Chapter 38
The Journalist 1
She leaned forward trying to catch a glimpse of what she saw. Was it a dream? It had to be. No one could be so unearthly beautiful. The man was long haired, bending down low to talk to a small child, soothing her tears. The girl smiled with missing front teeth and scampered off to her older brother beckoning her home.
The man glanced up at a darkened house glancing at an antique hand wound pocket watch. Who even carried around those things anymore? It was the old Henderson house. The man's wife had long passed away, and he was on his last breaths. Maybe this younger man was a relative here to pay his last respects?
She shook her head. She shouldn't be nosy, but nothing had ever happened in her neighborhood. She shook her head. She shouldn't be nosy, but nothing had ever happened in her neighborhood and the man was so intriguing!
With a regretful sigh he entered the house. She herself sighed knowing she had lost her chance of observing the beautiful stranger. The sun set and still she sat, waiting and watching.
A great and boundless light erupted from the windows of the old house, and she shielded her eyes with surprise. The man walked out arm and arm with Mr. Henderson. The man looked the same but there was no pain in his eyes, only a blissful contentment. The pair made their way joyfully down the street and simply disappeared.
The woman couldn't believe her eyes. They were playing tricks on her. She couldn't have witnessed anything of this earth. This next morning the neighborhood was awoken to the sounds of an ambulance but the paramedics were too late for the old man.
"I saw someone in his house last night," the short haired woman insisted. "He took away Mr. Henderson like an angel of death."
The neighbor women looked at each other warily. "Dear, you know how the doctors said you need to take your medication."
"But that's how the government monitors you," she insisted.
The younger woman had stopped taking them for a week so far and now could see the sinister truth about her supposed idyllic neighborhood. Foster parents who imprisoned their wards and withheld medication, mothers who starved their children, child labor, even murderers who hid bodies in their backyards, it was all so clear!
The other older women around her glanced at each other nervously.
"Why don't you sit down, dear?"
One gave a nod to another who picked up the phone to dial a number.
"Doctor? You told us to call this number when Abigail wasn't taking her pills. Yes, she's with us in the house right now. Alright, please hurry."
A half hour later, the red haired woman was led away explaining to the nice men at the psychiatric hospital the dealings in her neighborhood.
Rocky McCann scowled at her desk. Her secretary had taken a message from a woman who reported foster parents abusing their children but wished to speak to Rocky personally. The woman promised to call back but by the end of the day the reporter had to give it up as a lost cause.