The game continued with Mark Seidman playing like a man possessed. He scored eight points in the first quarter and added three assists and four rebounds. The Celtics led by seven. By the end of the first half, the Mark Seidman-led Celtics had upped their lead to twelve.

Halftime activities pushed by in a murky haze. Laura walked onto the basketball court, silence and stillness devouring the entire arena around her. She went through the motions, accepted the solemn words, watched with a quivering lower lip as Earl and Timmy hoisted David’s uniform up into the rafters.

But Judy Simmons did not watch the proceedings too closely. Instead, she kept her eye on Mark Seidman, trying to see his reaction to David Baskin’s memorial. His expression did not change, but Judy noticed that his eyes never went anywhere near Laura.

Thoughts—wild, crazy thoughts—dashed and bounced across Judy’s mind. She tried to reach out and grab a few of those irrational thoughts, tried to organize them and create a cohesive theory. But they managed to elude her.

Separately, Judy knew the facts meant nothing. There were plenty of guys who had successfully duplicated David’s fade-away jump shot. There was that guy from UCLA and the point guard from Seattle. And what about that power forward on the Phoenix Suns? Basketball players everywhere were trying to perfect the White Lightning jump shot, that quick release that made it impossible to block. No, that alone would make absolutely nobody suspicious.

But that was the problem. It was too perfect. Nobody would be suspicious. Unless of course you knew the background of the situation. Unless you understood completely the strength of the past and how it could twist reality into unrecognizable shapes.

Laura moved back toward her seat, her head high, her eyes dry. There would be no tears now, Judy thought. The tears would come later, when she was alone and away from everyone. Judy kissed Laura’s cheek, trying like hell to dismiss the crazy ideas that kept circulating in her head. After all, she was probably wrong. She was letting her overly suspicious nature get the best of her. Better to think it through carefully before jumping to any conclusions. Better to look at the whole situation coldly before crossing into unchartered minefields.

But if her suspicions were correct, she would have to trample through that minefield no matter what the costs. If her suspicions were correct, the ghosts of the past were going to rise up yet again and demand to be faced. They would cry out one last time for vengeance, and finally, at long last, that lust would be quenched. And this time, there would be no place to run and hide, no one to sacrifice to the ghosts. This time, the guilty would be destroyed.

MARK lowered his head into his hands. He sat on a bench in front of his locker, trying to dismiss the noise of the media frenzy that surrounded him on all sides. Most of the reporters had already left him alone, knowing his reputation for not talking to the press and moving on to the more fruitful and talkative pastures of Earl Roberts, Timmy Daniels, and Mac Kevlin.

But it had been Mark Seidman’s game. In his debut, Mark had netted twenty-seven points, twelve rebounds, and eight assists as the Celtics coasted to a 117-102 victory over Washington. Normally, the press would have pounced upon such a subject, no matter what that subject requested, but for the most part, they kept away from him, respecting his desire for solitude. They milled about the other players in the locker room, stealing quick peeks at Mark as if he were a grenade with the pin half out. Who could have imagined that the budding hopeful would more than fulfill expectations in his Boston Garden debut? Doing well in preseason was one thing. To face the opening-game crowd at Boston Garden as a rookie and dismantle the competition . . . that was something else. But Mark looked more like a weathered veteran than a rookie. His intensity on the court was amazing and downright eerie. He never slapped his teammates five, never celebrated a good shot, never smiled, never showed emotion of any kind. It made no sense. Here was a rookie playing in front of a sell-out crowd in the home of basketball legends and he stalked the parquet floor in a cold, unfeeling, technocratic manner. And yet there was still a beauty to his game, the unmistakable grace of a master at this craft.

Clip Arnstein came into the locker room, a famous victory cigar clenched between his teeth. The press sprinted toward him. “What did you think of the game, Clip?” a reporter asked.

Clip smiled. “I’m smoking a cigar, aren’t I?”

“And how about the play of Mark Seidman?”

His answer was an even bigger smile. “And you can quote me on that fellas. Now do me a favor, will you? Get out of here for a while. The guys have to get dressed and head down to the reception.”

Normally, the press would have protested. But not tonight. They knew that the Celtics were heading to a reception for David Baskin’s family. David had been a favorite of the press: colorful, off-the-wall, fun, polite, and always willing to say something outrageous. White Lightning had the ability to be engaging with the media while not appearing egomaniacal.

The reporters filed out without another word. The players dressed quickly now, silently. But Mark just continued to sit with his head between his hands. Clip headed over to the corner locker, where Mark sat alone, away from his teammates. He put his hand on Mark’s shoulder as several players left the room and headed upstairs.

“Are you okay?” Clip asked.

Mark nodded.

“Look, I know you don’t like making appearances or talking to the press. Fine, that’s up to you. But David meant a lot to these guys. I know you’re not a social guy and I guess you don’t want to make friends with your teammates. That’s also up to you. As long as you’re doing your job, I won’t say anything. You understand?”

Mark looked up. “Yes.”

“So while I don’t like your closed-mouth act, I let it go,” Clip continued. “But I don’t want you to do something that will alienate your teammates.”

The last of the Celtics filed out, leaving Clip and Mark alone in the towel-cluttered locker room. “As long as I do the job on the court,” Mark began, “what’s the difference?”

“I’m not saying that you have to be buddy-buddy with the other guys. But it doesn’t pay to piss them off. . . .”

“But—”

“Or me,” Clip pronounced, his voice getting louder and shakier. His face turned deep scarlet. “I’ve got to draw the line somewhere, Mark, and I don’t give a shit how great of a player you are. David Baskin meant a lot to these guys—and to me. If you’re disrespectful to his memory, I don’t care if you’re the Messiah. I’ll sit you so far down the bench, you’ll be lucky to see the game. Is that understood?”