Play Dead
Page 31
“I’m going to call the hospital.”
She tried to reach for the phone, but David’s grip on her arm locked her into place.
“No!” David managed, and then once again, he turned his mouth into the pillow.
He released her as he once again screamed, his hands going back to the sides of his head. The effort of uttering that one word had cost him. He looked up, his tortured eyes finding hers. He worked up enough strength to say two more words: “Hold me.”
She did. She held him, hugged him, soothed him, stroked him. She cried with him, and he hung on to her as if she were a life preserver. It took almost two hours before the pain began to loosen its stranglehold on him. But Laura would not let go of David, would not risk allowing whatever had attacked him to come back and hurt him again.
“It’s all right now, Laura.”
She still held on.
“I guess I should explain,” he said.
“Only if you want to,” she whispered, shaking.
“I do.”
She cradled his head. “Do they come often?”
He shrugged. “Once is often enough with these things. My doctor describes them as a combination of very bad cluster headaches and some sort of inoperable brain dysfunction.”
Dread washed through her. “Brain dysfunction?”
“Like a cyst . . . or a tumor. But it’s not that serious. I mean, it’s not lethal. It can never do more than cause tremendous pain. My doctor said I was born with it, even though it never bothered me until my first year of college.”
“Can’t medication control it?”
“Not really.”
“David, how bad do they get?”
He forced a smile on his worn face. “I was never very good at feigning bravery. To be honest with you, that was probably the mildest attack I’ve ever had.”
Laura felt her heart sink at the thought.
“I guess that has something to do with you comforting me,” David continued. “The attacks usually start out like someone is using a trip-hammer on the sensitive nerves in my head. Then the pain grows until it feels like a thousand volts of electricity are being hurtled through my brain. Sometimes, I wish I could reach into my skull to stop it, but it’s like trying to scratch an itch in a cast. And then sometimes the pain hits certain nerves that paralyze my body.”
“Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“Just what you did. Hold me when it happens.”
“Do your teammates know?”
He shook his head. “Only T.C. and my doctor know. I haven’t even told Clip and Earl. I can usually sense when an attack is starting to come on, so I make myself scarce. It helps to sit in a dark room. A lot of times I call T.C.” He swallowed and then looked up. “T.C. can’t help with the pain, but sometimes it gets so bad, I’m afraid I’ll do something I may later regret. I don’t mean to scare you. I just want you to understand the severity of these attacks.”
She was crying now, gripping him even tighter. “I love you, David. I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Laura.” He closed his eyes. “I need you so much.”
David’s final attack came in October 1988. During the last eight and a half months of his life, the torturous headaches never bothered him. David had been sure that Laura was somehow responsible, that she had somehow chased away whatever demon had been living inside of his brain. Even his doctor was amazed to discover that his cyst or tumor had died. Somehow, they had conquered David’s demon.
Or had they?
Had the evil demon really been killed or had he just been waiting for the right time to strike? Had he merely faked his own demise until David was vulnerable in the rough water? Had he then decided this was his opportunity to finish the game once and for all, to destroy David by paralyzing him in the treacherous ocean, to force him to go underwater until his lungs exploded?
T.C. had said no. Laura was not so sure.
She flicked on the light. Her eyes were wet. Even when David was alive, the thought of the agony he was forced to bear always made her tear.
She went into the bedroom half expecting to find him huddled on the bed, but of course, the room was empty. Then she headed into his study and over to the file cabinet she had bought him last year. The neatly labeled manila files gave the illusion at least that David was a somewhat organized individual. The illusion, however, was merely surface. He still lost bills, financial statements, important documents. David had always hated paperwork of any kind. He knew nothing of finance and wanted to know even less. “You make both of our monetary decisions,” he had finally told her. “You’re the financial genius.”
The second drawer contained the financial statements. She pulled it open. She knew that his bank book and monthly reports from Heritage of Boston were filed behind the Gunther Mutual folder. She thumbed through the manila folders. Catalyst Energy, Davidson Fund, equities with Recovery Corporation of America, Fredrickson and Associates, Gunther Mutual . . .
There was no Heritage of Boston.
She checked to make sure that it had not been placed out of order. Then she checked the other drawers. There was nothing on Heritage of Boston.
She stood up. Her whole body was shaking. She needed to find answers and she needed to find them now. It was time to pay a visit to Heritage of Boston.
T.C. and Laura parked the car and walked toward the entrance of the Heritage of Boston Bank. T.C. always felt odd walking with Laura. Here was one of the world’s most beautiful women walking with a pudgy, nondescript shmoe in a wrinkled suit who was a good three inches shorter than she was. It must have made some spectacle for street pedestrians.
“So you couldn’t find the statements,” T.C. said. “Big deal. Maybe he moved the account and got rid of them.”
“We’re talking about David, remember? You know how bad he was when it came to financial matters.”
They waited for about ten minutes before a secretary ushered them into an office.
“I’m sorry for the delay,” the man behind the desk said. He stood and shook Laura’s hand. “I’m Richard Corsel, one of the bank’s vice presidents. Please come in.”
He was young—no more than thirty—and something in his manner told Laura that he was not very happy to see them. “Laura Baskin,” she said.
“I recognized you right away, Mrs. Baskin. I’m very sorry to hear about your husband.”
“Thank you. This is Terry Conroy with the Boston Police Department.”
