Nowhere to Run [antikvár]

Friday, November 14 he silver New Jersey Transit commuter train síid to a stop at the red brick station. Only one passenger alighted. Puliing the overcoat collar up against the brisk night wind, the passenger stood on the platform, trying to get somé bearings. The passenger pulled a földed piece of paper from a coat pocket and opened the computer-printed directions. On the walk to the stairwell, images of the friendly cohosts of KEY to America smiled from a billboard illuminated by the station lights. There was no escaping those two. Constance Young and Harry Granger. They were everywhere. Down the concrete stairs and through the spray-painted tunnel beneath the railroad tracks, past the graffitied messages. A hand-drawn eyeball wept from the cement wall with tears marked fear, anger, anguish, and terror, as if the artist had somehow known that those emotions were the very ones to bring the traveler to this comfortable town tonight. Another set of stairs led up to the main Street. Friday night moviegoers were fiiing out of the old Maplewood Theatre. It was easy to mingle among them, eavesdrop-