§ § § -- September 15, 1996
The group's first show went off perfectly and met with a wonderful, and very loud, reception from a large audience—the largest the Foster Sisters had ever had. Riding quite high on the cheers and applause, the sisters and Cyndy convened backstage, excitedly chattering away their lingering adrenaline, laughing and hugging ecstatically. "This is such a great sign!" Brooke exulted. "If there were agents in the crowd, they had to get the message that lots of people would like our stuff!"
"We still have three more shows to prove ourselves," Joy reminded her. "That'll just help drive the message further home. Don't we get new costumes for the second show?"
"Yeah, the manager mentioned it," Daphne said. "Let me go double-check with him." She scuttled off, and the others scattered to freshen up. Within ten minutes Daphne was back with their fresh costumes; her cousin and sisters had all showered by then and she took her turn while the others dressed. When she came out, she found them talking about the audience that was already gathering for the second performance.
"I see a couple of the guys that were at the ten-o'clock show last night," cried Brooke, who was peeking through a tiny gap she'd made between the closed curtains and trying to keep her pregnant midsection from poking through it. "They must have gotten some kind of word of mouth and decided to check us out again!"
"Fabulous!" Shara exclaimed. "Who are they?"
"Oh no," Brooke said suddenly and drew back inside, making a face. "That Calvin Dill just showed up. I wish it were possible to forbid him from coming to our shows."
Shara peered at her curiously. "Come on, Brooke, he wasn't that bad."
"I thought he was," Joy backed her sister up. "I told you before, he struck me as this oily, shady type. I mean, he looks legit and all, and maybe he really is. But there's just something about the guy that spooks me."
"Not just you, cousin," Cyndy put in, clipping a rhinestone tennis bracelet around her wrist. "I got the same impression. Don't tell me you didn't notice, Shara."
"He offered us a really lucrative contract for five years and four albums," Shara pointed out, "and the pay was excellent. Lots of publicity, anything he could possibly do to get our career off the ground. How can you argue with that?"
"It's too good to be true," Joy insisted. "That kind of stuff raises a lot of red flags with me. Maybe you just think my intuition is overly sensitive, but Cyndy just said she had the same impression, and she doesn't get all suspicious like I do."
Daphne nodded, surprising Shara; the youngest sister was the happy-go-lucky one, with an eternally optimistic outlook on everything. "I'm with them, Shara. He looked at me kind of like he would've liked to get me on that casting couch Cyndy mentioned this morning." That generated nervous giggles from the others.
Shara shrugged. "Well, whatever. I just don't think we should dismiss that great opportunity he dangled at us. But okay, I'll go along with you and give the other ones a chance to decide if they want to sign us on."
Their second show was as well-received as the first; but late in the performance, with two more songs to sing, Shara felt her energy flagging. Uh-oh. Soon as this is over, gotta get back to my dressing room and take another hit. Funny, one dose used to get me through a whole day; now it takes two. Well, I just gotta hang in there.
She took her bows about ten minutes later with her sisters and cousin, then rushed back to her dressing room without a word to them, unheeding of the perplexed, annoyed glares they aimed at her. Slamming the door, she zeroed in on the worn, fraying duffel she always lugged around with her and began to poke through it.
Her search dragged out as she failed to find her objective, and frantically Shara began to pull out other items and toss them over her shoulder in a desperate hunt. Finally she had emptied the bag, and all she had come up with was the syringe she used to inject herself. She stared in disbelief at the dark residue inside its barrel, then peered into the bag itself, even lifted it and turned it upside down. But nothing fell out: it was completely empty, and she hadn't overlooked anything.
"Oh, damn," Shara whispered in despair, beginning to realize what must have happened. Howie had come sniveling around back last night after their late show, telling her he was completely out of her usual supply and trying to assure her he'd get more as soon as he got hold of his contact. She'd exploded at him, telling him she had to have it or she'd start going crazy from withdrawal. He knew the symptoms: he'd seen them in her once a few years ago and given her an emergency dose in order to arrest their progress. She hadn't questioned him then, and not since, even though she had no idea where he got the stuff. But now he didn't have any more—and neither did she!
"And the symptoms are starting already," she breathed aloud, lifting one hand and watching it tremble just perceptibly. She tried to still it, but it merely exacerbated the shaking. How could she have run out so quickly? She had calculated her doses to be sure she had enough for her stay on Fantasy Island, yet… Then she moaned and squeezed her eyes shut. Just a little bit ago, on stage, she'd reflected that now it took two doses to get her through a day. When she'd packed for this trip, she hadn't taken that into account, and here she was, out of the drug and unable to get any more.
Her secret was going to come out unless she could think of some way to get more, because her symptoms would worsen as time slipped by and it would be impossible for her to control her reactions. Maybe she could go and ask Howie about his contact…no, that was too risky, especially after she'd stated to both the sheriff and Mr. Roarke that she hadn't seen Howie since high school. So much for trying to disassociate herself. She knew the drug was quite rare and almost prohibitively expensive; but it was the only thing that kept her going, made her capable of living the hectic life of a performer. It gave her more energy than she had ever dreamed of having; she didn't need as much sleep each night; and it stunted her appetite, so that she had lost weight over time and looked really good in all the form-fitting costumes she and the others wore onstage. She had to get more of it before Joy, Cyndy, Brooke and Daphne saw her in withdrawal and guessed her secret…but how?
"Lunchtime, Shara," she heard Joy's voice call through the door. "Come on and eat."
