She took a deep breath and reached for the knob. Laura began to turn it when she had a momentary vision of the television being off when she left the apartment. During that split second before the door opened, she had time to wonder why—when the whole apartment worked on one fuse—the television was now on and the lights were still out. But there was not enough time to think all of this through. The door opened, and Laura’s attention turned to the images on the television. Her face crumbled in anguish.
David.
It was a basketball game and there was David running upcourt. The voices were the CBS commentators for the NBA championship series.
“Baskin moves left, fakes, pivots, dishes off to Roberts. Roberts takes the big hook shot. No good. Rebound Lakers . . .”
But how . . . ? She looked above the set and felt her legs almost give way. The VCR. She was watching the game on her videotape machine. Someone had been here, might still be in her apartment. She was about to turn around when she saw an envelope taped to the bottom of the screen. Laura’s name had been scrawled across the front.
Above the envelope, David made a driving left-handed layup. Time-out, Los Angeles. The players all gathered around David to congratulate him. Laura watched David smile at Earl and she felt a sharp pain. David’s smile. His wonderful, beautiful smile.
Her legs quivered as she crossed the room. She reached forward with her right hand and plucked the envelope off the television. She had still not tried the bedroom light switch, but the television offered enough light to read. She ripped the envelope open and suddenly realized there might be fingerprints on it. Again, she shook her head no. Whoever had done this was a professional. He would not carelessly strew fingerprints around the apartment. Laura carefully lifted the note out of the envelope and read:Laura,
I truly hope you enjoyed your little trip overseas. I missed you. This is just a friendly note to let you know that I can do whatever I want. You are not safe. Neither is your mother or your father or your sister. You can do nothing about it. But if you forget about me, I’ll forget about you and your family. If not, I will kill them one by one. What do you say?
A friend
P.S. Look under your pillow.
Thick bile settled into Laura’s throat. She moved toward the bed and tried the lamp. This time, the light went on. The sudden brightness made Laura shade her eyes. She reread the note and lifted her pillow. She squinted at the object under it.
Her scream pierced the still night.
The lamp’s light reflected the gold into her eyes. But it didn’t matter. Laura could still make out the inscription on David’s ring:
1989 NBA CHAMPIONS—BOSTON CELTICS
THE blood. So much blood . . .
“Mommy! Mommy!”
“Get out of here, Gloria! Get out of here now!”
So much blood. Everywhere blood . . .
Gloria screamed.
“What? What . . . ? Gloria?”
She shot up in the bed. Her eyes flew open. Her body went stiff.
Stan shook himself awake. “Gloria?”
Her breathing came in spurts.
“It’s all over now,” Stan whispered softly. He moved over and put his arm around her. She hesitated and then snuggled up to him. He felt her tremble against his chest. “It’s okay now, sweetheart. It’s all over.”
She looked up at him with the eyes of a cornered animal.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Y-yes.”
“Bad dream?”
She nodded, her breathing beginning to even now.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
Gloria nodded again but did not speak for nearly a minute.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he said.
“No,” she answered, her voice shaky. “I do. I’m just not sure how to begin. You see”—she hesitated, searching for the right words, any words really—“it’s not the first time I’ve had this dream.”
“Oh?”
“When I was young, I had it a lot. I used to wake up screaming and crying, and I wouldn’t be able to stop. I remember how my mom and dad would come in and try to calm me down. They would try to hold me and tell me it was just a dream, but nothing they could do would comfort me. Then Laura would come running in—she was just a fat little kid back then, if you can believe it—and somehow she’d be able to soothe me. I wouldn’t go back to sleep until Laura promised to stay with me. She would crawl in the bed and hold my hand. Only then would I be able to sleep.”
Stan smiled gently. “Do you think I can take Laura’s place for tonight?”
She returned the smile. “I think so.”
Stan looked at her. God, she was good-looking. Cute and built with a body that didn’t rest for a minute. He stared at the thin material of her negligee and at her delicious cleavage. Gloria turned him on like no other chick in the world—except for her younger sister. And that, friends and fans of ol’ Stan, my man, was the reason he stayed. Yes, folks, he had figured it out last night. The B Man didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about. Stan wasn’t falling for this chick. It was just that, well, she was hot in the sack, and more important, little Miss Instability was a rung on the ladder to his ultimate achievement: screwing the delectable Laura Ayars-Baskin.
But even as he thought the words, Stan knew that they were not true. Like it or not, Gloria meant something to him.
“Tell me about your dream,” he said.
Gloria lowered her head and gripped him tighter. “I don’t remember it very well.”
“What do you remember?”
She shrugged nervously. “Blood.”
“Blood?”
She nodded. “I’m a little girl in the dream—no more than five or six. We hadn’t moved to Boston yet. We were still living in this little house in the suburbs of Chicago. It’s late at night, and I’m walking down the hall when I hear a noise from my parents’ bedroom. I slowly move toward the door, turn the knob, and . . .”
“And?”
Gloria shook her head. “I always scream and wake up before I can really see what’s going on. I only remember blood. I remember it flowing and oozing everywhere. And someone’s watching it all with an awful, hideous smile and . . . and—”
“Shhh, it’s okay now.”
She took in deep breaths and struggled to put on a nervous smile. “Sounds crazy, huh?”
“Not at all,” Stan assured her. “We all have our childhood nightmares.”