Mark Seidman.

As though hypnotized, Laura watched the new Celtic weave through the lay-up drill: waiting on line, shooting, waiting on line, rebounding. Mark Seidman moved smoothly and without hesitation. He seemed loose, incredibly loose for a first-game rookie whom the press had built up as the Celtics’ new savior.

T.C. arrived as the referee tossed the ball in the air to begin the game. He said hello to everybody (except Stan) and gently slid past them (except Stan – T.C. purposely stepped on his foot). ‘Sorry about that, Stan ol’ boy,’ he said with deep regret. ‘It was an accident.’

T.C. Ignored Stan’s angry glare and collapsed heavily into the empty seat next to Laura. ‘How’s it going, champ?’

‘Not bad,’ Laura said.

‘Sorry about being late.’

‘You only missed the opening tap.’

They turned their attention toward the game. Johnny Dennison passed the ball to Timmy Daniels. Timmy looked around before tossing it inside to Big Mac Kevlin. Mac was double-teamed. He passed it out to Mark Seidman. Seidman was trapped in the corner.

‘He’s going to have to shoot,’ T.C. remarked. ‘The shot clock is ticking down.’

As if on cue, Mark Seidman leaped in the air, twisted, and took a fade-away jumpshot. The ball touched the backboard and fell in, Laura felt the breath shoot out of her. Her stomach coiled in pain. That jumpshot. That damn fade-away jumpshot – no wonder they call him White Lightning II.

‘Jesus, T.C., did you see that?’

T.C. nodded. ‘Hell of a good shot.’

‘Unbelievable,’ Judy uttered from their left, her voice cracking.

Mary did not pay attention to the game. Her eyes darted about, sneaking glances in Stan’s general direction. Stan’s concentration also wandered away from the parquet floor and toward those with whom he was seated. He gripped Gloria’s hand tightly, his face frighteningly pale.

‘You know anything about him?’ Laura asked.

‘Seidman?’ T.C. replied with a shake of his head. ‘Just what I read in the papers. Earl mentioned him to me a couple of times. He said he’s quiet, keeps to himself.’

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 fadeaway jumpshot. There was that guy from U.C.L.A. 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 jumpshot, 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 uncharted 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 27 points, twelve rebounds and eight assists as the Celtics coasted to a 117-102 victory over Washington. Normally, the press would pounce 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 fill expectations in his Boston Garden debut? Doing well in pre-season 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 his 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 protest. 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?’