It is, quite simply, the loss of the spotlight.
Period. The rest are excuses because no one wants to admit that they are that shallow. Lydia began working on the show when she was six. She had few memories that dated back before then. All she remembers, thus, is being a star. A star is special. A star is royalty. A star is the closest thing on earth to a god. And for Lydia, there had never been anything else. We teach our children that they are special, but Lydia lived it. Everyone thought she was adorable. Everyone thought she was the perfect daughter, loving and kind and yet properly sassy. People stared at her with a bizarre longing. People wanted to be near her, to know about her life, spend time with her, touch the hem of her cloak.
And then, one day, poof—all gone.
Fame is more addictive than crack. Adults who lose fame—one-hit wonders, for example—usually tailspin into depression, though they try to act like they’re above it. They don’t want to admit the truth. Their whole life is a lie, a desperate scramble for another dose of that most potent of drugs. Fame.
Those adults had a mere sip of the nectar before it was snatched away. But for a child star, that nectar is mother’s milk. It’s all they’ve ever known. They can’t comprehend that it’s fleeting, that it won’t last. You can’t explain that to a child. You can’t prepare them for the inevitable. Lydia had never known anything but adulation. And then, pretty much overnight, the spotlight went out. She was, for the first time in her life, alone in the dark.
That was what screws you up.
Lydia recognized that now. Heshy had helped her. He had gotten her off the junk once and for all. She had hurt herself, had been a slut, had snorted and shot up more narcotics than one could imagine. She did none of these things to escape. She did them to lash out, to hurt something or someone. Her mistake, she realized in rehab after a truly horrific and violent incident, was that she was hurtingherself . Fame raises you up. It makes others lesser. So why on earth was she hurting the one who should be on top? Instead, why not hurt the pitiful masses, those who had worshiped her, who had given her such heady power, who had turned on her? Why harm the superior species, the one who’d been worthy of all this praise?
“Lydia?”
“Hmm.”
“I think we should call now.”
She turned to Heshy. They had met in the loony bin, and right away, it was as if their mutual misery could reach out and embrace. Heshy had rescued her when two orderlies had pinned her down. At the time, he had merely pushed them off her. The orderlies threatened them, and they both promised not to say anything. But Heshy understood how to bide his time. He waited. Two weeks later, he ran over one of the goons with a stolen car. While the goon lay wounded, Heshy backed up over his head and then, positioning the tire near the base of the neck, hit the accelerator. A month later, the second goon—the lead orderly—was found in his home. Four of his fingers had been ripped off. Not cut or sliced, but twisted. The ME could tell by the rotation tears. The fingers had been rotated around and around until the tendons and bone finally snapped. Lydia still had one of the fingers somewhere in the basement.
Ten years ago, they ran off together and changed their names. They altered their appearances just enough. They both started over, avenging angels, damaged but superior, above the riffraff. She didn’t hurt anymore. Or at least, when she did, she found an outlet.
They had three residences. Heshy purportedly lived in the Bronx. She had a place in Queens. They both had working addresses and working phones. But that was all for show. Business offices, if you will. Neither of them wanted anyone to know that they were, in fact, a team, connected, lovers. Lydia, using an alias, had bought this bright yellow house four years ago. It had two bedrooms and one and a half baths. The kitchen, where Heshy now sat, was airy and happy. They were on a lake in the tippy north corner of Morris County, New Jersey. It was peaceful here. They loved the sunsets.
Lydia kept staring at the pictures of “Pixie Trixie.” She tried to remember what she’d felt like back then. The memories were pretty much gone. Heshy stood behind her now and waited with his usual patience. There were those who would claim that she and Heshy were cold-blooded killers. That, Lydia quickly realized, was pretty much a misnomer, another Hollywood creation. Like the wonderfulness of Pixie Trixie. No one enters this violent business merely because it is profitable. There are easier ways to make a living. You may act like a professional. You may keep your emotions in check. You may even delude yourself into thinking it’s just another day at the office, but when you look at it honestly, the reason you walk on this wrong side of the line is because you enjoy it. Lydia understood that. Hurting someone, killing someone, fading or turning out the light in a person’s eyes . . . no, she did not need that. She did not crave it as she had the spotlight. But yes, no question, there was that pleasant jolt, that unmistakable thrill, a lessening of her own pain.
“Lydia?”
“I’m on it, Pooh Bear.” She picked up the cell phone with the stolen number and the scramble. She turned and faced Heshy. He was hideous, but she didn’t see that. He nodded at her. She flipped on the voice changer and dialed the number.
When Lydia heard Marc Seidman’s voice, she said, “Shall we try this again?”
Chapter 17
Before I answeredthe phone, Rachel put her hand over mine. “This is a negotiation,” she said. “Fear and intimidation are tools in that. You have to stay strong. If they intend to let her go, they will be flexible.”
I swallowed and flicked on the phone. I said hello.
“Shall we try this again?”
The voice had the same robotic hum. I felt a tick in my blood. I closed my eyes and said, “No.”
“Pardon me?”
“I want assurances that Tara is alive.”
“You received hair samples, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I looked over at Rachel. She nodded. “The match was inconclusive.”
“Fine,” the voice said. “I might as well hang up now.”
“Wait,” I said.
“Yes?”
“You drove off last time.”
“So we did.”
“How do I know you won’t do that again?”
“Did you call the police this time?”
“No.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about. Here is what I want you to do.”
“It’s not going to work like that,” I said.