her voice. ‘He’ll be all right.’

She hesitated, almost afraid to speak her mind. ‘I’m not so sure. Suppose he has one of his…’ The words stayed in her throat, the thought too unpleasant to be spoken. But T.C. was one of the few people David trusted. He would understand what she was talking about.

‘T.C. is my closest friend,’ David had said to her last year. ‘I know he’s rough around the edges and I know you don’t easily trust, but when there’s real trouble, T.C. is the one to call.’

‘What about your family?’ Laura had asked him.

David shrugged. ‘I only have my older brother.’

‘What about him? You never mention him.’

‘We don’t talk.’

‘But he’s your brother.’

‘I know.’

‘So why don’t you two talk?’

‘It’s a long story,’ David said. ‘We had a problem. It’s all in the past now.’

‘So why don’t you call him?’

‘I will. But not yet. It’s not time.’

Not time? Laura had not understood. She still didn’t.

‘Just get here fast, T.C.,’ she said now, her voice quivering. ‘Please.’

‘I’m on my way.’

In Boston, Massachusetts, home of the beloved Celtics, T.C. placed the phone receiver back in its cradle. He glanced down at his dinner – a Burger King Whopper and fries he had picked up on the drive home – and decided he was no longer hungry. He reached for a cigar and lit it with a Bic lighter. Then he picked up the phone again and dialed. When the receiver was lifted on the other end, he spoke three words:

‘She just called.’

Twenty-seven hours passed. Terry Conroy, known to his friends as T.C., a nickname given to him by David Baskin, fastened his seat belt as Qantas flight 008 made its final approach before landing in Cairns, Australia. It had been a long journey, beginning with an American Airlines flight from Logan to LAX then from Los Angeles to Honolulu with Qantas, and finally, the flight from Honolulu to Cairns. Almost twenty hours in the air.

T.C. pushed open his shade and looked down. The water of the southern Pacific was unlike any other he had ever beheld. The color was not merely blue. Describing it as blue would be like describing Michelangelo’s Pietà as a piece of marble. It was so much more than simply blue, too blue really, gleaming in its purity. T.C. was sure he could see straight through the miles-deep water right to the bottom. Small islands dotted the ocean’s canvas, beautiful landscapes formed from the rainbow corals of the Great Barrier Reef.

He loosened his seat belt because his newly formed gut was getting crunched. Too much junk food. He looked down at his rolls of flesh and shook his head. He was starting to get fat. Ah, face facts. For a guy under thirty he was already too flabby. Maybe he would start an exercise program when he got back to Boston.

Sure, right. And maybe he’d meet an honest politician.

He threw his back against his seat.

How did you know, David? How did you know for sure?

T.C. had turned twenty-nine last week, the same age as David. They had been roommates at the University of Michigan for four years, best friends, amigos, partners, equals; and yet David had always awed him. It wasn’t his basketball ability – awesome as it was – that set him apart. It was the man, the man who seemed to let problems and unhappiness run over him like small ripples of water. Most felt David was carefree because he had everything going for him, that he had never known real hardship or conflict, but T.C. knew that was bullshit, that David had survived the early wallops to end up on top, that he still had his moments of private hell that fame and fortune could not counter.

‘It’s not real, T.C.,’ David had told him during his rookie season with the Celtics.

‘What’s not?’

‘The fame. The girls. The groupies. The adulation. The people who hang around you because you’re famous. You can’t let it mean anything.’

‘Well, then what is?’

‘The game,’ he replied, his eyes lighting up. ‘The feeling on the court. The competition. The moment when the game is on the line. A perfect pass. A fade-away jumpshot. A dunk. A clean block. That’s what’s it’s all about, T.C.’

And years later, T.C. thought now, Laura was put on the top of that list.

The Boeing 747 landed with a thump and began to coast towards the small terminal building. David. T.C. shook his head, thinking he’d seen just about everything in the last few years but this… Hell, it wasn’t his place to ask a lot of questions. It was his place to help. Explanations would come later.

