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Praise for the novels of

"Tension mounts, bullets fly and Pinter's cool fusion

of a new outlaw with blood ties to an old one hits the mark.

The resolution is a ripsnorter, leaving thrill fans

ready for the next Henry Parker newsflash."

-- Publishers Weekly on The Guilty

"A suspenseful and shocking tale that will leave readers

clamoring for the next Henry Parker novel."

-- Library Journal on The Guilty

"A gripping page-turner you won't be able to stop reading."

--James Patterson on The Mark

"Jason Pinter has made a substantial contribution

to the thriller genre with The Mark, a fast-paced,

addictively suspenseful thriller."

--Allison Brennan

"An excellent debut.

You are going to love Henry Parker, and you're going to hope

he survives the story, but you're not going to bet on it."

--Lee Child on The Mark

"A harrowing journey--chilling, compelling, disquieting."

--Steve Berry on The Mark

"Pinter's a wizard at punching out page-turning action,

and the voice of his headstrong protagonist is sure to win

readers over; his wild ride should thrill any suspense junky."

-- Publishers Weekly on The Mark

"Jason Pinter has a wonderful voice. The Mark captivated me

from the first. A page-turner from the get-go--I loved it."

--Heather Graham

"From the opening sentence to the exhilarating conclusion,

Pinter's debut thriller gets the reader's heart racing.

Pinter is clearly one to watch."

-- Library Journal on The Mark, starred review

"A stunning debut by a major new talent!"

--James Rollins on The Mark

"A first-rate debut from an author who dares to take the

traditional thriller in bold new directions."

--Tess Gerritsen on The Mark

"Pinter's debut novel showcases his fresh, witty voice...

readers will undoubtedly look forward to many more."

-- Romantic Times BOOKreviews on The Mark

"Breathless, poignant and fresh."

--P. J. Parrish on The Mark

"A terrific thriller."

-- Midwest Book Review

"The Mark is a stunning debut."

--Jeffery Deaver

"A top-notch debut... Fast-paced, gritty and often raw,

The Mark is a tale you won't soon forget."

--Michael Palmer

"A harrowing novel that keeps the adrenaline level high.

The plot is so fascinating and twisting

you can't put the book down to sleep."

-- New Mystery Reader Magazine

"A high-octane debut, The Mark introduces Jason Pinter as a

major new talent in thriller fiction. It's a brilliantly executed

chase novel, but it's also a heartfelt exploration of honor,

ambition and courage."

--Jeff Abbott

(r)

To my sister, who taught me the meaning of friendship.

To my father, who taught me the meaning of generosity.

To my mother, who taught me the meaning of strength.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The first thanks go to my beautiful wife, Susan, who more

so than on any of my previous books humbled me with her

patience and understanding. After many coffee-fueled late

nighters and supportive pep talks, this book is as much yours

as it is mine.

Joe Veltre, who has proved time and time again that the best

business relationships are also great friendships. Thank you

for both. Thanks also to Diane Bartoli and Sara Wolski, who

are always gracious with their time.

Adam Wilson. Thanks for always being there in a pinch, and

answering even the silliest questions faster than humanly

possible. I'll stump you soon, I promise....

Donna Hayes, Dianne Moggy, Margaret O'Neill Marbury,

Heather Foy, Maureen Stead, Ana Luxton, Jayne Hoogenberk,

Ken Foy, Michelle Renaud, Don Lucey, Andi Richman,

Katherine Orr, Craig Swinwood, Loriana Sacilotto and

Stacy Widdrington. The best is yet to come. Thank you,

thank you, thank you all.

I also owe a debt to George Witte, Sally Richardson,

Andy Martin, Kylah McNeill, Keith Kahla and Kelley Ragland.

I'm sorry our time together was cut short, but every day was a

real treat. I'm lucky to have spent so much time working with

people who know how to publish the right way.

Susan Schwartzman. After knowing you for just two weeks,

I was in awe. By the time this book comes out, I can only

imagine what you'll have accomplished.

Bonnie and Joe, Maggie Griffin and Terry Lucas. I still have

a lot to learn about this crazy thing called writing, but when

you've had friends like these, everything seems possible.

Linda McFall. Three down, and hopefully many, many

more to go. If I feel spoiled, it's your fault for being such a

terrific editor. Thanks also for your help on understanding

the (often frightening) mind of the American toddler.

Thank you again, ad infinitum.

To the booksellers and librarians who have made it possible

for people to read my stuff.

To everyone who's read one of my books, thanks for giving

me the greatest job in the world. You keeping reading 'em,

I'll keep writing 'em.

And to reporters around the world who risk so much to write

about good, evil and everything in between, Henry Parker

offers a sincere thank-you. He wouldn't be here without

your inspiration.

Dear Reader,

It is said that the most painful experience a parent can

endure is losing a child. The pain and anguish must be simply

incalculable. But what happens when a child presumed gone

forever returns suddenly with no explanation, no injuries and

no recollection of where they've been?

In The Stolen, Henry Parker must face perhaps the most

difficult, and most personal, story of his young career.

Because when he investigates the sudden reappearance

of ten-year-old Daniel Linwood, Henry soon realizes that

despite the jubilation of Daniel's parents, something far

more sinister is beginning to take shape. And as Henry fights

to uncover the truth, caught in the balance are a family, a

community and several people who will stop at nothing to

make sure those questions stay unanswered, and that Henry

is silenced--permanently.

I hope as you read The Stolen, you might ask yourself the

same question that drives Henry to find the truth: How far

would you go to protect your loved ones?

Enjoy The Stolen...

Jason Pinter

January 2008

Prologue

"Finished."

I saved the document and eased back in my chair. My

body had grown accustomed to long days and nights spent

in its discomfort. The last few months, I had arrived home

nearly every night with a sore tailbone or stiff back, wondering if the supplies department would turn a blind eye

and let me expense a newer model. Eventually I forgot

about it. Then one day, I noticed I hadn't thought about

the aches and pains in a long time. They were a part of me

now.

The past three days and nights had sped by in a blur of

keystrokes, Chinese food containers and discarded coffee

cups. I was on the kind of crash deadline that a year ago

would have had me sweating rivulets, but now barely

raised my pulse. The fact was, without those deadlines to

keep me focused, the pains might not have ebbed away.

Saving the file, I looked outside my window over

Rockefeller Plaza. The view had changed--bright morning into gauzy summer afternoon, fading into the kind of

New York night where the constant bright lights disguised

any sense of time.

Until recently, the night always heralded the end of my

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Jason Pinter

workday. I would file my story with Evelyn Waterstone,

the Gazette's Metro editor, pack up my things, throw some

goodbyes to my night-shift colleagues and one or two

guys at the sports desk who were putting together the box

scores, and head home to meet Amanda. Good conversation, a hot shower, maybe a movie or a show we'd

recorded, they'd all be waiting. Then I'd fall asleep with

a whisper of her hair across my face.

Amanda.

We met two years ago. Our introduction wasn't exactly

the setup for your average romantic comedy. Our paths

crossed while I was on the run after being falsely accused

of murder. I had nobody to turn to. Nowhere to go. And

just when the situation was at its bleakest, Amanda offered

a hand to me, a total stranger. She saved my life. She was

running from her own demons, having come from a broken

home, spending her childhood recapping her life in small

notebooks because she assumed everyone she met would

eventually abandon her. It was this that brought us

together. We were both damaged, broken, but together we

were whole. She was everything I wanted in a partner.

Strong, brilliant, beautiful. And she laughed at my jokes

that made everyone else cringe. I repaid her by offering

all the love I had to give. Had I offered merely love, it

would have been more than enough. It's the other baggage

I brought along that was too heavy for our relationship to

bear.

Six months ago, a killer began terrorizing the city by

publicly executing those he felt deserved his wrath. I was

able to weave together the strands of his mysterious past

and learned the horrific truth about his ancestry. During

my search, the killer turned his sights not just toward me,

but to those I loved.

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He brutally attacked my ex, Mya Loverne, and left her

fighting for her life. He broke into Amanda's office at the

New York Legal Aid Society and nearly killed her. It was

then, in the aftermath of those acts of violence, that I

realized what I had to do. To protect those I loved, I had

to turn away. I had to shield them from myself.

There was nothing more I would have wanted than to

spend the rest of my life with her, playing shuffleboard and

eating dinner at noon, doing whatever old couples did. It

should have been easy. I mean, everyone complains about

how hard it is to find someone in New York City. Once you

find the right person, you hold on to them for dear life.

Unfortunately I had to do the opposite.

Amanda nearly lost her life because of me, because of

my work. And because being a reporter was in my blood,

I shuddered to think that it was only a matter of time before

those odds caught up. So I left her. In the middle of the

street. And every day since I've had ample time to think

about my decision.

We have not spoken in six months. My apartment,

once warm with her presence, was now cold and uninviting. The stove, where we used to burn our attempts at

lasagna, hadn't seen a pan in weeks. The place reeked of

carelessness, abandoned by a man who felt like a stranger

in his own home.

Work had always been my passion. Now it was my

whole life.

Underneath my desk was a small duffel bag in which I

kept a clean shirt, slacks and a pair of loafers. Every other

day I would venture back to that unfamiliar home, unload

the dirty laundry and pack up a clean change of clothes.

Every other week the accumulation of soiled attire would

be sent to the cleaners, and the cycle would start again. I

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Jason Pinter

would change in the men's room, always drawing a few

weren't you just wearing that? looks from my colleagues.

I heard a noise behind me, turned to see Evelyn Waterstone striding up to my desk. Evelyn had barely given me

the time of day when I first started working at the Gazette,

but she'd warmed considerably over the past few months.

Evelyn was in her late fifties, a solid tree stump of a

woman who commanded attention, respect, and made

everyone leap to the side when she walked by. Like many

of the newspaper's top talent, Evelyn was unmarried and

childless. She was also one of the best editors in the

business. Somehow I'd grudgingly gained her respect. I

figured as long as I kept my head down and did what I did

best, it would stay that way.

"Got your story, Parker," she said, barely slowing down

as she approached, then stopping abruptly before she

knocked my desk over. "I swear you must have replaced

your brain this year or taken basic grammar and spelling

lessons. I haven't had to smack my head in frustration at

your copy in almost a month.You keep it up like this, I might

actually be able to cut back on the migraine medication."

"They say reading is the cure for all ills," I said.

Evelyn eyed me skeptically. "Who said that?"

"You know...they."

"Tell 'they' that they can shove their quotations up my

keester. Anyway, keep up the not-so-terrible work. You're

giving me more time to spend with crustaceans whose

brains haven't fully grasped the ' i before e' concept."

Evelyn shot a glance toward Frank Rourke, the city's top

sports columnist, to whom grammar was a term of endearment for his mother's mother.

Then Evelyn leaned forward. Sniffed. Scrunched up

her nose.

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"My God, Parker, you stink worse than O'Donnell the

morning after St. Patrick's Day. Your pieces might be

clean, but you reek like my nephew's diaper. Go home and

shower, seriously, otherwise I'll tell Wallace he has a

rodent infestation in the vicinity of your desk."

"I'm not that bad, am I?" I raised an arm, took a whiff,

and immediately nodded in agreement. "I'm on my way."

When Evelyn left, I took the duffel out from beneath

my desk, opened it. Sniffed. Closed it right up. Maybe it

was best to just burn this load.

I grabbed the bag, left the office, took a cab to my

apartment. I blew in the door, took a three-minute shower,

and seven minutes after that I was wearing a fresh outfit

with a spare packed away. Another cab brought me back

to Rockefeller, where I strode into the office with a sense

of pride that I knew was well undeserved. I waved to the

night security team. They were too busy watching a ball

game to wave back.

The newsroom was nearly empty. A quiet newsroom

felt like an unnatural beast, but I'd grown used to it.

I opened my drawer, pulled out a down pillow I'd

bought myself as a present. I took a fresh pillow cover

from the bag, pulled it on. Buried somewhere in those

drawers, beneath a mountain of papers, was a photo of

Amanda. I'd taken it at a concert at Jones Beach last

summer. It was raining. I was concerned the camera would

be ruined. Amanda told me not to worry, that if special

moments weren't worth some sort of risk, how special

could they be?

Without saying another word I snapped the photo. She

was right. The moment was worth far more than the risk.

Her brown hair was plastered to her cheeks, her neck.

Her tank top clinging to her rain-slick body like silk. Her

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Jason Pinter

eyes were closed, the music pouring through her. That

was my favorite photo of Amanda. It used to sit on my

desk. Now I couldn't even look at it, because it only made

me think of the night I ended the best thing in my life.

Then I did what I'd been doing every night for the past

four months. I placed the pillow on my desk, put my head

down, and slept.

1

"James, get your behind down here and finish your

greens!"

Shelly's voice boomed through the house, and even

though it took eight-year-old James Linwood only thirty

seconds to turn off his Xbox 360 and race down the stairs,

his younger sister, Tasha, was already sitting at the table,

eyeing him while munching loudly on a celery stalk. When

James sat down, Tasha, six years old but already a grandmaster at winning the game of sibling rivalry, stuck a

green, mush-filled tongue out at her brother, who was

more than happy to return the favor.

"That's enough, both of you. James, baby, I never

excused you from the table. You have to ask to be

excused." James looked at his mother and gave an exaggerated sigh, then picked up a single piece of lettuce. He

took a bite, grimacing as if it had been marinating in oyster

juice. "I don't know what you're looking at me for," Shelly

said. "Some people actually think vegetables taste good."

Tasha nodded along with her mother, opened wide and

shoved a whole stalk of celery in her mouth.

"Those people are stupid," James said, nibbling at the

lettuce.

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Jason Pinter

"No, if you knew what kind of vitamins and minerals

veggies had, you'd know those people are quite smart,"

Shelly said. "Did you know LeBron James eats a double

helping of carrots before every game?"

"Does not," James replied.

"Does too," said Shelly.

"Does too," said Tasha.

James gave his sister a cold glare. He tore off a piece

of lettuce and chewed it with vigor, letting several shreds

of green gristle fall onto the table.

Shelly watched her children eat, their eyes more concerned with her approval than their nutrition. The soft

jingle of a wind chime could be heard from the back porch,

as well as the noise of a television set blaring from the

house next door. Mrs. Niederman's hearing had begun to

go last year, and now she watched Alex Trebek at a volume

that could be heard from space.

Shelly took a moment to gaze around her house. Just a

few years ago, the back porch was riddled with termites,

the wood rotted, the whole structure ready to collapse. She

never would have let Tasha and James play on it. Randy

was never very good with tools, and they simply didn't

have the money to rebuild it. Not yet.

After their terrible ordeal, when their family had been

fractured, the Good Samaritans of Hobbs County had

reached out to help the Linwoods. Now barely a day

passed where James and Tasha weren't outside shooting

off water guns, dangling from the railing like a pair of

spider monkeys. At least the porch had been rebuilt.

While the kids were at school, while Randy was away

at work, Shelly would often find herself looking at the old

photos of their house, taken when they'd first moved in

years ago. She barely recognized what it had become.

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The white paint was fresh, blue trim even, the mailbox

upright. Nobody egged their house on Halloween, and she

never had to call the police to report the teenagers who

used to drive by once a week and knock the mailbox

sideways with wielded baseball bats. Those kinds of things

never happened anymore. There were more cops; she

could feel their presence. They stopped by every so often,

just to see how she and Randy were holding up. I'm fine,

Shelly would say. We're fine.

The cops always turned down a cup of coffee. As though

being any closer to the sorrow might somehow infect them.

James was grimacing through his last scraps of food

when Shelly heard the doorbell.

"That's got to be Daddy," Shelly said. "He probably

forgot his keys again this morning. James, would you let

your father in?" James didn't move. "Did you hear me?"

"I'm cleaning my plate like you told me. I can't answer

the door and eat at the same time." He smiled at this

catch-22. Shelly sighed, though silently proud of her

son's intelligence.

"Fine, you can stop eating if you let your father in. But

if I hear that video game start up before you finish your

social studies homework, you won't watch television until

you graduate college."

James sprung up like he'd been shot from a cannon,

then bolted from his chair.

Shelly smiled at her daughter. Tasha. Her beautiful,

young daughter, who would grow up to be strong and

vivacious like her mother had never been. Shelly felt an

ache in her stomach and placed her palm on Tasha's cheek.

Tasha smiled at her, that big goofy grin full of baby teeth.

"Mom?" James's voice bellowed from the hallway.

"There's a kid here. Do you know anyone named Daniel?"

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Jason Pinter

A napkin fell from Shelly's hand and fluttered to the

floor.

"Wha...what did you say, baby?"

"Daniel. There's some kid at the door says he knows you.

Wait, huh? Uh, Mom? He says...he says you're his mom."

Shelly leapt from her seat. She dashed through the

house, nearly knocking over the coffee table, and sprinted

into the front hallway.

The wooden frame was open to reveal the screen door.

A boy was standing behind the screen, looking confused

as to why he hadn't been allowed in yet. Shelly covered

her mouth to prevent a scream from escaping her lips.

On the other side of the door stood a boy Shelly both

knew and didn't know. He was about five foot three with

a lock of dark hair that fell over his hazel eyes. His father's

eyes. His limbs were gangly, full of sharp angles, as if he'd

grown a great deal in a short amount of time and the flesh

hadn't caught up to his bones. Everything and nothing

was just like she remembered.

"Baby, oh my God..."

She gently pushed James away from the door and tore

open the screen. The boy stood on the front porch with a look

of slight bewilderment, a twinkle of recognition, a blurry

memory slowly coming into focus. He didn't move. Instead,

the boy's eyes met Shelly's as though waiting for something,

and before another second passed Shelly Linwood gathered

the boy up into her arms and squeezed him like there was

no tomorrow, until his arms tentatively wrapped themselves

around her body and held on. She remembered how he'd felt

in her arms, and though heavier, he was the same child she'd

held in her arms for the first six years of his life. She

showered the boy's head with kisses until he pulled away

slightly, an embarrassed grin on his young face.

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21

"Oh my God," she whispered. "Oh my God, oh my God,

oh my God. Baby, is it really you?" The boy shrugged, then

was muffled as Shelly attempted to squeeze the life out

of him again.

Shelly heard a car pull up. When the engine cut off, she

looked up to see Randy's silver V70 Volvo in the driveway.

The door opened, and her husband climbed out with a

groan. Randy was forty-one, just ten pounds heavier than

when they'd met in high school. His jawline was still

visible above a slight jowl, his arms still maintaining some

of the tone from his linebacker days at Hobbs High. Shelly

loved to run her hands down his arms when he lay on top

of her, the definition of his triceps making her shiver. It

had been a year since she last felt that, but now she needed

to feel him closer more than ever.

Her family.

Randy stretched his back, ran his fingers through his

thinning hair, then reached back inside to grab his briefcase.

"Honey," he said, noticing the commotion on the front

porch. "Please tell me there's a Michelob left in the fridge,

I--"

"It's Daniel," Shelly blurted. "He's back."

Randy looked up, confused. Then when everything

came into focus, his briefcase fell to the ground. He stared

for a moment, shaking his head, then ran up the steps to

join his wife. He placed his palm over the boy's forehead,

pulled his hair back, gazing into the young, confused eyes.

Then he joined his wife in the embrace.

"You people are weird," James muttered. "I don't get

it. Who is he?"

"This," Randy said, turning the boy to face him, tears

streaming down his face, "is your brother. His name is

Daniel. Do you remember him?"

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Jason Pinter

James had been just three when it all happened. Shelly

didn't take it personally when Daniel looked at his sibling,

bewilderment reigning over his face, a slight twinkle of

memory.

"My brother?" James said. "I thought he was, like,

stolen or something."

"He was," Shelly said, stroking Daniel's hair. "But

thank you, God, somehow our boy has found his way

home."

James looked at Daniel. There were no bruises on his

body; no cuts or scrapes. His clothes looked new enough

to still have the tags on them. Though he was so young,

Shelly wondered if James remembered all those people

rushing in and out of their house. Men and women with

badges, other loud people with cameras and microphones.

Once on an Easter egg hunt, Shelly had entered the

bedroom to find James and Tasha rifling through a trunk

stuffed full of newspaper clippings about Daniel's disappearance. James had asked Shelly about Daniel once, and

she answered with a single tear, a trembling lip. He never

asked again.

To Shelly, this was God's will. It was fate that her

family be reunited.

To James Linwood, though, he couldn't understand

how his brother, who'd disappeared nearly five years ago

without a trace, could simply reappear like magic without

a scratch on him.

2

The bar was sweltering hot, but the swirling fans made

it more palatable than the thick sweater choking the New

York streets. It didn't take long to learn that Augusts in

New York could be brutal. My first summer in the city, I

made the mistake one day of wearing a T-shirt and sweater

to the office. Jack told me between my clothes and the

Gazette's sporadic air-conditioning, I'd lose ten pounds

before the day was up. While I doubted the New York

summer could get any hotter than my childhood years in

Bend, Oregon, when later that night I peeled off my

sweater and squeezed out the moisture, I realized East

Coast summers were just as brutal as their West Coast

counterparts.

I took another sip of my beer--my third of the night,

and third in slightly under an hour--and casually glanced

up at the baseball game. Out of the dozen or so patrons,

only two or three seemed to care about the outcome. The

others were nursing a drink, chatting up the bartender or,

like the six people my age playing darts, far too busy

reveling in their own bliss.

I'd gotten to know the bartender, Seamus. Things like

that happen when you become a regular. Some nights I had

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Jason Pinter

trouble sleeping. This necessitated finding somewhere to

go to kill time. Somewhere I could be lost in my own

thoughts. That's how I stumbled upon Finnerty's. Quiet

enough to lose yourself. Loud enough to drown everything

out.

Most nights I was happy to imbibe among young Irish

gents and apple-cheeked female bartenders. U2 and Morrissey seemed to emanate from the jukebox on an endless

loop. Though I enjoyed the Irish pub, sitting in Finnerty's

made me feel that much closer to the elder drinkers, sitting

with bottomless glasses of whiskey, talking to the bartender because he was cheaper than a psychiatrist. All of

this, by proxy, made me feel more and more like I was

becoming Jack O'Donnell. In many ways being compared

to Jack would be a compliment. Just not this one.

Jack O'Donnell, to put it bluntly, was my idol. He'd

worked the city beat for going on forty years, and any conversation about New York journalism was incomplete

without mention of the old man. Growing up, I'd gone out

of my way to read every story O'Donnell wrote, not an

easy task for a kid who lived three thousand miles away

from New York. I had our library special-order the Gazette

on microfiche. I would take on an extra newspaper route

just so I could afford the next O'Donnell book in hardcover

when it hit stores. I couldn't, or wouldn't, wait for the

paperback.

A few years ago I'd arrived at the New York Gazette a

fresh-faced newbie reporter who deigned only to shine

O'Donnell's shoes. He was a journalistic institution,

writing some of the most important stories of the past half

century. Despite his age, Jack seemed to grow younger

with every word he typed. Even though Jack's first assignment for me led to disaster--namely me being accused of

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25

murder--he was the first person at the newspaper to give

me an honest shot at showing what I was worth. Both Jack

and Wallace Langston, the Gazette's editor-in-chief, had

taken me under their wings, given me stories that I grabbed

on to tenaciously and reported the hell out of. Without Jack

I probably wouldn't have come to New York. Because of

him I found my calling.

Like any idol, though, once you got closer you could

see that some of the gold paint covered a chipped bronze

interior. For all his brilliance with a pen, Jack's personal

life was a disaster. Several times married and divorced. On

the highway to alcoholism while seeming to hit every

speed bump at sixty miles an hour. Yet, despite Jack's

faults, he was the tent pole to which I aspired to in this

business. As long as I could stop there.

Nights like tonight, I was content to sit on the aged bar

stool and ignore everything. It was easier that way.

Then I felt a cold splash on my back, whipped around

to see a tall, lithe redhead standing over my shoulder, her

hand over her mouth as if she'd just seen a bad car accident.

"Oh, my gosh!" she said, grabbing a pile of napkins off

the bar and mopping at my shirt where she'd spilled her

drink. From the look and smell, I could tell she'd spilled a

cosmopolitan. I'd say I was thankful it wasn't one of my

good shirts, but the truth was I didn't own any good shirts.

Just one more article of clothing with an unidentifiable stain.

"No big deal," I said, wringing as much liquid from the

cloth as I could. "It's a bar. You kind of expect to be hit

with a drink or two."

She smiled at me. I wondered if she thought I was

funny, or if she was just relieved I wasn't the kind of

asshole who would bark and shout at a girl who'd accidentally spilled a drink on him.

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Jason Pinter

She was pretty. Tall, in good shape, but I could tell a

lot of effort went into her appearance. Probably too much.

Her jeans were tight, light blue tank top with a neckline

that plunged far down enough to catch the eyes. Her

cheeks and eyelids glistened with sweat on top of sweatproof makeup. She was probably a natural beauty but

simply didn't trust herself. I thought I noticed a small dark

spot, a mole perhaps, by her right collarbone, but quickly

realized it was a passing shadow. She was the prettiest girl

I'd noticed in Finnerty's in a long while. Either that, or I

just never bothered to notice.

"Here," she said, putting down the soiled napkins and

reaching into her purse, "let me buy you a drink. Least I

can do, right, since you're being such a gentleman? What

kind of beer is that?"

I shook my head. "No need. It happens." I caught the

ball game from the corner of my eye. The fans were on

their feet. Looked like someone had hit a home run.

"Well, can I just buy you a drink to buy you a drink?"

I looked at her, a cautious smile. My beer was almost

empty. And my wallet was running light.

"It's okay," I said after a moment. "Really, it's not necessary." She put her purse away, eyed me with a combination of skepticism and curiosity.

"Are you here with friends?" she asked.

"Nope. Just watching the game."

She glanced around the bar, watched the guys with

gelled hair and long button-down shirts hanging over expensive jeans, high-fiving one another while a gaggle of

girls cheered every dart throw.

"So you're just here to, what...hang out by yourself?"

"That's the idea," I said. Her smile turned demure. I felt

her move closer. Her arm brushed mine, and for a moment

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27

I felt that tingle of electricity. It had been so long. I didn't

move my arm.

"That's kind of cool," she said. "Lot of guys try too hard

to be all macho and stuff. It takes confidence to stay quiet."

I had to stop myself from laughing, considering I was

afraid of my own apartment and came here precisely so I

could avoid the braying of testosterone-drenched i-bankers.

"Trust me, it's not confidence," I said. "Just comfort."

"See, that's confident right there!" Then she extended

her hand. "I'm Emily."

"Henry," I said. For a moment I waited, then shook her

hand. Didn't want to be rude.

"I'm here with some old college friends who are in

town for the weekend," Emily said, "but we're probably

going to ditch this place soon and go somewhere else

more, like, alive. I know you're happy to be by yourself--"

she used finger quotation marks to accent this statement

"--but it might be cool if you came with us."

Right then I could see the night laid out before me. Two

paths. I could accept Emily's invitation, and presuming I

played my cards right, that electric sensation of skin on

skin would later become a wildfire.

Or I could sit here, sip my beer, stare at my reflection

in the mirror and think about all the other paths I'd simply

passed right by.

"I appreciate the offer, Emily," I said. "But I think I'll

stay here for the night."

"You sure?" she said.

"Sure."

"Suit yourself." She grabbed a clean napkin from the

bar, removed a tube of eyeliner from her purse and painstakingly drew something on the paper. When she was

done, she smiled, handed me the napkin and walked away.

28

Jason Pinter

Her phone number was written in black, smudgy ink.

Emily offered one last wave as she went through the door,

pausing for a moment to give me one last chance to reconsider. I raised the rest of my beer to her. She shrugged and

left. Then I let the napkin fall to the floor.

I downed the last of my beer. Seamus took a pair of

empty pitchers down off the bar and came over to me.

"Another?" he said.

I looked at my glass, felt the buzz swirling in my head

and decided against it.

"That's it for me tonight." He took my glass and went

to serve a man shaking his glass for a refill. I stood up,

steadying myself as the blood swam to my head. When my

equilibrium settled, I left the bar.

I checked my phone. Four missed calls, beginning at

11:00 p.m. They were all from the same prefix, which I

recognized as the Gazette. I checked my watch. Late jobrelated calls were no longer a nuisance; they were a part

of my life. Perhaps that's why I turned down another beer.

Somehow I had a feeling I'd have to return someone's call

while relatively sober.

I walked down to the corner and bought a pack of Certs,

slipping one in my mouth to try to remove the beer aftertaste. Then I dialed the Gazette. Wallace Langston, editorin-chief, picked up his private line on the first ring.

"Henry, Christ, where the hell've you been?"

"It's a Friday night. You don't pay me enough to have

a 24/7 retainer."

"Okay, you don't want to answer your phone, I have

half a newsroom of reporters who'd drop their off days

faster than a hot iron for what I'm about to tell you, so let

me know if this is an inconvenient time."

"What if I said it was?"

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"I'd say two things," Wallace said. "First, you're a liar.

It sounds like you're standing on the street, which means

you can't be that busy. Second, I'd say I don't give a crap

because if you turn down this assignment, I can find

another reporter who'll grab it faster than you can hang

up."

"Sounds like a hot one," I said. "So maybe I'm interested."

"Hot isn't the word," Wallace said. "Scorching. Actually no, forget that. The only appropriate word is exclu-

sive. "

"Oh, yeah? What kind of exclusive?"

"You hear about this Daniel Linwood case up in

Hobbs County?"

Immediately my buzz wore off. "Kid who was kidnapped

five years ago and suddenly reappeared on his parents'

doorstep, right?"

"So you follow the news. Glad to know we pay you for

something. Daniel Linwood was five years old when he

disappeared from his parents' home in Hobbs County,

New York. That was five years ago. One moment he's

playing outside, then all of a sudden he's just gone. No witnesses, nobody saw or heard anything. His disappearance

shakes the Hobbs County community to its roots. There's

a media frenzy, politicians come out of the woodwork to

show their support, but the cops come up empty. Then last

night, Daniel shows up at his parents' house like he's been

at the movies. Not a scratch on him. And get this--the kid

has as much memory of the past five years as I have of my

first marriage. He doesn't remember where he's been, who

took him or how he even got home. Half the known world

is waging war to talk to Daniel and his parents and get the

story, but up until now it's been radio silence."

30

Jason Pinter

"Until now?" I said.

"Until you," Wallace said. "I've been calling the Linwoods for twenty-four hours nonstop."

"I bet they appreciate that," I said snidely.

"Shut up, Parker, or I'll smack that booze right off your

breath."

"You don't know I've been drinking," I said, regretfully

slurring the last word.

"I've worked with Jack O'Donnell for more than twenty

years. You can't fool a professional bullshit detector. Anyway, tonight I get a call from Shelly Linwood out of

nowhere. She says she's ready to talk. And before I can say

another word, she says she and Daniel will talk to you, and

only you."

"Me?" I said. "Why?"

Wallace said, "Shelly knows she can't keep silent

forever, that at some point she and Daniel will need to

speak to the press. So she said when he does speak to

someone, she wants it to be to a reporter he won't be intimidated by. Someone who doesn't remind him of his

parents. She wants Daniel to talk to someone he can trust,

whom she can look in the eye and know he won't exploit

her son. Between all of that, I offered you. And she

accepted."

"Holy crap, are you serious?" I said. "This is a major

story, Wallace. We're going to make a lot of reporters

pretty jealous."

"And I'm going to revel in it," Wallace said. "This is

your story now, Parker. Daniel Linwood has probably been

through a kind of hell you and I can't even imagine, and

his parents have spent almost five years assuming their

oldest son was dead. Be gentle. Daniel is ten years old, and

we still don't know the full psychological damage he's

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31

suffered. If you press the wrong button, touch the wrong

nerve, he and Shelly will clam up fast. And the Dispatch

will be on top of this as fast as Paulina Cole can get up to

Hobbs County."

"I'd die before Paulina scoops us," I said.

"Don't make it come to that, Henry. The Linwoods are

expecting you tomorrow at two. Get there at noon, spend

a few hours checking out the neighborhood for local color.

But if Daniel wants to talk to you at one-forty-five, twofifteen or three o'clock in the morning, you'll have your

tape recorder ready to go."

"You got it."

"That means going home right now and sobering up."

"I'm on my way." This included a hot shower, a fresh

set of clothes, suit and tie. I prayed these were all at the

ready, otherwise an all-night Laundromat would soon be

graced by my clothes' aromatic presence.

"Call me before you leave tomorrow," Wallace said.

"And I mean that. Call me. I don't want to come into the

office tomorrow and see you asleep and drooling on your

keyboard. You have a home. Go there."

I said nothing. Telling Wallace that my apartment didn't

feel like a home was neither his business nor concern. All

he cared about, and rightfully so, was this story. I'd been

granted leeway the past few years most young reporters

never got. Many in my position would have been shown

the door, either landing in the safety net of a small-town

paper or spewing angry blogs about the dumbing-down of

American media. I had no desire to do either, and preferred

to help from the inside. Big-time news was in my blood.

A while ago Jack O'Donnell had told me that to truly

become a legend in your field, you had to lead a life with

one purpose. You had to devote yourself to your calling.

32

Jason Pinter

Splitting your passions between that and other pursuits--

hobbies, family--would only make each endeavor suffer.

The past few months I'd whittled down my extracurriculars to nothing. All for stories like this.

