“Yes, Mr. Starr.”
Mr. Starr had his duffel bag, his sketch pad, his charcoal sticks. He was bareheaded, and his fine silver hair blew in the wind. He wore a slightly soiled white shirt with a navy-blue silk necktie and his old tweed jacket; and his gleaming black shoes that put Sybil in mind of a funeral. She could not see his eyes behind the dark lenses of his glasses but she knew by the puckered skin at the corners of his eyes that he was staring at her intently, hungrily. She was his model, he was the artist, when could they begin? Already, his fingers were flexing in anticipation.
“I think, though, we’ve about exhausted the possibilities of this park, don’t you, dear? It’s charming, but rather common. And so finite,” Mr. Starr was saying, expansively. “Even the beach, here in Glencoe. Somehow it lacks — amplitude. So I was thinking — I was hoping — we might today vary our routine just a bit, and drive up the coast. Not far — just a few miles. Away from so many people, and so many distractions.” Seeing that Sybil was slow to respond, he added, warmly, “I’ll pay you double, Sybil — of course. You know you can trust me by now, don’t you? Yes?”
That curious, ugly little hook of a scar in Mr. Starr’s forehead — its soft pale tissue gleamed in the whitish light. Sybil wondered was that where the bullet had gone in.
Mr. Starr had been leading Sybil in the direction of the curb, where the limousine was waiting, its engine idling almost soundlessly. He opened the door. Sybil, clutching her kidskin bag, peered inside, at the cushioned, shadowy interior. For a moment, her mind was blank. She might have been on a high board, about to dive into the water, not knowing how she’d gotten to where she was, or why. Only that she could not turn back.
Mr. Starr was smiling eagerly, hopefully. “Shall we? Sybil?”
“Yes, Mr. Starr,” Sybil said, and climbed inside.