He filled out the quarantine form, grabbed his suitcase off the rotating carousel, passed through customs and walked to the waiting area where Laura said she would meet him. The electronic doors slid open and T.C. found himself in front of a wall of faces. To his right, chauffeurs held up signs with names printed in capital letters. On the left, local guides wore shorts and T-shirts, their signs stating the name of a hotel or tour group. T.C.’s eyes searched for Laura.

A minute later, he spotted her.

T.C. felt something sharp slice through his stomach. Laura was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, still ravishing enough to knock any man to his knees, but David’s disappearance had crawled all over her and attacked with a vengeance. She was practically unrecognizable. Her high cheekbones were sunken. Her eyes were dark circles staring out with bewilderment and fear, their bright blue color terrifyingly dim.

She ran to him and he hugged her reassuringly.

‘Anything new?’ he asked, but the answer was all over her face.

She shook her head. ‘It’s been two days, T.C. Where could he be?’

‘We’ll find him,’ he said, wishing he was as confident as he sounded. He took her hand. There was no reason to stall the investigation. He might as well dive right in. ‘But let me ask you something, Laura. Before David vanished, did he have -?’

‘No,’ she interrupted quickly, not wanting to hear that word. ‘Not in more than eight months.’

‘Good. Now where can I find the officer in charge of the investigation?’

‘Palm’s Cove only has two officers. The sheriff is waiting for you at his office.’

Forty minutes later, the taxi pulled up in front of a wooden building marked ‘Town Hall’ and ‘General Store.’ There were no other buildings on the street. The lone structure looked like something out of Petticoat Junction, except for the surrounding lush tropics.

‘Listen, Laura, I think it might be best if I speak to the sheriff alone.’

‘Why?’

‘Look at this place,’ he said. ‘It looks like something out of Bonanza, for chrissake. I doubt the sheriff here is much of a progressive thinker. Out here, women’s lib is probably a concept for the distant future. He may be more willing to talk if I speak to him alone, cop-to-cop sort of thing.’

‘But – ’

‘I’ll let you know the moment I learn anything.’

She hesitated. ‘If you think it’s best…’

‘I do. Just wait out here, okay?’

She nodded mechanically, her eyes wet and glassy. T.C. got out of the car and walked down the path. His head was down, his eyes finding the weeds popping through the cracks in the worn cement. He raised his line of vision and stared at the building. It was old, the paint chipped, the structure looking as if a good push would topple it over. T.C. wondered if it was age or the climate of the tropics that made the wood look so weathered. Probably both.

The front door was open. T.C. leaned his head through the frame.

‘May I come in?’ he asked.

The Australian accent was the first he had heard since landing. ‘You Inspector Conroy?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Graham Rowe,’ the man said, standing. ‘I’m sheriff of this town.’

While his words were those of a sheriff in a cheap Western, his accent and size were not. Graham Rowe was huge, a mountain of a man who looked like Grizzly Adams or some professional wrestler. A gray-blonde beard captured his entire face, his hazel eyes serious and piercing. His green uniform with shorts made him resemble an overgrown Boy Scout, but T.C. wasn’t suicidal so he kept that thought to himself. A bushwhacker hat with its right side tilted up rested on his head. A rather large gun and an equally large knife adorned his belt. His skin was leathery and lined but not aged. T.C. guessed him to be in his mid-forties.

‘Call me Graham,’ he said, extending a giant hand/ paw. T.C. shook it. It was like shaking hands with a catcher’s mitt.

‘They call me T.C.’

‘You must be tired after that long flight, T.C.’

‘I slept on the plane,’ he said. ‘What can you tell me about your investigation?’

‘Kind of anxious, huh?’

‘He’s my best friend.’

Graham moved back behind his desk and beckoned T.C. to take a seat. The room was bare except for a twirling fan and the many rifles hung on the walls. A small holding cell was in the left-hand corner.

‘Not much really,’ the sheriff began. ‘David Baskin left a note for his wife saying he was going swimming, and he hasn’t been seen since. I questioned the lifeguard at the hotel. He remembers seeing Baskin shooting baskets by himself at around three in the afternoon. Two hours later, he saw Baskin walking up the beach heading north.’

‘Then David didn’t go for a swim?’