"You'll hear from me first thing tomorrow morning," I

said. "And, Wallace?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"Thanks for the opportunity."

"Don't thank me, thank Shelly Linwood. I'm not the

only one counting on you to do the right thing."

The call ended. I stood there in the warm night, the

sounds of the bar and the street fading away. This night

held nothing else for me, but tomorrow presented a golden

opportunity. So many circumstances surrounding Daniel

Linwood's disappearance were a mystery, and because

the boy himself couldn't remember, I wondered how

much, if any of it, would ever come to light. I wondered

if never getting that closure would bother the Linwood

family. Or if they were just thankful to have their son

back.

I put the phone in my pocket, went to the corner and

hailed a cab back to my apartment. For a moment I

wondered if, like Daniel Linwood, I was returning to a

place both strangely familiar, yet terribly foreign at the

same time.

3

The Lincoln Town Car pulled up at 10:00 a.m. on the dot,

shiny and black and idling in front of my apartment as

inconspicuous as a black rhinoceros. I'd heeded Wallace's

advice and gone home, sleeping in my own bed for the first

time in weeks. I stripped the sheets, used a few clean

towels in their place, and got my winks under an old

sleeping bag.

I woke up at eight-thirty, figured it'd be plenty of time,

but it took forty-five minutes to clean the crud out of my

coffee machine and brew a new pot, so by the time the

driver buzzed my cell phone I was tucking my shirt in,

making sure my suit jacket was devoid of any lint. Unfortunately I missed the open fly until we'd merged off the

West Side Highway onto I-87 North. My driver was a

Greek fellow named Stavros. Stavros was big, bald and

had a pair of snake-eyed dice tattooed on the back of his

neck that just peeked out over the headrest.

I sipped my Thermos of coffee, grimaced and doublechecked my briefcase. Pens, paper, tape recorder, business

cards, digital camera in case I had a chance to take some

shots of the neighborhood surrounding the Linwood residence in Hobbs County. Perhaps we'd use them in the

34

Jason Pinter

article, give the reader a sense of local color recorded words

could not.

Hobbs County was located about thirty miles north of

New York City, nestled in between Tarrytown and the

snuggly, wealthy confines of Chappaqua. Just a few years

ago Hobbs County was an ingrown toenail between the

two other towns, but recently a tremendous influx of state

funds and pricey renovations had things moving in the

right direction. Good thing, too, because statistically,

Hobbs County had crime rates that would have made

Detroit and Baltimore shake their heads.

According to the FBI Report of Offenses Known to

Law Enforcement, the year before Daniel Linwood disappeared, Tarrytown, with 11,466 residents, had zero

reported murders, zero rapes, one case of arson (a seventeen-year-old girl setting fire to her ex-boyfriend's baseball

card collection), zero kidnappings and ten car thefts. Each

of these numbers were microscopic compared to the

national average.

That same year, Hobbs County, with 10,372 residents,

had sixteen reported murders, five rapes, nine cases of

arson, twenty-two car thefts and two kidnappings. If

Hobbs County had the population of New York City, it

would be on pace for more than twelve thousand murders

a year.

Hobbs County was literally killing itself.

One of those two reported kidnappings was Daniel

Linwood. The other was a nine-year-old girl whose body

was later found in a drainage ditch. Since then, those crime

rates had dropped like a rock. This past year, Hobbs had four

murders. One rape. Eleven car thefts. And no kidnappings.

There was still a lot of work to be done, but something had

lit a fire under Hobbs County. It was righting itself.

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35

And then Daniel Linwood reappeared, hopefully speeding the cleansing process even more.

The rebuilding had naturally raised property values,

and between the drop in crime and influx of new money,

Hobbs County found itself awash with wealthy carpetbaggers interested in the refurbished schools, reseeded

parks and investment opportunities. Five years ago you

could have bought a three-bedroom house for less than

two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Today, if you

scoured the real estate pages and found one for less

than three quarters of a million, you'd be an idiot not to

snap it up.

While there was no getting back Daniel Linwood's lost

years, his family could at least be thankful he had come

back to a town far safer than the one he'd left.

"Only been to Hobbs once," Stavros piped in from the

front seat. "Few years ago. Pro football player going to

visit his aunt just diagnosed with Hodgkins. She lived in

the same house for thirty years, give or take. Guy told me

he'd tried to buy her a new place, get her out of the life,

but you know how old folks are. Rather die at the roots

than reach for a vine. You know, even if the client's only

booked for a one-way trip, I'll usually offer to hang around

in case they decide they need a ride back to wherever.

Hobbs, though, man, you could offer me double the rate

and I would have jetted faster than one of them Kenyan

marathon runners. Not the kind of place you want to be

sitting in a car alone at night. Or anytime, really."

I eyed those dice tattoos. Wondered what it took to

scare a man who wasn't afraid to get ink shot into his

neck with a needle.

"I hear the town is different now," I said. "A lot's

changed in five years."

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Jason Pinter

"New coat of paint, same cracked wood underneath,"

Stavros said. "You don't start from the ground up, poison's

still gonna be there. Anyway, you're booked for a return

trip, right? I'm sure you'll be fine, long as you're finished

before the sun goes down. The dealers and hoods come out

thinking you're the po-lice."

"I really think you're wrong," I said, my voice trying

to convince me more than Stavros. "Anyway, when we get

there, I don't think you'll have to worry too much about

being alone. If I know the press, they'll be camped out at

this house like ants at a picnic."

"That so? Where exactly you headed?"

"Interview," I said. "A kid."

"Not that kid who got kidnapped. Daniel something,

right?"

"Daniel Linwood, yeah."

"Hot damn, I've been reading about that! Awful stuff.

I mean great he came back, but I got a six-year-old and I'd

just about tear the earth apart if she ever went missing.

Those poor parents. Can't even imagine."

"Better you don't."

We merged onto 287, then headed north on Route 9,

driving past a wide white billboard announcing our entry

into the town limits.

Hobbs County was covered in lush green foliage, the

summer sun shining golden through the thick leaves. Trees

bracketed sleepy homes, supported by elegant marble

columns. I lowered the window and could hear running

water from a nearby stream. This was NewYork, but not the

big city you read about in newspapers. It was the kind of

place where you bought homemade preserves and knew

everybody's name. Over the past few years, though, the

names got wealthier, the jams more expensive. Shelly

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37

Linwood didn't work. I wondered how the Linwoods were

able to afford the newfound royalty of Hobbs County. And

whether Daniel had come back to any sort of recognizable

life.

We wound our way to Eaglemont Terrace, threading

down Main Street. All the stores were open, Hobbs residents walking small, freshly groomed dogs while carrying

bags from the town's boutique shops. Lots of cell phones

and BlackBerries. Pretty much the same ratio of technology to people as NYC.

It was just before noon. I had two hours before the

interview was scheduled to begin. As we turned onto

Woodthrush Court, I made out a row of cars and vans

clogging the street, metal lodged in an artery. The main

cluster looked to be centered around one house, no doubt

the Linwood residence. I didn't want to make any sort of

grand entrance, and once the other reporters saw me, they

wouldn't leave me alone. They knew I had the exclusive,

and they wouldn't make my job any easier.

"Do me a favor, stop here," I said to Stavros. The Greek

man obliged, eased on the brakes until we were stopped a

few blocks down from the mess.

"You want to hang out here? I can put the radio on, even

got a few CDs in the glove. You like The Police?"

"Eh. Sting never really did it for me. Just want to walk

around the neighborhood for a few minutes. Get a sense

of the place."

"Your time," Stavros said. "Tell you something, it might

have been a few years ago and my memory's as soft as my

dick, but this sure ain't the same town I drove through a

while back."

"Hold that thought," I said to Stavros, unbuckling my

seat belt. "The last one, not the one about your...never

38

Jason Pinter

mind. I have your cell number, so I'll just call when I'm

ready to leave, right? You'll be here?"

"Faster 'n instant coffee."

"Glad to hear that, thanks."

I grabbed my briefcase, stepped out of the car. It was a

sunny day, high seventies, a light breeze rattling leaves and

lowering the humidity. I breathed in the fresh air, wished

I could find it in the city outside of Central Park. It was

strange to be in a town where you could see the horizon

miles away. Unobstructed views over houses just a story

or two tall.

While what I said to Stavros was partly true, about

wanting to stay incognito to the press as long as possible,

I also didn't want to give the wrong impression to the

Linwoods themselves. I didn't want to roll up in a Lincoln

with a driver, step out of the backseat like some dignitary.

If I was going to talk to Daniel Linwood, it was going to

be on his level. With all the attention he'd be facing over

the coming weeks, his family didn't need to feel like they

were being talked down to.

I walked to the opposite side of the street, slow enough

to avoid arousing suspicion, fast enough that residents

wouldn't think a solicitor was creeping around in their

front yards.

When I was just a block away, still unnoticed, I stepped

into the pathway between two clapboard houses and sat

down on a stone bench. I gathered my notes, made sure

the tape recorder had fresh batteries. And then I sat and

watched the beehive.

The reporters camped outside the Linwood home were

standing on the grass, their vans having left tire tracks in

yards all across the street. No doubt the locals would

complain to the city council about this, but with a story

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39

this big there was no stopping the boulder from rolling

downhill.

Since the night Daniel came back, the only comment

from the Linwood home had been "no comment." Today

that would change.

I sketched brief descriptions of the homes, the climate,

the scene in front of me. Enough to give Hobbs County

some color. I snapped a few pictures of the houses, even

took a few of the press corps just for kicks. Then I waited.

At one-forty I stood up, stretched and started to walk

over. My heart was beating fast, and I wiped my palms on

the inside of my jacket. One of the tricks of the trade Jack

taught me. Most people wipe their hands on their pants,

and that does nothing but make your source think they're

being interviewed by a guy who can't jiggle out the last

few drops of piss. Inside the jacket, nobody could see you

were hiding the Hoover Dam in your armpits. Good thing

Jack was a classy guy.

I was hoping to enter the Linwood residence as quickly

as possible. I didn't want to answer any questions, or see

my face on any newscasts. I'd had enough of that.

Silently I crept toward the house, when all of a sudden

a gravelly voice said, "Look who crawled out of the sewer,"

and I knew I had a better chance of finding a winning

lottery ticket in my hamper than staying incognito.

One by one the heads turned. Clean-shaven newsmen

with three-hundred-dollar haircuts, women wearing

makeup so thick it could have been a layer of skin. They

all looked at me with sneers reserved for subjects they

were used to interviewing in solitary confinement. A piece

of gum snapped, then landed on my shoe. I flicked it off,

kept walking without looking to see who was guilty. Never

let them see you angry.

40

Jason Pinter

I nudged my way through the crowd without making

eye contact with anyone. I recognized a male reporter

from the New York Dispatch, somewhat surprised to see

that Paulina Cole hadn't taken on the story herself. Paulina

Cole was the Dispatch's top columnist, a post she took

after leaving the Gazette. We'd actually worked next to

each other for several months, but now there was as much

love between us as Hillary and Monica.

You'd never picture the devil as a five-foot-six woman

with platinum-blond hair, impeccable skin tone and a takeno-prisoners, ball-busting attitude that could have made

the toughest Viet Cong piss his pants. At first I admired

Paulina. The newsroom had very much been an old boys'

club during her climb, and she'd had to endure a lot and

work fantastically hard to get where she was. But then she

showed her true colors. She showed that one thing's for

certain in the media: throwing someone under the bus can

make quite a lucrative career.

After publicly criticizing me in print, Paulina later ran

a story focusing on the sordid family affairs of my ex-girlfriend. It was this story that led to Mya being brutally

attacked and nearly killed. I'd spent many hours at Mya's

hospital bed, beside her at physical therapy, comforting her

mother, who was widowed at the hands of the same killer

who nearly took her daughter's life. Though Paulina had

fewer friends than O. J. Simpson, her notoriety was

entirely part of the game. Brazen, provocative, pushing

every hot button as though her life depended on it. Rumor

had it Ted Allen, the Dispatch's editor-in-chief, gave her

a five-figure expense account to dress the part, as well. If

perception was reality, Paulina Cole was the grand bitch

goddess of the news.

I heard audible whispers as I walked up to the Linwood

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41

porch. Punk. Asshole. Little shit. I'd taken a beating both

in the press and from other reporters since my first few

months at the Gazette, and as much as the words stung,

sadly, I'd grown used to them.

Screw them.

The Linwood house was a small, Victorian-style

dwelling, with jigsaw trim and spindles. It was three

stories high, the top floor with a small square window,

most likely an attic rarely used. Two unadorned columns

were mounted on the front porch, the marble clean. The

paint job was an off-white, and looked recently refreshed.

I could see a small swing set around the back, a shovel and

pail sitting abandoned. Surprised a reporter hadn't snagged

it yet. I stepped up to the porch and took a breath, preparing to ring the doorbell.

Just then the front door swung open, nearly knocking

me on my ass, and a caravan of steely-postured suited men

and women came pouring out. The first few were all hefty

men wearing identical pants and blazers. They wore single

wire earpieces, transparent tubing with Star ear-mold

devices. They didn't wear sunglasses, but the bulges in

their jacket pockets said they would be in a matter of

seconds.

I stepped aside. The men paid me no attention, stopping

at the bottom of the porch, hands clasped behind them.

When I turned back to knock, I found myself in front of a

tall, lean man in his early fifties. He had wavy gray hair,

a sharp, equine nose and the slightest onset of crow'sfeet. He wore a smart navy suit and a brilliant smile. I recognized him instantly but tried to hide my surprise. He was

talking to somebody inside I couldn't see, but when he

turned around, the look on his face confirmed that he recognized me, as well. I swallowed hard.

42

Jason Pinter

The man cocked his head, flashed that smile again and

put his hand out.

"Henry Parker, right? New York Gazette? "

"Yes, yes, sir." I was flattered that he'd heard of me.

Either that, or he knew why I was here.

"Pleasure to meet you, Henry. Gray Talbot."

"Pleasure to meet you, too, Senator."

Talbot smiled again. "Walk with me for a moment,

won't you, Henry?" It was phrased like the kind of

question you couldn't refuse.

I half nodded, then suddenly Talbot's arm was around

me, leading me down the steps. His grip was just strong

enough to let me know I didn't have a choice, light enough

to let onlookers know this would be a friendly chat. Everything about the man spoke volumes of an effortless confidence, a confidence that had captured the hearts and

minds of New Yorkers desperate for a politician who deep

down wasn't quite a politician.

Gray Talbot was currently in his fourth term as a Democratic New York State senator. In his four elections, he'd

averaged sixty-two percent of the vote, and it was assumed

Talbot would hold that seat until he either retired, died or

decided he preferred a larger, whiter house. Talbot was

currently the third-highest-ranking Democrat in the senate,

behind the senate majority leader and senate majority

whip. As the current majority chairman on the United

States Committee on Banking, Housing, and Urban

Affairs, Talbot was one of the most outspoken proponents

of lowering the federal interest rate. "A home for every

American who wants one" was his slogan. He was often

photographed with his trademark plaything, a Rubik's

Cube, constantly fiddling and working out solutions. He

was quoted as saying the game kept his mind limber. Every

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43

cube he'd ever completed was kept in his home. Rumor

was he needed a bookcase to house them all.

In the previous election, three years after Daniel

Linwood's disappearance, Gray Talbot had outdone himself, garnering an unheard of seventy-three percent of the

popular vote. And now that man had his arm around me.

Talbot wasn't visiting Daniel Linwood for a simple photoop. The stakes were much higher. Daniel's reappearance

wasn't merely a human-interest story, it was important

enough that one of the most powerful men in the country

made it his business. Yet as we walked, there were no

staged photo-ops. No handshakes. No teary hugs with

Shelly Linwood. Gray Talbot, as far as I could tell, was

here because he wanted to be.

And he was the kind of man who, if he felt like it, could

squash reporters with his pinkie finger.

As Talbot led me across the lawn, I could hear groans

of protest as his bodyguards held the throng of reporters

back. When we were out of earshot, Talbot took his arm

from my shoulder and said, "I'm glad Wallace chose you

to report on Daniel. Shelly and Randy think they can trust

you. I'm inclined to believe them."

"Then can trust me, sir, I promise that."

"Good." Talbot turned slightly as the angry catcalls

grew louder. "Ignore the parasites," he said. "They're

jealous, that's all. Any one of them would trade their press

badge to be where you are and do what you've done in

such a short amount of time."

I felt a tingle down my side where a bullet had shattered

my rib and punctured my lung just a few years ago, and

wondered if that was really true.

"You know I used to live in a place just like this," Talbot

said, his eyes searching the tree line as though looking for

44

Jason Pinter

a familiar sign. "Not like it is now, the way it was back

when Daniel disappeared. The kind of town where you

woke up every day assuming a crash position, trying just

to hold on to a sliver of hope. My biggest dream growing

up was to just get the hell out and make something of

myself before the evil swallowed me whole. The strongest

men and women aren't the ones born with everything,

Henry, they're the ones who are born with nothing but fight

like hell to get it. I know how hard you've fought. And I

know you'll understand what this family has gone through.

To lose a child? To assume your child is dead, that you've

outlived your firstborn? I can't even imagine it. So be respectful. Daniel will never get back those years, and his

parents will never fully repair that hole in their hearts. If

their boy's story is given the respect and honesty it

deserves, well, that might go a little way toward helping.

I know you have a responsibility to your job. But your job

is also to mend fences when you can. This is not a tabloid

story. This is not a family to be exploited. So don't you

dare treat them like one."

"I wouldn't dare," I said.

"I know that, Henry." Talbot stopped, turned around,

made a brief gesture, and the bodyguards began walking

over. A limousine pulled up, a chauffeur getting out to

open the door for the senator. He shook my hand one last

time, then said, "You're a fine young man and a terrific

reporter. Hopefully Daniel Linwood will have the chance

to grow up and find his calling just the same."

Then he got in and was gone.

I turned back to the house, tried to figure out what to

make of the encounter. Gray Talbot was known to be a

humanitarian, and his troubled background only solidified

his resolve to help those in need. The Linwoods obviously

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fit that bill, and he was more than happy to put more

weight on my story. To make sure I didn't color outside

the lines. Not that I planned to, but there's a difference

between moral obligation and having a politician flat-out

tell you.

I walked back to the Linwoods' house. This time the

other reporters were silent. I rang the doorbell, and barely

a moment passed before it opened to reveal a woman

wearing an apron. She had curly brown hair pulled back

in a ponytail, a look of both joy and exhaustion in her face.

The apron was covered with stains of various colors. She

smiled. Her eyes were bloodshot and weary, but happy.

"Henry, right?"

"That's right. Mrs. Linwood?"

"Please, call me Shelly. Come in. Daniel will be so

happy to meet you. From what Senator Talbot told me, you

two actually have a lot in common."

4

Shelly led me through the foyer and into what looked like

their family room. A thirty-eight-inch television sat on a

wooden stand; toys and video-game cartridges were

spread about haphazardly. The couches and chairs were all

dark fabric and wood, the kind you buy when you expect

stains to make regular appearances.

"I was going to clean up for the senator, but...you

know..." Shelly said, slightly embarrassed at the mess.

"You want Daniel to get used to living in a normal

home," I said.

"Best for him to get used to a real home again," Shelly

said, nodding.

A man entered the room. He looked weary but happy.

He was a slightly paunchy man with a receding hairline

and deep bags under his eyes.

"You must be Henry," he said, offering his hand.

"Randall Linwood."

"Mr. Linwood," I said. "Thanks so much for having me.

I'm grateful for you letting me into your home."

"Thank you, Mr. Parker. With so many vultures circling

us since Daniel's return, it's good to have someone we feel

we can trust handling the story. Shelly and I have done our

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homework on you and your newspaper. I think we're all

in good hands."

"You are, sir. I ask for nothing but the truth, and I give

nothing but my word." Shelly smiled at this, flicked at her

eye as though wiping away a nonexistent tear.

"Anyway, I have to get back to the office. I wanted to

be here to meet the senator, but if I miss any more time,

Daniel'll have to eat Spaghetti O's for the next few weeks.

Pleasure to meet you, Henry."

"Likewise, sir."

When Randy Linwood left, I heard a brief scuffle come

from another room. Looking through the doorway, I saw

two pairs of eyes peering at me from between the slats on

a staircase. Just as quickly as they appeared, the legs they

were attached to ran back up the stairs, whispers following.

"James and Tasha," Shelly said, brushing a strand of

hair from her face, the red still there. "They're not really

sure how to deal with all of this. We're so happy, but all

this...attention, it's not what they're used to. They deal

with it in their own way."

"I can't imagine going through what you've been through.

But I have to say, Mrs. Linwood, you're handling it well."

"I'd say thank you, but it's not on purpose."

"Have the police been helpful?"

"Oh, my, incredibly so. I actually thought it'd be much

worse, but they've barely spent more than half an hour here

since Danny came back. In fact, when the senator came,

that's the first time I saw more than two of them at the

same time." I found that strange, but allowed Shelly to

continue. She paused for a moment, said softly, "We're just

so glad to have Daniel back. It's like, a wave crashing over

you when you're ready to burst into flame. I can't explain

it. All I know is I love him now more than I ever did."

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Jason Pinter

Without thinking, my hand went to my briefcase and I

started to unlatch it. My eyes snapped back to Shelly, a

sheepish grin on my face.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'd kind of like to keep the tape

recorder running, if you don't mind. Things like that, what

you just said, they'd add a lot to the story. I don't want the

piece to be just about Daniel and how his return has

affected him, but what it's meant to your family. How it

affects you, your husband, your other children." Shelly

smiled, nodded once. I took out the recorder, raised my

eyebrows, clicked it on.

"Are you recording now?" she asked.

"I am."

"So this will go in your interview?"

I laughed. "Not everything. Not what you just said,

only if it relates to Daniel and your family."

"Can you print swear words?" she asked.

"Uh...no."

"Okay, I curse sometimes and I don't want Daniel to

get embarrassed by his potty-mouthed mother."

I smiled at her.

Behind Shelly, I noticed a row of photographs lining a

gray shelf. Inside the frames were pictures of the Linwood

family. Most of the photos had just four people in them.

Shelly, Randy, James and Tasha. Two pictures had been

placed in front of the others. One was of all five Linwoods:

Randy, Shelly, Tasha, James and Daniel. It looked like a

photo from a Christmas card, all five bundled in warm

sweaters, posed on a couch with smiles as big as they could

muster.

"The last photo we took as a family," Shelly said.

"Tasha was only a year old."

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"It's beautiful," I said. Then I looked at the photo next

to it.

The picture was of their daughter, Tasha, when she was

just a child, maybe one or two years old. Tasha wasn't facing

the camera. Her head and body were turned away, short

blond hair caught in the wind. There was nothing particularly

photogenic about the pic, nothing that seemed extraordinary.

"Tasha's birthday," Shelly was quick to point out.

"There was a leak in the basement. We lost so many photo

albums. This is the only one we could save. Not the best

shot, but it's what's in it that matters. She's just so carefree."

I smiled back at her. "Should we get Daniel?"

Shelly bit her lip, then relaxed. "Have a seat. I'll be right

back."

I sat down on the couch. An oak coffee table separated

me from a chair where I assumed Daniel would sit. The

couch was dark brown, microfiber, half a dozen stains of

varying color and size spattered about. A silver robot

peeked out from beside the television set, and a few stray

doll hairs were tucked between the cushions. The

Linwoods' living room was well worn, well used. The

photos on the mantel didn't look like they were placed

there for Senator Talbot. I could tell from the dust patterns

and slightly faded wood surrounding them that they were

barely ever moved. That photo of Tasha, though, captivated my interest. It just seemed so out of place.

I placed the tape recorder on the coffee table; better to

keep it in plain sight than unnerve Daniel by taking it out

after he'd settled down. I breathed easy. Waited.

I heard Shelly say, "Come on, sweetheart," and into the

room stepped a young boy. He was a little over five feet

tall, with dark, tousled hair and hazel eyes. Those eyes

appeared less curious than slightly fearful, as though he

50

Jason Pinter

was being led through a curtain into somewhere unknown.

His cheeks bore a few freckles that surely got him teased

as a kid, but in ten years would make him look cute, even

handsome. His limbs were gangly, face thin. I remembered my growth spurt at about the same age, thinking I'd

end up being eight feet tall and starting at center for the

Lakers. Of course neither happened. For a moment I

believed Daniel's tentativeness was directed toward me,

but then I realized that there was a gap of nearly five years

in this boy's memory. He wasn't just feeling me out, but

his whole life.

Shelly kept her hands on his shoulders, gentle but

muscles tensed, as though he could topple over at any

moment and shatter. Daniel's only hesitation was in his

gait, otherwise he looked like a regular boy, ready to lose

himself in too much homework, too many video games,

and the dreams of years he had yet to know.

"Hey, Daniel," I said, standing up slightly, trying to

make him relax. "I'm Henry. It's nice to meet you."

"Danny," he said. "Just Danny." No hesitation there. I

saw a frown glimmer across Shelly's face, but she said

nothing.

"Danny," I said. "Well, Danny, thanks for letting me talk

to you." His nod said he wasn't quite as happy as me.

He smiled tentatively, sat down in a wicker-backed

chair across the table from me. "Could I have a soda?" he

said to Shelly. She was up and heading to the kitchen

before the question was finished. When she'd disappeared,

he looked at the tape recorder. "Is that thing on?"

"Yeah, it is. See that red light?" He nodded. "That

means it's on."

"So it's recording what I'm saying right now?"

"That's right."

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"Okay. Shit." I looked up at him. Danny had a mischievous grin on his face, slightly red with embarrassment.

"Sorry, just wanted to, you know..."

"Yeah, I know."

"That won't be in your story, will it?"

"Nah. I'll keep the uncensored version for my

personal files."

Shelly came back in carrying a tray with a glass of soda,

another glass of water and a plate of assorted vegetables.

Danny and I shared a smirk. Then I noticed what else was

on the tray: a gauze pad, a bottle of what appeared to be

rubbing alcohol, a cylindrical tube the size of a pen and a vial.

Shelly noticed me looking at this and said, "Daniel,

sorry, Danny has diabetes. I thought it'd be good to give

him his insulin before you got started."

"Fine with me," I said. "Danny?"

He nodded. Shelly said, "We did your arm this morning,

right? Let's go with your leg."

Danny rolled up his right pant leg, exposing his calf.

Shelly inserted the vial into the pen until it clicked. Then

she unscrewed the cap from the rubbing alcohol, tipping

just enough onto the gauze pad to wet it. She rubbed the

pad on Danny's calf until it shone. Then she took the pen,

pressed it against his skin and depressed the plunge. Danny

winced slightly.

Shelly removed the pen, wiped down Danny's leg with

a towel, then took the materials back into the kitchen.

Danny rolled down his pant leg as Shelly returned.

"Sucks," he said. "Dr. Petrovsky says I have to take it

three times a day."

"Petrovsky?" I said.

"Dmitri Petrovsky. He's Daniel's pediatrician," Shelly

answered.

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Jason Pinter

I nodded. "You should listen to your doctor. This

medicine helps to keep you healthy," I told Danny.

"Still sucks."

"Do you mind if I stay during the, the interview?" she

asked.

"Not at all. If it makes Danny more comfortable, I'd

prefer it."

"Honey," she said, "do you mind if Mommy stays?"

"No, I don't mind if Mommy stays." "Mommy" came

out with a slightly sarcastic bent. I smiled. I kind of liked

Danny Linwood.

Shelly, satisfied, nestled into a love seat, holding a lace

throw pillow on her lap.

"So, Danny," I said, "how are things going here? Are

you having a hard time adjusting?" He shrugged. "I need

a little more than that, buddy."

"It's okay, I guess. I'm supposed to start school in two

weeks, but I don't really want to."

"Why not?"

"I don't know anybody. They're all going to think I'm

some sort of freak."

"They do know you, Daniel," Shelly interrupted. "You

started out in grade school with most of them. Like Cliffy

Willis, remember Cliffy? Or Ashley Whitney?"

I listened.

"No, Mommy, I don't remember Cliffy. Or Ashley. I

don't remember anyone."

"Mrs. Linwood?" I said. She looked at me. Nodded.

Got it. She held the pillow tighter.

"Danny, tell me about the day you came home. You

came to this house, knocked on the door." Danny nodded.

"Can you tell me what happened right before that?"

Danny shifted in his chair. "I remember lying down,

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then suddenly waking up. I was on the ground, like I'd

fallen asleep or something. I recognized where I was."

"And where was that?"

"Doubleday Field," Danny said. "I played peewee

baseball there."

"What position?"

"Third base."

"Like A-Rod," I said.

"No, he's a shortstop for the Rangers."

I was about to disagree, when I remembered that in

Danny's mind, he was correct. The year Danny disappeared, Rodriguez hadn't yet become a Yankee, hadn't

yet changed positions. I wondered how much else of

Danny Linwood's world had changed unbeknownst to

him.

"What happened then?"

"I remember hearing a siren. Like a police car or an ambulance. And then I just started walking home."

"You knew how to get home?"

"Yeah, I used to walk home every day with..." Danny

searched for the rest of his sentence.

"Cliffy Willis and his mother," Shelly offered quietly.

Danny looked at her angrily, then the reaction slipped

away.

"Where did you walk?" I asked.

"Home," he said. "Past the corner store and that brick

wall with the graffiti of the boy that got shot a long time

ago. I got scared for a second when I saw the police car

pull up at the field I just left, but I didn't think I did

anything wrong so I just went home."

"Were you hurt?"

"No. Maybe a little tired, s'all. The doctors said they

found something in my system, dia-something."

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Jason Pinter

"Diazepam," I said. "It's a drug used to sedate. The police

report said it was administered a few hours before you woke

up. When you woke up, that's when it wore off." I said this

as much to Shelly as Daniel. "I'm sorry, keep going."

"So, anyway, I walked home, knocked on the door. James

opened it. I knew it was James, but he was, like, three feet

taller than I remembered. And all of a sudden everyone is

squishing the life out of me. Mom, Dad, Tasha, my brothers."

I saw Shelly smile, the pillow gripped tight in her arms.

"Brothers?" I said.

"James," he said, "my brother."

"Right," I continued. "Do you know how long you

were gone?"

"Mom says almost five years."

"Does it feel like you've been gone a long time?"

"Not really," Danny said. "I mean, it's hard when I, like,

go to do something and can't do it. Like there used to be

a radiator in my room where I could turn up the heat, but

now we have these electronic-control things. And I don't

recognize anything on TV, which sucks. All of a sudden

my brothers and sister are, like, old." I felt a strange mental

tugging sensation. Something Danny had said triggered it,

but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

"Danny, I know the police have probably asked you

these questions already, but did you have any enemies at

school? On the team? Someone you were scared of?" He

shook his head vehemently.

"I remember breaking up with my girlfriend once and

she got mad and cried, that's it."

"You had a girlfriend?" Shelly said. "When was this?"

"Mom, come on," he said.

"What, you can tell the whole world but you can't

tell me?"

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Danny looked at me, his eyes pleading. I smiled at him.

Six-year-old Danny Linwood with a girlfriend. I wondered

if she'd missed him, or even understood what had happened.

"Mrs. Linwood. Shelly," I said, looking at Danny from

the corner of my eye. "I need to be able to talk to your son

with his full concentration. I know this is hard and you have

a lot to catch up on with Danny, but I need this to do my job."

"Your job." She sneered. "My job is my son."

"I know that. All I want to do is tell the truth about your

boy. Trust me, I don't want to upset your family at all."

"Mom..." Danny said softly. This was likely the first

chance Danny had had to talk about what happened, and

it seemed to even be a bit cathartic for him.

"You're right. I'm sorry. Henry, please."

"Thank you," I said politely. "Danny, what was the last

thing you remember before you woke up on that field?"

"I remember being at baseball practice," he said. "I

don't know if that's the last thing that happened. But I

remember Mike Bursaw got hit in the knee by a line drive

and was crying, and Coach was going to send him to the

nurse but Mike wouldn't let him. And I remember

watching the Yankees on TV and my dad saying Jason

Giambi couldn't get a hit to save his life, which is weird

because he used to be so good. I mean, I had his poster on

my wall, and every night I'd tell it to go three-for-four with

a home run. I noticed the poster wasn't on my wall

anymore. My dad said he took it down but didn't tell me

why."

I didn't have the heart to bring up the fact that Jason

Giambi had admitted using steroids, and his deteriorating

performance was likely the result of his body breaking

down. Danny Linwood was going to have enough prob-56

Jason Pinter

lems reentering society; tearing down his boyhood heroes

would happen eventually. Yet I understood his father's

hesitance to wield the sledgehammer.

"Do you remember feeling pain?" I asked.

"No."

"Do you remember a face, someone unfamiliar, something frightening you?"

"Not really."

"Do you remember anything about the past few years?

Sights? Sounds? Memories?"

Daniel sat there for a few moments. He seemed almost

to be in pain, searching his thoughts as hard as he could

for something, straining to find what wasn't there.

"A room," he said. "Like mine, but...I don't know."

"How like yours?"

"I think there were toys, but I don't know."

"Okay...what was the first thing you thought when

your mom came out the door that day? The day you came

back?"

"I remember being kind of confused. She didn't hug me

like that when I came back from school or practice usually,

so I kind of knew something was different. I was a little

scared, like something might have happened to James or

Tasha or my brothers. When my dad got home and started

crying, that's when I started crying, too. Like maybe I

was sick and didn't know it or something. All those TV

shows where someone gets sick and then everyone is really

nice to them, it's usually because they're going to die."