She tried to reach for the phone, but David’s grip on her arm locked her into place.
“No!” David managed, and then once again, he turned his mouth into the pillow.
He released her as he once again screamed, his hands going back to the sides of his head. The effort of uttering that one word had cost him. He looked up, his tortured eyes finding hers. He worked up enough strength to say two more words: “Hold me.”
She did. She held him, hugged him, soothed him, stroked him. She cried with him, and he hung on to her as if she were a life preserver. It took almost two hours before the pain began to loosen its stranglehold on him. But Laura would not let go of David, would not risk allowing whatever had attacked him to come back and hurt him again.
“It’s all right now, Laura.”
She still held on.
“I guess I should explain,” he said.
“Only if you want to,” she whispered, shaking.
“I do.”
She cradled his head. “Do they come often?”
He shrugged. “Once is often enough with these things. My doctor describes them as a combination of very bad cluster headaches and some sort of inoperable brain dysfunction.”
Dread washed through her. “Brain dysfunction?”
“Like a cyst . . . or a tumor. But it’s not that serious. I mean, it’s not lethal. It can never do more than cause tremendous pain. My doctor said I was born with it, even though it never bothered me until my first year of college.”
“Can’t medication control it?”
“Not really.”
“David, how bad do they get?”
He forced a smile on his worn face. “I was never very good at feigning bravery. To be honest with you, that was probably the mildest attack I’ve ever had.”
Laura felt her heart sink at the thought.
“I guess that has something to do with you comforting me,” David continued. “The attacks usually start out like someone is using a trip-hammer on the sensitive nerves in my head. Then the pain grows until it feels like a thousand volts of electricity are being hurtled through my brain. Sometimes, I wish I could reach into my skull to stop it, but it’s like trying to scratch an itch in a cast. And then sometimes the pain hits certain nerves that paralyze my body.”
“Isn’t there anything we can do?”
“Just what you did. Hold me when it happens.”
“Do your teammates know?”
He shook his head. “Only T.C. and my doctor know. I haven’t even told Clip and Earl. I can usually sense when an attack is starting to come on, so I make myself scarce. It helps to sit in a dark room. A lot of times I call T.C.” He swallowed and then looked up. “T.C. can’t help with the pain, but sometimes it gets so bad, I’m afraid I’ll do something I may later regret. I don’t mean to scare you. I just want you to understand the severity of these attacks.”
She was crying now, gripping him even tighter. “I love you, David. I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Laura.” He closed his eyes. “I need you so much.”
David’s final attack came in October 1988. During the last eight and a half months of his life, the torturous headaches never bothered him. David had been sure that Laura was somehow responsible, that she had somehow chased away whatever demon had been living inside of his brain. Even his doctor was amazed to discover that his cyst or tumor had died. Somehow, they had conquered David’s demon.
Or had they?
Had the evil demon really been killed or had he just been waiting for the right time to strike? Had he merely faked his own demise until David was vulnerable in the rough water? Had he then decided this was his opportunity to finish the game once and for all, to destroy David by paralyzing him in the treacherous ocean, to force him to go underwater until his lungs exploded?
T.C. had said no. Laura was not so sure.
She flicked on the light. Her eyes were wet. Even when David was alive, the thought of the agony he was forced to bear always made her tear.
She went into the bedroom half expecting to find him huddled on the bed, but of course, the room was empty. Then she headed into his study and over to the file cabinet she had bought him last year. The neatly labeled manila files gave the illusion at least that David was a somewhat organized individual. The illusion, however, was merely surface. He still lost bills, financial statements, important documents. David had always hated paperwork of any kind. He knew nothing of finance and wanted to know even less. “You make both of our monetary decisions,” he had finally told her. “You’re the financial genius.”
The second drawer contained the financial statements. She pulled it open. She knew that his bank book and monthly reports from Heritage of Boston were filed behind the Gunther Mutual folder. She thumbed through the manila folders. Catalyst Energy, Davidson Fund, equities with Recovery Corporation of America, Fredrickson and Associates, Gunther Mutual . . .
There was no Heritage of Boston.
She checked to make sure that it had not been placed out of order. Then she checked the other drawers. There was nothing on Heritage of Boston.
She stood up. Her whole body was shaking. She needed to find answers and she needed to find them now. It was time to pay a visit to Heritage of Boston.
T.C. and Laura parked the car and walked toward the entrance of the Heritage of Boston Bank. T.C. always felt odd walking with Laura. Here was one of the world’s most beautiful women walking with a pudgy, nondescript shmoe in a wrinkled suit who was a good three inches shorter than she was. It must have made some spectacle for street pedestrians.
“So you couldn’t find the statements,” T.C. said. “Big deal. Maybe he moved the account and got rid of them.”
“We’re talking about David, remember? You know how bad he was when it came to financial matters.”
They waited for about ten minutes before a secretary ushered them into an office.
“I’m sorry for the delay,” the man behind the desk said. He stood and shook Laura’s hand. “I’m Richard Corsel, one of the bank’s vice presidents. Please come in.”
He was young—no more than thirty—and something in his manner told Laura that he was not very happy to see them. “Laura Baskin,” she said.
“I recognized you right away, Mrs. Baskin. I’m very sorry to hear about your husband.”
“Thank you. This is Terry Conroy with the Boston Police Department.”