Graham shrugged. ‘He might have. There are swimming areas all over the place but there’s no supervision where he was walking and the current is mighty powerful.’

‘David’s a great swimmer.’

‘So his missus tells me, but I’ve lived here all my life and I can tell you when one of those damn currents wants to drag you down, there’s not much a man can do but drown.’

‘Have you begun a search for the body?’

Graham nodded his head. ‘Sure have, but not a trace of the lad so far.’

‘If he had drowned, should the body have shown up by now?’

‘Normally, yes, but mate, this is northern Australia. More things could happen to a man in that ocean than on your subways. He could have washed up on one of the small unmanned islands or gotten snared on jagged coral in the Barrier Reef or been eaten by Lord-knows-what. Any one of a million things could have happened to him.’

‘What’s your theory, Graham?’

The large Aussie stood and crossed the room. ‘Coffee?’ ‘No, thanks.’

‘In this heat, I don’t blame you. How about a Coke?’

‘Sounds good.’

Graham reached into a small refrigerator behind his desk and took out two bottles, handing one to T.C.

‘You say you’re mates with this Baskin, right?’

‘For many years.’

‘Do you think you can be objective?’

‘I think so.’

The sheriff sat back down with a long sigh. ‘T.C., I’m just a sheriff of a small, friendly community. That’s the way I like it. Nice, quiet, peaceful. You know what I mean?’

T.C. nodded.

‘I’m not looking to be a big hero. I don’t want no glory and I don’t like complicated cases like you mates in Boston handle. You know what I’m saying?’

‘Sure.’

‘Now, being a simple man, let me tell you how I see it. I don’t think Baskin drowned.’

‘You don’t?’

Graham shook his head. ‘I may have made a nice speech about all the possibilities for a corpse in the Pacific but the truth is almost always much simpler. If he had drowned, his body should have been here by now. Not one hundred percent of the time, mind you, but almost.’

‘What then?’

The large man took a swig of Coke. ‘Could he have developed a classic case of cold feet? It wouldn’t be the first time a mate has run away on his honeymoon. Almost did it myself once.’

T.C.’ s answer was a grin. ‘Have you taken a good look at his wife?’

Graham whistled his appreciation. ‘Never seen anything like that in my life, mate. My eyes almost popped out of the sockets.’ He took another sip of his Coke, lowered the bottle, wiped his mouth with a forearm the size of an oak tree. ‘I guess we can assume he’s not on the run. But let me ask you something else, T.C. I’ve been doing some research on this Baskin – part of the job, you know – and he seems to be quite the joker. Any chance he’s just out for a last kick or something?’

‘And worry her like this? It wouldn’t be like him, Graham.’

‘Well, I’ve radioed all the nearby towns and the coast guard. None of them wants a lot of press around either so they’ll keep mum. Other than that, I’m not sure there’s much we can do.’

‘I’d like to ask a favor, Graham.’

‘Name it.’

‘I know I’m out of my jurisdiction, but I’d like to help out with the investigation if I can. David Baskin is my best friend and I know him better – ’

‘Whoa, whoa, slow down there,’ Graham interrupted. The sheriff stood. His gaze traveled north to south, from T.C.’ s face to his scuffed-up Thom McCann loafers. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed the sweat on his forehead. ‘I’m undermanned as it is,’ he continued slowly, ‘and I guess it wouldn’t hurt any to deputize you for this case.’ He pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to T.C. ‘Here’s a list of places I want you to call. Report back to me if you hear anything.’

‘Thanks. I really appreciate this.’

‘No worries. But let me ask you one last question: is there anything wrong with Baskin?’

T.C. felt his pulse begin to pound in his throat. Memories flashed across his brain. ‘Wrong?’

‘Yeah, you know, does he have any injuries, a bad heart or something?’

‘Not that I know of,’ T.C. lied.

‘And who would know better?’ Graham grinned. ‘After all, you’re his best mate.’

T.C.’ s eyes met the big sheriff’s for a brief moment. They revealed nothing.

Laura and T.C. remained silent during the short ride back to the hotel. T.C. checked in, left his bags at the front desk, and followed Laura to the honeymoon suite.

‘So what do we do now, T.C.?’