Again I got that feeling. There was more to what Danny

Linwood was saying than even he knew.

I noticed Shelly Linwood's lip trembling. She was

aching to say something, gather her son up and hold him.

My heart hurt for her.

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"How did you find out what actually happened?"

"I still don't know what happened," Danny said, anger

rising.

"I didn't mean...Who told you that you'd been gone?"

"My mom," he said, looking at Shelly. "She took me in

here, sat me down where you're sitting. James and Tasha

and my dad were with her. Then Mom told me."

"What did you think when she told you?"

"I didn't believe her," he said. "I thought it was, like,

April Fools' or something."

"How did you realize she was telling the truth?"

"My dad showed me the Derek Jeter baseball rookie

card he bought me for my birthday a while ago. He told

me to look at the back. He said he'd bought the card the

year I was born, 1996, Derek Jeter's rookie year. Jeter

was twenty-two. Then he showed me a brand-new Jeter

card. From this year. And on the back of that card, Jeter

was thirty-three."

"How did you feel?"

"Scared. Upset. I mean, he'd been my favorite player

and I didn't get to watch him grow up."

"What did you think about what your parents told you?"

I clarified.

"Really scared," Danny said. "I cried, I think, because

I didn't know what else to do. But I didn't really know

why. I mean, I didn't feel sick, I wasn't hurt, it's not like

I missed anyone, it was just...like, weird. Like you know

when you wake up from a nap and you're not really sure

what time it is?"

I nodded. The past few months of my life could have

been accurately described that way.

"Do you think it'll be hard going back to school?

Starting your life again? Just being a kid?"

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Jason Pinter

Danny chewed his lip, looked at his mother. I could tell

it was killing her to stay quiet, but she also knew her son

needed to heal. And talking would help that process.

"I don't feel different. And I probably won't until I go

back and, like, see people. Or like today when I want to

watch a show but don't recognize anything that's on. I

don't even really recognize myself, if that makes sense."

"In what way don't you recognize yourself?"

"Just, ways."

"Like what?"

He eyed his mother, a look of worry on his face. "I don't

know if I can say with my mom here."

"Say whatever you need to, baby," Shelly added, for

once chiming in at the right time.

"Well...I don't think I remember having hair down

there."

I snorted a laugh without thinking. Shelly's face

turned beet-red.

I said, "Moms don't usually like hearing things like

that."

Danny shrugged. "She told me to say whatever I

needed to."

"She sure did."

"How's your mom taking it?" I said. I looked at Shelly.

She knew I needed this from him, as well.

"I don't know. Fine, I guess. I mean, she's always

hugging me and kissing me. I mean, like the kids don't

have enough to make fun of already, I don't want to show

up at school covered in lipstick."

"She missed you is all," I said.

"Yeah, I know, but she could back off a little bit."

"I was your age once," I said. "I kind of wish my mom

was more like yours."

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Danny laughed. "Yeah, right," he said. "I guess she's

just glad to have me back." Shelly was nodding, her face

in the pillow. Danny looked somewhat at ease. I knew that

likely wouldn't last long.

"My mom told me you got in trouble a while ago,"

Danny said. "She looked you up in the newspapers when

she found out you were coming. Was she telling the truth?

Were you in trouble?"

I felt the air rush from my lungs. I nodded. "Yeah, she's

telling the truth."

"What did you do?"

I took a breath. "Some people thought I hurt someone," I said.

Danny looked at me, riveted.

"Did you?"

"Not on purpose," I said.

"What did it feel like?"

I thought for a moment, then said, "Probably a little like

what you're going through. I felt like a stranger everywhere I went. Like nobody knew who I really was, they

just saw what they read about or watched on TV."

"That's what'll happen to me, right? People will think I'm

some freak weirdo when they don't even know who I am."

"They'll think that for a little while. Then it's up to you

to prove them wrong."

"I don't see why they need me to prove anything," he

said quietly. "It's not like I'm a different person or

something."

I couldn't say this to Danny, but no matter what he or

Shelly wanted to believe, he was a different person.

Scandals resonated for a long time. Perceptions died hard.

Danny took a celery stalk, munched on it, leafy threads

stuck between misaligned teeth. Shelly watched approv-60

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ingly. Danny would need braces, that was for sure. No

escaping that part of adolescence.

"I don't remember the house being so clean," Danny

said. "And the color on the walls outside used to be gross."

"I had it repainted a few years ago," Shelly said. She

turned to me. "I wanted things to be clean in case...in case

my boy ever came back. I wanted him to know things

would be different."

"You never lost hope, did you?" I asked.

"Never."

"Do you think things will be different?" I asked Shelly.

"For Danny and your family?"

She gave me a smile, weaker than she likely thought

it came off.

"Yes, they will. For the first time I truly know my babies

will be safe."

Danny and I both looked at her, wondering just how she

could be so certain.

5

I listened to the recording of my interview with Daniel on

the ride back to the city. I tried to focus as much on Danny

Linwood's cadences, his voice inflections, as what he

actually said. I'd spoken to abducted children before, as

well as men and women responsible for kidnapping children.

The children were always withdrawn, as if a piece of their

soul had been sucked out. Only they never knew why. The

luckier ones, the ones that were found quicker, had withdrawn into a shallower hole. Eventually they could rejoin

society, restart their lives. The ones like Daniel, who were

removed for years, they weren't so lucky. It was fortunate

enough they beat the tremendous odds to survive, but more

than likely they'd be stuck in that hole their entire lives. They

would spend as much time scrabbling for footing as they did

living. With Daniel Linwood, it was as though four-plus

years had simply been lopped off clean. No ragged edges to

be caught on. Just a gaping hole that left barely a trace.

When Stavros dropped me at Rockefeller Plaza, I

entered the Gazette and headed to my desk. First I would

have the tape duplicated, then transcribed. I couldn't

promise Daniel and Shelly that they would see my story

before it ran, but I had given them my word that Daniel

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would be treated with respect. Right before I left, Shelly

Linwood told me that Paulina Cole had been calling every

fifteen minutes, begging her to reconsider giving me the

exclusive. Apparently Paulina promised to set Shelly up

with the Dispatch's parent company, which had subsidiaries in television, film and publishing. News would be the

beginning. Film deals and book deals would follow. The

money would come rolling in.

According to Paulina, "The Linwoods will no longer be

victims. They'll be a brand name for survival."

Shelly said their family wanted no part of it. Once my

story ran, what she wanted more than anything was for her

children to lead normal lives. Shockingly, Haley Joel

Osment cast as Danny didn't fit in.

I sat down at my desk, checked my messages. There

was one from Wallace asking me to stop by as soon as I

got back. There was another from Jack O'Donnell asking

if I wanted to grab a beer and a shot after work. Both

sounded like great ideas.

I walked into Wallace's office, found the editor-in-chief

balancing the phone in the crook of his neck while simultaneously typing on his keyboard. The receiver fell twice,

and finally Wallace gave up, slamming it back in the cradle

and offering a string of colorful profanities.

"You know they make earpieces for people just like

you," I said.

"No way. Next thing you know I'll have a chip implanted in my cerebellum instead of a laptop. I know I

can't stop technology, but I can keep it from plowing me

over like a Thoroughbred. I swear, this industry was more

efficient before stupid Al Gore invented the Internet."

"Hey, once the Atlantic swallows the city up, the

Internet will be the least of your concerns. So what's up?"

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"You talked to the Linwoods?"

"I did," I said, holding the tape recorder out for him.

"Fantastic." He looked at his watch. "How'd it go?"

"I got as much as you can expect from a ten-year-old

who fell into a black hole and can't remember the last five

years of his life. You get as much from looking at Shelly

Linwood's face as you do hearing the story. Just heartbreaking. Strange, though. The kid disappears for almost

five years, yet talks and acts like your typical ten-year-old.

Nobody has any idea where Danny Linwood went, but

somehow his body and mind developed like a normal adolescent boy's."

Wallace looked a minimum of disturbed by this, more

distracted if anything. I had to remember that Wallace had

been in this industry for longer than I'd been alive. He'd

seen atrocities like this day after day, year after year. My

conscience hadn't calloused over the years. Stories like

this still angered me.

"That's good work, Henry. I need thirty inches for

tomorrow's page one. I swear, Ted Allen over at the

Dispatch is probably trying to bug this building as we

speak to get what's on that tape."

"Shelly Linwood told me Paulina Cole all but offered

her body and soul in exchange for this interview."

"Just what the world needs, another forty-year-old

woman sleeping with a toddler. For the sake of Daniel's

future and his sanity, he's lucky his mother picked us."

"For Danny's sake, sir."

"Danny?"

"That's what Daniel Linwood prefers to be called

now. Danny."

"I'm taking it this is a new development."

"Shelly doesn't seem too keen on it."

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Jason Pinter

"Makes you wonder just what happened to Daniel--

Danny--during the past few years," Wallace said. "Speaking

of memory lapses, have you spoken to Jack today?"

"Not in person, but he left me a message about grabbing

a drink after work."

Wallace's faced showed a mixture of anger and concern. "You're going to politely decline that offer," he said.

I was about to ask why, but didn't need to. Over the past

year I'd noticed a change in Jack's drinking habits. Onemartini lunches had turned into three shots of Jim Beam.

Drinks after work turned into drinks during work. Veins

began popping up where I hadn't seen them before, the old

newsman's equilibrium always seeming a little off. It was

clear Jack was developing a problem. Either that, or the

problem was already here and we'd just been enabling

him, turning a blind eye for months.

"Anytime Jack requests your company for a drink,"

Wallace continued, "make it clear you don't approve and

you're more than aware. A little humiliation goes a long

way for a proud man. That's all we can do short of sending

him to rehab."

"Would that be such a terrible thing?" I asked.

"Actually, yes. Our circulation has been flat since your

reporting on William Henry Roberts last year. Paulina Cole

has the Dispatch breathing down our necks, and Ted Allen

is using every dirty trick in the book to up their numbers.

Giving out more free newspapers than high schools give

out condoms, dropping thousands of copies in Dumpsters

and recording them as part of their circulation."

"But if the numbers are inflated," I said, "who cares?"

"Advertisers," Wallace said. "Not to mention subjects

who, unlike Shelly Linwood, truly care about maximizing

their publicity. If our top writer goes into the detox, it's one

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less leg for us to stand on, one more piece of ammo for

Paulina's slime cannon."

"I'll ease off with Jack," I said. "I need to cut back on

my own extracurriculars as it is."

"Glad to hear you say that, Henry. Don't think I'm

unaware that you seemed to have mistakenly thought your

desk came from 1-800-MATTRESS. Speaking of social

lives, how's that girlfriend of yours? Amanda, right?"

I toed the floor. Looked away.

"We aren't seeing each other anymore," I said. "Haven't

talked in a while, actually."

"That's a shame. Remember you talking about her from

time to time. In a good way."

She was worth talking about, I wanted to say. Instead,

I let my silence speak for me. It was an issue I couldn't

talk about with Wallace. Or Jack. Or anyone. I wasn't

fully ready to face it myself. Knowing the woman I loved

was out there in the same city walking the same streets, it

was enough to tear me apart if I thought about it too much.

Knowing what I'd let--what I'd forced away.

"Not to get too parental, but you'll meet someone nice,"

Wallace said. "All these bylines, your name in the paper,

lots of girls would probably kill to go out with a hotshot

journalist."

"Yeah, nothing sexier than a guy with half a dozen cartons

of half-eaten Chinese food, who makes less money than a

public school teacher and doesn't own a mattress cover."

I could tell Wallace didn't find that funny. I decided to

change the subject.

"Hey, know who showed up at the Linwoods' place

today? Gray Talbot."

"No kidding?"

"In the flesh. Or suit."

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"The savior of suburbia checking on his constituents."

"What do you mean, savior?"

"After Daniel Linwood disappeared, Gray Talbot came

in and rattled the cage until someone changed the lining.

Made a big stink about how the town was becoming a

cesspool, how the crime rate was simply unacceptable. He

got state and federal funding to rebuild Hobbs County

pretty much from the ground up. Nearly doubled the police

force, turned a hellhole of a town into a damn fine place

to raise a family. There's still work to be done, but that

place is pretty unrecognizable compared to what it was."

I thought about what Wallace said, and agreed with

him. Even Stavros, the driver, had said the same thing.

"Daniel Linwood's kidnapping was a terrible thing, but

the silver lining is he forced change," he continued. "That

boy basically returned to a brand-new, safer home and community. That's all Gray Talbot. Rumor has it he contributed

close to a million from his own coffers to aid the effort."

"I thought his suits looked nice. Guess he's got enough

money for them."

"I have Gray's home phone number. It'd be great to get

him on record for this story as well. He's got a lot invested

in Hobbs County, both in time and money, and I'm sure

he's expecting a heck of a story from you as well. You

don't construct a house and then not care how it's decorated. Get to it," Wallace said. "All story, all the time. I

want to see ink on your eyeballs. If I hear you had a single

drink with Jack, you'll be reporting on the passing of

venereal diseases in the champagne room. Show me the

copy before you send it to Evelyn."

"No problem," I said.

"Then tomorrow morning, I'll send over a copy of the

paper with a fruit basket to Ted Allen and Paulina Cole."

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"Do me a favor, leave my name off the card,' I said.

"Enough people in this town hate me."

"If they hate you it's because you're doing a good job.

You're getting the scoops they want. So go make some

enemies. Just make sure they're the right enemies."

"Operation Piss People Off to commence immediately, sir."

I gave Wallace a halfhearted salute and returned to my

desk. I sent Jack a quick e-mail declining drinks.

I pushed all that aside and got to work. Punching keys.

Making enemies of the right people. Something still didn't

sit right with me about the interview. I needed to pinpoint

it. To do justice to the story. To give justice to Danny

Linwood.

6

"It's called 'declared dead in absentia,'" Amanda said.

"It's when a person is presumed dead, yet there is insufficient evidence to prove such a death occurred."

Darcy Lapore chewed her gum thoughtfully. At least

Amanda assumed it was thoughtful, because her brows

were furrowed as if creating space for a gopher to hibernate. Regardless, she continued. Amanda Davies had been

working at the New York Legal Aid Society for several

years. In that time, she'd witnessed some of the most

horrific cases of neglect and abuse. And she'd seen children taken from the depths of hell and given hope. Yet, as

she sat there with Darcy Lapore, Amanda couldn't recall

ever working on a case as bizarre as that of Daniel

Linwood.

"However, if a person has either been missing for a significant amount of time--for adults it's usually seven

years--or has disappeared under unusual circumstances,

the death certificate can be sped up. It's a way to both give

the family some closure, and to make sure they get any

benefits they're entitled to, like life insurance."

"So...the Linwoods have been collecting their son's life

insurance?" Darcy asked. Amanda mentally slapped her

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head, then for fun mentally slapped Darcy's head. Then

she reminded herself that no matter how often she wanted

to strangle the stupid out of the girl, she couldn't get mad

at Darcy. Kind of the same way you couldn't really be

upset with a puppy who peed on the rug. Though most

puppies did eventually learn to hold their bladders,

Amanda did wonder whether Darcy would ever really

commit to the job. The girl meant well, but for some reason

her ability to recall thousands of shades of lip gloss and

memorize every designer from Betsey Johnson to Umbro

outweighed her ability to retain legal aid information by

a multiple of, oh, about a trillion. The children they worked

with needed passionate advocates.

"Daniel didn't have life insurance," Amanda continued,

not letting an ounce of condescension drip into her voice.

While Darcy would never win employee-of-the-month--

or day, or even minute--in addition to being a colleague,

she'd been a better friend than most people Amanda had

ever known.

Last year, when Henry ended their relationship, when

Amanda had no place to sleep, Darcy opened up her

home and her sofa bed without thinking twice. Darcy's

husband, Nick, moaned for a millisecond, but apparently

Darcy gave him a look that first night and Nick never

peeped again. Amanda knew Nick brought home a salary

closer to seven figures than six, so Darcy didn't need

nonprofit work, or any kind of work for that matter. Nick

didn't get home most nights until midnight, if not later,

so if her generosity was for companionship Amanda

didn't know, but she was thankful for it, nonetheless.

Which meant forgiving occasional, scratch that, regular

lapses in judgment.

"You know, you should have come out last night,"

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Jason Pinter

Darcy said. "They gave out gift bags at the end. Each one

had a tube of La Mer. I swear it's like rubbing liquid silk

on your skin. And Nick's friend Spencer, remember the

one I told you about? He was there, and honey, that boy

can wear a Brooks Brothers."

"I'm sorry, Darce, I was tired. I'll be there next time."

"Wow," Darcy said sardonically. "If there ever is a next

time, you'll have to clone yourself, like, fifty times to

make up for all your excuses."

Amanda turned to her, said, "I'm sorry, it's just...it's

not me. I don't get all giggly for that kind of stuff. If I'm

going to meet someone, it'll happen the way it's meant

to happen. Like..."

"Like a fugitive asking for a ride out of the state."

She smiled. "Yeah. Something like that."

"Well, fine. I'll tell Nick to tell Spencer to find another

playmate. But, Amanda?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time you might want to come just for the moisturizer. Your dry-as-dust forehead will thank you."

Amanda shut her gaping mouth, then play-slapped

Darcy. She never wanted to be rude, and surely appreciated

the effort, but she wasn't a socialite, the kind of woman

who spent more time getting dressed than she did sleeping.

And that's what she missed most about Henry. Those

nights where it was just the two of them, cuddled in sweats

and T-shirts, relaxing on his couch, watching a funny

movie, talking, making love, then falling asleep. Bodies

intertwined as though there was no world other than theirs.

And for a while, there wasn't. Then the world decided to

have some fun at their expense, and dispatched a killer into

their midst. And while they survived, their relationship

died horribly. And now Amanda's nights were spent full

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of sorrow for her loss, guilt for imposing on Darcy, and

desire to just move on and forget everything.

"Hey, Amanda, you see this?" Levi Gold, one of the

NYLAS's partners, came into their office waving a copy

of that morning's New York Gazette. He laid it on the table

in front of Amanda and Darcy, then underlined the

headline with his finger.

"I Just Want To Be a Kid"

Long thought dead, Daniel Linwood grasps for the

life nearly taken from him

by Henry Parker

"That's our guy, Daniel Linwood," Levi said. Levi was

a short man, yet always walked with his shoulders rolled

back as though it might add an extra few inches. His

balding pate was neatly combed over, his gold wedding

ring always buffed to a polish. As he leaned in close,

Amanda could smell a whiff of Hugo Boss. And though

she'd never tell him, she'd once spied him inserting lifts

into his loafers.

"Whaddaya think, we're handling this city's top legal

aid case. Pretty sweet, huh? If my bonus doesn't hit four

figures this year, I'll be seriously pissed."

Darcy was out of her seat ready to give Levi a hug, but

Amanda couldn't stop staring at the byline. She hadn't

spoken to him in months. Hadn't read the Gazette since

they broke up. Suddenly Amanda grabbed the paper,

opened it to Henry's article and began reading.

When Darcy saw the story's continuation, saw the

Gazette's emblem atop the margin, noticed the byline, it

dawned on her.

"Oh, babe," she said. "You don't need to read this."

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Jason Pinter

"I want to."

"Really, Manda..." She moved to take the paper.

"If you touch it you'll be wearing your wedding band

on a stump."

Darcy withdrew, protectively holding her hand.

Amanda read the whole story in silence. When she was

finished, she closed the paper and handed it back to Levi.

"Sorry for hoarding your paper."

"Don't worry about it. Least some of the newsprint

rubbed off on you instead of me." Levi smiled and walked

out.

"Does it still hurt?" Darcy asked. Amanda could tell

along with the sympathy there was a note of curiosity in

Darcy's voice. She'd never been hurt like that, never had

to see an ex-lover's name in front of her. She was the kind

of girl men fawned over, men who would never hurt her,

because her beauty was what they craved, and they knew

she could walk away in an instant. If she left, another man

just like them would be waiting around the corner to scoop

her up. Amanda never had that luxury. She'd always told

herself once she found the right man, she would never let

him go. She never wondered what it would be like if he

left her. Never wondered if he was simply carrying on his

life while she cried herself to sleep.

"It hurts," Amanda said. Then she turned to Darcy.

"Hurts more today than usual."

"Come on," she said, standing up. "Lychee martinis at

lunch today. On me. And afterward we'll work on bringing

young Mr. Linwood back to life."

For once, Amanda was more than happy to indulge

Darcy.

7

Iarrived at my desk to find Jack O'Donnell waiting for me.

Sitting in my chair, in fact. He was wearing a brown suitcoat

and gray slacks with several patches sewn in. In fact, during

the few years I'd gotten to know him, Jack had shown as

much taste for fashion as your average wino. Pants are

pants, he told me one night over a beer. Just because they

rip doesn't mean they stop being comfortable. You have any

idea how much money I've saved over the years by giving

my money to tailors instead of garment salesmen?

The look on his face read "mildly perturbed." His

posture said, "I'm sitting in your chair. So what?"

Big red veins tubed down the sides of his nose. His eyes

were mildly bloodshot, and it was clear though I'd

declined his drinking invitation last night, he'd hit the

town with his more reliable friend Jack Daniel's, maybe

met up with their buddy Jim Beam and set sail on a voyage

with Captain Morgan as well.

Jack was holding a copy of that morning's edition of

the Gazette, the front page held up and turned my way so

I could see it. He slapped it with his hand and said,

"Knocked it out of the park, Henry. Of course you know

I plan to take full credit for this. I've already told the

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whole newsroom you couldn't find an acorn in a squirrel's

paw without my help."

"And just when people were starting to respect me," I

said. "You think this will convince Rourke to hold off

making another shit bag?"

Last year, the Gazette's sports editor, a rough-andtumble jackass named Frank Rourke, decided it would be

funny to leave a paper bag full of shit on my desk. Apparently this was the highlight of the week for a lot of journos.

And a month later Jack forwarded me the Photoshop

image of my face superimposed onto that of a dog taking

a big, steaming poop. That's when I became convinced that

the more literate some people are, the more puerile their

sense of humor was.

"You should be proud, Henry. Big interview like that,

not to mention the sensitive subject matter, you could have

had all the media watchdogs all over you if you'd messed

up. You want people talking about the story itself before

the quality of the coverage. Best kind of press for a reporter

is no press."

"That's a trick I haven't quite mastered yet," I said.

"It'll come," Jack offered. "You have the brains and the

talent. Just keep doing what you were born to do and the

rest will come."

"It felt good to be in there," I said.

"I bet," Jack said, and I knew he must have written a

million stories like it. "Good mixture of fastballs and softballs. Nobody wanted you to give the Linwood kid the

third degree, but there are a lot of unanswered questions."

"That's one thing that's strange. All those questions,

and yet I'm the only one asking them."

"What do you mean?"

"This Linwood story, it's really just incredible. I mean,

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this family, the Linwoods, it's like the sun has finally

come out after a thousand years of darkness. Now they

just want to move on with their lives, let Danny be a kid

again. But nobody knows where he went, who took him,

and why he can't remember a thing before the day he

came back."

"So you think he'll, what, just be left alone now?" Jack

said. "Uh-uh. Now's when the vultures start circling.

Long-lost relatives come out of the woodwork. An uncle

somewhere who claims to be Daniel's best friend even

though he hasn't seen the kid in years, wants some of the

money folks donated. Some cousin will write a book about

how Danny wasn't such a good kid, maybe he picked his

nose when he was a toddler and put gum in a girl's hair.

It's sad how much money there is in the misery of others."

I had to shake my head. I knew Jack was right, but after

my interview I hoped the cops would pick up the slack,

ask the really tough questions. Though Danny was technically a ten-year-old boy, he'd forever be known as the

one who came back. Even strangers would hesitate a

second, wondering where they knew his name from. And

without that closure, the questions would never cease.

"You know, it's funny," I said. "All this commotion

over Daniel returning, yet the cops have no leads and

nobody really seems to be digging that hard. Even Shelly

Linwood herself seemed unconcerned as to why the cops

weren't doing more."

"When your dog runs away, then shows up an hour

later, do you really care where it went? You're just happy

the thing's back."

"This isn't a dog, Jack. It's a child. Somebody took him

and kept him for almost five years."

"Yeah, somebody took him. And then either they got

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Jason Pinter

bored of him or he managed to get away. And the world

keeps on spinning."

"That's your answer?"

"I don't need to answer," Jack said. "It's not my kid, and

it's not my story."

"You don't think it's weird that Danny doesn't remember a minute of what happened? Or where he went?"

"Strange things occur every day in this world, sport.

Just last Thursday I went to get a glass of iced tea, turned

out the pitcher was empty. Now, I know I didn't finish that

sucker, but did I go questioning the neighbors? Nope. I

went to the store, bought another jug."

"I have no idea how this relates to an actual human

being."

"It's hoopla, is what it is now," Jack said. "You wrote

a great piece, Henry. Move on."

"Hoopla? They didn't outlaw that word in, like, 1800?"

"Laugh it up, tiger. A family is back together. You want

to give them closure? Right now, today, this is the most

closure they're probably ever going to get. You think

people like Paulina Cole are going to stop calling? You

don't think there are people out there who know the juice

that can be squeezed from this family is worth money? Just

because you think you have scruples, son, doesn't mean

everyone else thinks that way."

"Cop cars," I said.

Jack looked puzzled. "Cop cars?"

"Danny Linwood told me that when he woke up, he

heard police sirens, and that he saw a cop car pull up

right where he'd been lying. I checked the newspapers

and police reports from that day, and couldn't find

anything about any crimes reported in the vicinity of

Doubleday Field."

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"Could have been a prank. Could have been a drunk

wandered off before they got there. The cops could have

come for any number of reasons."

"Could be, sure. But don't you think it's a heck of a

coincidence that the cops are called to a scene where just

a few minutes ago, a kid who went missing for five years

appears out of thin air?"

Jack chewed on his lip, trying to figure out if there was

a way to play it like this was no big deal. I felt a lump in

my throat. This wasn't the Jack O'Donnell I'd grown up

idolizing, the kind who asked questions until there were

no more to ask. Who dug until he hit a vein or a nerve. This

Jack seemed tired, content to be apathetic, unwilling or

unable to go that extra step.

"I'm going to look into this," I said. "Somebody knows

who took Danny Linwood and why." Jack didn't say a

word, just shrugged his shoulders, stood up and walked

away. I debated following him, then decided it wasn't worth

it.

I picked up the phone and dialed the Hobbs County

Police Department switchboard. I asked to be connected

to whoever was investigating the Linwood abduction.

Then, surprisingly, the operator hesitated.

"Hold on one moment, sir, I'm going to have to check

on that." It seemed odd that despite the fact that Daniel

Linwood was likely Hobbs's biggest story since, well,

Danny's original disappearance, they couldn't connect me

to the investigating officer right away. The operator hadn't

been asked many questions.

"Sorry, sir, for the delay. Hold for Detective Lensicki."

A synthesized version of "Copacabana" came over the

earpiece. It was all I could do not to slice my ears off.

Finally a man answered with a curt "Yeah?"

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"Detective Lensicki, Henry Parker with the New York

Gazette. I was wondering if I could have a minute of

your time."

"I know who you are, Parker. I saw you yesterday at

the Linwood house. Haven't read your article in today's

paper. I'll get right to it when my shift is up." He didn't

sound very sincere.

"Yeah, anyway, Detective, I had a question about something Daniel Linwood told me yesterday. He said when he

woke up, he heard police sirens. Now, it might have been

police, it might have been an ambulance, but I couldn't

find any record or report of an investigation at Doubleday

Field. Could you comment on that?"

"No problem, Sherlock. There was no investigation

because there was no crime. There was no report because

nothing happened."

"So who called 911?"

"Excuse me?"

"I assume the police had a reason to show up at Doubleday Field with their sirens on."

"We do have routine patrols, Mr. Parker."

"Do you usually keep your sirens on during those

routine patrols?" Lensicki stayed silent. "Listen, Officer,

I'm not trying to break your balls. I just want to know why

it seems like everything's back to normal now that Daniel

Linwood has turned up, yet nobody's really turning over

any rocks to find out where he went."

"Listen here, you little punk," Lensicki said. "You go

back to your typewriter and your fancy paper. The day you

tell us how to do our jobs is the day you see us coming

down to your office and sticking a Bic up your ass. You

want a comment about Daniel Linwood? Here you go. The

investigation is ongoing. If and when we have any news

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to report, don't worry, we'll make sure you and the rest of

the respected media get all the info."

"So...can I quote you on that pen-in-ass comment?"

"I got nothing else to say to you," Lensicki said. "You

have any more questions you direct them to our press secretary. She's eighty-three years old and can't see out of one

eye and I'm sure she'll be happy to help."

"Wow. You know, I watched Columbo, and always

thought cops were helpful and jolly."

"Blow it out your ass, Parker."

"'Detective has strange ass fetish.' That's my headline

for tomorrow. What do you think?"

Unsurprisingly, the line went dead. I felt good about

myself, not just for pissing off a cop but because Lensicki's

standoffishness made it clear the Hobbs County PD wasn't

serving and protecting quite as strenuously as their job description called for. Somebody called 911 to alert the cops

to Danny's whereabouts when he woke up, and if Lensicki

wasn't interested in digging, I'd be happy to pick up his

slack.

I debated calling Curt Sheffield to get his take on it.

Curt was a young African-American officer with the

NYPD. We'd grown close over the past few years, mainly

due to our unwanted celebrity, our respect for our jobs and

our admiration for a good pint. He'd been a source on

numerous stories, and I was happy to repay him with a few

good shout-outs for his squad. That's what was most important to Sheffield. That the job was given as much

respect as possible. I was happy to help, because they

needed all the help they could get.

In the aftermath of 9/11, NYPD recruit applications had

dropped more than twenty-five percent. And while the police

force still had approximately fourteen applications for every

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Jason Pinter

spot they needed to fill, a drop in overall applications meant

a drop in quality of applications. That's why a cop like

Curt--young, good-looking and ambitious--found himself

on every recruiting poster between here and Hoboken.

Many blamed lack of recruits on the NYPD's staggeringly low starting salaries--just $25,100 during the first

six months on the job, a salary that would make most

janitors shake their heads. Having young men like Curt on

the force showed those quality applicants that the best, the

brightest and the most appealing citizens made up the

NYPD. What pissed Curt off was that he was a damn good

cop, yet on the street he was treated like Mickey Mouse.

Kids and their parents recognized him from posters. He

spent more time signing autographs than patrolling his

route. I tried to get him to keep things in perspective, but

unlike many cops, Curt's celebrity didn't go to his head.

He wanted to stay behind the scenes. Just like a certain

reporter who desired celebrity as much as he desired

rickets.

I called Curt's desk, got a message saying that today

was his day off. Which meant he was probably sitting on

his couch watching SportsCenter and eating one of those

meat-lovers pizzas that contained a little over eighteen

thousand calories per slice. If I had Curt's dietary habits

I'd look like Norm from Cheers, but the guy had the metabolism of a Thoroughbred. He could eat a cow smothered in steak sauce and not gain an ounce. Sometimes life

wasn't fair.

I tried his cell phone. Curt picked up on the third ring.

There was a pause between "Curt" and "Sheffield." I must

have caught him in the middle of a burp.

"Hey, man, it's Henry."

"S'up, Parker?"

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"Let me guess. You're on your fifth slice and third

SportsCenter rerun of the day."

"Nope. Gloria's got me on a health kick. She made me

some spelt toast with peanut butter, mint jelly and honey.

For lunch I got a bowl of plain oatmeal with some raisins

and soy milk in the fridge."

"Sounds like a delicious colon-cleansing meal."

"Yeah, it's, uh...it's really tasty." I tried to stifle a laugh.

"Dude, if I don't get, like, something that used to moo in

my system soon, I'm gonna start pissing soy beans."

"I do owe you a meal or two, but I'll own up later. I got

a question for you. When you're investigating a disturbance, what happens if it's a false alarm? Like a burglary

or break-in is reported, but when the boys in blue show up

there's no evidence of anything illegal?"

"It's investigated, man. Every one. Can't say they spend

a ton of time on it, but you gotta make sure it was a false

alarm. God forbid it turns out you just missed a clue or

someone really needed help and you left instead of lifting a

finger."

"That's what I thought."

"What's this about, bro?"

"Not sure yet. I have a few questions about the Daniel

Linwood disappearance that nobody's in a rush to answer."

"Kid who got kidnapped then dropped out of the sky,

right?"

"That's the one."

"I feel for that family, man. Nobody deserves to go

through that. My mom used to hyperventilate if I came

home half an hour late from school, let alone five years.

Good luck, Henry. If anyone's gonna get those answers it's

you, you tunnel-visioned asshole. And hey, don't forget

about your tab. Steak and a beer within the week."

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"You can count on it."

I hung up and ordered a pizza to be delivered to Curt's

house. I just hoped he'd finish it before Gloria got home,

otherwise he wouldn't be around long enough for me to

repay the rest of the tab.

There had to be more to the Linwood story. Something

I'd missed, perhaps. Something in Daniel's voice, his

word, his cadences.

I took the tape recorder from my desk, rewound the tape

and pushed Play. I listened to the whole tape again. And

when it was finished, I was pretty sure I'd discovered one

pretty big question. Not to mention an explanation as to why

I was confused by certain aspects of Danny's statements.

