Free The Distance Between Us by Masha Hamilton

she shoves the stack of newspapersshe has to go through—two weeks’ worth. She flips on her computer. Leap in . But to what?
    She logs online, reads a couple pieces of e-mail, deletes the rest. Then she goes to a search engine and types in a few words. Beirut. Assassin. Up pops a list of books and movies and websites on the history of the Crusaders. She tries another search. Beirut. Kill-for-hire . No hits at all. What did she expect? E-mail contacts and a price list?
    Down the hall, a phone rings, and a gravelly voice answers. It’s Pete, a photographer in his midfifties. “How many are there?” he grumbles into the phone.
    Hearing him, she has an inspiration. She waits until he has hung up before walking down to his office. As soon as he sees her, he opens his arms, thick and covered with white-blond hair, and pulls her in. He smells of shaving cream, a sign that he hasn’t been out working yet.
    “What a shooter he was,” Pete says. “Away from work, he was such a jokester—I never trusted a word he said. But taking pictures, he was—”
    Caddie nods.
    “You?”
    “I’m okay.”
    “You sure? Because if—”
    She waves a hand to cut him off. “Listen, I need a favor.”
    He gestures for her to sit and leans toward her.
    “Let me know, will you, when you hear of clashes anywhere.”
    “I always let you know,” Pete says.
    “No, I mean anything . Big or little.”
    His stare is suspicious. Photographers have to get to the violence or they’ve got nothing, empty negatives, a black hole, but experienced reporters wait until there’s a body pile. Even then, they weigh what else is happening. After all, they can always look at the footage or photos later to fill out their copy. “What for?” Pete says. “You’re not a hardware-sniffer.”
    “It’ll get me up and running again.”
    He stretches his legs. “Most of these aren’t stories,” he says. “They’re fender-benders. I dash by with my helmet and flak jacket, shoot a roll or two, and then I’m gone. No point for you.”
    “I’m talking a long-term project,” she begins improvising, and then gives it up. She rises, walks toward the door and pauses. “Let me worry about what I take from it.”
    He studies her a minute. “Something calmer might be your best bet for now.”
    “Shit, Pete.”
    He shrugs. “Okay, okay. I’ll let you know.”
    “Thanks.”
    She nods and leaves. Calmer, hell. What does Pete know? She can handle it; she can handle anything. Sure, maybe sometimes a few details get to her. The expressions and postures of the dead: the uncanny grins, the unnatural sprawls. The distinctive smell of blood and entrails: thick, swampy and sordid like a secret that should never have been revealed. Sometimes she gags. But then she holds her breath and keeps going. She is a stranger to easy astonishment. She can step overbloody ground for a quote, analyze a wound for its deadliness. Identify weapons and stay unfazed when they are waved in her face. She keeps her eyes on the basics: it’s a story. Stories stale quickly; each one has to have an angle. She slips in, gets what she needs and moves out, fast. A visitor.
    Still, once back in her office, she reaches into her drawer and pulls out a list she keeps of feature ideas. She examines it a moment, then crumbles it and tosses it into the trashcan. None of it interests her. But what, what? She kicks the trashcan.
    And then it occurs to her: Moshe. Of course. Moshe is the perfect way to sink into a feature with a hard edge. A West Bank settler leader linked to the movement’s radicals and, at the same time, articulate enough. She’s been developing him for more than a year now.
    She calls him at his office. “I’d like to come out,” she says. “Spend a night. Get a feel for what’s happening there.”
    “The only thing happening is that we’re trying to raise good, productive children in a community of values,” Moshe says, his voice thick. He always talks through his nose.