He drew in a deep breath. He scratched his head, his fingertips wading through the thinness of the strands as they made their way to his scalp. No gray hairs yet, he thought, though he hoped his hair would last long enough to develop some. He doubted it. The light brown strands were quickly losing ground, his forehead taking over his scalp like Sherman through Atlanta.

T.C. looked out the window of the suite and felt in his pocket for a cigar. None were there.

‘Call around. Search the area.’

Laura’s voice was surprisingly steady and matter-of-fact. ‘By calling around, you mean the morgues.’

‘Morgues, hospitals – that kind of thing.’

‘And by searching the area, you mean the ocean and beaches to see if David’s body has washed up.’

He nodded.

Laura walked over to the telephone. ‘Do you want to change or rest up before we get started? You look like hell.’

He turned and smiled. ‘I just got off a long flight. What’s your excuse?’

‘I’m not exactly ready for a cover shot, huh?’

‘You’d still put the competition to shame.’

‘Thanks. Now do me a favor.’

‘Name it.’

‘Go down to the lobby and buy a couple of boxes of their finest cheap cigars.’

‘Huh?’

She lifted the receiver. ‘Stack up your supplies. We might be here a while.’

First, she called the morgues.

Laura had purposely wanted to call them first, to get them out of the way as fast as possible. Better to dash madly through the valley of the shadow of death than to take a casual stroll. Her head sat on a guillotine from the moment the coroner said, ‘Hold on a moment, luv,’ until a hellish decade later – or so it seemed – when he came back on to say, ‘No one fitting that description here.’ Then relief would flood her veins for a few seconds before T.C. gave her the next number to dial.

The room reeked of cigar stench like a poker table on the boy’s night to play, but Laura did not notice. She felt trapped, suffocated – not by the smoke but by each ring of the phone, her body constantly crossing between hope and dread as she now began to call the hospitals. She wanted so much to know – needed to know – while at the same time, she was afraid to find out. It was like living in a nightmare, one where you are terrified to wake up because then the nightmare might become reality.

An hour later, the calls were completed.

‘Now what?’

T.C. flicked an ash onto the table-top. He had smoked many cigars in his day but this Australian stogy was like smoking duck manure. One puff from this baby would have done to Fidel what Kennedy and the Bay of Pigs could not. He decided this would be his last one.

‘I’m going to run downstairs and get you a few more numbers to call from the phone book,’ he said. ‘Then I’m going to start questioning the staff. No reason for both of us to sit by a phone.’

He stood, walked to the door, sighed, turned slowly back around. He reached back and grabbed his Australian cigars. What the hell. His taste buds were dead already.

A little while later, as Laura sat alone in her room waiting for T.C. (or better yet, David) to return, she decided to call home. Glancing at the clock, she realized that it was around eleven p.m. in Boston.

Her father, Dr James Ayars, would be sitting in his immaculate study at his immaculate desk. Medical files for tomorrow morning’s rounds would be neatly stacked, the right side for those already reviewed, the left for the ones not yet read. He would be wearing his gray silk robe over neatly buttoned pajamas, his reading glasses gripping the end of his nose tightly so they would not slide off during one of his frequent sighs.

Her mother, the lovely socialite Mary Ayars, would probably be upstairs waiting for her husband’s nocturnal voyage to their bedroom. She would be propped up in bed, reading the latest provocative novel assigned for her reading group, a clan really, containing some of Boston’s most influential pseudo-intellectuals. They enjoyed spending each Thursday evening dissecting the ‘in’ books and attributing meanings that even the most creative of authors could not have imagined on the loftiest of drug trips. Laura had gone to one session (they were sessions, her mother had told her, not meetings), and decided that Webster’s Dictionary should have a picture of this group next to the word ‘bullshit’. But this was merely her mother’s latest in a long series of Thursday-night attempts at female bonding, running the gambit from bridge games to sexual-awareness encounter groups.

‘Hello?’

For the first time since David’s disappearance, tears suddenly came to her eyes. Her father’s voice was like a time machine. She fell back over the years, wanting to wrap herself in the past, wanting to wrap herself in her father’s strong and confident voice where she had always been safe and warm.