One huge question had been asked by Danny Linwood

himself. Only the boy didn't even know he was asking it.

8

Paulina Cole forwarded three e-mails to her assistant,

James Keach, then turned off her computer and put on her

Burberry trenchcoat. James had asked several times if he

could leave for the day, but each time Paulina answered

him by not answering him--ignoring him was her favorite

form of communication--and he soon slunk back to the

cubicle zoo where the other peons sat and stewed. It had

become somewhat of an amusing ritual. At the end of each

day Paulina would send whatever hate mail she received

to James, who would make copies for three departments:

Human Resources, Public Relations and the Dispatch's

editor-in-chief, Ted Allen. Paulina had requested the

Dispatch print her e-mail address at the end of every

column. She invited readers to write in, and in fact went

home depressed on the days where she got no hate mail.

Pissed-off folks tended to be more vocal than satisfied

ones, so the next day she would try even harder to kneel

on the public's pressure points.

She sent the e-mails to HR because it was mandated by

corporate. PR wanted it in case any public figures wrote

in. Ted Allen demanded it because he liked nothing more

than employing a reporter who so riled up readers that they

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took time out of their busy (or tragically not busy) day to

pen her a missive so vile that they would tell all their

friends to buy the paper to see what that bitch wrote.

When the media reporter for the New York Gazette had

questioned Paulina's ethics in reporting on a congressman she'd allegedly had a romantic liaison with years

back, Cole responded in her column questioning the

reporter's manhood. More specifically, she stated her

doubt that his manhood was longer than his pencil's eraser.

Both she and Ted had gotten a kick out of it, and HR

needed a new folder to house all the letters she received.

Naturally, the paper sold 50,000 more copies that day than

the previous one, and her story was linked to by dozens of

influential media Web sites. Nobody was better at riling

up the bourgeoisie than Paulina Cole, and in today's

America people paid good money to be pissed off.

Paulina began her career in journalism nearly two

decades ago working in the Style section at a New York

alternative weekly paper. Boring easily of reporting on

asinine trends and mindless models, Paulina took a job on

the news desk at the New York Gazette. Widely considered

one of the city's most prestigious dailies, it was at the

Gazette where Paulina first made a name for herself. And

while her progress at the Gazette matched her drive, she

quickly tired of the politics and backroom handshakes that

were staples of the old boys' club. Wallace Langston and

Jack O'Donnell were dinosaurs, analogs in a digital world.

The newsroom needed a swift stiletto in the ass, but they

were too busy sniffing brandy to realize the world was

passing them by. And when Wallace brought in Henry

Parker, then stood by him when the weasel was accused of

murder, it sickened Paulina more than anything in her career

had before. And she was not a woman who sickened easily.

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Leaving the Gazette was the easiest decision she'd ever

made. To her, that newspaper represented everything

wrong with the current system. Old. Stale. Clueless about

technology, and out of touch with the average reader.

People wanted pizzazz, something to shock them, something to ignite their senses. They didn't care about politics

unless there was sleaze behind the suit. Didn't care about

crime unless it was a celebrity drunk behind the wheel. So

Paulina was happy to dig and dish the dirt. She was happy

to be hated by the highbrow, embraced by the lowbrow.

But everyone had an opinion.

Once safely nestled in the bosom of the New York

Dispatch, Paulina had made it her goal to not only boost

the paper's circulation rates, but to do it at the expense of

the Gazette. She would topple their leaders, set fire to the

old guard and burn the paper to the ground. She'd laid the

groundwork with her articles focusing on Henry, to the

point where nearly half the city would answer "Henry

Parker" when asked what was wrong with the current state

of journalism.

But Henry was young. Not yet thirty, his proverbial

balls had not yet dropped. Going after him was like

shooting a fish in a barrel, and its ripples wouldn't travel

far. To truly bring down the Gazette, she had to stop

worrying about the epidermis, and instead dig down to its

skeleton. The old guard. The reporter the paper staked its

very reputation on.

Jack O'Donnell.

For years Jack O'Donnell had been the public face of

the Gazette. He'd won countless awards, brought respectability, integrity and readership to Wallace Langston's newspaper. Yet during her tenure there, Paulina had

noticed the old man begin to slip. His reporting had been

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shoddy, numerous quotes and sources had to be spiked by

the managing editor. Not to mention the unmistakable

odor that wafted from his desk, strong enough to make you

fail a sobriety test just by inhaling.

It was only a matter of time before somebody took a

sledgehammer to the pillar of the Gazette, and it was only

fitting for it to be wielded by someone who'd seen the

cracks up close.

Paulina turned off her office light, took the umbrella

from under her desk. Her office had a beautiful view of

the Manhattan skyline, twinkling lights amid the dark hues

of night. The skies had opened, drenching the pavement,

and the N train was several blocks away. As she strolled

through the corridors of the Dispatch, Paulina stopped by

the one office she'd asked Ted Allen to clear out for her a

few months ago. A junior media reporter had been given

the office, a reward for a promotion, but when Paulina

informed Ted Allen what she had in mind, the young man

was given a nice little cubicle by the Flavia coffeemaker.

The office was enclosed, sealed off. Exactly what she

needed.

On Paulina's orders, the office had been cleared out; not

even a dustball remained. Instead three rows of shelves had

been installed, forming a U around the walls. What was

inside the office had to be kept a secret until her story was

ready. And then the bombshell would drop.

Only two people had a key: Paulina and Ted Allen himself.

The key was removed from the rings of the entire janitorial

staff, and Paulina only entered when she was positive there

were no looming eyes peeking over her shoulder.

Tonight, she had a tremendous urge to look inside. She

needed to be reminded of what all her hard work was preparing for.

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Checking once more to make sure she was alone,

Paulina twisted the key in the lock, opened the door and

flicked on the overhead light.

What she saw inside made her glow with delight. The

way the room glittered, the light reflecting on everything

she'd painstakingly gathered over the past few months.

And her treasure trove was growing by the day. It was only

a matter of time before the contents of this room, these

seemingly innocuous items, changed the face of New York

journalism.

Satisfied, Paulina turned off the light, closed the door

and got out her umbrella, preparing for her journey into the

rain.

9

"Right here," I said to Wallace. He was holding a copy

of the transcript of my interview with Daniel Linwood. I'd

asked him to read it in its entirety before we spoke. So far

he'd only read what was printed in the Gazette. There

were many quotes that were cut for space, details that

didn't make it into the final piece. I wanted to see if

Wallace noticed what I had just minutes ago.

I hadn't noticed it upon my first few listenings. It was

so subtle, yet because I was already skeptical of the whole

situation, it stood out in neon lights.

"I'm not following, Henry," Wallace said. He turned off

the tape recorder. "Please, placate an old man whose

hearing is going. Enlighten me as to what the hell you're

talking about."

"First off," I said, "Daniel mentions he heard sirens

when he woke up. Yet there's no record of any complaints

or investigations by the Hobbs County PD in that vicinity.

And when I spoke to the detective assigned to the case, he

was only slightly more helpful than your average retail

clerk. And then I heard this."

I rewound to the spot in question. Then I pressed Play.

When Daniel spoke that word, I stopped the tape.

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"Brothers," I said. "Daniel Linwood talks about seeing

his family for the first time when he got back home that

day. He refers to his sister, Tasha, but then he uses the word

brothers. As in plural. Daniel Linwood has one brother,

James. There's no record of Shelly and Randall having any

other sons. And then he uses the word several more times.

As though he can't help it. Once is a slip of the tongue.

Twice is a heck of a coincidence. Three times, like Danny

says on the tape, that means something's wrong."

Wallace looked at the transcript, found what I was referring to, stared at it so intently I expected a hole to be

seared through it.

"I think Daniel was referring to brothers because there

was another brother in his life."

"But you just said he only has one brother, this James.

I don't follow."

"I think the other brother, the plural brother, was with

Danny during the years he was missing. I think whoever

kidnapped Daniel Linwood had another young boy. I think

even though he can't force himself to remember details of

the past five years, Danny subconsciously is referring to

it. I think whoever took him had another child, and Daniel

was made to believe they were brothers. And even though

James is his only biological brother, his memory still

retains a stamp of some sort. A footprint of the lost years."

"Is that even medically possible?" Wallace asked

skeptically.

"In 1993," I said, "medical records showed that Sang

Min Lee, a thirteen-year-old Korean boy who'd been in a

coma for three years, suddenly woke up and claimed to

smell flowers. Sang's mother had brought fresh roses to

Sang's hospital room every day for the first year of his hospitalization, then stopped when it became too expensive.

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Somehow Sang's brain retained the memory of those

smells, despite the fact that the boy himself wasn't even

awake."

Wallace scratched his beard, put the papers down. I

could tell he was thinking about this, debating whether my

discovery warranted looking into, or was just a dead end

that would eat up time and resources.

"Let me dig a bit," I said. "I know there's no way to tell

right now, but if there is, and we can report exclusively..."

Wallace's head snapped up. I stopped speaking. He

knew my engine was running, that if he unleashed the

harness I'd be on this like a dog on fresh meat. I was

aching to run with this story. It burned to think that nobody

else seemed to care where Daniel Linwood had been for

five years, why he couldn't remember anything about his

disappearance or why the HCPD seemed content to

vacuum it all up. I hated that if nobody stepped up, Daniel

Linwood would just be another headline. A child with no

past, whose future would always be clouded.

"This is awful thin," Wallace said. "You realize it might

have been a slip of the tongue. A fault in the recording. My

mother used to call me Beth--that was my sister's name,

but she was just absentminded. There are a dozen ways to

explain what Daniel said, not all of them having anything

to do with some Korean boy."

"But you and I both want to know whether there's

more."

I looked at Wallace, trying to will him to say it. Then

he looked up at me, hands folded in front of him.

"Check it out. Report back if you find anything. And if

it turns out there's another way to explain it, you stop

digging immediately. We promised to treat the Linwood

family with respect--the last thing we need is to acciden- The Stolen

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tally hit a nerve that doesn't need to feel pain. There's a

family at stake here, not to mention a town trying to

rebuild. So use a pipe cleaner to dig instead of a pickax."

"Gentle is my middle name."

"That's a goddamned lie," Wallace said, "but I'll give

you the benefit here. Good luck, Parker."

With Wallace's blessing, I went back to my desk and

took out the Linwoods' phone number. I held the Post-it

between my fingers and thought about the promise I'd

made to Shelly. Her family had been torn apart, and it

would take years before they could even hope to begin the

reparations. By giving me access to their home and to

their son, the Linwoods trusted me to do what was right.

And I had every intent of doing just that.

First I had to make sure there wasn't a simpler explanation.

I called the Linwood house. It went right to voice mail.

An automated system saying, "The person you wish to call

is not available at this time. Please leave a message at the

tone." I figured they'd disconnected their phone, changed

their number to confuse the vultures. Only now I'd become

one, too.

At the tone, I said, "Hi, Shelly, Randall, this is Henry

Parker. I wanted to thank you for the other day. I did have

one follow-up question, and I was wondering if one of you

could give me a call back at the office. Again, this is Henry

Parker at the New York Gazette. "

Then I hung up. And sat there. Twiddling my thumbs,

chewing a number two pencil, praying the wait wouldn't

be long.

Perhaps the most difficult thing about being a reporter

was waiting for a callback. If I was on deadline, and knew

that one transforming piece of information was available

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yet just beyond reach, the minutes crawled by like hours.

Waiting for that callback could drive you insane. I propped

my feet up on the desk, stuck a pencil between my teeth

and waited.

Thankfully I didn't have to worry about my sanity,

because my phone rang barely a minute after I'd hung up.

"This is Parker."

"Henry, it's Shelly Linwood." She sounded apprehensive, a little concerned. She had probably assumed once

my story ran I'd be out of her life.

"Shelly, thanks so much for getting back to me."

"It's no problem. We have to screen our calls, otherwise

we'd never get off the line. We're probably going to have

to change our number." She said this with an air of

apology. She still saw me as a friend. Unlike the other

vultures who wanted to pick the bones.

"I understand that. Again, I appreciate you and Daniel

talking to me the other day."

"It's Danny," she said, her voice less than enthusiastic.

"That's what he wants to be called now."

"Right. I remember. Anyway, Mrs. Linwood, Shelly, I

was going back over the tape of the interview, and something seemed a little strange to me."

"Strange? How so?"

"When Danny is talking about reuniting with his

family, he says the word brothers. As in more than one.

And he says it several times. I know this is a silly question,

but Daniel doesn't have any other siblings besides Tasha

and James, right?"

"That's right." The acceptance was gone. At that

moment I knew I was an outsider again.

"Any close friends he might consider a part of the

family? A cousin so close he might call him a brother?"

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"No."

"Has he mentioned anything to you about his abduction? Any memories that might offer a clue as to why he

said that?"

"I said no, Mr. Parker." Not Henry. Mr. Parker. "It's just

the five of us. Thank God. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have

a pot roast in the oven." I checked my watch. It was eleven

in the morning. Kind of early for a pot roast.

She didn't wait for me to respond, and I knew when the

line went dead Shelly Linwood would no longer be returning any more of my calls. I sent off a quick e-mail to Wallace.

Shelly Linwood doesn't know where "brothers" came

from. Got very defensive. Will update you on progress.

H

I tapped my pencil against the desk. Wherever Danny

Linwood was during those years, there was another person

he'd called "brother." I was sure of it. Of course, there was a

chance his mind had simply been damaged from the absence,

but something in Shelly's voice and the lack of cooperation

from the HCPD told me if I asked more questions, I'd find

very unhappy answers. Which meant they had to be asked.

I decided to take a stab at something, then work from

there.

I performed a LexisNexis search for child abductions

within the past ten years, then narrowed the search to cases

where the child returned alive. Sadly, there were over one

thousand reported cases of child abductions in the United

States during that span, and less than fifty of those

thousand children had been found alive. The others had

either been found dead, or never found at all.

I searched through the results looking for any simi-94

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larities, specifically cases, like Danny Linwood's, where

the abducted was returned to his or her home with no

memory of their time gone.

I was surprised when one hit came back. Seven years ago,

an eight-year-old girl named Michelle Oliveira disappeared

outside of Meriden, Connecticut, following a playdate at a

neighbor's house. The Oliveiras lived just four houses down

the block from their friends, a family of four named the

Lowes, which explained why she was unsupervised upon

her return home. The investigation turned up nothing but a

tassel from Michelle's hair that had been caught on a nearby

branch. After a month the search was called off. Two years

later Michelle Oliveira was declared deceased.

And three years after that, Michelle Oliveira appeared

in her parents' front yard in Meriden, in perfect health with

the exception of some vitamin deficiencies. According to

a newspaper report, Michelle had no recollection of the

intervening years.

The police had conducted numerous interviews with

Michelle, her parents and younger brother, as well as with

the Lowe family. The records had been sealed off due to

the victim's young age. The abductor or abductors were

never found. And Michelle went on with her life.

While Michelle clearly wasn't a "brother," it did make

me wonder. Meriden was just a few hours from Hobbs

County, and more important, it set a precedent for this kind

of unexplained absence and subsequent reappearance.

I needed to see those records. Fortunately I knew

someone who could help. Time to add another lunch to my

growing tab.

Curt Sheffield picked up, but it took major convincing

to get him to not hang up on me.

"Ain't no way I'm going to even touch a child abduc- The Stolen

95

tion case, bro. Not to mention that it's in a different state,

and I'd have to explain why I'm asking those kind of questions. If I tell them it's to sate some reporter's curiosity, I

might as well tell them I deal crack while downloading

underage porn. I'll get booted faster than you can say

'Starsky minus Hutch.'"

"So how could I get hold of those records if not through

the police?" I asked, praying Curt's reach extended beyond

that of his precinct.

"Only other firms who have access to those kinds of

documents are the legal aid societies. They keep a database

of all child-related abuse cases. I'm guessing this falls

under their jurisdiction."

"Even if there was no evidence of actual abuse?"

"Just 'cause there ain't no scars on the outside don't

mean they're not on the inside."

"That's deep, Curt. You write poetry, too?"

"Yeah, I'll Robert Frost your ass if you try to squeeze

anything else out of me. Good luck, sorry I couldn't help

more."

"Yeah, thanks for nothing."

"When can I collect on that tab?"

"I'll have my people call your people."

"Yeah, whatever. Later, Parker."

I had to get more information on Michelle Oliveira's abduction, but I wasn't going to be able to go through the

police department. I sat there in silence, thinking about

what Curt had said. The legal aid society.

I knew one person who worked at the legal aid society.

But calling her would touch nerves much closer to my

heart than Daniel Linwood.

I opened my desk drawer. I could almost sense it down

there. It had been months since I'd spoken to her. But

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rarely a day passed when I didn't feel that ache, that

gnawing in my gut that seemed to only get worse over

time.

Six months ago I'd made a choice. I decided I had to

give her up. I told myself at the time it was the right thing

to do. A man had to put his love before himself. And since

Amanda had nearly been killed twice because of me, in

my mind there was no other option.

So I said goodbye to Amanda. I hadn't been truly happy

in months. It didn't take a great reporter to figure out the

two were directly correlated. But I still couldn't be with her.

There had been times over the past few months where

I had wanted to call, where I'd gone so far as to pick up

the phone and dial everything but the last number on her

cell phone, nearly crying when I hung up before pushing

the final key. Nights where the booze loosened up my inhibitions, and only that last vestige of clarity prevented me

from calling. Like that terrible night six months ago, today

there was only one choice to make.

Amanda worked for the New York Legal Aid Society.

She would have access to Michelle Oliveira's records. She

could help the investigation. She could provide answers.

She could also throw it back in my face.

And I would deserve it.

Maybe this was the opening I needed, I wanted. A way

to tell myself it wasn't about her, even though deep down

I couldn't even fool myself. Maybe it was fate. Or maybe

fate was a cruel son of a bitch.

Before I had a chance to think again, I picked up the

phone and dialed.

Amanda picked up on the first ring.

"Hey," I said. "It's me."

10

The girl woke up with a slight headache. Her first thought

was that she'd fallen, maybe hit her head on the sidewalk

or bumped into the same tree she'd rammed her bike into

the other day. But she didn't remember putting on a

helmet, didn't remember actually falling. And she only

rode her bike when her mommy was watching. And right

away she felt the terror that she was alone.

She stood up warily. Her breathing was harsh, and she

felt hot tears rush to her eyes. She reached out for her bed,

the couch, some familiar sign. But she found nothing. She

grew desperate and called out. There was no answer.

The room was pitch-black. Had her mommy just put her

to bed, accidentally left the Bratz night-light unplugged?

No, there was a smell in the room, something different,

something rotted. She didn't belong there. Yet when she

cried, nobody came.

The girl smelled something that reminded her of her

dad's breath after he came home on Sunday evenings.

Mommy said he was watching the football games at the

bar with his friends. His breath had that sweet smell, and

her mom never let her get too close to him when he was

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like that. There was a smell in the air that reminded her of

that. Reminded her to be afraid of getting too close.

After a few minutes her eyes adjusted. The room was

small, about the size of her baby brother's bedroom. There

was a small bench by the wall, and the floor was made of

wood. A slit of light shone from a crack under the door,

but other than that she couldn't see a thing.

Her throat began to choke up. She didn't know this

place. She wanted to feel her mommy's arms. Wanted to

smell her daddy's sweet breath.

Suddenly she remembered walking home from the

park, remembered feeling a hand clamp over her mouth.

She couldn't remember anything past that.

The girl let out a cry of help, then ran toward the door.

She gripped the knob and twisted as hard as she could, but

it didn't budge. She pushed and pulled and cried, but the

door stayed shut.

Finally she collapsed onto the floor and began to cry.

She wiped the snot away from her nose. She needed a

tissue. She could wipe it on her clothes, but she loved the

sundress she was wearing. Bright pink with pretty sunflowers. Her mom had picked it out for her at the mall, the

same day she'd bought that nice barrette in the shape of a

butterfly that mommy wore to the park.

She began to cry again. She screamed for her mother.

For her father. And nobody came.

Then she lay back down, curled into a ball, and hoped

maybe somebody could hear her through the floor.

And that's when she heard footsteps.

She sat back up. Looked at the door. Saw a shadow

briefly block out that sliver of light. She wiped her eyes

and nose. She held her breath as the doorknob turned.

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Then nearly screamed when it opened. She would have

screamed. If she wasn't too scared.

There was a man in the doorway. He was bald, with

thinning hair and glasses that were too small for his head.

He was wearing light jeans with a hole by one knee. On

his hands were leather gloves. When she saw the gloves,

she finally managed to scream.

The man flicked a switch on the outside of the door, and

a lightbulb came on, bathing the room in harsh white. She

closed her eyes, blinked through the glare, then opened

them. The man was now barely a foot in front of her. He

was staring at her. Not in a scary way, not like bad men on

television did. In the way her daddy did when he tucked

her in at night. He'd taken the gloves off. He held them

out to her, then made a show of putting them in his pocket.

"Don't be scared," he said. "I would never hurt you."

The man reached out, took her chin in his hands. They

were callused, rough. She was too scared to move, felt

her head pounding, mucus running down her nose and

onto his hand.

When he noticed the snot on his fingers, the man

reached into his pocket. She closed her eyes. When she

opened them, he'd taken out a handkerchief and was

wiping her nose, her face.

"That's better," he said. He had a glass of water with

him. He handed it to her. "Go on. Drink some."

She took it, her hand trembling. She didn't know what

was in it, whether he'd poisoned it, whether he'd spit in it,

but she was so thirsty she downed almost all of it in one

gulp. When she was finished, he took the clean side of the

handkerchief and wiped her mouth.

Then he handed her two small pills. She looked at him,

looked at the pills.

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"You must have a bad headache," he said. "This will

make you feel better."

Then he smiled at her.

She didn't know how he knew about her headache, but

if the pills would help...

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Hurts," she moaned.

"It won't for long."

She looked at him. He was wearing a wedding ring. It

was polished and it gleamed something pretty.

He stood up. Motioned for her to do the same. The girl

stood up reluctantly, then smelled the aroma of pancakes

coming from somewhere. Her favorite.

"Strawberry and chocolate chip. Fresh off the griddle,"

he said, smiling. "Let's get you fed, you can meet your

new mommy and new brother, and then I'll show you to

your room."

She took the man's hand, his grip gentle, and followed

him out of the darkness.

11

It would have been easy to say no. For years she'd grown

accustomed to disappointments, to a life that never quite

went the way she planned.

The wound still hurt terribly. Doing this could rub salt

in deep. And who knows? Another few weeks, few

months, and the pain might have begun to die down. And

given a few years, she might have never thought about him

again. Things would have gone back to the way they were

before the day they met.

None of that mattered, though, because when Henry

called, for the first time in months his voice coming over

the phone, she agreed to meet him almost immediately.

Just a few years ago, Amanda had nothing, no friends,

nobody to trust but herself. Her life had been a series of halfhearted relationships, embarked upon mainly because that's

what she assumed was normal. That's what she was used

to. Men who were more interested in their own success than

how it could be used to make others happy. She'd grown

weary of that scene, and at some point, like many other girls

her age, Amanda Davies had simply given up.

The irony was when she'd met Henry, the very first

thing he did was lie right to her face. Looking back, she

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knew he'd done it to save his own life without implicating her. And while back then she contemplated literally

ditching him on the side of the road, she could look back

at his brazen behavior fondly.

He'd tricked her into giving him a ride out of town

when he was mistakenly wanted for murder. In the end

Henry was able to clear his name, yet there was a moment,

that moment when he'd come clean, admitting his lie,

when she could have left him on the side of the road to die.

But in that moment Amanda was able to look into Henry

Parker's eyes and tell one thing. This was more real than

anyone she'd ever known.

Henry's eyes gave away everything. The year they knew

each other, he could never hide anything. She could read

his language--words and body--like nobody else. And he

offered himself in a way that was both selfless and confident, and utterly consuming.

That's why when he ended their relationship, it wasn't

simply another thing to forget. Being with him was the first

time Amanda felt a future. She couldn't be the only one

who thought that way, though, so when he decided to end

it, for her own sake in his words, she didn't fight. She

didn't want to be another one of those sad girls, trying to

convince a guy to stay.

If she was meant to be happy, she would be. If not,

that was life.

So when Henry called her out of the blue, after radio

silence for nearly six months, the easy thing to do would

have been to hang up. To tell him to go screw himself.

Instead she found herself sitting on a bench in Madison

Square Park, waiting for him to arrive, looking at every

boy that walked by, waiting to see if the months had been

as cruel to him as they had to her.

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The park was neutral ground. That was one condition

she made him agree to. They had to meet far enough away

from both their offices that they could sit, and talk, and see

what was what, without any distractions.

Amanda folded her arms across her chest. The sun was

bright over the trees. She sat and watched couples lounging

on the green grass. The line snaking outside the Shake Shack,

home of the best burgers in NYC. Her purse was splayed

open slightly, and Amanda noticed the glint of her keychain.

Attached to the silver loop that held her keys was a small red

heart made of leather. Henry had brought it home one day.

He'd attached it to the chain when she was in the shower.

When she asked what it was for, he said it was because she

had the keys to his heart. At first she laughed. It was a pretty

cheesy gesture, something out of a bad romantic comedy, but

that night they made love, and as Henry lay there, naked,

staring at her, she knew that he'd meant it.

It would have been easy to throw the heart away.

Looking at it now, she was glad she'd kept it.

She buttoned the purse and looked up to see Henry

walking down the gated path. He stopped briefly beside

the dog run to make faces at a small shih tzu that was trying

to leap at him with its tiny legs. Henry was making bugeyed faces at the dog, and Amanda couldn't help but smile.

He looked up, looking for her, saw her, and Amanda saw

his cheeks flush red. He quickened his pace and walked

over to her bench, sat down next to her. A foot separated

them. It felt like a mile and a millimeter at the same time.

"Hey," she said, offering a purposefully bland greeting.

"Hey, Amanda." He half leaned in, unsure of whether

to offer a hug, a kiss or nothing. She felt a brief flash of

electricity when he did it, felt slightly disappointed when

he pulled back, but glad at the same time. "What's up?"

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He looked good. Better that she'd hoped in some ways.

Perhaps if he'd showed up thirty pounds heavier, with an

unflattering beard and gut paunch, it'd be easier to move

on. Yes, his eyes were bleary and red, probably from latenight deadlines, but it was still Henry. She'd gotten used

to those eyes, his near-constant state of exhaustion. And

despite that, every night she missed falling asleep next to

him, Amanda remembered how proud it used to make her

to see his name headline a terrific story. She looked at his

shock of brown hair, an inch or so too long, and couldn't

help but smile.

"You need a haircut," she said.

"Really?" He ran his hand through his hair. Amanda remembered doing that for him. "You think?"

"Yeah, you could use a trip to Supercuts."

"So," he said tentatively, "what's up?"

"I don't know. Work. Life. What's usually up," she

replied. He nodded. She wanted to say you called me, but

that was combative. "You know you called me." Screw it,

she had to say it. Henry nodded, chewed on his thumbnail

for a moment.

"Just want to start by saying I'm sorry about what

happened. You know, between us. I didn't..."

"Stop," she said, her face growing warm, slight anger

bubbling up. "You said your apologies a long time ago. If

I wanted to hear them again, I've got a good memory and

a lot of sad songs on my iPod."

"That's not why I called you," Henry said. "I just... You

know, I don't really know how to start it."

"Why do you need to in the first place?" she asked. Her

heart was beating fast, frustration building. She'd begun

to wish she'd stayed at the office, hung up the phone, let

everything heal the way maybe it was meant to. Seeing

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him was maddening and invigorating at the same time.

And she wasn't ready to open back up.

"I need your help," Henry said. "It's not for me. It's

for a kid."

"A kid?" she asked, surprised.

"Daniel Linwood, have you heard about him?"

"Of course. My office is handling the paperwork. You

know, I never realized bringing someone back from the

dead was as easy as filling out a bunch of paperwork. Scary

to think there's enough precedent that we have the forms

on file. I'm actually thinking I might do the same thing

with my aunt Rose, freak the hell out of Lawrence and

Harriet. That'd make a pretty neat headline. 'Girl brings

dead, smelly aunt back to life, scares the hell out of her

adoptive parents.'"

"It's been a while since I wrote obituaries," Henry said.

"But I bet it's like riding a bike."

"Think of it as an anti-obituary."

"Now, those I don't have a lot of experience with."

"So Daniel Linwood. The boy who came back after five

years. I saw your story in the paper. What do you need to

know about him?"

"Well, long story short, there's a lot about his disappearance and reappearance that doesn't sit well with me. For

one thing, there haven't been any suspects arrested in his

kidnapping or disappearance, and from my talks with the

detectives in Hobbs County they're looking as hard for him

as O.J. is for the real killer."

"I'm waiting to hear what this has to do with me."

"I'm getting to that. So I interviewed Danny for that

story..."

"Danny?"

"Yeah, that's what he likes to be called now. Anyway,

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during the interview, he said something kind of strange.

He used the word brothers. As in more than one. And he

used it several times, even when I corrected him, like his

brain was hardwired to do it. But Danny's only got one

brother. It might have been a slip of the tongue, but there's

also a chance he retained something from his disappearance, something about his kidnappers or where he was.

Maybe he remembers somebody else, somebody his own

age, being wherever he's been the past five years."

Amanda sat, listened intently. She felt the familiar rush

Henry got when he was excited about a story, the same

sense of pride she felt (used to feel) when she was proud

of her man.

"I did some digging," he continued, "and it turns out a

girl named Michelle Oliveira went missing several years

before Danny. Similar circumstances, both children disappearing without a trace, then suddenly reappearing out

of nowhere, remembering nothing about their disappearance. No suspects ever arrested. Nobody ever found out

how or why she went missing."

"I think I get where this is going."

Henry nodded. "Michelle Oliveira's records are sealed,"

he said. Henry waited, knowing she would respond.

"But you know I have access to them at the legal aid

society."

"That's right."

"That's why you called me."

Henry stayed silent, looked at Amanda, his eyes full

of remorse. It was genuine. "I've been an asshole. I'm

not apologizing again, we both know that's over and

done with. But this is important. It's a boy's life,

Amanda, and I didn't know who else I could turn to or

trust. I still trust you."

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"I don't know if I trust you."

"I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to help

me for the sake of someone else."

Amanda was struck by the tone of his voice, the sense

of coldness. But she knew it wasn't meant to hurt her. In

a way it was meant to protect her.

"I'm not asking you to take me back, or anything like

that. I know you don't want to. I'm asking you to help

because you're the only person I know who can do this, who

has access to those records. The only person who would do

this. Something is wrong with this story, and I need to know

what." He added, "For Danny Linwood's sake."

Amanda sat for a moment. A cool breeze whipped

through the park. She watched a smiling couple holding

hands, eating sandwiches just a few feet from them, as

though their whole lives existed in this small world where

problems were as light as the leaves. She thought about

her life, what it was like before and after Henry. How

there didn't seem to be enough of it lived.

"I can get you those records," she said. "But that's all

I'll do. I'll help you with whatever information you need

in regard to this Oliveira girl, but I'm not going to ask for

anything in return. And I don't even want you to offer."

"I won't," he said, though the words seemed hard for

him to say.

Amanda stood up. Smoothed out her skirt. Henry

stood as well.

"Michelle Oliveira?" Henry nodded. Amanda clutched

her purse, felt the sharp edges of her keys. "I'll call you

later when I get the files. One thing, I'll only give them to

you in person. I could get in deep doo-doo if my supervisor knows I'm doing this, so I'll contact you discreetly.

Don't send me any e-mails, don't call or text message. I

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don't even want to see a carrier pigeon. You might trust

me, but I sure as hell don't trust Verizon."

"That's a deal."

"Then I'll call you," she said. Amanda turned around

to leave.

"Hey, Amanda," Henry said.

"Yeah?"

"It was good to see you."

"I'll call you," she said, glad the smile on her face

couldn't be seen as she walked away.

12

Sometimes all you can do is wait. That's what I did back

at the office while waiting to hear from Amanda. I went

over the Daniel Linwood transcript half a dozen times,

word by word, line by line, to make sure I hadn't missed

anything else. I listened to the tape, tried to hear the

cadences in his voice, catch a sense of apprehension, a

feeling that he was holding back. And though I strained

hard to hear it to the point where I tried to convince myself,

it simply wasn't there. Daniel Linwood had laid it all out.

At least the way he remembered it. Or didn't remember.

Those words stuck in my head. Brothers. Such a small

thing, Danny himself hadn't even noticed it. When a

person misspeaks, they often correct themselves. If not,

they won't make the mistake again. Not Danny Linwood.

At about five o'clock, when I was beginning to think it

wasn't coming, that tomorrow would be a repeat of today,

I got an e-mail. The subject heading read "Marion Crane."

Right away I knew who it was. It was tough to hold back

a smile.

When I'd been on the run for my life a few years ago,

Amanda and I had stopped at a hole-in-the-wall hotel to

plan our next move. She signed the ledger using the same

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name, Marion Crane. The Janet Leigh role from Hitchcock's Psycho. Marion Crane, the girl who would have

done anything, including stealing thousands of dollars,

just for a better life.

The e-mail was brief.

Battery Park City. Starbucks. Bring money to buy me a

double latte and maybe a scone if I'm feeling adventurous.

