Play Dead
Page 28“When?”
“I don’t need to be subjected to your cross-examination.”
“When?”
“During my sophomore year of college. Ten years ago. Happy?”
“A man can change in ten years.”
“Not him, Laura. He’s sick. He hated David.”
“You’ve never been more wrong. He loved him so much it hurts.”
“And you buy that crap?”
“He’s his brother. Nothing he can do can change that.”
“So what?”
“So he’s changed. He regrets the past. He feels guilty about whatever happened between David and him.”
“Christ, Laura, you sound like one of those pop psychologists who get murderers freed. How can you be so goddamn gullible?”
“Fuck off, T.C.”
“No, you fuck off.”
They both stopped, stared. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she threw her arms around him. “I’m sorry,” she began. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“It was my fault.”
She felt the tears start to force their way into her eyes. “I know you’re just trying to help. I could never have survived all this without you.”
She nodded. She had not had a chance to look at the photographs since they had taken them from the house. In truth, she was still not sure she possessed the strength to look at them by herself.
They carefully went through David’s photo album. T.C. observed Laura as they turned each page. He was confused by his own feelings of guilt and doing what was right to help Laura. He was surprised at how fast her tears had stopped, how none were present now as she went through the pictures. There was no emotion on her face, just a pale blank look as though the earlier outburst had drained her. The lack of emotion frightened T.C. more than her tears.
She paused on one page for several minutes. T.C. looked over her shoulder at the picture of David’s mother.
“What was she like, T.C?”
“David’s mother? I never knew her when she was healthy. She learned about her cancer during our freshman year. I know that she and David were very close. And I know he was devastated when she died.”
Laura stared at the photograph for another minute. Then she turned to the next page. It was empty.
T.C.’s hand reached down to the blank page. “Was there a picture of . . . ?”
She nodded. “David’s father.”
“Jesus. Talk about eerie.”
“I don’t get it, T.C. Why rip up a picture of a man who’s been dead for almost thirty years?”
“I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Was there anything else in the picture?”
“I don’t think so. It was just one of those faculty pictures they used in a yearbook.”
“Are you sure that’s the only picture missing?”
They skimmed through the rest of the album, but there were no other blank pages.
“Give me a second, Laura. I’m not much of a quick thinker. More of a plodder.” He took out a cigar. “Do you mind?”
“Smoke away.”
He lit it. “Okay, let’s do this step by step. First, someone breaks into your house. Is he a burglar? No. If he was, he would have taken the money. Second, is he a fan who wants a few souvenirs of David? No. If he was, he would have taken David’s NCAA ring or pictures of his playing days.”
“We know all this.”
“Just humor me for a minute.”
“Sorry.”
“Whoever broke in decided to remove a photograph of David’s father.”
“And he looked in our diary,” Laura added.
“Right. Now what’s the connection? What would make a person want to rip up a photograph of David’s father and how is that related to looking at your schedule?”
“Beats me.”
T.C. paused, his hand rubbing his chin. “What do we know about David’s father?”
“He committed suicide,” Laura replied.
“Right. I can semi-understand someone wanting a picture of him.”
“Huh?”
“Well, that part of David’s life has been pretty much kept quiet. Maybe someone was doing an exposé on David and couldn’t dig up a picture of his father.”
“You’re reaching.”
“So where does that leave us, T.C.?”
T.C. took a deep puff and blew the smoke straight up over his head. Earlier, he thought he had understood why someone had broken in, why they had needed to see the schedule diary. That part had sort of made sense. But ripping up a picture of David’s father? He shook his head.
“That leaves us,” he replied, “very confused.”
THE man watched the surgeon closely. He had seen him do this several times before, but he had never watched with anything more than idle curiosity. Now he studied the surgeon’s movement closely, the way he slowly cut away the bandages, the way he unwrapped them, the way he removed the gauze. This time, the man was interested in seeing the end product.
“Just stay still,” the surgeon told the patient, “and I’ll be done in a minute.”
The man tried to glance over the surgeon’s shoulder to see the face, but there were still too many bandages. With painstaking care, the surgeon peeled back the white tape. Layer by layer, it came off. He dipped chunks of cloth in alcohol and wiped the man’s face with them. When he was finished, the surgeon stepped back so the man could see the patient.
“Jesus,” the man uttered.
The surgeon smiled. “One of my better jobs.”
“You’re not kidding, Hank. It’s fantastic.”
For the first time since the operation, the man heard the patient speak. “Can I have a mirror please?”
“And that voice. It’s really incredible, Hank.”
“The mirror?”
The surgeon named Hank signaled to the nurse. “Before I give this to you, young man, let me warn you: this is going to be a major shock. Do not panic. Many people feel disoriented when they first see the change. Many suffer an identity crisis.”
“Thank you,” the patient said tonelessly. “Can I have the mirror now?”
It was the nurse who brought it over. The patient took it in his hands and gazed at his reflection. The man, the surgeon, and the nurse all watched for his reaction. But there was none. The patient looked at his reflection as he would on any normal day. His expression remained unchanged.