‘Hello, Dad.’

‘Laura? How’s everything going over there? How’s Australia?’

She did not know how to start. ‘It’s beautiful. The sun shines all the time.’

‘Well, that’s great, honey.’ His tone grew businesslike. ‘Now why don’t we cut through all the red tape, okay? What’s up?’

That was her father. Enough haggling and small talk. He wanted to get to the bottom line. ‘Something’s happened to David.’

His voice was as authoritative as always. ‘What, Laura? Is he okay?’

She was very close to crying now. ‘I don’t know.’

‘What do you mean you don’t know?’

‘He’s missing.’

There was a long silence that frightened Laura.

‘Missing?’

His voice was more full of dread than real surprise, like when you hear your friend who smokes three packs a day has developed lung cancer. Tragic and yet obvious. She waited for him to say more, to request all the details like he usually did, but he remained quiet. Finally she spoke.

‘He left me a note that he had gone swimming. That was two days ago.’

‘Oh God,’ he mumbled. His words formed into a sharp needle that punctured Laura’s skin. Gone was the confident voice that was her father’s trademark. She could feel him struggling to regain his normal tone, but the sound was hollow, distant. ‘Why didn’t you call sooner? Have you contacted the police?’

‘They’re looking for him now. I called T.C. He arrived a few hours ago.’

‘I’ll catch the next flight. I’ll be there – ’

‘No, that’s okay. There’s nothing you can do here.’

‘But – ’

‘Really, Dad, I’m okay. But please don’t tell Mom.’

‘What could I tell her? She doesn’t even know you’re in Australia. Everybody’s wondering where you and David are.’

‘Just keep the elopement a secret for a little while longer. Is Mom there?’

Dr Ayars froze. ‘No.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s in Los Angeles for the week,’ he lied. ‘Laura, are you sure you don’t want me to fly out there?’

‘No, really, I’ll be fine. I’m sure we’ll find him soon. He’s probably just pulling another stunt.’

Again, there was silence. Laura waited for him to agree with her, to say of course he’ll be back, to tell her to stop worrying like a typical wife. But he didn’t. Where was his comforting voice of reason? Where was the man who was supposed to be strong for everyone else? Her father, the man who was always calm, always in control, the man who had seen death and suffering on both a professional and personal level for his entire life and had never let it affect his cool exterior, was strangely without words.

‘I’ll call you as soon as I know something,’ she said while a small voice in her head told her that her father didn’t need to be informed, that he already knew what the outcome was going to be. But that was silly. She was just overtired and frightened. This whole episode was turning her brain into mush.

‘Okay,’ Dr James Ayars replied, defeated, crushed.

‘Is there something else, Dad?’

‘No,’ Dr Ayars said mechanically. ‘I’m sure everything will work out for the best.’

Laura listened to his words, puzzled. The best? She suddenly felt very cold.

‘Is Gloria around?’

‘No, your sister’s working late again. You should be very proud of her.’

‘I am,’ Laura replied. ‘When’s Mom going to be home?’

‘A few days. Are you sure you don’t want me to fly over?’

‘I’m sure. Goodbye, Dad.’

‘Goodbye, Laura. If you need anything…’

‘I’ll let you know.’

Laura heard her father replace the receiver.

She tried not to let the conversation bother her. After all, there was nothing specific in his words, nothing concrete her father had said or done that she could truly call troublesome. And yet, the feeling that something was wrong – very wrong – lay like a heavy weight in her stomach. She opened her purse, rumbled through its contents, came up empty.

God, why did she ever quit smoking?

Again she glanced out the window, away from the beach and toward the start of the Australian Bush. She remembered once when she and David had decided to slip out of their city-slicker facade and head out into the New England Bush. Growing up in Michigan, David had had some experience with camping out. He enthusiastically billed it as a weekend away from the world. Laura, who had been a content city dweller all of her years, saw it as more of a chance to sleep in the dirt with a lot of bugs.

‘You’ll love it,’ he insisted.

‘I’ll hate it.’