I wondered why the hell she had to pick Battery Park

City of all places. Battery Park was at the southernmost tip

of NewYork City, but was barely in NewYork City. I'd been

there a few times, reporting on a new housing development

that was alleged to be one of the city's first "green" buildings, but a little digging turned up that the solar panels

alleged to power thirty percent of the building's generator

were nothing more than fancy aluminum, and the developer

had pocketed a few hundred grand from snookered tenants.

Since I wasn't calling the shots, I hopped on the 4 train

and rode it to the Bowling Green stop. When I got off, I

immediately saw two Starbucks (or was it Starbuckses?

Starbucksi?) across the street from each other. I walked

into the first one, didn't see Amanda, and sheepishly left.

Battery Park had a stunning view of the Hudson River,

the grand Statue of Liberty easily visible from the shore.

Because of its proximity to the ocean, the temperature in

Battery Park was ten to fifteen degrees cooler than the rest

of Manhattan, so in August it was still a brisk sixty-five.

I was glad I'd decided to wear a sport jacket.

The second Starbucks thankfully was the right one,

though if I came up empty I didn't doubt there was another

one right around the corner, or even inside the restroom.

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Amanda was sitting by a back table reading a discarded

copy of the Dispatch. Next to her purse was a small tote bag.

Inside it I could see a thick folder with stark white printouts

spilling out. She saw me coming and put down the paper. I

pulled out the chair to sit down, but Amanda shook her head.

"Uh-uh." I stood there, confused. "Double latte. One

sugar."

"Scone?"

"Nope. Gotta watch my girlish figure."

I wanted to tell her she needed to watch her figure like

Britney needed another mouth to feed, but decided

against it.

I nodded, bought the drink, fixed it to her specifications,

set it down on the table and sat down.

"The Dispatch? " I said, gesturing to the discarded

paper. "Really?"

"It's for show, stupid. I'm here incognito."

"Right. So that's it? The Oliveira file?" I said, gesturing to the tote bag. She sipped her drink, nodded.

"I feel like we're investigating Watergate or something,"

she replied. "Passing folders under the table."

"If that were the case, I could think of a few places a

little less conspicuous than Starbucks."

"That why we're in Battery Park. You think either of us

knows a soul down here? Besides, I thought you loved the

Woodward and Bernstein stuff."

"I do, but Robert Redford is a little too old and leathery

to play me. And Dustin Hoffman's too short for you."

Amanda looked around exaggeratedly. She eyed the

barista, squinted her eyes. I had no idea what in the hell

she was doing. It was as if she was expecting a rogue team

of FBI agents to come out of nowhere and load her in the

back of a van. Sadly, it wasn't even two years ago when

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two FBI agents did break into her house and shoot

someone in her bedroom.

Maybe that's what made it funnier.

She pressed her foot up against the tote bag underneath

the table. Then she kicked it toward me. Then she gestured

at the bag before taking a long, slow sip of her latte.

"Oh, is that for me?"

She eyed me contemptuously. "Oh, for Christ's sake,

open the damn thing."

I picked up the tote and pulled out the folder. The top

sheet was Michelle Oliveira's birth certificate. She was

born on November 15, 1991. That would make her sixteen

today. Michelle Oliveira's parents were Carlos and

Jennifer Oliveira. At the time of the abduction, the family

resided in Meriden, Connecticut. According to tax records,

Carlos worked as a housepainter, and Jennifer had worked

in a variety of temp jobs over the years. Secretary to an

orthodontist. Court stenographer. Doctor's office receptionist. Telemarketer.

Together, the Oliveiras' income never exceeded thirtyfour-thousand dollars a year. They had two other children,

a boy, Juan, now fourteen, and a girl, Josephine, twelve.

Juan was a high school freshman, Josephine was just about

to begin the seventh grade. Their sister Michelle was kidnapped on March 23, 1997, not yet six years old. She

returned on February 16, 2001, nearly four years later.

According to the report, Michelle had spent that afternoon at the home of Patrick and Lynette Lowe. Michelle

was in grade school with their daughter Iris, and according to interviews with the Lowes, and confirmed by the

Oliveiras, Michelle often went to the Lowes' home after

school to play. She would often stay at the Lowes' from

approximately three-thirty to six, at which time she would

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come home to get ready for dinner. As the Lowes lived just

four houses down on the same block as the Oliveiras, the

families admitted she walked home on most occasions

unsupervised. On March 23 she left the Lowes' home at

approximately a quarter to six. At six-fifteen Jennifer

Oliveira called Lynette Lowe to ask when Michelle would

be home. When Lynette Lowe informed Jennifer that

Michelle had left half an hour earlier, and Josephine could

not find Michelle on their block, she called the police.

The Meriden PD found no trace of Michelle Oliveira.

They compared tire tracks found on Warren Street to all

vehicles registered to inhabitants of the block. All vehicles

checked out. Nobody had seen Michelle after she left the

Lowes. No neighbor glimpsed the girl. Nobody came

forward. Michelle Oliveira had simply vanished.

The next page contained her social security number,

employment records, known addresses. And her parents'.

I looked at Amanda. She was absently sipping her

coffee while eyeing me.

"Did you read this already?" I asked. She nodded.

I continued reading. In 2003, two years after Michelle's

reappearance, the Oliveiras moved from Meriden to

Westport. Westport, I knew, was a much more affluent

part of Connecticut. Records indicated that the Oliveiras

were able to sell their home in Meriden for nearly

$800,000, nearly triple what they'd paid for it ten years

earlier. That was quite a profit for a family who couldn't

afford to do much refurbishing.

"What are you thinking?" Amanda asked.

"I'm thinking I'm throwing away money by renting

my apartment."

"Seriously," she said. "As soon as I can afford it, I'm

leaving Darcy and buying a studio."

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"Good luck coming up with half a million dollars," I

replied.

"No way."

"You want three hundred and fifty square feet in Manhattan? Damn right you'll need half a mil." Amanda shook

her head, obviously realizing that living for free with

Darcy wasn't so bad.

"One thing's for sure," I said. "The Oliveiras couldn't

wait to get the heck out of Meriden after Michelle turned

up."

"Can you really blame them? I mean, their daughter

disappears, do you really want to hang around and subject

her to those memories? Subject your other children to

that? I'd want to start my life over, that's for sure."

"I guess you're right," I said "God, that has to be every

parent's worst nightmare come true."

I thumbed through the papers and the rest of the police

reports, paying particular attention to the reports from the

day Michelle disappeared and the day she returned. The

police work had been thorough. More than thirty neighbors and friends had been interviewed, as well as all of

Michelle's classmates, teachers and her private music

instructor, which the Oliveiras admitted cost nearly a

hundred dollars a session. In the report, Carlos and

Jennifer acknowledged the expense, stating their daughter

was a gifted violinist and they simply wanted to give her

the best chance to "make it."

"Michelle's currently enrolled at Juilliard," Amanda

said. "Full scholarship."

"You don't say. I guess Michelle did make it. That's

called beating the odds."

I found an interview the police had conducted with

Michelle's violin teacher, a Ms. Delilah Lancaster. Ms.

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Lancaster was scheduled for her weekly lesson with

Michelle the evening she disappeared. At eight o'clock she

showed up, unaware of the situation. According to the

report, Ms. Lancaster had seen the police, got spooked,

tried to run away, which led to her questioning and being

a part of the police report. Delilah had confirmed their relationship, mentioning that Michelle had recently begun

working through a book called Solo Pieces for the Inter-

mediate Violinist. They had just begun lessons on George

Frideric Handel's "Air," from the Water Music. She had

just completed works by Vivaldi and Mendelssohn.

Four years later, when Michelle returned, the first

person she asked to speak to was Delilah Lancaster. According to the Oliveiras, nobody was closer to Michelle

than Delilah Lancaster. The police ran a cursory investigation into the woman on the chance they'd find some sort

of impropriety. They uncovered dozens of e-mail correspondences between the two and many phone calls to and

from each other's homes, but they seemed to be more of

the gifted student/dedicated teacher variety. Lancaster

taught Michelle Bach and Mozart and Vivaldi, fingerboards and upper bouts. She was clearly a gifted student,

but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Carlos Oliveira remarked to the Meriden Record-

Journal after Michelle's reappearance that socially, his

daughter seemed to have withdrawn. She was unsure of

herself, timid.

"She spends hours, I mean, hours a day locked in that

room of hers, fiddling with the violin as if it's all she's got

in the world. We try to push her to go outside, play like a

normal girl, but all she cares about are those strings. She

used to have so many friends. She was such a popular girl.

At least she's safe now, that's what matters most."

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"The music teacher," I said. "I think I'll give Ms.

Delilah a ring. It seems like she was the closest person to

Michelle Oliveira, and spoke to her the most after she

came back. All Michelle had left was her violin. If

anybody knows anything it might be the music teacher."

I held up the folder. "Can I keep these?"

"Sure," Amanda said. "But I swear, Henry, my career

is on the line."

"No worries. I'll take good care of this."

She looked at me, as if debating whether I could be

trusted. Finally Amanda stood up. She downed the rest of her

coffee, flung it at the garbage. It rattled around and fell in.

"Keep me in the loop, will you? It sickens me to think

this has happened to more than one child. That it even

happened to one is just...God, horrible."

"You know I will. I know what this means to you. I hope

you know what it means to me. And not just from a professional perspective."

"I know." Amanda gathered her purse and began to

walk out of the store.

"That's it?"

She looked at me, her eyes a mixture of hurt and confusion.

"That's it," she said. "For now, that's all I can take."

Then Amanda left.

I watched her until the door had closed and Amanda had

rounded the corner. It took a moment to regain focus.

I decided the next step was to call Delilah Lancaster. It

was clear she and Michelle were very close, to the point

where Delilah was contacted before any of Michelle's

school friends. I figured there was a reason for that. If the

violin was all Michelle had left, I needed to speak to the

person who probably influenced her more than any.

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I sat in the store for another few minutes, then gathered

up the folder and left. I hoped that somewhere, Daniel

Linwood and Michelle Oliveira knew two people were

going to fight for them.

13

The next morning I went to Penn Station first thing and

bought a ticket on the 148 regional Amtrak en route to

Meriden, Connecticut. Delilah Lancaster was scheduled to

meet me. I'd spent the previous night going over her

comments, trying to gain a better understanding of her

relationship with Michelle Oliveira.

I took a copy of the file on Michelle Oliveira, a copy

of that morning's Gazette and a large iced coffee that

promptly spilled all over my linen jacket when a kind man

with a Prada briefcase elbowed me in the head. I went to

the bathroom compartment on the train to clean it, and

though I was able to avoid stepping in the unidentified

brown goop on the floor, I left with a softball-size blotch

on my chest. I debated finding Prada man and throwing

him onto the tracks, but I needed my composure. Not to

mention I needed to stay out of jail.

When the train pulled out of the station, I cracked open

the Gazette and read the story Jack had written for this

edition. The piece focused on the looming gentrification

of Harlem, how real estate prices were soaring, speculative investors, many of them foreign, were snapping up

town houses and condos like they were Junior Mints. The

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average two-bedroom had nearly doubled in price over the

past decade. Foreign investors, emboldened by the weak

dollar, were monopolizing the market. The prices Jack

quoted quickly confirmed that if I ever desired to buy in

New York rather than rent, I'd either have to win the lottery

or find a sugar mama.

The reporting was solid, one of Jack's better recent

efforts. Too many of his recent articles felt slapped

together, rushed, pieces he forced past Evelyn and the copy

editors simply because he was the man. Had the stories

been written by a younger reporter who hadn't yet cut his

teeth, won major awards and written a shelfful of bestsellers, many of them would have been spiked. The old man

needed an intervention. The ink of the newsroom was still

the blood that pumped through his veins, but he was a

train slowly careening off the tracks. Without some

straightening out, the impending crash would permanently

derail his career.

The train took about an hour and forty-five minutes to

reach Meriden. I finished the Gazette and spent a good twenty

minutes staring at an advertisement featuring a man quizzically holding an empty bottle of water before realizing it was

hawking Viagra. When the train came to a stop, I noticed a

man with a friar's patch of baldness jotting down the ad's

Web site before hustling off the train. One new customer.

I disembarked the train and took in the city of Meriden.

I hadn't spent much time in Connecticut, only having

traveled here once to interview a fast-food worker who'd

witnessed a murder while on vacation in NYC. A lot of

New Yorkers commuted into the city from parts of Connecticut--Greenwich being a popular hub--in large part

due to the ever-booming Manhattan real estate market. For

just a thirty-minute train commute, a million bucks could

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buy you a home or large condo as opposed to a onebedroom with the view of fire escape.

Meriden, though, was no Greenwich.

What struck me first was that the Meriden train station

resembled less of an actual station and more like a glorified bus stop. A small hut was the only building on the

gravelly lot. It had boarded-up windows, graffiti sprayed

layer upon layer. A ticket vending machine sat lonely

outside the hut, like a relic from the 1970s. I wasn't even

sure if it accepted credit cards. A dirty, bearded man sat

on a bench fully asleep, his yellow windbreaker also

looking as if it hadn't been removed since long before the

man's last shave. He looked comfortable, and clearly

wasn't waiting for the train.

The air was cool, but I had no doubt the day would grow

hotter throughout the morning. I buttoned up my jacket,

stuck my hands in my pockets, and waited. The surrounding buildings were low, squat, though they seemed to have

an air of vigor. Fresh coats of paint. Newly cemented sidewalks, clear of footprints and cracks. It looked like a city

wrenching itself toward respectability, while experiencing

a few hiccups along the way.

As well as brushing up on the Oliveira case file, I also

read about the demographics and income of the city of

Meriden, specifically how both had changed over the years

during Michelle Oliveira's disappearance. In 1997, when

Michelle was abducted, more than forty percent of

Meriden residents lived below the poverty line. The

median income was a shade over $28,000. And more than

sixty percent of residents had one or more children.

Today, the median income was more than $45,000, and

was growing at a rate far larger than the national average.

Plus, only nineteen percent of residents currently lived

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below the poverty line. Yet less than half of residents now

lived with children. I wondered if Michelle's abduction

had anything to do with this. Whether the horrific nature

of Michelle's disappearance convinced families it simply

wasn't safe to raise a family here.

From what I could tell, this was a city that seemed to

want to right the wrongs of its past. A city that desperately

wanted to prove it was safe for girls like Michelle. And

whatever part of the city didn't want to improve, it would

remain contentedly criminal. A place where a girl could

be abducted, and her abductors could remain free. That

part of the city would be what it always was, and whatever

happened was simply God's--or the criminal's--will.

I stood outside for a moment, unsure of what to look for,

until a honking car horn brought my attention to the

Chrysler sitting alone in the lot. A woman was in the driver's

seat. I could see her through the windshield, an uncomfortable look on her face. She didn't want to be here. I walked

over, peered in through the passenger-side window.

"Delilah Lancaster?" I said.

She nodded, said, "Get in."

I obeyed. She started the engine as I buckled my seat

belt. We peeled away from the station, leaving the tracks

in our wake.

Her car was if not new then new er. A black 300 model,

it had less than ten thousand miles on it, and there were

no telltale signs of wear and tear on the interior. A classical station played on the radio, and I noticed Delilah's

hand moving in nearly perfect rhythm, sliding gently up

and down the steering-wheel cover as though she was conducting the symphony herself.

Delilah Lancaster was in her early forties. Her black

hair was pulled back in a tight bun, a few errant streaks of

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gray shining through like silver threads. Her face had aged

gracefully, the lines and striations of a woman who was

comfortable in growing older. She moved delicately but

with purpose, her eyes fixed on the road.

We sat in the car for several minutes, neither of us

speaking. She drove past several streets of well-maintained homes. We passed by those into a less-friendly part

of town that resembled the train station in its sense of

abandonment. When we stopped in front of an empty

building, I turned toward her to ask where we were.

"I agreed to talk to you," she said, her hands still on the

wheel despite the engine being off. "But I don't want it in

my house or in any place of business or pleasure. That's

the agreement."

I nodded, reached into my bag for a tape recorder. She

eyed it, curled her lip.

"This is also part of the agreement," I said. "You have

to go on the record." She nodded. I turned the recorder on.

"You know I went through all this seven years ago," she

said. "The police questioned me many times. I know I got

scared that night, but all those police, I thought somebody

had been killed. For a moment I thought it might have been

Michelle. All I know is, one day I was Michelle Oliveira's

tutor, the next day she was gone from this world, and then

several years later she rose like the phoenix."

"Why did you think she might have been killed? That

seems like you were jumping to a pretty terrible conclusion."

"When you've lived in this city as long as I have, you've

seen young boys killed because they were targeted by

rival dealers. When you've seen young girls caught in the

cross fire, then you can say that I'm jumping to conclusions. I did think Michelle might have been another victim.

That she'd been taken away forever."

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"Well, now she's at Juilliard," I said. A slight smile

crossed Delilah Lancaster's lips.

"She's the most talented individual I've ever had the

pleasure of working with," Delilah said. "The moment I

walked into the Oliveira home for the first time and

listened to that girl play, the French bow moving in her

hand like the wind, I knew it. French bows are mainly used

by soloists, and most young students don't even know the

difference. But Michelle, she made her father buy a French

bow. Nothing else would suffice. Most young girls have

posters on their walls of their favorite bands, their favorite

athletes, boys they have crushes on. Do you know what

Michelle Oliveira had posted on her wall?"

I said I didn't.

"You're aware that most girls that age don't have

posters, or much of anything on their walls. They haven't

yet begun to have crushes, and wouldn't know who

Orlando Bloom was compared to Barack Obama. But

Michelle, she had a poster on her wall. I don't even know

where she got it, or how. But right on her wall, above her

bed, was a picture of Charles IX."

I waited for an explanation. "Is that a King of England

or something?"

Delilah shook her head. "Charles IX is the oldest violin

in existence. It was made in 1716 by Antonio Stradivari.

It is kept in pristine condition at the Ashmolean museum

in Oxford. You can imagine this is not exactly a common

item for a five-year-old to worship."

"Stradivari--is he related to the Stradivarius?"

"The same," she said.

"For a young child to hold such an instrument in this

regard, it simply made my heart float. When she disappeared--" Delilah lowered her head, clasped her hands

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together "--I felt like I'd lost a kindred spirit. Someone

who understood the beauty and passion of music like so

few do in their lives. And to lose her at such a young

age--I thought a great student had been taken. A shame

in so many ways. And when Michelle came back, I

thanked God for keeping one of his finest creatures on this

earth."

"You really cared for Michelle, didn't you?" I asked.

Delilah looked at me. "Still care. I do care for her the

way a teacher looks at a prized pupil, yes. But our bond

went deeper than that. I cared more for Michelle than I did

most of my friends and--" she sighed "--perhaps most of

my family."

I looked at Delilah's hand, barren of any rings. She

noticed this.

"My husband died three years ago. Pulmonary embolism. Life hits you when you never expect it. But I still

have my music. That, at least, is everlasting. And one day

Michelle will create a composition that will stand the test

of time. That students, like she once was, will study."

Delilah looked out over her town, the barren building

in front of her.

"This city has changed so much. So many people left

after what happened to Michelle. I didn't blame them. I

have no children, but if I did I couldn't justify raising

them here. Now young families, dare I say yuppies, have

moved into those houses. Rats joining a ship. I never

thought I would see that in Meriden."

"You're against gentrification?" I asked.

"It pays my bills," she said. "And allows me more

leisure time than I previously had. But Lord, if I could find

one truly talented student in the bunch, it would make my

year."

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"Not many children like Michelle come along," I said.

"No," she agreed. "No, they don't."

"Aside from the obvious, was there anything about

Michelle that was different when she came back? Did she

ever mention a family member, a friend, somebody you

didn't recognize?"

Delilah shook her head. "Michelle didn't have many

friends. The gifted ones never do."

"Did she strike you as different in any way? After she

returned?"

Delilah thought for a moment. "She became more withdrawn. Michelle was once a vibrant, popular girl, but she

never fit in again. You can't explain to a young girl why

people are staring at her, knowing she can't possibly

understand exactly what happened. One night, a few days

after she came back, I thought I saw scarring on her arm,

but I decided it was just a pimple, some kind of adolescent puberty thing. It saddened me to see such a lovely girl

just have her soul sucked away. But what person wouldn't

after going through something like that?"

"Did she ever say anything to you that gave any clue as

to where she might have been all those years?"

Delilah shook her head. Stared ahead of her. I looked

at the tape recorder. Afraid this was all I was going to get

from Delilah Lancaster.

Another song came on the radio, the violin strings

prominent. Delilah's fingers flowed with the sound. Then

they abruptly stopped.

"What?" I asked. "What is it?"

She cocked her head, looked deep in thought.

"Beethoven's sonata," she said.

"Is that what's playing right now?" I asked.

"No," Delilah answered, her voice soft. There was a

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tinge of fright in there that made my pulse begin to race.

"Beethoven's Sonata no. 6. It's an incredibly difficult

piece. It can take months, if not years, to master. Oh, God,

I remember that night."

"What happened?"

"It was only the second or third lesson after she

returned," Delilah said. "Michelle was so down. Depressed. I asked her to play something that made her

happy. And she picked up her bow and began to play...oh,

God..."

"What?" I said. "What happened?"

"The sonata. Michelle played it for me that night. I left

the house cold, shivering. I didn't sleep for a week."

"Why?" I said, a shiver running down my back.

Delilah Lancaster turned toward me. "In the dozens of

lessons I had with Michelle Oliveira, never once had she

even attempted to play Beethoven. She had never tried to

play that symphony. That sonata was not even in any of

the books I purchased for her. Somehow she'd learned to

play that piece in between the time she disappeared..."

"...and when she came back."

I looked at Delilah Lancaster. She was trembling, her

hands gripping the wheel so hard they'd become white.

"Somebody else taught her how to play that sonata."

14

I marched into Wallace Langston's office and sat down.

He was poring over a pile of loose pages. He simply

looked up and stared at me.

"I don't recall that chair offering you a seat," he said. I

stood back up. Without missing a beat, Wallace said, "Now

you can sit down, Henry. What's up?"

I took out the tape recorder, put it on the desk in front of

Wallace. "I just spent the day in Meriden talking to Michelle

Oliveira's old music teacher, Delilah Lancaster. She--"

"Michelle who?" he said. I forgot for a moment that

Wallace had dozens of other stories being run past him,

and that even though this was hugely important to me, I

needed to show him that I was right about my suspicions.

"Seven years before Daniel Linwood disappeared, a girl

named Michelle Oliveira vanished from Meriden, Connecticut. For almost four years there was no trace of her. No

suspects, no arrests, nada. Then, just like Danny Linwood,

she shows up at her parents' doorstep without the vaguest

idea what happened. No scrapes, no bruises, and police can't

figure out what the hell happened or where she'd been."

Wallace slowly put down the pages. I had his full

attention.

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"I thought that whole 'brothers' thing was strange, but

it seemed clear to me that after Daniel was kidnapped, he

retained some information from his time gone. I wanted

to find out if this was a common occurrence for kidnapping victims. Upon running a search, I found this Oliveira

girl, who disappeared in the exact same way. Michelle was

very close to her music teacher, this Delilah Lancaster, so

I figured she might be able to shed some light and maybe

help me understand Danny's case better. During the interview today, it turns out that in between Michelle Oliveira's

disappearance and return, the girl learned an entire new

violin sonata. Somehow she'd had access to both instruments and music books. So not only was she kidnapped,

but she was kidnapped by somebody who knew her well

enough to know she was a violin prodigy."

Wallace looked at me, looked at the recorder. "She

played violin, this Michelle Oliveira?"

"A prodigy," I said. "She's at Juilliard now."

"There's no chance she started studying this sonata

before she disappeared, and simply finished it later?"

I shook my head. "I asked Delilah that. She said they

were using a workbook in which that specific sonata was

not a part of the lesson. When they resumed lessons after

Michelle returned, suddenly this ten-year-old has turned

into Yo-Yo Ma."

"How did Lancaster explain it?"

"She couldn't," I said. "And neither could Michelle.

Delilah asked her where she learned it, but Michelle

didn't know."

"And Lancaster believed her?"

"Without a doubt. Like Danny Linwood, it's an imprint

on her brain, the moves in her muscle memory. Unconscious. I did leave several messages for the Oliveiras but

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haven't heard back yet, and frankly I'm not expecting to.

But something strange is happening to these kids while

they're gone. Obviously somebody took them, and they're

retaining a piece of memory from their time away. It's not

much, but it definitively links Michelle Oliveira and

Daniel Linwood. I don't know how or why, but their disappearances are connected."

"This is stunning stuff, Parker. And where did you get

all this information on Oliveira?" Wallace asked.

"I... Most of it from newspapers. Lancaster was interviewed by the Journal-Record. "

"You just happened to come upon this?"

"I dig deep," I said, thinking of Amanda, not wanting

to get her into any trouble.

Just then there was a knock at Wallace's door. We both

turned. Our jaws simultaneously dropped when we saw the

striking figure in the doorway.

"Gray," Wallace said. I recognized the man immediately, but for the life of me couldn't imagine why he was

here.

The man entered, striding up to Wallace with casual

confidence.

Wallace said, "Henry, you've met..."

"Senator Talbot," I said. "We met just the other day."

Gray Talbot smiled at me. "Hello, Henry," he said. "I

hope I'm not interrupting anything."

15

I stood out in the hall, trying to hear what Wallace and

Gray Talbot were discussing behind closed doors. Though

Wallace had told me to wait by my desk, I wasn't nearly

patient enough. I felt better pacing a tread on the carpet

outside of his office. I wondered what the hell Senator

Talbot was doing in the Gazette offices. Wallace seemed

surprised, and I was pretty sure Gray had stopped by

totally unannounced. Generally not the behavior of most

politicians who throw a press conference to announce

they've voided their bowels.

I felt slightly dirty, like a journalistic Peeping Tom,

straining for quick glimpses. I could only make out corners

of the office--Wallace had drawn the shades. I could see

Talbot pacing back and forth, his face angry. He was

looking in one direction, which inferred that Wallace was

sitting at his desk, most likely being defensive.

I got the distinct impression that Wallace was being

read the riot act for something, I just wasn't sure what.

Finally after about twenty minutes, the door opened and

Gray Talbot exited. His navy suit was unruffled, his hair

unmussed, his demeanor unshaken. Whatever he'd come

for today, he'd gotten it.

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As he walked by he slowed up, turned to me slightly,

leaned in. I could smell his light aftershave, saw a small

nick by his jawbone.

"Parker," he said. "You're better than this. I haven't forgotten what we spoke about. And I hope you haven't,

either."

Before I could ask what the hell he was talking about,

Talbot was in the elevator.

Without waiting another second, I burst into Wallace's

office. The editor-in-chief was sitting down, hands

steepled, chin resting on his thumbs. He looked up at me

without moving, his eyes flickering.

"Sit down, Henry." I sat.

"How did you get that information about Michelle

Oliveira?" he asked. I opened my mouth to speak. "And

if you lie to me you're fired."

I sighed, knew I was cornered, knew there was nothing

I could do.

"I have a contact at the legal aid society. This person

gave me information about the Oliveira case. The police

report, and more." I kept it gender nonspecific, just in

case. "The rest I did myself. Frankly I didn't really need

it, it was just a shortcut--"

"Shortcuts are the death of our industry, Parker,"

Wallace said. "Jayson Blair took shortcuts. Stephen Glass

took shortcuts. I don't expect you to want or need those.

And I hope to God you yourself think you're better than

them."

"It wasn't like that," I said. "I knew there was more

to this Linwood story than was being reported, and I

needed something to tie them together. You know there's

a connection. And without those papers I might not have

found it. You can call it a shortcut, I call it a story worth

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investigating. My source is reliable, and the papers are

authentic."

"Ethics and honesty are not always independent of each

other," Wallace said.

I felt my body go slack. "So what now?" I said. "What

did Talbot want?"

"You forget about this story now."

I felt my body go numb. "That's ridiculous. He can't

spike a story because he doesn't like my sources."

"Gray Talbot has threatened to prosecute you, and by

proxy us, if any of what you've told me about Daniel

Linwood or Michelle Oliveira ever runs. He knows that

you obtained those files and he knows you did it illegally,

without the knowledge of the LAS. Like you said, it was

one rogue employee. And like a good politician he's going

to hold it over our heads until we bend to his will. I know

you've worked hard on this, Henry, but let it go."

I stood up. "This is bullshit," I said. "Do you really think

it's the right thing to let it go? Do you honestly believe

there's nothing more to find on this story?"

"We're not crusaders," Wallace said. "We're not vigilantes, or judges or heroes. You are a reporter. Nothing

more or less. It's not my call to say what's right and what's

wrong. But I can tell you what your job is. And as of

Monday, I'll have a new assignment for you. Now go. Get

rid of any files you have. Take the weekend, recharge your

batteries and get ready to kick some ass next week."

"Right. Kick some ass," I said lethargically. I left

Wallace's office without saying another word. I didn't know

if I was going to be able to "recharge" over the weekend,

but one thing was for damn sure. I wasn't getting rid of

those files. And I sure as hell wasn't letting this story go.

16

I called Amanda as soon as I left the office. The call went

straight to her voice mail at work. For a moment my breath

caught in my throat. I prayed she hadn't been fired. Then

I tried her cell phone. When she picked up, her voice

sounded upbeat, familiar. Not the voice of someone whose

life had taken a turn for the worse.

"Oh, thank God, are you OK?" I asked.

"Of course, why wouldn't I be? Is that asteroid finally

headed for earth or something?"

"No, even worse. Gray Talbot came by our office

today."

"The political dude?"

"Senator, yeah."

"What was he doing at the Gazette? Doesn't he get

enough press?"

"That's the thing, he wasn't there about a story that had

already run, he was there to make sure we didn't print

anything else about Danny Linwood or Michelle Oliveira."

"That's ridiculous. Why?"

I took a breath. "He knows about the files."

There was silence. Then she spoke. "I assume you're referring to whatever files I definitely had nothing to do with."

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"Those are the ones."

"Goddamn it, Henry, you promised you wouldn't say

anything!"

"Amanda, I didn't, I swear. But he knew about it and

threatened to either fire me or castrate Wallace if we ran

any stories about Michelle Oliveira, using the information

you gave me. Is it possible someone in your office knows

you took the files?"

"It's possible," she said. "I had to log in to our system

to print out a lot of it. But if they know I took them, why

haven't I been led out by Security?"

"Same reason he came by our office. He wants this

kept quiet. You get fired, the press gets hold of that, and

he's got much more than Wallace Langston to worry

about."

"But why is he taking such an interest in Michelle and

Danny?" Amanda asked.

"I don't know," I said. "But I'll find out."

"I want to find out with you," she said. "I'll meet you

at your apartment in an hour."

"Amanda," I said. "I don't think--"

"Right, don't think anything. I want to help figure out

what the hell is going on. I work with kids seven days a

week. Kids that have been beaten and left for dead because

nobody fought for them. And now it turns out two of them

are missing pieces of their lives and some stuffed shirt

wants to step on it? Not on my watch."

I came this close to saying I love you. I didn't. But it

sounded great in my head.

"I'll be at my place in an hour," I said. "See you then."

"Have a pot of coffee ready," she said. "And please,

Henry. Pick up whatever dirty underwear is starting to

grow spores in your hamper."

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"I have a hamper?"

She hung up.

I caught a cab back home, threw every article of clothing

that appeared salvageable into a garbage bag and shoved it

into my closet. I was apprehensive about letting her in.

Amanda hadn't set foot in my apartment in six months. Like

me, Amanda had the inquisitive gene. And especially now

that her ass was on the line, she was going to be a part of

this until we figured out what happened to the years

Michelle and Danny had lost. I just needed to make sure

my nasty socks hadn't grown a life of their own in the

meantime.

Once the apartment was clean enough to present, I

poured a glass of water and sat on the couch, thinking

about Daniel Linwood and Michelle Oliveira. It had made

me sick to read about how heartbroken their families were

when they disappeared, how two families could be shattered in seconds. I could only imagine the joy when they

came back, as though a hole in their parents' hearts had

suddenly been repaired.

I hadn't spoken to my father or mother in two years. The

last time was while I was on the run. I called my father

one night, holed up in a dank room, waiting for two men

who would either be my saviors or my executioners. I

called him for two reasons. The first was to say goodbye,

in the event that I didn't make it out alive. The second was

out of the hope that that bastard would give me something

to keep going, a reason to live, to spite him if nothing

more. He gave me that, and I lived. And we hadn't spoken

since. I never desired to. I didn't wish him dead, but merely

hoped he took care of my poor, absent mother the best he

knew how. But I was glad to be gone from that home. I

was happy to be living a life where I was the only arbiter

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of my triumphs or failures. Like Danny and Michelle, I'd

been lost, too.

The buzzer jolted me out of my thoughts. I went to the

window, looked down to see Amanda standing at the

door. She looked up, saw me, gave me the finger. Classy

as always. I jogged to the intercom and released the door

lock, then did another once-over of the apartment to

make sure no dust bunnies--or actual bunnies--were

hiding from view.

In the minute I had before Amanda got to the door, I

considered how to answer it. Suave, with a Rhett Butleresque baritone in my voice? Should I leave the door unlatched, sit on the couch and try to act nonchalant? Maybe

greet her with a glass of water, or wine? A plate of cheese?

A half-eaten Snickers bar from my nightstand?

