Play Dead by Harlan Coben Page A

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.
    They were at Faneuil Hall, one of the most popular leisure spots in Boston. It should have been called Food Hall. Sure, Faneuil Hall had a good variety of stores. There were clothing boutiques, bookstores, even a Sharper Image. But make no mistake: Faneuil Hall was about food, tremendous amounts of food, an abundance of food. The assortment was endless. There was an Indian food stand next to a Chinese, next to an Italian, next to a Greek, next to a Mexican, next to a Japanese, next to a Lebanese, next to . . . name a country and you probably named a restaurant. It was the United Nations of eating.
    If you were for some odd reason hungry for something more, you could wash down your foreign feast at a tropical fruit bar or an ice-cream parlor or a frozen-yogurt stand or a cookie bakery or a candy shop. David had once remarked that you could put on weight just walking through it.
    There was also inadequate seating in the market (next to none, actually) which helped make the experience all the more fun. Laura recalled how David used to love to watch some poor guy forced to stand, trying to balance a souvlaki in one hand, napkins in the other, a strawberry daiquiri under one elbow, a taco under the other, and lord knows what between the knees.
    David used to love . . .
    She could not believe she was talking about David when she used that phrase.
    Used to . . .
    Faneuil Hall attracted many people, but never had Laura seen it this crowded. From her seat on the podium, Laura looked down at thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of faces, a sea of people flowing into the distant horizon, a blanket of humanity thrown over the entire area.
    Today the restaurants, the bars, the shops, the parlors were all closed and locked. Even the Boston Garden stood sadly in the distance, the weathered building watching over the proceedings like a grieving father over the funeral of a beloved son. Boston's colonial brick buildings and modern glass skyscrapers grieved with heads lowered. It was as if the whole city -- the people, the buildings, the streets, the monuments -- had stopped momentarily to mourn the death of David Baskin.
    From behind her glasses, Laura's eyes darted left and right: David's friends, his fans, his teammates, Faneuil Hall, the tired yellow and blue sign reading BOSTON GARDEN. It was all too much for Laura, a full-fledged assault on her senses. Her head swam. Her strength ebbed from her body. She could barely make out the eloquent words that were being spoken. Only a sprinkling of the sad passages came through the filter her mind had created. She guessed the filter was a defense mechanism saving her from a complete breakdown, but she really didn't possess the energy to think it through.
    'David was fiercely loyal. If a friend had a problem, it was David's problem. I remember a time when . . .'
    She turned toward T.C. She had not seen him since he had dropped her