They drove up to Vermont where they strapped heavy knapsacks onto their backs. They walked through the muggy forest for what seemed like a millennium until, mercifully, they arrived at their secluded camping site. Laura cleaned herself off in the nearby stream, unrolled her sleeping bag, and climbed in.

Then David began to join her.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked. ‘I thought you had your own sleeping bag.’

‘I do. But we have to cuddle for warmth.’

‘Body heat?’

‘Exactly.’

‘One problem.’

‘Oh?’

‘The thermometer reads ninety-five degrees.’

‘That warm?’

She nodded.

David thought a moment. ‘Then I suggest we sleep au naturel.’

Their lovemaking was fierce, frightening in its intensity, and afterwards, they lay naked in each other’s arms.

‘Wow!’ David managed, finally beginning to catch his breath.

‘What?’

‘I just love being in touch with nature. I don’t know, Laura, these surroundings… they make me feel so alive, so one with nature, so…’

‘Horny?’

‘Bingo.’

‘I’m becoming a bit of a nature lover myself,’ Laura pronounced.

‘I noticed. But you have to be more careful.’

‘Why?’

‘That screaming of yours, woman. You’ll scare our furry friends to death.’

‘You love it.’

‘True.’

‘Besides, you were hardly Marcel Marceau.’

‘Moi?’

‘That was some moose call. I kept waiting for the female to emerge from the bushes.’

‘No such luck. I guess you’ll have to do.’

‘Vicious, David.’ She reached into her crumpled jeans and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

David groaned. ‘Are you going to smoke those?’

‘No. I’m going to feed the animals.’

‘Smoky Bear says people start forest fires.’

‘I’ll be careful.’

‘Listen, Laura, I don’t mind when you smoke back home – ’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Okay, bullshit. But out here in the wilds, we have to think of our furry friends.’

‘Why do you hate my smoking so much?’

David shrugged. ‘Aside from the fact that it’s disgusting, terrible for your health and a habit without one redeeming quality, I guess I just don’t like french-kissing an ashtray.’

‘But I have an oral fixation.’

‘I know. It’s one of the reasons I love you.’

‘Pervert. You should be used to smoke by now. You lived with T.C. for four years. And what about Clip? The two of them are always smoking those stinking cigars.’

‘Yeah, but I rarely french-kiss those two. I mean, maybe T.C. every once in a while…’

‘I suspected as much.’

‘Plus T.C. could never survive without his cigars. They’re a part of him, a personality appendage, so to speak. And Clip is both seventy years old and my boss. We don’t make it a habit of criticizing our boss. Besides, I like it when Clip smokes.’

‘Why?’

‘The Victory Cigar. It means we’re about to win a game.’

She wrapped her arms around him. ‘My cigarette is kind of like a Victory Cigarette.’

‘Oh?’

‘Clip likes to smoke them after a game. I like to smoke them after an especially powerful org – ’

‘Keep it clean, Ayars.’

‘Sorry.’

David sat up. ‘Do you want to know the real reason I want you to quit?’

She shook her head.

He held her, his hand gently stroking his hair. ‘Because I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,’ he said softly. ‘And because I want to be with you forever.’

She looked at him hopefully. ‘Do you mean that?’

‘I love you, Laura. I love you more than you can ever know.’

Two months later, she had quit. She had not even thought about smoking since – until now.

A loud knock on the door jarred her back to the present.

‘T.C.?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s open.’

He came through the doorway, his face drawn. ‘Some civilization. No MacDonalds. No Roy Rogers.’

‘Anything new?’

Laura watched T.C. shake his head, his movements oddly jittery.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Nothing. I guess I’m just a little tired and hungry.’

‘Order some room service.’

‘In a little while.’

‘Why wait? If you’re hungry – ’

The phone rang.

T.C. quickly reached over Laura and grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello?’

Laura tried to read his expression, but T.C. turned away, his face hunched over the receiver like a bookie at a pay phone. Minutes passed before T.C. finally said, ‘Right. I’m on my way.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘I’ll be back in a little while, Laura.’

‘Where are you going? Who was that on the phone?’

He started toward the door. ‘Just a potential lead. I’ll call you if it turns into anything.’

‘I’m going with you.’