Then I remembered it was Amanda. She wasn't impressed by overdone gestures. She'd spent years of her life

sizing people up in mere seconds, a habit brought on by

her adoption after the death of her parents. She was a

better judge of character than anyone I'd ever known. She

could tell who was real and who wanted you to believe

they were real. I'd been nothing but real during our relationship. And even though I doubted we'd ever be together

again, I couldn't stop being that. She saw past it. And I

didn't want her to look any further.

The doorbell rang. I cleared my throat--the least I

could do was talk to her phlegm-free--and answered it.

She was dressed in fitted jeans, a gray T-shirt and a thin

red cardigan. Her hair spilled gently over her shoulders.

It was a few seconds before I realized how much I'd

missed seeing her, cataloging her beauty on a daily basis.

I threw the thoughts from my head, and said, "Hey."

"Hey, yourself." She was holding two cups of coffee,

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and offered me one. "I figured you'd forget to brew a pot.

Milk and three hundred Splendas, right?"

I smiled. "Perfect. I was kind of hoping my teeth might

jitter all night. Come on in."

She entered the apartment, looked around. "Looks

good," she said. "It's been a while. I was kind of expecting a bear to attack me, or some sort of underwear monster

to run across the room."

"The underwear monster doesn't come out until the

sock monster goes to sleep."

"I'm going to ignore you now."

She walked around to the couch, sat down, placed her

coffee on the small marble table, already ringed with many

old coffee cup stains, including a few that were most likely

from Amanda's cups and had never been cleaned.

"This place missed you," I said, then felt silly for saying

it.

"Really? It probably has enough festering life forms

hiding that it did tell you that."

"Yeah, the comforter and I, we chat sometimes."

"If cleanliness is next to godliness, I think this makes

you the Antichrist."

I laughed, took a sip of the coffee. Then we sat in

silence for a moment.

"So Gray Talbot," she said, thankfully breaking the

tension. "What does he have to do with Michelle and

Daniel?"

"I did a bit of a background check on the senator," I

said. "Found a few interesting facts."

"Let me guess. This was after Wallace told you to let it

be."

"Naturally. Anyway, in 2001, after Michelle Oliveira

disappeared from Meriden, Gray Talbot swooped in like

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an avenging angel and pretty much scorched the earth. He

lambasted the government of Connecticut, the social

services offices, the police force, criticized them all for

betraying the families that lived within their borders. He

said it was a sad day when an out-of-stater had to come in

because the job wasn't being done right. And Talbot saved

his best blasts for then Governor John Rowland."

"Rowland," Amanda said. "That name rings a bell."

"It should. John Rowland resigned from office as

governor of the state of Connecticut in 2004 due to charges

of massive corruption. Mail fraud, tax fraud, he even

served ten months in a federal prison."

"And this guy was running the state when Michelle

disappeared?"

"Kind of like having a crack addict babysit your

children. Rowland was skimming money for numerous

personal projects that had nothing to do with the state. He

took state money and paid for improvements to his

weekend cottage, took thousands of dollars in gifts from

his subcontractors. Of course, after prison he did the whole

rehab-image deal, everything but appear on the cover of

People magazine. Anyway, Talbot came in after Michelle

disappeared and tore Rowland a new one for letting the

state go to seed. He said the state was not protecting its

youth. At the time, Meriden had the second-highest crime

rate in the state, and it had gotten worse over the previous

few years. Even though Talbot was a New York senator,

he was quoted as saying, 'This is a matter so vital to the

future of our country that it would be irresponsible to only

permit coloring within state lines.'"

"So Talbot ruins Rowland, then what?"

"Talbot institutes a program called 'Not on Our Watch.'

He raises millions of dollars earmarked for improving

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security within Meriden and other surrounding counties.

More money for police recruiting, neighborhood watches,

more incentives for gang members and criminals to

become informants. He raises thousands of dollars for the

Oliveira family, basically seals up trust funds for their

other children to go to college. Within two years, the crime

rate in Meriden drops like a rock. He spent years working

to help the Oliveiras move on with their lives."

Amanda said, "And now this guy is knocking on

Wallace's door telling him to let the city move on. It sounds

to me like Talbot is a guy who worked his ass off to rebuild

a community, then sees some punk reporter, no offense..."

"None taken..."

"...digging around, looking for holes in the masonry."

"Not to mention the most interesting part," I said.

"Michelle Oliveira grew up in Meriden, but guess where

she was born?"

"I don't know, where?"

"Hobbs County."

"Like Danny Linwood?" she said. "Holy shit, that's a

hell of a coincidence."

"Or maybe not," I said. "Guess where our favorite

senator also grew up?"

Amanda looked at me. She said, "No way..."

"That's right, Hobbs County for two hundred, Alex."

"So this guy has taken protecting his own to a whole

new level. No wonder as a New York senator he decided

to stick his nose into another state."

"What's also strange, though, is that both Meriden and

Hobbs County were essentially cesspools before Michelle

Oliveira and Daniel Linwood were kidnapped. Since

Talbot came in, they've seen unprecedented growth and

community support."

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"Talbot seems to have done his job well," she said.

"There are certainly enough shitty neighborhoods in

New York, maybe he should take care of his own

backyard for a bit."

"That's why he was at Danny Linwood's home the day

I interviewed him," I said. "He is looking out for his own

backyard. Literally."

"What are you thinking we should do?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," I said. "But it concerns me any time a

politician does something for the alleged good of the community. It makes me wonder what the quid pro quo is."

"Well, how has Talbot's career been affected since

Michelle Oliveira and Danny Linwood came back?"

"Well, he's won by a landslide every time he's run for

reelection," I said. "One would assume at some point he'll

want to move from the senate to the governor's mansion.

All that good press can't hurt."

"You think we might be a little too cynical?" Amanda said.

"I mean, this guy seems to have legitimately changed lives.

Maybe even saved a few. For all the politicians that talk a big

game, this guy actually gets his feet dirty.Yet he ruffles a few

feathers at your office and we're ready to string him up."

"I'm not doing anything like that," I said defensively.

"But I need to know why two children disappeared into

thin air, reappeared years later with no memory of where

they went, and nobody seems to be looking too hard into

that fact. I have no idea if Gray Talbot is the greatest

Samaritan of all time or Jack the Ripper in a good suit. I

just want the truth. And one thing I've learned in this job

is that anytime somebody tells you not to look under that

rock, there's something there they don't want you to find."

"And now you're going to lift that rock. Even if it

means your job."

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"Even if it means your job," I said, looking her dead in

the eye. Amanda seemed taken aback, then she took a

breath and calmed down.

"Guess I should have expected that."

"I'm sorry, I--"

"Don't be sorry. I want to respect you. If you pulled

punches, I wouldn't."

"Sometimes I hit harder than I need to. Against people

who don't deserve it."

"Yeah..." she said, eyeing me warily. "I think it's time

for me to head home."

"You're sure?" I said. "You want to grab dinner or

something?"

Amanda looked at me, sadness in her eyes. "Henry,

this is what it is. I'll help you all you need. I want to

know everything about Danny and Michelle, too. But

this is what we are, now, you and me. And this is a

choice you made."

"What was your choice?" I asked.

She looked at me, her cheeks flushing red, anger in

her eyes. "I didn't have one," she said. "You made my

choice for me."

"I know. And I'm sorry I did that. I wish I could take it

back. More than anything."

Amanda took a step closer, her eyes locked on to mine.

For a moment I felt embarrassed, wanted to step back.

"Two years ago," Amanda said, "you came clean about

who you were. I had a choice. I could have left you on

the side of the road for the assholes who wanted you

dead. Or I could help you. I made my choice. And here

we are. I didn't leave you then, and I wouldn't have left

you ever. You decided to make my choice for me. And

since you did that, I'm not going to put myself in another

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situation where someone can dictate my future without my

say-so. It's my life, Henry, and if you don't like what I do

with it, you should have never gotten into my car in the

first place."

I finally stepped back, felt like I'd been slapped across

the face. Though I had no one to blame but myself. "So

what are we, then?" I asked.

Amanda walked forward until I could smell the light

perfume that she must have put on before work. Because

she sure didn't wear it for me.

"We're friends," she said. "Good friends. I'll help you

however I can with this. But just with this. That's my choice.

So either you can deal with it or you can't, but if you can't,

say something now. Otherwise don't waste my time."

"I have nothing to say. I appreciate it. So will Danny

Linwood."

I sat back down. Took out the papers Amanda had given

me regarding Michelle Oliveira's disappearance. I began

to go through them again. Amanda stood there in the hall

for a moment, then came and sat down next to me. She

looked over my shoulder.

"Do you mind?" she asked. She didn't quite phrase it

as a question. She knew there wasn't a chance in hell of

me minding. I smiled. Told her I didn't.

Then I noticed something on Michelle's medical

reports. She used a pediatrician in Hobbs County for

several years before moving to Meriden. I looked at the

name on the birth certificate, the signature of the man who

delivered Michelle Oliveira.

"What is it?" Amanda asked.

"Michelle Oliveira was born at the Yardley Medical

Center in Hobbs County," I said.

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"And?"

"The doctor on this birth certificate is named Dmitri

Petrovsky," I said. "The same Dmitri Petrovsky who treats

Danny Linwood."

17

The girl sat on the couch, listening to the two grown-ups

speak as if she wasn't even there.

"I heard her coughing last night," Elaine Reed said. It

was cold inside the house. The girl watched with curiosity

as Elaine held a cup of tea to her cheek. She'd heard

Elaine's husband, Bob, say something about not being

able to work the fireplace. Bob talked loud sometimes, and

used words that Elaine got mad at him for.

Elaine was a pretty woman, only a little younger than

her own mom. She had bright red hair and always wore

pretty blue jewelry. When the other day the girl asked

what kind it was, Elaine told her that her own daddy had

brought it back from Greece. She said the rocks there were

as blue as the sea itself.

Bob was shorter, with thinning dark hair and a beard that

circled only his upper lip and chin. He wore glasses and

didn't say much and spent most of the day reading books

and newspapers. He seemed to like to argue about politicians, people he said were doing this country more harm

than good. Elaine always nodded and smiled when he talked

like that, but didn't really seem to have any opinions of her

own in that regard.

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The house was so huge, bigger than her old one, and

the girl was scared to walk around alone. Not that she ever

had to, since Elaine insisted on holding her hand almost

everywhere she went. The girl felt strange, this woman

she'd just met acting so friendly, but Elaine was nice and

it meant not having to be scared. Even though she was still

confused, the girl loved running up and down the lengthy

hallways, laughing as Bob helped her slide down the

banister. Elaine placed both of her hands around the cup,

took a sip and placed it on the wooden table. Bob picked

it up, frowned at her, then took a glass coaster emblazoned with a bright yellow sunflower and put the cup back

down on it.

"She might just have a cold," Bob said. "Kids get colds.

Not everything is a life-threatening disease."

She'd heard Elaine mention that the Reed family had

lived in this house for just six months, and still hadn't quite

grown used to its nooks and crannies, the way it creaked

during high wind, the way the linoleum was cool in the

spring and hot in the summer. Yet for all the comfort,

Elaine said she still felt isolated. The days were sunny and

clear, and when the windows were left open the girl could

see the trees, high oaks. And the fence surrounding the

property.

Bob Reed had a bit of a temper. Or as her daddy would

say, his blood got up something. Bob complained that they

had to drive three miles just to see a human being. And he

had to fiddle with some sort of remote control to work a

"stupid" motor-controlled gate that allowed access to the

driveway. Not to mention some brick wall that obscured the

surrounding area. Elaine would put her hand on Bob's

shoulder and say, "We know why this is happening. We need

to make the best of it." Bob would look at her, nod, then go

off on his own.

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But right now they seemed concerned. A few days ago,

the girl had come down with a cold. She felt shivery and

warm at the same time, and no matter how many blankets

Elaine piled on top of her it never went away. When they

first realized she was sick, Bob and Elaine grew pale, and

this scared the girl.

"Kids cough," he said now, trying to be strong. "Look

at Patrick. Hawked up a ball of phlegm every night until

he turned three."

"Well, this one is six," Elaine said. "And that coughing

doesn't sound right. Maybe we should take her to see

someone."

"Not him," Bob said. "I don't trust that man."

"Neither do I, but we have to. He told us if we ever

needed medical help, we had to see..."

"Screw that crazy, scarred-up old man," Bob said. "He

doesn't have to live like this. He didn't have to change his

life for some strange kid."

"Patrick," Elaine said. "Think of Patrick."

Bob sighed, put his head in his hands. "Her cold will

pass," he said, reaching for the newspaper. "Can't even get

the newspaper delivered because 'he' said so."

"Speaking of which," Elaine said, "I think it's time for

her shot."

Bob nodded. He said, "I'll do it this time."

He stood up. Headed toward the bathroom. A minute

later Bob came back carrying a plastic bag.

He opened the bag and took out a gauze pad, a syringe,

a small vial and a bottle of clear liquid that smelled funny.

The girl watched all this. It all seemed vaguely familiar.

And though that needle looked huge, like the size of a

knife, for some reason she wasn't scared.

"Did you wash your hands?" Elaine asked.

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"Of course," Bob replied. He took the small vial and

rolled it gently between his fingers. Next he took a cotton

ball, opened the bottle of clear liquid, held the ball against

the open top until it was wet, then cleaned the top of the

vial with the cotton ball.

"That smells funny," the girl said. Elaine scrunched her

nose and smiled.

"It does, doesn't it?"

Bob didn't smile. He just kept doing what he was doing.

Bob took the syringe and pulled the stopper back a

little bit. Then he pushed the needle into the top of the vial,

pressing the stopper again. A small bubble of air entered

the vial. Then he turned the vial upside down, the syringe

pointing at the ceiling, and pulled the stopper again until

a small amount of the liquid was sucked into the syringe.

He tapped the syringe until the air bubbles had risen to the

top of the needle. Then he removed the needle from the vial.

Bob turned to Elaine, still holding the needle. "Where

did we give it to her this morning?"

"The abdomen," she said.

"Gotcha. Caroline, would you come here?" The girl

stood up warily, then went over to Bob. "Here, sweetie, sit

down next to me."

She did. Bob rolled up the sleeve of her right arm, then

took the smelly cotton ball and rubbed it all over the underside of her arm. Then he blew on it gently.

"That tickles," the girl said.

"Just needs to dry a bit," Bob said. He waited a minute,

then took her arm and gently squeezed her skin until a fold

stuck out. Caroline winced a bit but stayed still.

"Good girl," Elaine said.

"Now close your eyes," Bob said. When she did, she

felt a sting as the needle entered her skin. She felt Bob's

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grip tighten, then a few seconds later it eased up. She

opened her eyes. The needle was on the table and Bob was

swabbing her arm with another cotton ball.

"You're such a brave girl," Elaine said. Caroline smiled.

18

The rental car zipped along like only a Hyundai with a

hundred-and-twenty-five thousand miles could. Now that

I'd been summarily dismissed from the Daniel Linwood

story by Wallace, I couldn't expect to be reimbursed for

expenses anytime soon. Which meant watching my budget

until I proved that it was worth potentially disrupting the

lives of several families, not to mention putting my career

on the line, to find out what happened to two missing

children. Which meant that, for the time being, the $44.95a-day rates of the Rent-a-Wreck of Yonkers was the only

thing that could fit my ever-extended budget.

As soon as I realized that both Michelle Oliveira and

Daniel Linwood not only were born in the same hospital,

but were treated by the same doctor, I decided to speak to

this man to see what, if anything, he could shed light on.

Dr. Dmitri Petrovsky worked in the pediatrics unit at the

Yardley Medical Center in Hobbs County. Amanda and I

were on our way to speak to the good doctor. Like good

guests we were coming uninvited.

As I drove up I-287, Amanda gripped the side door

handle as though the car might split in half at any moment.

Ironic, considering a few years back Amanda had driven

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us to St. Louis at an average speed that would make Jeff

Gordon cry for mama.

I noticed her clutching the side, smirked and said,

"Come on, you really think I'm going to spin out or

drive us both into the Hudson? Besides, between the

two of us, who do you think has racked up more points

on their license?"

She glared at me. "I've never had an accident in all the

time I've been driving. And I've been in a car with you,

oh, a total of, like, three times. Forgive me if I don't quite

trust your instincts. Not to mention my Toyota was sturdier

than the Verrazano bridge."

"I have such fond memories of that car."

Though Amanda and I had now been on speaking terms

for just a few days, I was surprised at how easily we fell

back into old patterns, the give-and-take of conversation. I

was actually uncomfortable with it. Specifically, the fact

that she seemed so calm. As if she knew our banter was

nothing more than that, and would never get past the

surface.

Two young children, both vanishing into nothing, reappearing after years, neither with any memory of their time

gone. Both having been born in the same town, to lowincome families with other siblings. I had no idea exactly

what we were looking for, or what I expected to find, but I

hoped that Dmitri Petrovsky, having borne witness to the

birth of both Michelle and Danny, could yield new information.

We arrived at Yardley Medical Center a little after nine

in the morning.

We stepped out of the Hyundai. It was warm outside,

the sun hot and vivid. I was wearing a pair of brown

khakis and a navy-blue sport coat. Amanda was in a

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sweater and light blue jeans. She looked a millions times

better than I did, which wasn't surprising, since I had to

dig through a pile of unmentionables just to find two

matching socks.

The Yardley Medical Center was a long building,

twelve stories high, shaped like an L, with one taller side

made of red brick, the other, shorter part windowed by

steel and blue glass. We walked around to the main

entrance, passing ambulatory care, and entered. The lobby

was not large, but it was impeccably clean. Off to the side

was a flower shop, a newsstand and a small cafeteria, and

another path leading to a bank of elevators. In the middle

was an information desk and security checkpoint. Half a

dozen people were in line. When they finished talking to

the attendant, she handed them a sticker to show Security,

who let them enter the elevator bank.

We walked up to the information booth. The attendant,

a heavyset black woman, said, "May I help you?"

"We're here to see Dr. Dmitri Petrovsky in Pediatrics,"

I said.

"Your names?"

"Henry Parker and Amanda Davies."

"Do you have identification?"

We both handed over our drivers licenses. I didn't want

to announce myself as a member of the press just yet. In

case Petrovsky knew anything, I didn't want to give him

time to prepare.

The woman looked at our IDs, then at us, then handed

them back. She scribbled our names on two orange

stickers, then signed each one before peeling them off and

pressing them against our shirts.

"Petrovsky, Pediatrics. Suite 1103."

We thanked her, showed the stickers to the guard and

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rode the elevator to the eleventh floor. The elevator was

jam-packed, and the ride took forever. Finally we got off

on eleven and followed the signs to the correct suite.

The eleventh-floor hallway was painted light blue. Very

soothing. When we found 1103, a door marked Pediatrics,

we paused for a moment, then entered.

We found ourselves in a waiting room littered with toys

and parenting magazines. Various brochures were available. There were about a dozen chairs, almost all of which

were filled with mothers, fathers and their tykes. I counted

three pregnant women. Some of the kids were playing,

some sleeping, and at least two were bawling their eyes

out. Amanda took a seat, picked up a copy of Parenting

magazine, and nodded toward the secretary.

"Would you mind signing us in, hon?"

"My pleasure, hon. "

I approached the secretary, a middle-aged woman with

frizzy hair and a pair of red glasses perched on her nose.

"Help you?" she said.

"I'm here to see Dr. Petrovsky," I said.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, I'm sorry, we don't."

She swiveled to a computer, pressed a few keys, then

swiveled back. "He can see you today, but not likely until

eleven-thirty." She handed me a clipboard with several

forms on it. "If you and your wife would please fill these

out and return it back to me."

I opened my mouth to explain the whole not wife thing,

but didn't think it was worth the time or explanation.

I took the papers and a pen, sat down next to Amanda.

"If anyone asks, you're my wife."

"'Scuse me?"

"Just go with it."

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"Come on, Henry, these kind of matrimonial decisions

should be made by both of us for Christ's sake."

A lady holding her infant son glared at us.

"Sorry," I said, turning to Amanda. "Honey, there are

children present."

Amanda gave me a look that could have melted steel.

I concentrated on filling out the forms, being as vague as

possible, while leaving most responses blank.

When they were completed, I went back up to the receptionist. Handing them over, I said, "I left a lot of this

blank. Frankly, there are some personal issues I'd rather

discuss with Dr. Petrovsky first, if you don't mind."

The woman rolled her eyes at me, said, "Suit yourself,"

and took the papers. When I returned to Amanda, she was

buried in a copy of Parenting magazine.

"Wow," Amanda said, eyebrows raised. "Did you know

that the World Health Organization recommends breastfeeding your child until they're at least two years old, and

sometimes until they're four?"

"Why not?" I said. "Nothing brings a mother and her

child closer than reading, writing and breast-feeding."

Amanda snorted a laugh, causing the other mothers to

sneer at her in unison. She went back to reading the

magazine. I did a cursory search through the reading

material available. Since I had no aching desire to sift

through a Learning Annex pamphlet or a four-month-old

issue of Cosmopolitan, I just sat there and waited.

Finally after a two-hour wait, the receptionist called,

"Mr. and Mrs. Parker."

I looked at Amanda, her face suddenly nervous. We

stood up and followed the receptionist down a woodpaneled hallway into an examination room.

"Dr. Petrovsky will be with you in just a moment."

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When she left, I turned to Amanda and said, "Here

we go."

"You really think this guy knows anything about Danny

and Michelle?"

"That's why we're here," I said. "I just want something

to prove to Wallace this story deserves looking into, regardless of what some stuffed shirt says."

We sat there waiting for fifteen minutes. I looked around

the room. Nothing out of place, and because we were in a

simple examining room rather than Petrovsky's office, it

prevented me from snooping around his framed degrees.

Then the door opened, and a fifty-something barrelchested man walked in. He was about five-ten with a thick

gray beard and a white coat that barely concealed his protruding midsection. Beneath the beard his cheeks were

slightly red. He walked with a slight limp. I guessed he'd

undergone a hip or knee replacement surgery recently.

"Mr. and Mrs. Parker, I am Dr. Dmitri Petrovsky." He

spoke with a thick Russian accent. I took his extended

hand, as did Amanda.

"Thanks for seeing us on such short notice," I said.

"It is my pleasure. Now, if you will do me one more,

please, have a seat." Amanda sat down on a small metal

chair. Petrovsky laughed. "No, not there. Here."

Petrovsky approached the examining table. He reached

underneath, fiddled around for a few seconds, and then

pulled up a pair up stirrups which he latched into place.

He then slapped the green cushion and said, "Mrs. Parker,

if you please."

He put his palms together and then opened them as if

he were reading a book.

Amanda's eyes went wide. "Oh, hell no. Henry, this is

where I get off the train. Good luck."

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"Mrs. Parker?" Petrovsky said. He turned to me. "I do

not understand. This is a routine part of a first examination."

Time to come clean. Or at least cleaner.

"Dr. Petrovsky, my name is Henry Parker, and I'm a

reporter with the New York Gazette. Now, first off, I want

you to know that I'm here in the best interests of two

children. All I want to do is ask you a few questions. We

don't want to make any trouble, I promise. And I would

appreciate your complete candor. It's vital in our investigation."

"Investigation?" Petrovsky's eyes were frightened,

but I couldn't tell if it was from the surprise or something

else. "Please, I do not understand. You lied to Maggie at

reception?"

"Not exactly, Doctor. I just needed to speak with you. If

after we talk you think my motives aren't genuine, you can

do what you want. But please, just hear me out. I mean well."

Petrovsky folded his arms. I took that to mean he was

listening.

"I'm investigating the disappearance of Daniel Linwood,"

I said. "The records show that Daniel Linwood was born in

this hospital, and that you were the attending during the

birth. In conjunction with Daniel Linwood, we're investigating a similar disappearance, a girl named Michelle Oliveira.

Michelle also was born here, under your supervision.

"Daniel Linwood," Petrovsky said, his eyes yielding a

glimmer of recognition. "The name does sound familiar,

yes. What has happened that you are investigating?"

This surprised me a little. The Linwood disappearance

was major news in Hobbs County. Petrovsky had worked

here dating back years. Either his memory had slipped, or

he was being obstinate for a reason.

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"A week ago, Daniel Linwood returned to his family

after being kidnapped nearly five years ago. I'm looking

into who kidnapped him and why."

"But you say Daniel was found, yes? He is with his

family?"

"Yes, he is."

"Then all should be happy, no?"

"Not if you want a sense of justice. And I think Daniel's

disappearance is related in some way to Michelle Oliveira.

You know both children were born at Yardley," I said.

"And they're both from Hobbs County."

"I did not know this, and I do not know this Michelle

person you speak of."

Petrovsky reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief, mopping a few beads from his brow. He put it back

in, laughed slightly, then held his hands to his stomach.

"My wife," he said. "Says I should lose about fifty

pounds to stay healthy. Perhaps, she says, this is the reason

I have a titanium knee. I think she may be right, but she

cannot tell me how to lose that weight."

"Doctor," I said, "Daniel Linwood has no recollection

of his missing years. I need to know what could happen

to a child that could do that to their brain, to their memory.

If you know anything about Daniel, or what happened, that

could explain it."

"Please, Mr. Parker, I am just here to do my job. I have

delivered many hundreds of children in my career, and

now you ask me to remember two as if they were delivered this morning? You have lied to me, and now you

expect me to answer you like a man at a cocktail party who

has medical questions? If you have medical questions, I

would be happy to refer you to another physician in this

clinic. Or if you prefer to continue down this path, I would

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be happy to refer you to hospital security, who will refer

you to a good lawyer. That is all I have to say. Now I

suggest you leave. Right away."

The look Petrovsky gave us confirmed that he was not

bluffing. I had no intention of calling his bluff. I merely

thanked him for his time, apologized again for the ruse,

and we left.

We exited Yardley in silence. When we got to the

parking lot, Amanda said, "Goddamn, that guy knows

something."

I nodded, picked up the pace and headed toward our

Hyundai, hoping a strong wind hadn't caused it to blow

away.

"I agree," I said. "He'd heard the name Michelle

Oliveira before. And I don't buy that he didn't know about

Danny Linwood." I stood in front of our car, thinking

about what to do next.

"Think we should head back?" Amanda asked.

"No," I said.

"Why not?"

"I'm going to wait for him. Petrovsky. I'm going to

follow him when he gets off work and see where he goes.

If necessary, confront him off hospital grounds. Where

there's no security, nobody but us."

Amanda sighed.

"The least you could have done was tell me that

upstairs. I would have grabbed a magazine from the

waiting room."

She smiled at me, and we both piled into the car,

waiting for the good doctor to emerge.

19

The phone call was not unexpected, but it rattled

Raymond Benjamin nonetheless. He'd been sitting in his

loft, sipping a glass of pinot noir, from the Argyle wineries,

2005 vintage. There were few things that beat a glass of

red and a cigarette at night. Perhaps a little Coltrane.

Getting a phone call from this number ruined all of it.

He recognized the area code and extension immediately, and as soon as they appeared in the caller-ID

display, Benjamin knew there was a problem. Petrovsky

was only supposed to call if there was an emergency. And

Benjamin made it very clear about what constituted an

emergency.

He answered the phone. "Doctor," Ray said. "There'd

better be a fucking good reason for this."

Raymond Benjamin listened as Dmitri Petrovsky filled

him in on what had occurred at the hospital that day. He

ended the conversation by saying he'd watched the two

people--Henry Parker and Amanda Davies--leave the

hospital. Only, when they left, they didn't drive away. In

fact, they'd been sitting in their car for several hours.

Petrovsky and Benjamin came to the same conclusion:

they were planning to follow the doctor when he left work.

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When Ray Benjamin hung up the phone, he sat there

for a moment, thinking. Then he got up, tossing the rest

of his glass into the sink, stubbing out his cigarette in the

ashtray. He called Vince and told him to be at the garage

in fifteen minutes. Ray had a lot of phone calls to make.

First he called the house. The couple took it as well as

he expected. He told them they'd prepared for a day like

this. And if they kept up their end of the deal, it would all

be worth it. And if they didn't, he only needed to remind

them of the photograph.

When everything was in motion, and Petrovsky confirmed that Parker was still at Yardley, Ray Benjamin went

to the garage. Vince was waiting for him. Vincent Cann

was a tall, slender man of thirty-eight. His jet-black hair

was slicked back, his face clean-shaven as always. A pair

of designer sunglasses sat on his face. He nodded when

he saw Benjamin approaching.

"Clusterfuck, ain't it, boss?"

Ray answered by not answering at all.

They piled into the car. Ray opened his window a crack.

The younger man was chewing gum, his jaws working

overtime. Ray reached into his pocket and pulled out a

fresh pack of Chesterfields. He depressed the electric

lighter, unwrapped the pack, stuck the cig in his mouth and

waited.

Vince said, "Should we get going?"

"Wait a second," the older man said. The lighter

wasn't ready yet.

When the metal knob popped out, Ray took the end,

pressed it to the tip and inhaled deeply. There was nothing

like a good Chesterfield. When the butt was half smoked,

a long finger of ash hanging off the end, Ray flicked it out

the window.

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"Clear your schedule for the next few days," Ray said

to Vince as he pulled into traffic. "We're going to be busy

cleaning this mess up, and there's not a lot of time."

20

Paulina arched her back, feeling the convulsions ripple

through her body. She embraced the aches of pleasure, the

slightest hint of pain as Myron Bennett raked his too-long

nails down her stomach. She felt the final shudder of

orgasm, the sweat dripping down her chest, waiting until

everything was calm before finally becoming still. Paulina

looked down. She was still wearing her bra, a slight puddle

of moisture collecting in between the cups.

Gathering herself, Paulina climbed off Myron, taking

one more glimpse at his naked body, his erection like a flag

of surrender. The boy had a beautiful body, that's for sure,

and though nobody would ever know of their tryst, it

secretly thrilled her to know she'd just fucked a man thousands of women would ditch their husbands and 2.4

children for.

She located her underwear, snagged the band on her

shoe, kicked it into her hands and headed for the bathroom.

"Hey," Myron called out as Paulina groped her way to

the bathroom door. "I didn't come yet!"

"Nobody's watching if you want to finish yourself off,"

she said, closing the bathroom door. Paulina looked at

herself in the mirror. Her mascara was streaked. She ran

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the faucet and washed it off. She looked at her breasts, felt

a twinge of sadness, noticed they were sagging slightly

more than she remembered. For years Paulina had taken

care of her body, spending countless hours at the gym,

countless dollars on every treatment under the sun. But

aging happened to everyone, even women who were born

to fight everything. Push-up bras did wonders to enhance

her natural cleavage, but nobody could fight Father Time,

especially since he had gravity on his side. She thought

about having them done, wondered if it was an outpatient

procedure. The last thing she needed was to be out of

work a day or two, then come with them enhanced. Boob

jobs were only worth it if no one knew you'd had one.

She could hear Myron moving about in the bedroom.

She heard the sound of his zipper, laughed to herself that

he was too frustrated to finish the job. Myron was a nice

treat, and thankfully she'd never have to see him again. At

least not in person.

In Sunday's edition of the Dispatch, Paulina would be

running a lengthy article about Myron's decade-long affair

with Mitsy Russell Henshaw, wife of billionaire venture

capitalist Richard Henshaw. Richard Henshaw had been

a longtime critic of the Dispatch, specifically the paper's

editor-in-chief, Ted Allen. It was what Allen called a "have

your cake and eat it, too" story. It was both a juicy bit of

gossip that would sell papers, while accomplishing the

goal of humiliating one of Ted's most vocal enemies.

Paulina figured it only fair that if she was going to report

the piece, she deserved a piece of the cake, too.

Though Myron was in his late thirties and no longer in

the kind of shape that had secured him deals as an underwear model in the nineties--the abs a little softer, the

arms not quite as sinewy--he was still a striking bachelor,

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the kind of man that would turn heads and make very

wealthy women think very bad thoughts.

She had interviewed him for three hours, at the end of

which Paulina offered to buy him a drink. To make things

a little more personal, she said, rinse off the professional.

And when they were in the comfort of a pair of martinis,

she let Myron know that as long as she was putting her

keyboard out, he'd be putting out, too. And so here she

was, room 1250 at the W Hotel, the beauty of her exorbitant expense account allowing her the beauty of Myron

Bennett.

Yet as much as she'd savored the night's pleasures and

would enjoy the media circus surrounding Myron's affair,

she'd be glad to get back to work on the real story that had

kept her juiced the past few months. Underwear models

came and went. It was a rare occasion that you could do

something that mattered. And in just a matter of weeks,

she'd be ready to bring Jack O'Donnell down like a house

of cards. And with Jack, the veneer that was the Gazette

would tumble as well. And that kind of satisfaction would

last longer than any orgasm.

Cinching up her robe as she left the bathroom, Paulina

took her purse from her wallet and flipped a twenty at

Myron. The crumpled bill landed sadly on the pillow.

Myron stood there staring at it. He was topless in his jeans,

searching around for his shirt. He looked at the money,

confused, then looked up and down at Paulina as if she

were hanging in a freezer.

"You have the most beautiful tits," he said, a sultry grin

on his face that made Paulina feel like retching.

"Please," she said. "Save it for the women who give a shit."

"What, one party and you get all cold on me? It wasn't

good for you, beautiful?"

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"Ugh, don't call me that. I'm sure Muffy or Tiffani or

whatever rich bitch you're going to bang tomorrow night

will love that ooey-gooey shit. You're a good lay, Myron.

