whose jaw could be so hard and stubborn. Joe…
For a split second she thought that he was going to move forward. Come closer. Even touch her.
And finally he did.
He reached out—and tousled her hair.
“Tomorrow, then, kid. See you. And until then….”
“I know, I know. I’ll be careful.”
Then he was gone. And she locked the door—as he told her to do from the other side.
When she went to bed, she found herself staring at the ceiling and thinking about loss, about death.
Leslie’s death. And the deaths of the prostitutes she herself had tried so hard to help. They had been nothing but disposable members of society to so many people, but she had known them as women with hopes and dreams. So much loss.
Then there was the loss she faced herself…
The loss of a life once filled with promise but now controlled by fear. Not hers, but everyone else’s for her.
The loss of a life never really lived…
By the time her phone rang Sunday morning, Lori Star had given up expecting anything good.
At first the news media had embraced her, but then they had dropped her like a hot potato. Perhaps they had found out about her arrests; she didn’t know. Apparently they now believed she was some kind of a fake. Which she usually was…
But not this time.
It had been terrifying when she had first felt the sensation of being somewhere else, being some one else.
Not just because it was like some sort of out-of-body experience, but because there was more to it. That sense of pure malice and… evil had been terrifying.
She was shivering just from that thought, that memory, when the call came through.
“Hello?”
“Miss Star? Miss Lori Star?” The voice on the other end was cultured, courteous.
“Yes?” Her response was wary, despite the caller’s tone.
But on a different level, she already felt excitement. She just knew that this was someone who believed in her.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you on a Sunday morning, but I’m anxious to get out there with my story before anyone else beats me to it. I’m from the New York Informant. You’ve heard of it, I hope? We follow up on the stories other papers leave behind when they rush off to cover the latest celebrity scandal. We like to stick with things and cover them in depth.”
She sank down on her sofa, very glad that she’d been home to answer the phone.
“That’s wonderful,” she said, trying not to sound too eager. “And of course I’m familiar with the paper,” she lied.
“We’re also willing to pay, and pay well, when someone helps us with a story.”
She tried to be careful with her reply and not let on how curious she was as to just what he meant by paying well. “Of course,” she said simply, having decided not to ask how much. The amount he volunteered almost staggered her.
“Let’s meet, then,” he suggested. “And please don’t mention that you’re meeting me. I don’t want any of my competitors to get wind that I’m talking to you.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “If anyone asks me,” she said with a laugh, “I’ll just tell them I’m off visiting an aunt.”
“Perfect,” her caller purred.
“Where should we meet?” she asked.
She didn’t bother to jot down the address he gave her. She knew exactly where it was.
“How will I recognize you?” she asked.
“Don’t worry. I’ll recognize you.”
New York City.
Talk about a mass of humanity.
People moved like ants. So many of them. So busy. All in such a hurry.
The mass of people crept and crawled, stopped and flowed. They congregated at street corners. They slid past one another. A light changed; a crossing sign flickered. And they moved in a giant mass, surging forward all at once, each individual following a personal agenda that led them to become a part of the massive back and forth.
Ants.
How many times had he walked in the city, in the country, on a sidewalk, through a house, across a yard, and seen ants? How easy it was—amusing,
For a split second she thought that he was going to move forward. Come closer. Even touch her.
And finally he did.
He reached out—and tousled her hair.
“Tomorrow, then, kid. See you. And until then….”
“I know, I know. I’ll be careful.”
Then he was gone. And she locked the door—as he told her to do from the other side.
When she went to bed, she found herself staring at the ceiling and thinking about loss, about death.
Leslie’s death. And the deaths of the prostitutes she herself had tried so hard to help. They had been nothing but disposable members of society to so many people, but she had known them as women with hopes and dreams. So much loss.
Then there was the loss she faced herself…
The loss of a life once filled with promise but now controlled by fear. Not hers, but everyone else’s for her.
The loss of a life never really lived…
By the time her phone rang Sunday morning, Lori Star had given up expecting anything good.
At first the news media had embraced her, but then they had dropped her like a hot potato. Perhaps they had found out about her arrests; she didn’t know. Apparently they now believed she was some kind of a fake. Which she usually was…
But not this time.
It had been terrifying when she had first felt the sensation of being somewhere else, being some one else.
Not just because it was like some sort of out-of-body experience, but because there was more to it. That sense of pure malice and… evil had been terrifying.
She was shivering just from that thought, that memory, when the call came through.
“Hello?”
“Miss Star? Miss Lori Star?” The voice on the other end was cultured, courteous.
“Yes?” Her response was wary, despite the caller’s tone.
But on a different level, she already felt excitement. She just knew that this was someone who believed in her.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you on a Sunday morning, but I’m anxious to get out there with my story before anyone else beats me to it. I’m from the New York Informant. You’ve heard of it, I hope? We follow up on the stories other papers leave behind when they rush off to cover the latest celebrity scandal. We like to stick with things and cover them in depth.”
She sank down on her sofa, very glad that she’d been home to answer the phone.
“That’s wonderful,” she said, trying not to sound too eager. “And of course I’m familiar with the paper,” she lied.
“We’re also willing to pay, and pay well, when someone helps us with a story.”
She tried to be careful with her reply and not let on how curious she was as to just what he meant by paying well. “Of course,” she said simply, having decided not to ask how much. The amount he volunteered almost staggered her.
“Let’s meet, then,” he suggested. “And please don’t mention that you’re meeting me. I don’t want any of my competitors to get wind that I’m talking to you.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “If anyone asks me,” she said with a laugh, “I’ll just tell them I’m off visiting an aunt.”
“Perfect,” her caller purred.
“Where should we meet?” she asked.
She didn’t bother to jot down the address he gave her. She knew exactly where it was.
“How will I recognize you?” she asked.
“Don’t worry. I’ll recognize you.”
New York City.
Talk about a mass of humanity.
People moved like ants. So many of them. So busy. All in such a hurry.
The mass of people crept and crawled, stopped and flowed. They congregated at street corners. They slid past one another. A light changed; a crossing sign flickered. And they moved in a giant mass, surging forward all at once, each individual following a personal agenda that led them to become a part of the massive back and forth.
Ants.
How many times had he walked in the city, in the country, on a sidewalk, through a house, across a yard, and seen ants? How easy it was—amusing,
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