‘No, I need you here. Someone else might call.’

She grabbed her purse. ‘The receptionist can take a message.’

‘Not good enough.’

‘What do you mean? I can’t do any good here.’

‘And you certainly can’t do anything but get in my way out there. Look, Laura, I want to get all the facts. I don’t want to have to worry about coddling – ’

‘Coddling?’ she interrupted. ‘That’s a lot of bullshit, T.C., and you know it.’

‘Will you let me finish? One of these Crocodile Dundees sees the new bride and clams up or softens his words.’

‘Then I’ll stay in the car.’

‘Just listen to me a second. I’m expecting an important call in a little while and I need you here to answer it. I’ll call you as soon as I know something. I promise.’

‘But – ’

He shook his head and hurried out the door. Laura did not chase him. In Boston, she would never have tolerated such brusque and patronizing treatment by any man or woman. But this was not Boston. T.C. was David’s closest, most trusted friend. If anyone could bring him back safely, T.C. was the man.

On the other end of the line, the caller listened to T.C. hang up and then waited. The dial tone blared its monotonous trumpet of noise but still the caller stood mesmerized and did not replace the receiver.

It had been done. T.C. had been notified. Everything was moving forward. There was no turning back.

When the phone was finally hung up, the caller fell onto the bed and started to cry.

Laura sat alone in the hotel room, her mind hazy and confused. The phone did not ring. No one knocked on the door. Time trudged forward at an uneven, unhurried pace. She began to feel more and more isolated from the world, from reality, from David.

Her eyes skittered around the one-time beautiful suite, finally resting on an object they found soothing, familiar, comfortable. A pair of David’s size twelve-and-a-half green hi-top sneakers, extra sturdy in the ankle since he had broken his right one while in college, lay sprawled on the carpet. One was tilted over like a capsized canoe; the other stood upright, perpendicular to its partner.

She could clearly make out the Svengali label on the right sneaker. On the left, the label was blocked by a sweat sock. Her eyes swerved and found the other sock about a yard away, twisted on the carpet like a man sleeping in a fetal position. David was not the neatest man she had ever met. He used chairs and doorknobs for hangers. The carpet made a perfect bureau for sweat-shirts and pants, while the bathroom floor tiles served as an underwear, sock and pajama drawers. His personal appearance was compulsively clean, but his apartment looked more like a fire hazard than a human dwelling.

‘It’s homey,’ he would argue.

‘It’s messy,’ she’d insist.

Once again, a knock made the images of the past flee from her mind.

Laura glanced at her watch and saw that T.C. had been gone for almost two hours. She could hear the wild birds of the Australia coast cawing outside her window, the sun still potent despite the hour.

‘Who is it?’ she called out, although she knew it was T.C.

‘It’s me.’

T.C.’s voice made her stomach churn painfully. She stood and walked mechanically toward the door. She passed a mirror, caught her reflection in the corner of her eye, and realized she was wearing one of David’s button-down shirts with her Svengali jeans. She wore his clothes all the time, his Celtics practice sweatshirt on cold Boston nights, his pajama tops as a nightshirt. Odd for a woman who ran a fashion empire. She shook the thought out of her head, puzzled by how her brain could focus on something so inane at a moment like this.

She had another second to wonder if her thoughts were a defense mechanism, blocking out the grim reality, and then she swung open the door.

Her gaze instantly locked onto T.C.’s, but he looked away as if scalded by her eyes. His vision sought the floor to escape her onslaught of hope. T.C.’s face was now completely covered with patches of stubble.

‘What is it?’ Laura asked.

T.C. did not step forward. He did not speak. He just stood in front of her without movement, trying to sum up some inner strength. With great effort he raised his head, his soulful eyes hesitantly meeting Laura’s expectant ones.

Still no words were spoken. Laura stared at him, tears swelling in her eyes.

‘T.C.?’ she asked, her face bewildered.

T.C. raised his hand into her line of vision. Her look of bewilderment crumbled into one of sheer anguish.

‘Oh God, no,’ she cried. ‘Please no.’

T.C. held David’s multicolored swimming trunks and clashing green Celtics shirt.

They were both shredded.