I appreciate it. But enough of the honeydoll, baby stuff.

I'm a grown woman, you're a grown man, now help me

find my shirt."

"It's under the bed, doll." He smiled at Paulina's

grimace. She glanced under the bed, came up with a

wrinkled blue shirt. She nodded toward the twenty on the

bed.

"Take it."

"What's that for?"

"Whatever you want. A taxi. A beer. Doesn't matter."

He looked at the money. "Really, you don't have to."

"Listen, I spent the better part of an entire day talking

to you and listening to the most boring shit on earth. I

listened to you whine about your mean parents, your

crummy job, how nobody will hire you as a model

anymore. And I know you have less money in the bank

than you have brains up in that head of yours. I don't think

you'll say no to cab fare. So just say thank-you and go

home."

He watched her for a moment, looked at the money.

"Thank you," he said. "But you don't have to be a bitch

about it."

Paulina's mouth dropped, a startled laugh escaping her

lips. "Bitch? You call me a bitch because, what, I just

repeated what you've been blabbing about all night? If you

don't like hearing the whole, cold, hard, clean truth, just

continue to delude yourself. Facts are facts. Nobody wants

to hire a forty-year-old has-been when twenty years old

can be bought for less, and without the baggage. And if you

didn't fuck Mitsy for a decade, you'd keep that irrelevant

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streak of yours going. So you don't want to believe the

truth? Then, buddy, don't read the newspaper. But if you

want a reality check, you little baby, what I say shouldn't

hurt you any more than your life hurts you."

"See," Myron said. "That's what I mean. Most women,

when you give them an orgasm, they don't treat you like

you're a piece of, a, a dust ball or a termite or something.

Something they can pick up and throw in the trash like it

didn't exist."

"Listen, Myron. You're a sweet guy. But sweet guys get

as much out of life as a little teacup puppy that someone

carries around in their purse. You get fed when your master

wants to feed you, but pretty soon you're a nuisance and

not quite as much fun to look at. If you want more out of

life than that, you have to take it. If that means being a

bitch, well, I'd rather be a bitch than a pussy."

Myron stared at her. "I'm looking forward to reading

the article."

Paulina nodded. "It'll be a good one, I promise you that

much. I'll make sure a copy of the Dispatch is delivered

to you first thing Sunday morning." Then she strode across

the room until she was nearly mouth to mouth with Myron.

"And if you so much as mention this night to anyone, I'll

run a correction on Monday about your chronic herpes outbreaks."

"My what?"

"Exactly."

"Even you wouldn't stoop so low," Myron said, though

he looked unconvinced.

"Try me," Paulina replied. "I love it when people think

they're calling my bluff."

Myron nodded, put his shirt on, found his shoes. He

thanked Paulina, grabbed the twenty and left. Paulina

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stood there in a room full of rumpled sheets, the air

stinking of sweat and sex. Then she gathered up her

belongings, went outside and caught a cab home.

21

By three o'clock, my legs were growing stiff. We'd

watched countless people arrive and leave Yardley since

that morning, with no sign of Dmitri Petrovsky. We'd

taken turns going in to the cafeteria for cups of coffee and

bathroom breaks, doing everything we could to stay alert

without going insane, but I was growing impatient. And

even worse, worried.

Doctors came and went, but nobody who looked like

Petrovsky.

At four o'clock, Amanda asked, "Do you think we

might have missed him?"

I shook my head. "I hope not. Let's make sure."

I took out my cell phone, called the Yardley switchboard, asked to be connected to Pediatrics. When a

woman's voice picked up, I asked if Dr. Petrovsky would

be available for any more appointments today.

"I'm sorry, sir, he's got two more patients scheduled for

this afternoon, then he'll be out again until Monday."

"Do you have any idea what time he'll be finished with

his patients?"

"No, sir, I'm sorry, but if you want to come in next week

I'd be happy to schedule you for an appointment."

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"No, thanks, I'll call back later." I hung up. "He's still

there, but probably not for much longer."

Amanda nodded. She began to rub her shoulders.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Just a little stiff."

"Can I do anything to help?"

"Nah, thanks, though."

For a moment I had an ache to reach out, put my arm

around her and rub her shoulders myself. Not too long ago

it wouldn't have been a big deal at all, just something else

that happened over the normal day of a relationship. Small

gestures like that in the end meant so much, and it was only

when they ended that I realized their significance.

"Henry, look," Amanda suddenly said, pointing in the

direction of the entrance. "There he is."

Sure enough, Dmitri Petrovsky was leaving Yardley. He

was easily identifiable with his bushy beard, ambling gait.

He'd changed out of his hospital whites and was wearing

a bulky overcoat, carrying a stuffed briefcase. He trudged

through the parking lot as our eyes followed him. He

stopped for a moment to yell at another motorist whose

Saab edged a little too close, and for a moment I worried

that the argument would escalate and our whole plan

would be shot. Thankfully, after a heated exchange and a

middle-finger gesture that left the driver steaming, Petrovsky continued walking, eventually stopping at a dark blue

Nissan.

"Do me a favor," I said. "Take my tape recorder out of

my bag." She did so. "Now turn it on."

She clicked the record button.

I said, "I want to record the directions. Just in case."

"Smart," Amanda said.

I started the engine, waited until I saw the brake lights

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on Petrovsky's car turn red before I edged out of the

parking space. I turned the corner of our row just as Petrovsky finished backing out. I allowed another car to move

in front of us as all three vehicles headed for the exit.

"What if he sees us?" Amanda said.

"I don't know," I said truthfully. "Let's just hope he

doesn't."

Petrovsky pulled up to the exit and put his right-turn

signal on. He made the right, and the car in front of us

turned left. I put my right blinker on, waited until Petrovsky's Nissan was about thirty yards away, then I pulled

onto the exit ramp and began to follow the doctor.

Petrovsky kept an even speed as he circled the exit ramp

that led away fromYardley. I stayed far enough behind that

it would be tricky for him to see me in his rearview mirror.

Neither Amanda nor I spoke. We were both focused on the

road, the car and what would happen next.

When the ramp came to an end, Petrovsky kept on

straight and merged onto the freeway. He pulled into the

left lane; I took the middle, kept pace three cars behind.

There was still light in the sky, sundown not yet for another

hour, so I was able to make out his car pretty clearly. The

hum of our engine seemed as loud as a bullhorn as we kept

pace, threatening to give us away.

After a few miles, Petrovsky drifted over to the middle

lane, then turned on his right-turn signal and headed

toward a sign that read Exit 62. I relayed this to the tape

recorder. When he pulled into the right lane, I allowed a

silver Mercedes to do the same and I pulled in behind it.

I took the exit ramp behind both cars, watching Petrovsky

closely. I could make out the man hunched over the

steering wheel, felt lead in my stomach as I prayed we

were being cautious, keeping out of sight.

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I followed his car down a one-lane highway, our speeds

decreasing as the road became more residential. The

doctor was steadfastly observing the thirty-five-mile-anhour speed limit. The silver Mercedes was only a buffer

for a few minutes, as it peeled into a strip mall soon after,

leaving our car as the only one behind Petrovsky.

We followed him down this road for some time. Eventually the sun began to set. The sky grew darker. Soon all

I could make out of Petrovsky's car were the taillights. The

faint hum of the tape recorder was the only noise in the

car. My pulse was quickening. I had no idea how this

night would end.

About twenty minutes later, Petrovsky turned on his left

blinker and pulled off onto a narrow street. I had to follow,

had to hope it was too dark for him to recognize our car

or see me behind the wheel. I was still about thirty yards

behind him, but when his Nissan made another right and

then a left within seconds of each other, I had to speed up

before losing him among the turns.

"There's no way he doesn't know we're following him,"

Amanda said, her voice quiet, fearful. "No way."

I said nothing. Just spoke the directions into the

recorder and kept driving.

We passed through streets lined with houses, lamps illuminating rows of homes. Most of them were in disrepair,

casting an aura of poverty, carelessness, hopelessness. I

tried not to look at them, focused on the car in front of us,

felt cold sweat beading down my back. Fear and adrenaline coursed through me, and I wondered how much longer

this chase would last.

Then Petrovsky made a right onto another road, this one

dimly lit. I couldn't see any houses on either side. There

were no lamps. It was just him and us.

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I glimpsed the street sign, stated into the recorder,

"Turned right onto Huntley Terrace."

Huntley Terrace was a narrow road. Once we'd driven

a few miles, we passed by a few houses spaced sporadically

apart, driveways hidden behind thick brush and wooden

fences. There were no streetlights, no road signs. We were

still twenty yards behind Petrovsky, but we were the only

cars traveling this road. By this point, the gig was up.

"Henry," Amanda said. "What is that?"

I squinted my eyes, felt my stomach lurch as I saw that

we were approaching a pair of metal double gates up

ahead. The were bracketed by a brick wall that encircled

the property within. The woods were thick on either side.

I couldn't see anything beyond them.

"Oh, fuck," I said. Petrovsky had slowed down as he

approached.

"What now?" Amanda asked.

"I don't know."

"I'm scared," she said. She turned to me. In her eyes I

could tell she knew what I was thinking. We had to keep

going.

I slowed the car down, pulled to a stop and put the car

in Park. I waited to see what Petrovsky would do next. His

car stopped at the gates. It stayed there for close to a

minute, then I heard the sound of metal screeching as the

gates swung inward. They did not look like they enclosed

a residential area. They were protecting a single home.

Was this where Petrovsky lived?

When the gates were open, the doctor pulled onto a

gravel road and then disappeared out of sight. I waited,

unsure of what to do.

And after a minute of waiting, I realized something

strange.

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Jason Pinter

The gates hadn't closed.

They were wide open.

Whoever was inside those gates was waiting for us.

"Too late to turn back," I said.

I put the car into Drive and slowly approached the gates.

I still couldn't see anything beyond them, but as I got

closer I could make out a red hue around the bend. Definitely Petrovsky's brake lights.

I drove through the gates, half expecting a Sonny

Corleone sneak attack. But we passed through without

anything out of the ordinary. I made the turn, then jumped

as I heard the metal sounds again.

The gates were closing behind us.

"We shouldn't be here," Amanda said. "We should go."

"We can't now," I said. "Let's just see what's what."

As I continued down the path, Petrovsky's Nissan came

into view. It was parked at the end of a driveway. The

driveway was next to a house. It was shrouded in darkness,

but there was just enough light from the moon to illuminate the seven-foot-high brick wall surrounding the entire

property. It confused me. The wall wasn't high enough that

an adult would have a problem climbing over it. I also

noticed that every tree on the property was at least ten or

twenty feet from the fence. There were no limbs that could

reach the fence. It had been clearly built to keep someone

smaller from getting out.

Down the driveway, I could see Petrovsky. He was

standing next to his car. Hands in his pockets. He was

waiting for us.

I pulled up close until I was directly behind the Nissan,

then put the car into Park and shut the engine off.

"Stay here," I said to Amanda.

"The hell with that," she said, unbuckling her seat belt.

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We both stepped out of the car. Petrovsky was standing

in the middle of the driveway. He did not move as we approached. He did not seem surprised to see us.

As we got closer, I could see that the doctor was trembling slightly. His hands were in his pockets, his body too

rigid. As I got closer, a wave of fear coursed through me.

I saw that Petrovsky was shaking. The man was afraid.

"Dr. Petrovsky," I said. "It's Henry Parker. I know you

saw us following you. I'm sorry to approach you under

these circumstances, but I have more questions."

"Yes, Mr. Parker," the doctor said, his voice low, remorseful. "I am very sorry, too."

I heard a faint rustle come from behind us, then there

was a sharp pain in my leg. Before I could shout, the

gravel of the driveway came hurtling up to meet me, and

then everything swam away.

22

I woke up groggy, with pain in my head and my leg. It

took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the faint crack of

light coming from a doorway on the far side of the room

that was otherwise pitch-black. I was standing up. I was

shirtless, my bare torso cold against a metal pole behind

me. My head pounded, and when I tried to move I realized

my hands were bound above me, my legs bound below.

My arms were bound and tied to what felt like a metal

pipe. I groped around, felt that the pipe went straight back

into the brick wall behind me. My feet were bound behind

the same pipe. I wriggled but it did no good.

Suddenly my eyes flew open. Amanda. Oh, God,

where was she?

I struggled against the bonds, but I couldn't see

anything, couldn't reach the rope that bound my hands.

Then a voice spoke out from the darkness, and I

stopped moving.

"Don't worry, she's fine. I'm sorry my associate had to

restrain you, but I promise it's for your own good." The

voice was gruff, older, slightly raspy. A smoker's voice.

"Who are you?" I said. "Come over here so I can see

you, asshole."

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"Listen to you, talking as though you're holding all the

cards. When your hand was folded before you even woke up."

I heard a spark, like a match striking flint, and then a

small orange flame lit up the darkness. The flame rose until

I heard a sucking sound. The flame lit the end of a cigarette, and with a puff was blown out.

I could see the cigarette about ten feet from me, and

with each inhalation I caught the outline of a man's face.

I couldn't see much detail, but he looked to be in his late

fifties. Harsh light to go with the harsh line. He just sat

there, sucked his cigarette and said nothing.

"Come on!" I shouted. "What do you want?"

"What do I want," the man said. He flicked away the

cigarette and stood up. He must have turned on a light

switch, because suddenly an overhead lamp cast a soft

glow over the room. I made out what I could. I was in what

looked to be some sort of basement. Bare cement walls and

a tiled floor. There were no windows I could see. The

room wasn't dingy, though, and in fact I was surprised that

it appeared to be rather well maintained. A plush leather

sofa rested in front of a television set, and a long-forgotten treadmill sat adorned with boxes and discarded clothes.

If this was a prison or interrogation room, it wasn't the

most intimidating one. The man approached me, took

another cigarette from his pocket, lit it and took a deep

drag.

Then he approached me, plucked the cigarette from his

lips and held it out.

"Want a puff?"

"Yeah, nothing satisfies me more than sucking on a

butt that was just in some strange asshole's mouth."

"You sure? It's a Chesterfield."

"Gee, now, that makes a difference. Go screw yourself."

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The man shrugged, took another puff.

"I haven't smoked another brand in over thirty years.

You know, you can enjoy the pleasures of so many things

in life without knowing where it came from. Who made

it. Thirty years ago, I would have taken a beating before I

smoked. Now I can't get enough of 'em. Ironic, 'swhat it

is. That delicious burn inside your lungs, just makes me

want to close my eyes, savor the feeling. My ex-wife

always asked why I spent so much time reading about crap

like that and never listened to her. I'd say, baby, because

one's interesting, and one ain't."

I stayed silent. The longer he talked, the longer I

stayed alive.

"Chesterfields started to become popular back in the

day when Arthur Godfrey ended his radio program by

saying, 'This is Arthur buy-'em-by-the-carton Godfrey!'

Since the program was sponsored by Chesterfield, pretty

soon that's all anyone wanted to smoke. The nonfiltered

Chesterfields were popular during Vietnam, allegedly the

strongest nonnarcotic stimulant in the country. The government dropped Chesterfields into the jungle by the thousands. And the common man, he figured whatever was

good enough for the fighting men and women of this

country was good enough for him."

The man stepped into the light, and I finally got a better

look at him.

His graying hair was full, skin worn and weatherbeaten.

The crow's-feet at his eyes actually made him look

handsome, like one of those blue-jeaned cowboys who

spent their days on oil rigs, the kind that actually needed

a Chevy flatbed. He was lean, about five foot eleven,

wearing a dark green T-shirt and jeans. There was a thin

scar about an inch long that ran down his right cheek. It

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was a faint line, slightly jagged, as though it hadn't been

stitched up right. He took another pull, let the ash hang on

the end for a long while smoldering before tapping it onto

the floor.

My heart hammered in my chest. My wrists ached, and

the pins and needles in my feet let me know they wouldn't

be much help.

"Where is she?" I said.

"You need to be more trusting," the man said. "I told

you she's fine. So you should believe that she is fine. I'm

not gonna lie to you, Henry. You do me the same courtesy,

and things are gonna work out just splendid for Ms.

Davies. But let's just focus on the here and now. You and

me. Got it?"

"Who are you?" I said.

"Who I am isn't as important as what I have to offer,"

he said.

"I don't want anything from you," I spat. "People know

I'm here. That door's gonna get busted in any second and

I'm gonna laugh as they haul your ass away."

"Really...they're coming for you, huh? Who, the CIA?

FBI? Batman? Guess you wouldn't mind then if I leave

your girl alone for a few weeks. She won't need food or

water since, you know, they're coming for her."

"You're making a mistake," I said. "She doesn't

belong here."

"Well, she's here. No changing that now. Anyway, back

to what I was saying. I have something to offer you, Henry,

and if you're as smart as I think you are you'll take this

offer."

"What is it?" I said.

"It's simple, really," the man said, taking another puff.

"I need you to tell me everything the good doctor told you

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Jason Pinter

and everything you know about the kids. Spare no detail.

It's very important you lay all your cards on the table. And

if you do just that, and I believe you, behind door number

one will be your girlfriend's life. You spill, she lives. You

don't spill, her blood does. Simple as that."

"I'll take the offer," I said, "because we don't know

anything. Petrovsky didn't say a word to us. Now, let us

go."

"Oh, come on, Henry, you think it's that easy? You

think that's it? Nah, we can get some more out of you."

He took the cigarette from his mouth. Looked at the

filtered end.

"Chesterfields," he said. "Just about heaven. Can't find

the unfiltered bastards anywhere nowadays, but smoke

enough of these and they do the trick."

"Hope that lung cancer acts mighty quick," I said.

"If it gets me, it gets me," he said. "But I'll go out

with a smile."

A spark fell off the end of the butt. I watched it flutter

to the ground. I moved my wrists around, tried to feel the

pipe where my hands were tied, sliding my fingers back

and forth out of view until my thumb caught on something.

A piece of metal. Something jutting out from the pipe.

The man reached into his pocket, brought out his wallet.

He pulled out a one-dollar bill. Held it up in front of me.

Then he took the lit cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. Slowly he brought the cigarette to the bill. There

was a crackling sound as the lit end burned a perfect circle

through the paper.

When the cigarette had passed through, he held up the bill,

looked at me through the hole, smiled. "Peekaboo, I see

you."

He walked toward me, still holding the lit cigarette. As

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he got closer, the light illuminated the man more. I began

to shiver, my bare torso shaking. Then I noticed something

that nearly made me gag. Covering the man's arms were

a road map of small, white marks. Scars. Perfectly round.

They were cigarette burns. And there were dozens of them.

"So what did Petrovsky tell you?" he said, his voice

frighteningly calm.

"I told you, nothing. Leave us alone."

He scratched his chin, looked at me. "Hmm...no."

He took another step forward, leaned down and pressed

the lit end of the cigarette against my chest.

I screamed as I heard the sound of burning, waves of

pain shooting through me as I bucked and tried to kick to

no avail. The pain was horrific. I hoped I would pass out.

Finally the man removed the cigarette from my skin.

Then he leaned over and blew gently on the spot where

he'd just burned me.

"That's gonna leave a mark," he said.

I was panting. I could felt sweat pouring down my

body, getting into my eyes. I felt around where my hands

were bound, found that piece of metal I'd felt before. I

rubbed it with my thumb. It was a screw attached to a bolt.

The end of the screw jutted out from the metal about half

an inch. Just maybe...

I slowly moved my wrists until the half-inch screw was

fitted snugly inside one of the loops of knot that bound my

wrists. I moved it slowly up and down, back and forth,

trying to loosen the knot, to create some slack.

The man tossed his cigarette onto the floor, stubbed it

out with his shoe. "I hate to waste one, but I don't think

you taste quite as good on the end of a butt as tobacco

does."

My breath was ragged, but I tried to focus. I gently

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Jason Pinter

tugged down on my wrist bonds, felt the reassuring pull

that the screw was fastened inside the knot. I began to work

it more, continuously pressing my wrists against the metal

to wedge it in even farther. I nearly gasped when I realized

the screw was in as far as it would go. I'd created a hole

in the knot. Now all I had to do was make it bigger.

"Do you smoke?" the man asked.

"Fuck you," I said.

"That's a brand I'm unfamiliar with. But since you

seem to be full of answers now, I'll ask again. What did

Petrovsky tell you?"

"He told me your mother's a whore and your father

liked to dress up like Raggedy Ann for Christmas."

The man sighed deeply. I didn't care. The longer we

played this game the more time I had. I felt the knot begin

to loosen, and soon I was able to slip my index finger

inside the knot hole. I pulled down on the screw, worked

the loop with my finger, felt it began to slip more. I

couldn't let him notice, so I did it slowly. Methodically.

My chest hurt like hell, but I blocked it out. Amanda

was somewhere in this house, and even if I did talk, there

was no way I trusted this guy to let her live. Rule number

one, when a sociopath makes a promise, believe the

opposite.

"First time I got burned by one of these," the man said,

"I was serving time up in Attica. The guards, hoo, man,

the guards. They sure liked to have their fun with us. One

of the prisoners got out of line, talked back, caused a

ruckus at the mess hall, they'd take a lit butt to the guy's

armpit. Maybe the bottom of his feet. Something sweet

like that. Something that wouldn't go away so fast. At

least it would smell sweet after they got done with you. I

guess you can see they did a little number on my arms

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here. Fifty-two, if I counted right, and I won't even get into

the rest of my body. 'Course, one time they burnt my

arches so bad I couldn't walk for a week. So first thing I

did when we got a hold of that place? When us boys took

over that prison back in '71? I took a cig, lit the mother

up, and stuck it in that same man's eye until it started

smoking."

I heard the strike of another match, and he lit another

cigarette. Another Chesterfield.

"Did you know," he said, taking a long drag, "that the

human hand alone has more than nine thousand nerve

endings and six hundred pain sensors? And most of that

is concentrated in the fingertips?"

"Yeah, I learned that back in health class."

"What do you think it would feel like to experience

mind-numbing pain in the most sensitive area of your

body? Do you think you'd enjoy that? Better yet, do you

think Ms. Davies would enjoy that?"

I couldn't help but think about the scars already on my

hand, from when a madman played butcher shop with it a

while back. I certainly wasn't aching for more.

I tugged harder, felt my finger slip through one of the

rope's cords. Soon I was able to fit two, then three fingers

inside, and I slowly unraveled the rope. I grabbed the end

gently before it could fall, but my hands were free. My

feet, though, were another matter, and there was no way I

could get to them without Chesterfield man noticing.

Unless...

"See, if you don't answer my question, we're going to

find out just how loud you and your friend can scream.

And trust me, nobody will be able to hear you."

"It can't be any louder than you scream when your

'associate' sticks his finger up your ass."

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Jason Pinter

The man frowned, again sucked down the cig, leaving

a long ash dangling from the tip.

"Come on, dickhead," I said. "Let's see what you got."

The man looked at me, pissed off and confused. "Let's

see if you're this much fun in a minute."

He placed the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, then reached up with his free hand to steady mine

before he burned off my fingertips. As he raised the cigarette, I took a deep breath and blew the long piece of ash

directly into his face.

It erupted in a cloud of gray smoke, and the man hacked

and coughed and clawed at his eyes.

Before he could take a step back, I pulled off the bonds

around my wrists, wound up and backhanded him across

the face. He went sprawling across the floor. The cigarette

skittered away and went out.

Frantically I bent over and began undoing the bonds at

my feet. They were tight, but soon I was able to loosen

them. Just then the man stood up, blood leaking from a cut

across his cheek. He had fire in his eyes as he ran straight

toward me. At that moment I pulled the bonds away from

my feet, sidestepped the man and shoved his head against

the metal pipe. There was a sickening thud as he bounced

off it, then crumpled to the floor in a heap.

I was wobbly standing up. I heard a grunt, saw the man

begin to push himself up. There was hatred in his eyes. I

didn't hesitate.

I ran forward and kicked him in the head as hard as I

could. The breath left him as he lay there, motionless.

As I tried to get the blood flowing back to my feet, I

noticed the glint of metal coming from a key ring in his

pocket. There were three keys on it. I picked it up, ran for

the door. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. I took turns insert- The Stolen

183

ing each key inside, and on the third one it clicked home.

I twisted the knob, opened the door and prayed Amanda

was all right. I glanced back, saw the man unmoving but

still breathing steadily. Then I braced myself for whatever

horrors awaited in the rest of this house.

But when I ran up the stairs to the main floor, I was

shocked to see that I wasn't being held in some dungeon.

Instead, I was standing in the middle of what looked like

the foyer of a typical suburban house.

"What the hell...?" I whispered.

The hardwood floors had been recently sanded and

polished, and the carpeting on the stairs was white and

clean. Several framed paintings hung from the walls. A

crystal chandelier hung above me, and a family room

with a large-screen television branched off to the left.

There was a doll with braided hair lying on the floor, next

to what looked like a scattered set of a child's building

blocks. Everything was clean. I didn't know what to

make of it.

"Amanda!" I yelled. There was no response.

I sprinted to the other end of the hall, then took the stairs

two at a time to the upper floor.

I ran down a narrow hall. There were three doors, both

closed. I opened the first one. It was a bathroom. Hand

soaps. Clean towels. No window. No Amanda.

I approached the other door. Pushed it. It opened into

what looked like a master bedroom. A king-size bed sat

in the center, with a floral comforter cleanly tucked in.

Oddly there were no photos anywhere, as though the place

had been disinfected of humanity.

I looked around. Didn't see anything.

Then I went to the other door. Stopped in front of it.

This one was different. It was painted white like the others,

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but the paint seemed duller. I touched the surface, immediately recoiled. The other doors were wooden. This one

was metal. And I knew right away that one of the keys on

my chain would open the dead bolt.

I thrust the key inside, got it on the first twist, but then

froze when I heard someone coming up the stairs.

The lock unlatched and I pushed the door open.

And then I was standing in what looked like the dream

room of any young girl. There were toys everywhere.

Coloring books. A large dollhouse filled with tiny furniture. Tapes and CDs and games were stacked high in a

corner. Pink wallpaper, and every book a child could ever

want to read. And there, sitting on a made bed, her face a

mess of fright and relief, was Amanda.

She jumped up and threw her arms around my chest. I

winced as she pressed on the cigarette burn, then took her

arm and said, "We need to go. Right now."

Then I noticed something. On the floor. A small scrap

of paper. I picked it up, unfolded it. It was a receipt. It was

from a store called Toyz 4 Fun. I clenched my jaw. At that

moment I knew where we were. I knew what this house

was.

Panic welled inside me as I shoved the receipt into my

pocket, grabbed Amanda's hand as we went for the door,

still slightly ajar. I heard someone running down the hall,

shouting, "Ray, where the hell are you, buddy?"

I waited until the footsteps were right outside, then I

slammed the heavy metal door closed as hard as I could.

There was an audible oomph as whoever was on the other

side was knocked flat off his feet.

I flung open the door and ran past, my heart hammering when I saw that the man I'd just knocked down had a

gun in his right hand.

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We sprinted downstairs and toward the front door.

Turned the knob. It was locked. One more key left.

I inserted the last key in the lock, let out a breath when

it caught, then turned the handle and opened the door to

the outside.

As soon as we stepped onto the front porch, Amanda

let out a bloodcurdling scream. There was a body in the

driveway. It was lying in a pool of blood. The beard gave

it away. It was Dmitri Petrovsky, and he was very dead.

"Run!" I shouted.

We ran down the driveway, and I recognized that we

were in the exact same place that we'd cornered Petrovsky. The high brick walls and trees obscured the view

beyond the house. There was nobody to hear us scream.

We sprinted around the bend, wind whistling past us,

and saw the metal gates up ahead.

They were closed. And I had no keys left.

When we reached the brick wall, I knelt down, cupped

my hands and said, "Climb on."

Amanda stepped onto my hands.

"One, two, three. "

I heaved up as she jumped. Her hands caught the rim

of the wall. I pushed from below as Amanda pulled herself

up, managing to straddle her legs across the wall.

"Come on!" she shouted.

Just as I got ready to jump, I heard a loud bang and a

chunk of brick exploded right beside me.

"Come on, Henry, they're shooting at us!"

I jumped up, managed to get hold of the wall. Amanda

gripped my wrists and began to pull. I got a small foothold

in the chunk of wall that'd been blown out, then pushed

off and hoisted myself up. Another shot rang out, and

brick flew apart right where my foot had been.

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We toppled over the wall, landed on the other side in a

tangled mess. I leaped to my feet, helped Amanda up.

Then we ran as fast as we could, until the woods swallowed us.

We arrived panting at the road we'd turned off of when

we followed Petrovsky. Huntley Terrace. It was dark out.

I had no idea where we were or what day it was.

"Come on," I said, taking Amanda's hand again. I

thought back to the last time this happened, the last time

we were both running for our lives. Back then Amanda

was fleeing with a man she didn't know. This time, for

better or worse, she knew what she'd gotten into.

We jogged down the dark road, continually looking

over our shoulders to see if we were being followed. I

heard nothing, saw nothing. My body felt numb. I was still

shirtless, and my side ached. Amanda suddenly stopped,

put her hand on my chest.

"Is that a burn mark?" she said.

"We don't have time," I panted.

Then out of the darkness a pair of headlights

appeared. My eyes widened, and I ran forward waving

my hands like a crazy person. I was in the middle of the

road, and I only prayed the driver could see well enough

not to run me over.

It was a gray Cadillac. It pulled to a stop a yard in front

of me. I ran to the driver's-side window, gasping for air.

The driver was a woman of about forty, a DVD from

Blockbuster on her front dashboard.

"Don't...don't hurt me," she said. Her eyes were frightened. I could only imagine the sight in front of her.

"Please," I said, "my friend and I were attacked. If you

could just take us away from here and call the police...

Please, they're trying to kill us."

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She reached for the shift, prepared to drive away, then saw

Amanda huddled next to me, shivering in the lights of her

car.

A minute later we were in the backseat of the Cadillac,

heading away from one nightmare.

Then I felt the receipt in my pocket, and knew that

another nightmare had just begun.

23

The police station was cold. Nobody had gone out of their

way to offer Amanda or me a blanket or a drink or anything

else to settle our nerves. I was wearing a blue workshirt

with the name "Bill" stitched across the front. One of the

detectives had given it to me. I didn't want to know where

it came from, but didn't get the feeling Bill was looking

too hard for it.

Ironically the only hospital within driving distance was

Yardley. After the kind Vanessa Milne picked us up on the

side of the road in her Cadillac, she took us right to the

emergency room. The docs smeared the burn with something called Silvadene, then dressed it, told me to change

the dressing every two hours and reapply the cream. It was

just a first-degree burn. Would go away in a week, and

hopefully wouldn't leave a scar. Amanda didn't have a

scratch on her. But she was pissed off beyond belief.

A pair of detectives met us at Yardley, but they made

us wait a good two hours before arriving. And even when

they did, they didn't seem too keen to help. I found this

odd, that two people had escaped from men who wanted

to either torture or kill them, and they seemed about as

interested as they would be in macroeconomics.

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They asked several questions. First, why had we

decided to follow Dmitri Petrovsky in the first place, and

what we planned to ask him. I told them the truth. That

Dmitri Petrovsky was linked to two children born in Hobbs

County who'd disappeared, only to reappear several years

later. I told them that we had a feeling based on his

behavior at the pediatric clinic that he'd been withholding

something. They asked for proof of misconduct. I told

them we didn't have proof. That was the point of following him.

After we were released, the cops took us back to the

Hobbs PD station. We were led through a cubicle farm of

desks and eventually seated in a nondescript gray room

with a metal table and chairs that were bolted to the floor.

A pitcher of water sat in front of us, along with two

glasses.

The same two cops joined us and sat down. They

poured themselves two cups of water, drank them loudly.

I had a strange feeling that we were being treated like the

criminals here.

"Can we get some of that?" Amanda asked. The cops

just stared at us. They had identical mustaches that rode

straight across their upper lips, then down the sides of

their mouths at a right angle. I got a gross mental image

of them standing over a sink with a razor, shaving those

'staches in neat lines.

"You have any idea what this town is like now?" the

fatter one asked. He had a crew cut and a neck full of angry

jowls, like he'd recently graduated from the Mike Ditka

finishing school. The one next to him was slightly trimmer,

yet had the same scornful look in his eye. Between these

two and the runaround I'd received from Lensicki earlier,

it was tiresome and frustrating to see the lack of support

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from this department. "What's done is done, and now here

you two come, harassing an upstanding member of our

community. You should be ashamed of yourselves."

"Damn ashamed," the other cop agreed.

"You've got it all wrong," I said. "I just want to know

why there's a doctor working at your hospital who knows

two children that were kidnapped, and who ends up dead

the same night we're held captive in some house in the

middle of Hobbs County. The fact that all of this went

down in your neck of the woods should, I don't know,

make you just the least bit interested, I'd think."

"About this...captive thing," the fat one said. "I find it

hard to believe that you followed this Russian doctor, as

you claim, and then you end up being taken by some guy

with a cigarette fetish? You're a reporter, right?"

"That's right," I said.

"Sure you're not looking to add a little spice to your

story?"

"Go to that house and you'll see if I'm adding anything," I said angrily.

The thin one chimed in. "So you followed the doctor

to his home, is that right? You waited in the hospital

parking lot?"

"I don't know if it was his home," I said. "We just

followed his car. In fact, I don't think he lived there at all.