"Be right there," Shara called back, trying to keep the budding panic out of her voice. For the moment, she felt reasonably normal, just drained. Maybe having a good meal would help replace some of that energy. She changed into street clothes, all the while reassuring herself that food would help fill the gap till she could get what she really needed.
It did help for a little while. She ate a more substantial meal than she had in quite some time, which gained her the approval of Daphne and Cyndy, a joking inquiry from Brooke as to whether she too was expecting a baby, and a strange look from Joy. Joy had always been the cautious, suspicious one, Shara recalled uneasily, hiding her disquiet and signaling their waiter for another drink. The one she'd just finished had miraculously stilled her trembling hands, and the food did seem to boost her sagging energy, though she knew deep inside that it was a very temporary, and inadequate, substitute. Her apprehension over her precarious condition caused her to meet Joy's odd look with an overdone glare. "You got a problem with me enjoying my lunch?"
Joy blinked, surprised. "No…I just haven't seen you eat like that in ages, that's all." She lifted her hands at Shara's narrow-eyed look. "Hey, don't get me wrong, I think it's great, after months of toast-slice breakfasts and excuses about watching your weight. I'm just wondering why the sudden turnaround."
"I was hungry," Shara said in a tone that dared her to argue. Joy shrugged and subsided, still perplexed but no longer asking questions.
Shara's temporary fix began to fail her just before the end of their third show; it was now all she could do to force herself to look normal on the way back to her dressing room. There was no quieting the shaking now, and it wasn't just her hands; her arms quivered, and her legs felt wobbly and unstable. She collapsed into the chair in her tiny dressing room, fighting back her panic. Picking up the syringe, she examined the remains of her last dose inside the barrel and had an idea. Removing the end with the needle, she licked her index finger and swiped it around the interior of the barrel, collecting the dried dregs. She was desperate enough to hope it would get her through their final show of the weekend, although after that— Don't think about it, she warned herself fiercely. Just get through the last concert, then you can worry about what happens afterwards. Right now… Shara drew in a deep breath and stuck her finger in her mouth, sucking off every trace of substance she had picked up. Two seconds later she gasped, dropped the barrel, and shakily poured herself a glass of water. It felt as if she'd eaten a lit match. What drug acts like a jalapeño pepper, for crying out loud? she wondered, draining the glass nonstop. Oh man… But she felt her creeping lethargy slow slightly, and after a moment even the fiery sensation in her mouth subsided. It wasn't much, but it was all she had.
Then there was a knock on her door, and she froze. "Yeah?"
"Miss Foster? It's Calvin Dill from Goliath Records. Can we talk?"
"Oh…s-sure, Mr. Dill, come on in, it's unlocked," Shara said. The door opened and he stepped inside, glancing around the messy dressing room and smiling indulgently. Shara felt her face redden. "Sorry about the disaster area."
Dill chuckled. "No problem." He spied something on the floor and eyed it curiously; Shara followed his gaze and was horrified to realize she had forgotten to hide the components of the syringe. "Diabetes?" he asked.
It took Shara a moment to follow his meaning. "Oh…uh, well…" she stuttered.
He picked up the barrel, rotated it once in his hand before offering it to her. She took it, realizing she had missed a few flecks of residue after all. She looked hesitantly up at him and was startled to see his knowing smile. "Black lightning, huh?" he said.
She gasped. "How'd y'know?" Already she was losing coherency.
Dill shrugged easily. "Mind if I sit down?" He took the only chair without waiting for her reply. "You looked a little worn down during that last show, to begin with. And anyone who knows anything about recreational drugs knows black lightning. It's the only one out there that leaves that color residue." He studied her. "Expensive habit," he remarked after a moment or two. "But I can help you get all you need and then some."
Shara bit her lip. "Well…" Why couldn't she think?
Dill raised one hand. "Look," he said, "that was your last dose, and your supplier's out, isn't he?" He smiled lazily. "I know all about your habit and how you get the stuff, Miss Foster. I'm the source your friend Howie gets his supply from. Since the little bumbler managed to get himself arrested earlier, that means you're cut off. And I know you're out of it now, because if you weren't, you wouldn't be desperate enough to clean the dregs out of the syringe barrel and swallow it. Any experienced user knows black lightning has a kick worse than Tabasco sauce if it's taken orally."
"Know it now," muttered Shara. Her legs gave out at last and she sank to the floor.
Dill chuckled. "I bet you do. I've seen what users do when they're out and they can't get more right away. Normally they know better than to do that, but when they're going through withdrawal, their thinking gets clouded up and they lose the ability to reason rationally. Look at you now."
Shara stared blearily at him. On some fuzzy level she realized he was right; but her need for the drug had taken over, and increasingly it was becoming the sole object of her focus. "I need more," she mumbled. The meager effect of the concentrated dregs had already worn off, leaving her drained and dazed.
"I've got it," Dill said soothingly. "Right here. All you need."
Shara gazed at him with an empty look that carried a tiny, feverish gleam of need. "My money…back in the bun…bun-glow…" she slurred.
Dill shook his head and withdrew a package from his inside jacket pocket. "Don't worry about the money, sweets. You can pay me by talking your sisters into signing a contract with Goliath Records, okay? Here." Expertly he filled her syringe all the way to the top, reattached the needle and handed it to her. Shara reached for it with the greedy haste of a drowning diver going for the hose to a scuba tank and blindly injected the entire contents of the syringe into her arm, without really seeing it. And all the while Calvin Dill sat and watched her, a small smile on his face.
