Blue Star Rapture by JAMES W. BENNETT

that the dead girl was indeed LuAnn. He read the story twice over on his knees while hunkered over the bundle of sixty-eight plastic-wrapped newspapers dropped for him on the corner. It was a prominent story on page three, a boxed article with a large headline. It was only five in the morning, so the light was pale, but there was enough to read by if he squinted.
    The story said LuAnn Flessner fell to her death from the footbridge. Had there been more water in the gorge, suggested the sheriff’s office, the fall most likely would not have been fatal. Preliminary reports fixed the time of LuAnn’s death between two and four A . M . on the previous day. Investigators would try to discover the circumstances of the fall. Was it an accident? Was it suicide? Was she pushed?
    An autopsy would be performed and a coroner’s jury would be convened to conduct an inquest. There wasn’t much more information. T.J. knew, without thinking, that there would be subsequent articles and more thorough ones in other papers, the Peoria Journal-Star for instance.
    He read the article one last time before loading the papers into his canvas shoulder bag and numbly folding the two or three nearest the top. He walked and folded by rote, nearly sleepwalking his way en route the long-familiar pattern of sidewalks and front porches and stoops and hallways. Full Court and Camp Shaddai and LuAnn Flessner seemed so far away and so long ago. And wasn’t there even a sleazy guy, a street agent by the name of Bee Edwards? Well, wasn’t there?
    He tried not to, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he had said any of the wrong things to LuAnn. Had he made too much fun of those religious beliefs that he found so naive? If she committed suicide, was his sarcasm something that added to her problems? He tried to replay in detail the conversations he’d had with her in his memory. Should he feel any guilt? Was there something wrong with him if he didn’t?
    The sun was up and there was early morning heat by the time he reached Levin’s house. He was watering his front lawn. Hose in one hand and the leashed Great Dane in the other.
    When T.J. approached to hand him the folded newspaper, the man said, “I didn’t get my newspaper last week.” He didn’t say so in strident tones; he was very matter-of-fact about it.
    â€œI know. My mother told me.”
    â€œI tried calling the office, but they weren’t any help. It was five days I didn’t get my paper at all. What’s the story?”
    â€œI was out of town. My mother took the route for me. She was afraid of your dog.”
    â€œThe dog is always tied up. You know that.”
    â€œI know it, but my mother didn’t,” T.J. replied.
    â€œThen you should have told her. That’s what you have to do if you have someone substitute for you.” Levin’s dog was lying on his stomach and chewing aggressively on a huge rubber bone. Levin, himself, a wiry, hairy guy, was wearing shorts and a sleeveless Key Largo shirt. T.J. had conversed with him before a time or two, in this same flat monotone.
    â€œDid you hear what I said?” Levin asked him.
    â€œI heard you.” Under other circumstances, T.J. might have found the man’s displeasure a source of concern. But now he could only think of LuAnn and her long, swift free fall to the bottom of the gorge. The terror of the fatal impact and the instants before. He felt like telling Levin his missing newspapers weren’t important. Instead, he said, “What would you like me to do about it now? Do you want me to get you the back issues, the ones you missed?”
    â€œWhy would I want to read old news?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’m askin’ what you want me to do.”
    â€œYou should get me a refund on my bill. That’s what you should do.”
    â€œOkay, then,” T.J. replied in a flat voice to match that of his dissatisfied customer,