I think he knew we were following him, and probably did

for a while. Wherever he led us wasn't his home, but he

set us up."

The fat one, whom I would guess was playing bad cop,

only the lines weren't really that clear, said, "You followed

him into, let me go over your statement again, a gated residence off Huntley Terrace?"

"That's right," I said.

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"You followed him into a gated community."

"No, it wasn't a gated community, just a home with a

gate out front."

"And a brick wall surrounding the property."

"That's right."

"And you want us to investigate him. " He paused, a

scowl coming over his face. "Sounds to me like you two

are the ones should be reprimanded."

"The gates were open," Amanda added. "And Petrovsky spoke to us when we got out of the car."

"That's when," the thin one said, "everything went,

ahem, black. Right?"

"Right," I said. "They must have knocked us out or

drugged us. I don't remember."

"And why did you follow Petrovsky to begin with?"

Fatty said.

"We think he has knowledge about the kidnappings that

took place over the past few years. He was the attending physician for the births of both Daniel Linwood and Michelle

Oliveira. Both children disappeared and reappeared years

later with no memory of their time gone missing."

"And why did you decide to follow the good doctor?"

thin man said.

"When we first spoke to him at his office, he claimed

to not know anything. It was a blatant lie." I paused, then

added, "And I think there's been another kidnapping. In

addition to Danny Linwood and Michelle."

"You fucking reporters," Ditka said. "Another kidnapping? You find two pieces of information got no connection, you put 'em together and make up some story 'bout

how there's some big conspiracy. All just to sell a few

newspapers, make a name for yourself. Do you have any

proof of another kidnapping?"

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"Proof? Not hard evidence, but..."

"Listen, fuckhead. Hobbs County is a nice town. I've

lived here near twenty years. Now, ten years ago I might

have said, yeah, we got some problems, not exactly the

kind of place I'd want my kids growing up. But all that's

different now. Things have changed. It's not right for you

to go bringing up the bad times, because we're past that."

"Tell that to Dmitri Petrovsky."

"We will when we find him," the other cop said.

"Let's go right now," I said, standing up. "I'm pretty

sure I remember how to get there. Us four, right now."

"Calm your horses, tough guy," Ditka said again.

"We're not going anywhere."

We sat there in silence watching the cops drink water

for ten minutes. Then right as I was about to grab the thing

and douse Amanda and me with it, Wallace Langston

entered, followed by Curt Sheffield. I'd never been happier

to see anyone in my life.

"I got your message," Wallace said. "And I figured you

could use a little backup."

The cops eyed Wallace with skepticism, but when they

saw Curt standing there, all six foot three, two hundred

sculpted pounds of him, they went right into bully mode

once the bullies had been called on their bluff.

Wallace, happy to be good cop to Curt's badass one,

passed out his business card to the cops.

"Gentlemen," he said. "My name is Wallace Langston,

and Henry Parker is under my employ at the New York

Gazette. Our legal counsel is on the way, but I do have

some familiarity with legal rights, and unless you're

holding Mr. Parker or Miss Davies for a crime, I'm going

to ask you leave the room so we can speak in private. And

then we plan to leave your care posthaste."

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The cops conferred in a lame attempt at whispering, but

we all heard every word. Since it was primarily lots of

cursing under their breath, we didn't learn anything new, but

they didn't seem particularly keen to grant Wallace's request.

Yet when Curt stepped forward with his hands folded across

his chest, they got up right quick and left the room.

As soon as Ditka and his buddy closed the door, I

grabbed the pitcher and poured two glasses. We gulped

them down in less time than it took Wallace to say,

"Thirsty?"

Water dribbling down my chin, I said, "Yeah, thanks.

Hope those assholes are better detectives than they are

hosts."

"I don't think they're any worse detectives than you'll

find in most departments," Curt said. "I get the feeling

they're slacking off for a reason that doesn't involve apathy."

Wallace walked around to the other side of the table,

pulled a chair out and sat down. He looked tired as he ran his

hands through his thinning hair. Curt sat down, as well, much

more at ease now that he didn't have to play bodyguard.

"Damn, it's fun to scare assholes," he said. "How you

holding up, Henry?"

"My chest hurts like hell and other than getting handcuffed to a pipe and seeing the dead body of the doctor I

planned to investigate for his involvement in several kidnappings, I'm doing just peachy."

"Amanda?" he said.

She said, "Hey, Curt. I'm okay." Her words betrayed

her. Her eyes gave away the terror we'd just escaped.

"Bullshit, but you're one hell of a trouper, Amanda.

You're lucky it's my day off, no way Carruthers would let

me come up here to help your ass out on my normal shift.

I expect major reciprocation. I mean major reciprocation."

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"No problem," I said. "I can pull a few strings, get you

in the gossip pages at the Dispatch for having a thirteeninch prick or something."

"Friends like these," Curt said.

Amanda was still silent. I could tell she was upset, but

there was a lot to choose from. If she was still scared or

in shock from what happened last night, or from the fact

our leads seemed to have shrunk, I couldn't tell. At some

point I'd need time to talk to her.

Wallace said. "Henry, tell me, what the hell were you

thinking?"

I was taken aback, said stupidly, "Sir?"

"I can't think of any reason for you to be up here. I

spoke to the watch commander. He told me you claimed to

be pursuing a Dr. Dmitri Petrovsky about his involvement

or knowledge about the disappearances of Daniel Linwood

and some girl named Michelle Oliveira. Last I recall, I

didn't give you permission to be working this story. In fact,

I distinctly remember telling you to stay the hell away from

it."

"Sir, I know," I said. "But there is more to this case than

we think. Michelle Oliveira disappeared and reappeared

in the exact same way as Daniel Linwood. And we were

able to confirm that Petrovsky was the attending pediatrician for both children. He's involved. We can be sure about

that now. He set us up last night."

"And now, what, you go on stakeouts? You put on a surveillance detail? Who are you, Kojak?"

"No, sir."

"So did you not hear me the other day, Parker? Did you

not understand me when I told you to work another story?"

I mumbled under my breath. Loud enough so that

everyone at the table could hear me.

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"I'm sorry, what was that, Henry?" Wallace said,

folding his ear forward mockingly.

"I said nobody else gives a shit. That's why I do."

"I must have missed something," Wallace said. "Where

do you get off saying nobody cares?"

"Look at this!" I yelled. "You want me off the story

because Gray Talbot sticks his manicured nails into things.

He wants the community to heal. And I'm getting the

runaround worse in Hobbs County than I did from my dad,

and that's saying something. These cops either don't give

a shit, or just want to sweep everything under the carpet.

And meanwhile, the parents of these poor kids have to deal

with the fact that there are five years missing from their

children's lives and everyone else is sitting around with

their thumbs up their asses like it's a source of protein."

Wallace sat back, stunned for a moment. I caught my

breath. Half expected him to fire me on the spot.

"You're wrong, Parker," he said. "We do care. But

what's done is done. Those kids are never getting those

years back. These kind of wounds need time to heal, and

the longer we leave them open, the more gangrene sets in,

both for the families and their communities. Hobbs County

won't win any 'best place to raise your family' awards, but

it's a long way from what it used to be. People in Meriden

regrouped after Michelle Oliveira came back. They banded

together. Made the town safer. A better place to live. I hate

to say this, but that girl disappearing was the best thing that

ever happened to that town. I think you can understand

why folks aren't keen to reopen old wounds."

"Maybe these wounds are deeper than anyone knows,"

I said.

"And why do you think that?"

I dug into my pocket. Took out the receipt I found on

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the floor in the room Amanda was kept in. Put it on the

table, where it sat like a rancid piece of meat.

"What is that?" Wallace asked.

"See for yourself."

He reached across the table, picked it up, unfolded it,

smoothed out the crinkles, read it. Then he dropped it

back on the table.

"It's a receipt from a toy store for dollhouse accessories. So what?"

"It's from the Toyz 4 Fun store in White Plains," I said.

"White Plains is about fifteen minutes from Hobbs County."

"So?"

"Look at the date," I said. Wallace picked the receipt

up again, read it. His eyes squinted. I could tell he was

starting to follow.

"This receipt was printed less than a week ago. Then it

turns up in the house where Amanda and I follow Dr. Petrovsky to, the same house where we're held and nearly killed.

This wasn't some ramshackle, broken-down tenement we're

talking about. This place was in good condition."

"And there was a large dollhouse in one room," Amanda

said. "A girl's room. Every toy you could ever want."

Wallace's eyes jerked to her. She locked him dead-on. He

turned away. Knew that whatever he thought of me,

Amanda wouldn't bullshit him.

"That house was being used as some sort of detainment

center," I said. "That brick wall, that gate, they weren't

used to keep people from getting in. They were to keep

people from getting out."

"Who?" Curt asked.

"Kids," I said. "The family that lived there was holding

a child captive. And recently, too. Which is why I think

there's been another kidnapping. Just like Daniel Linwood

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and Michelle Oliveira. Somebody just bought toys for a

child that was being held in that very house. And they

bought them recently."

"Jesus Christ," Wallace said. "You're sure you found

this in that house?"

"Sure as the day is twenty-four hours."

Amanda said, "You could just say yes, you know."

"Yes," I said. "I'm sure."

"And I saw Henry take it," she added. "And I can vouch

for what we saw there."

"We need to find out whose name that house is registered under," Wallace said. "We need to get the cops there

to search the place. My goodness, if this is all true..."

"Does this mean I'm back on the story?" I asked.

"One step at a time, Parker," he said. I knew this was

as good as a yes. "Right now, all we need to do is..."

Just then a loud commotion began outside the conference

room. We turned around, could see cops running, grabbing

equipment, heading out the door. They looked panicked.

"What the hell...?" Curt said.

We got up simultaneously and headed outside. Half a

dozen cops jogged by us.

"What's going on?" Amanda asked nobody in particular. We saw the fat cop from earlier rushing past. Wallace

managed to get his attention.

"Officer, what's going on?"

"Four-alarm blaze," he said. "Possible survivors

trapped inside the building."

"Oh, God," Amanda said.

"Where?" Wallace asked.

"Not sure exactly," the cop said. "Somewhere off

Huntley Terrace."

"Huntley Terrace," Amanda said. "Isn't that...?"

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I nodded, a chill running through my blood. "That's the

street where we followed Petrovsky."

Wallace stood rigid. "Come on," he said. There was

urgency in his voice, but something else as well. Something scared.

We ran outside. Wallace led us to a brown Volvo. We

piled in; he and Curt in the front, Amanda and I in the back.

He pulled out of the lot and followed the caravan of HCPD

police cars as they peeled out, sirens blaring.

The silence in the car was deafening. Nobody wanting

to state what was clearly on all our minds. What we were

all praying wouldn't be true.

After several miles the caravan made a right onto

Huntley Terrace. Amanda nudged me. I nodded back to her.

I felt her hand take mine. And squeeze.

"This is where we were last night," I said.

Wallace just drove.

A few miles along Huntley Terrace, we noticed the

flashing lights multiply. I heard the familiar siren of a fire

truck. Then the horrible stench of smoke filled the car, and

we could see a thick, black cloud rising above the treeline.

We parked the car outside the road the cop cars had turned

onto. There was a small wooden sign outside the gravel

road that read "482." It had been too dark to see any signs

the other night. We got out and began to tentatively walk

down the road to see what was going on. There was

shouting, cursing, and there were more sirens on the way.

My heart was hammering in my chest. We all stayed

close together. And then there they were. The same metal

gates we'd climbed over last night. Beyond that the very

house where we'd barely escaped with our lives.

Only now the house was engulfed in a horrific plumage

of red flames. Burning that home right to the very ground.

24

The minivan pulled into the parking lot at a quarter to four

in the afternoon. Caroline watched as Bob Reed pushed

open the driver's-side door, then paused a moment to let

the muscles in his arm and shoulder stretch. He gingerly

stepped out one foot at a time, then threw his arms back

in an exaggerated stretch, yawning at the top of his lungs.

The were outside of some sort of hotel or motel.

Caroline could see other people entering and exiting. She

didn't know where they were or why they were here, only

that Elaine and Bob had spent nearly the whole car ride in

a chilly silence.

When Bob regained his composure, Elaine was out and

opening the minivan's door. Caroline watched as Elaine

unbuckled Patrick's seat belt, then picked her child up and

held him fast in her arms. Caroline felt a longing as she

watched this intimate act, and even though both Elaine and

Bob smothered her with kisses and presents, they always

felt somewhat odd, forced. Last night, when Elaine entered

her room with the curt instructions to get ready for a long

car trip, Caroline didn't know what to think. She was too

confused to be scared, and she hadn't been in that house

long enough to really miss it. After placing Patrick on the

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ground, Elaine came around to her side. She stroked

Caroline's hair, her fingers gentle, and Caroline smiled at

the warmth of her fingertips. She gently kissed Caroline's

forehead, then turned her attention back outside.

"Mommy?" Patrick said.

"Hey, sweetie," Elaine said. "Did you have a good

nap?"

Patrick nodded, then buried his face back in her

shoulder as she leaned down. Elaine stroked his hair, that

strawberry-blond lock that confused Caroline. Neither

Bob nor Elaine had red hair. She'd asked Elaine how they

could have a boy with different color hair, and she just said,

God makes us all unique.

Elaine turned to Bob, who was digging a pack of gum

from his pocket, and said, "You want to get her?" Caroline

assumed she was the "her" being referred to.

Bob looked at Elaine, then turned toward the van, in no

real rush to say yes. Caroline had noticed that Bob had

become more and more reluctant to spend time with her

over the past few days. In the beginning he came into her

room often, even helped her set up that beautiful new dollhouse. But he'd withdrawn recently, and sometimes even

seemed afraid to touch her.

Thankfully, the coughing fits had passed. Bob and

Elaine seemed relieved at this. Bob had said something

strange that Caroline remembered.

We're supposed to take care of this girl, not kill her.

Elaine had marched out of the room, slammed the door

and didn't speak to him until dinner. And now they were

parked at some strange building, after having left that

house in a matter of minutes.

With a great sigh, Bob went around to the passenger

side, climbed in and unhooked Caroline from her harness.

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His fingers weren't nearly as gentle, as if he were unpacking a box rather than handling a human being.

"Ow," Caroline said as one of Bob's fingers accidentally jabbed her ribs.

"Christ, Bob, she's not a piece of meat," Elaine reprimanded. "Be careful."

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Honey, make sure to bring Boo Boo. You don't want

to lose him."

Caroline picked the small brown teddy bear off the seat

and held it fast to her chest. That bear was the only thing

she'd come with. Elaine had thrown together a bag of

clothes, but the bear was the only thing she wanted.

It had a goofy smile and button eyes, fur that was soft

to the touch. Out of all the presents the Reeds had bought

her over the past few weeks, this was by far her favorite.

"Boo Boo," Caroline said. "He's scared. He wants to

know where we are."

"Tell Boo Boo he's safe and not to worry," Elaine said.

"And make sure he tells you the same thing."

Caroline wanted to believe Elaine, but there was something in her eyes that belied the truth.

Bob reached in and picked up both the girl and Boo

Boo, carried them gently out of the van. Caroline blinked

sleep from her eyes, looked around.

"Where are we?" she asked.

Bob didn't say a word. Instead he looked at Elaine and

shrugged. You can answer this one.

Elaine walked over, put her hand against the young

girl's cheek.

"We're staying at another house for a little while," she

said. "Our home needs a little renovation, so we'll just be

staying here until it's ready."

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"What about my room?" Caroline asked. Even though

she was happy with Boo Boo, she'd be sad if she didn't

get to play with her toys again. She couldn't believe all

those brand-new toys and dolls Elaine and Bob had bought

for her. She'd never had a dollhouse. It would be so sad if

she never got to play with it again.

"Hopefully you'll be back in it soon," Elaine said. Then

she smiled, gave Boo Boo a peck on the nose and made a

funny grr noise. Caroline laughed.

"Come on, hon," Bob said. "We should check in."

"I never thought we'd see him again," Elaine said. "At

least not until much later down the road. When it was time

to, you know."

"I know," Bob said. "But he told us something might

come up. Makes me wonder whether we should have ever

listened to that scarred-up asshole. Sorry, kids, pardon my

French."

"You know why we did," Elaine said. They both

looked at Patrick, and for a moment Caroline thought

Elaine might cry.

"Who are you talking about?" Caroline asked.

"Nobody," Elaine said. "Just a scary man that hopefully

you'll never have to meet. Now, come on, let's get you to

your new new room."

25

I got to work at six o'clock in the morning. I had to get

out of my apartment, where all I could do was think about

who burned down that house. And any moments I was able

to forget about that, my thoughts turned to Amanda.

I'd spent half an hour the previous evening on the phone

with Rent-a-Wreck, trying to explain how their car had

disappeared from the scene of a massive fire. Thankfully

I'd taken out insurance, but I wasn't looking forward to the

paperwork. Still, with that car gone, the company was out,

what, a buck ninety-five?

The cops had ushered us from the fire immediately. Before

leaving, I saw the two cops who'd been questioning us. They

were standing in the driveway, interviewing several people

I presumed to be neighbors. There was fear on the cops'faces.

They saw us as we left, but this time their attitude was gone.

I wondered if this would finally get them to investigate.

Wallace drove us back to New York. He made it very

clear that I was to stay on the Linwood investigation. I felt

a swell of pride at this. Not only because I'd been right all

along, but because now I wanted, needed to know what

had happened to those children. And why someone

seemed willing to kill to keep it quiet.

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I spent the first part of the morning reading various

newspapers from Hobbs County over the past few years.

The archives of the Hobbs County Register were available

online, and it was easy to see that this was a city on the

verge of tremendous change and tremendous gentrification.

At around ten o'clock I stood up to grab a cup of coffee

from the pantry, when I looked over at Jack's desk and

noticed that the old man wasn't there. It was curious, since

most mornings he was in the office before the sun rose,

and I knew today wasn't his day off.

Walking over, I noticed that his computer wasn't on and

the red message light on his phone was blinking. His caller

ID read sixteen missed calls. I checked the log. He hadn't

checked a single message since the previous night. That

wasn't like Jack, who I knew carried his work home with

him, often calling his voice mail to see if a source had

gotten back, or if there was a juicy new scoop from one

of his many contacts around the city.

Since my nerves were already a bit frayed from the

previous few days, I half jogged over to Wallace's office to

see what the deal was. He was reading, looked up expectantly.

"Parker. How you holding up?"

"Been better," I said. "Just doing some background

work on Hobbs County right now. Hey, have you seen

Jack recently?"

Wallace shook his head. "Not since last night. He filed

his story, then left. Haven't seen him since."

"Well, it doesn't look like he came in today, and I just

wanted to make sure everything's all right."

"Isn't Jack off today?"

I shook my head. "Not till Friday."

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Wallace picked up a pen, twirled it as he thought. "I

don't know what to tell you. I've known Jack for nearly

thirty years, and I've seen him go through some of the

toughest times of his life. Three or four wives, a near

bankruptcy. Missing a day of work at this point in his

career, at this point he's playing with the house's money,

so I won't make a stink."

"Sir, if you don't mind, I just want to be sure you're

right. He hasn't been himself for a few months now. I'm

going to swing by his place, make sure the status quo is,

well, safe and sound." And sober.

Wallace shrugged. "Do what you must. If he's there, tell

him we'll consider it a sick day."

"And if he's not there?"

"He's a grown man. Check the nearest coffee shop or

cigar lounge." Or bar, I longed to add, but didn't.

"I'll be back soon," I said. "Hopefully he's on the couch

watching old Archie Bunker episodes or something."

As I was leaving the office, I heard Wallace say, "Henry?"

I turned around. "Yes?"

"Give me a call if you, well, find anything out of the

ordinary." The look in his eyes admitted that as much as

he wanted to think Jack was at home watching TV or at a

cigar lounge burning through a Macanudo, we both knew

that wasn't likely.

"I'll call as soon as I find him."

After grabbing my bag and cell phone, I hopped a cab

to Jack's apartment. It was one of those brand-spankingnew NYC cabs with the video monitor in the divider. Some

hairsprayed goon was gushing over a musical comedy set

to open that week. I put it on Mute, then when I got tired

of seeing the primped-and-coiffed anchor I turned the

screen off.

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I'd never been to Jack's place. He'd invited me over

once or twice for a drink, but I always had to decline for

one reason or another. He'd stopped by mine a few times,

though not in a while. Though I'd considered the man an

icon and a mentor, someone without whom I wouldn't

have a career, my refusal to spend time with him outside

of work seemed like an artificial boundary I'd recently had

to create. I couldn't think of spending a night in better

company, hearing Jack's thousands of stories about his

career, what the news used to be like. I had to deprive

myself of that, though, for his own sake.

A few months ago, Jack had told me that to become a

legend in any line of work, you had to rid yourself of

outside distractions. Focus on the ball, put in your time,

and greatness would come. He frowned on taking long

vacations, having friends and even giving yourself up to

a lover. Jack was thrice divorced and had admitted to me

that though he enjoyed the companionship, at least the

physical aspect, he'd never allowed himself to become a

real husband. He never offered the emotional companionship his lovers needed, and never desired to. To Jack, the

perfect relationship was one where he could come home

to a delicious meal, talk about his day, make love and fall

asleep. He knew he wasn't able to give to someone else

the same things he required, and that never bothered him.

Most of his wives were aware of it before they met him.

Yet they married him either in spite of this or with the misguided belief they could change him.

But Jack would never change. Not for anyone or

anything. He was often wrong, but never in doubt. And

that's what alarmed me.

Jack lived in a condominium in the Clinton area of

New York at Forty-Eighth and Ninth. Floor-to-ceiling

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windows, he'd told me, and an unobstructed view that

looked over the West Side Highway, where you could see

past the Hudson River. A killer view. And since he'd

bought it as a new construction, he regaled me about his

brand-new appliances as though they were grandchildren.

As far as I knew, Jack's brand-new Viking stove had been

untouched in two years, to the glee of the numerous takeout restaurants in the neighborhood who would have a hard

time paying the rent each month if Jack ever decided to

take a cooking class.

A colleague once looked up Jack's purchase on

streeteasy.com, and learned that he'd bought the apartment for a cool $1.5 million, while also putting down a

higher-than-usual twenty percent for the place. It gave me

hope that at some point in the future, continuing in this line

of work might enable me to afford such luxury. For now,

my crummy rental with the friendly rodent staff and unfriendly super would have to do.

We pulled up to his building and I paid the driver. I

walked up to the lobby, slightly embarrassed that I was

even doing this. Who the hell was I to have any doubts

about Jack? The man had built a career any newsperson

would die for, and here I was like the parent who thought

his kid was playing hooky. That this child was in his sixties

with a monthly mortgage payment likely larger than my

college tuition was beside the point.

The doorman was an elderly gent with a wisp of gray

hair and teeth slightly yellow and askew. He opened the

door for me and smiled pleasantly.

"I'm here to see Jack O'Donnell," I said.

"Just a second." He picked up a black phone that looked

to be connected to some amazingly fancy and complicated

intercom system. He fiddled with the buttons for a minute,

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then flipped through a Rolodex. "Who may I ask is

visiting?"

"Henry Parker."

"Just a moment, Mr. Parker."

He pressed a buzzer, held the phone to his ear and

waited. After a minute he put the phone down. "I'm sorry,

sir, nobody's answering."

"Hold on one sec," I said. I took out my cell phone,

dialed Jack's home phone, then his cell phone. Both went

to voice mail before anyone picked up. Odd. "Would you

mind trying one more time?"

"Certainly, sir."

He pressed the buzzer again, held the phone to his ear. A

few seconds later the man's brow furrowed. "Yes, yes, hello?

Mr. O'Donnell?" The doorman seemed either confused or

concerned. "Mr. O'Donnell, is everything all right? There's

a Mr. Parker here to see you. Hello, Mr. O'Donnell?"

The doorman hung up,

"What happened?" I said, concern seeping into my

voice.

"I don't know, it sounded like Mr. O'Donnell, but he

sounded, well, I don't mean to judge, but how should I say,

out of it?"

"Out of it? Like how?"

"I really don't know." He looked concerned, then said,

"How do you know Jack?"

"I work with him at the Gazette. " He seemed unsure

of whether to let me up. "Look, Jack didn't come in to

work today and that's not like him. I just want to make

sure he's safe."

"Is that right," he said, not as a question. After considering this, he said, "He's on the fifth floor, the second

elevator bank on your left."

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I thanked the doorman and walked swiftly to the

elevator. I rode it to five. Jack occupied the whole floor.

Not a bad deal. I approached and rang the doorbell. Immediately I could sense something was wrong. Not from

the door itself, but because the entire hallway stank of

booze and some sort of rot.

I pressed the bell again, then banged on the door, my

heart racing.

"Jack!" I yelled. "Jack, are you in there? Come on,

buddy, open up."

I heard a shuffling, and froze. The shuffling came from

behind the door, and it was getting closer. I backed up, didn't

know what the hell was going on. I heard a sound come from

inside the apartment, a soft moan that chilled my blood.

"Jack, goddamn it, open up!"

I heard a lock disengage, then the door opened a crack.

It didn't open any farther. I approached the door, pushed

it open wider.

"Jack? Where are...?"

My breath caught in my throat when I could see what

was behind the door. Jack was lying in a puddle of what

looked like vomit. His undershirt was covered in green

chunks, and the whole apartment smelled like a rotted distillery. Flecks were stuck to the man's beard.

"Oh, Jesus, Jack."

I shoved the door open and pushed in, gathering the old

man in my arms. He was heavy and essentially dead

weight, but I managed to drag him over to the couch. The

white leather was covered in odd stains. Empty bottles

littered the floor, tossed about like they were nothing more

than discarded paper clips.

"Jack, come on, talk to me." I patted his cheek, laying

him on the couch. Then I rushed into the kitchen, found

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where he kept his dishes and poured a glass of water. I

jogged back, tilted his head up. Raised the glass to his lips.

When I poured, the water ran down the sides of his mouth,

pooled in the folds of his pants.

"Come on! "

I tried again, this time opening his lips with my fingers.

When the water entered his mouth, he began to sputter and

cough. His eyes flickered open as he wiped the liquid

from his lips. He blinked a few times, his eyes red, lids

crusty.

"Henry?" he said.

"I'm here, Jack," I replied, cradling his head.

"Forgot to call in sick today," he said, before going

slack in my arms.

26

I sat by the side of the bed, thinking about how much time

I'd spent in hospitals recently. Jack had been taken to

Bellevue, where he was diagnosed with acute alcohol poisoning.

I'd heard sketchy things about Bellevue, some of which

were confirmed upon seeing several men clad all in inmate

orange walking handcuffed through the halls. I just prayed

the doctors here understood how important this patient

was, and had passed their medical board exams with flying

colors. Unfortunately, I was getting used to white hospital

walls. The antiseptic smell. The forced, sad smiles on concerned friends and family members.

My ex-girlfriend, Mya, was finally at home after recovering from several surgeries after her body was shattered

by a ruthless sociopath earlier in the year. I'd stayed by

Mya's bed for weeks, comforting her mother when we

didn't know if Mya would pull through, then comforting

Mya when she went through the agony of rehabilitation

and coping with the murder of her father by the same man

who'd tried to end her life.

When you give yourself to someone, you carry the

responsibility of not just being a friend or confidant, or

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even a lover, but giving yourself to them when they need

it most. I knew Mya had desired for us to get back together,

and perhaps the most difficult part of those weeks was

being a friend while keeping my distance. Physical pain

went away, or could be stunted through medication. It

broke my heart to deny her my affection when she

probably needed it most. But she would have been hurt

more later knowing my heart still belonged to another

woman.

Seeing Jack lying in bed made me wonder just what I

could, or would, give the man. Perhaps I'd been too emotionally reserved. Or perhaps not given enough.

The doctors had measured Jack's blood alcohol level at

an astonishing .19, well over double the legal limit in New

York.

An IV was hooked into his right arm, tubes in his nose

pumping oxygen, his breathing slow and steady. A bag

dripped fluids into his veins as they attempted to flush out

Jack's poisoned system. The doctors also informed me

they would be testing for cirrhosis of the liver. They

guessed--correctly--that this kind of drinking binge was

not limited to last night.

A doctor entered the room. He was middle-aged, wore

thick glasses on his thin nose. His eyes were red, tired. He

flipped through the chart at the foot of Jack's bed, then

checked out the readings on the monitors by the bedside.

He scribbled in the folder, then placed it back.

"How is he?" I asked. "Dr...."

The doctor turned, then said with a faint smile, "Dr.

Brenneman. I've seen worse."

"You didn't see him before they cleaned him up."

"There's always a worse, trust me. But he's lucky you

found him when you did. The biggest danger with alcohol

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poisoning is aspiration and asphyxiation. He could have

literally choked to death on his own vomit."

"Ordinarily, I'd say he owes me a drink for saving his

life, but..."

"I don't think that's the wisest course of action,"

Brenneman said.

"When will he wake up?" I asked.

"Well, that's all up to him. We're going to keep him for

a few days and monitor his fluid levels, make sure his liver

functions are all up to par, but he's not unconscious or

anything like that. Just sleeping."

"Got it. Thanks, Doc, I appreciate it. And I'm sure Jack

does, too."

He waved his hand, dismissing any gratitude. "I'm

actually a fan of Mr. O'Donnell's work," he said. "I

followed his reportings on the mob wars a few years back.

All that violence with Michael DiForio and his murder, it's

all so tawdry and terrible, but I just couldn't turn away.

They never did find the man who killed DiForio, did

they?"

"No, they didn't."

"Scares you to think there's someone out there walking

the streets dangerous enough to kill the head of a major organized-crime family, and slippery enough to get away with it."

"I know what you mean," I said. "So did you recognize

Jack right away?"

Brenneman laughed. "Are you kidding? The man's a New

York legend." Then his brow furrowed, as concern melted

into his features. "To be honest, that's what upsets me the

most. I've been around enough alcoholics not to judge, but

you never expect to see such a, well, legend suffer like he has.

To do to his body what he has. For some reason, and forgive

me for saying this, but I guess I expected more from him."

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"Yeah," I replied. "I guess we all did." Brenneman

nodded, turned to leave. "Hey, Doc, mind if I ask you one

more question?"

"Absolutely," he said, clutching his clipboard to his

chest.

"What could cause a person to lose their memory? Not

permanently, but, like, a chunk of it. A few years. What

could punch a hole in someone's life?"

"Well, a few things. I assume you're referring to a kind

of anterograde amnesia. Most of the time amnesia is the

result of some traumatic damage to the brain, specifically

the hippocampus and the medial temporal lobes. Anterograde, in which there is usually what's called a 'hole' or

'blackout episode,' happens as the result of a chemical imbalance. It's commonly referred to as Korsakoff syndrome."

"What happens when someone is a victim of Korsakoff?"

"Basically, it's a degenerative brain condition that's

brought on by a severe lack of thiamine--or vitamin B1--

in a person's brain. Thiamine helps metabolize fats and

carbohydrates in the body."

"Thiamine--is this a natural substance? Does the body

produce it?"

"No, it's like any other vitamin, it has to be absorbed

in the system from outside. There's vitamin B1 in dozens

of everyday foods, from bread to meat, vegetables, dairy.

You'd almost have to go out of your way to deprive

yourself of it.

"Is there any way this chemical imbalance--or Korsakoff syndrome--could be induced?"

"Absolutely. Have you heard of GHB or GBL?"

"Date-rape drugs, right?"

"That's the lay term for them, yes. In effect, what

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those drugs do is induce a form of retrograde amnesia.

Ironically, GHB is sometimes prescribed to help combat

alcoholism." Brenneman looked at Jack. He figured I was

asking these questions because of him. "GHB and

Rohypnol, especially when mixed with alcohol, can be a

potent and often lethal mixture."

"But aren't the effects of those drugs pretty shortterm?"

"Assuming they're not ingested in lethal amounts, yes,

they generally only cause memory lapses of four to ten

hours. And though that's not a tremendous amount of time,

in the grand scheme of things, people who use them for nefarious purposes can accomplish an awful lot of evil in that

time."

"What about long-term anterograde amnesia? Are there

any ways to induce Korsakoff syndrome in a way that

could affect the brain for months or even years?"

"In severe cases, people either born with dangerously

low levels of thiamine, or whose levels are brought down

to a certain level, can experience a form of long-term anterograde amnesia. The damage is done to the medial

thalamus, and if left untreated, if thiamine levels are left

below a certain level, the memory loss can be long-term,

or even permanent." Brenneman eyed me. "Ironically

again, alcoholism is one of the most common causes of

long-term anterograde amnesia."

Again he eyed Jack. And while Jack would face a tremendous struggle in his battle against the bottle, the more

pressing fight was to uncover what had happened to Daniel

Linwood and Michelle Oliveira. Jack was in good care. I

couldn't say the same about Girl X.

Suddenly I heard a buzzing sound, and Brenneman's

hand went to his coat. He took out a small pager, clicked

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it, then said, "I've been summoned. Nice to meet you,

Mr...."

"Henry Parker," I said.

"Mr. Parker." He looked at Jack. "Please, take care of

him. More important, get him to take care of himself."

Then Brenneman left.

I stayed with Jack for another half an hour. I just

watched him breathe, waiting for him to wake up. Half

wanting to go over there, shake his drunken ass until his

eyes opened, letting him have it about how he was

throwing his life's reputation away. How he was in danger

of throwing his legacy away. Instead I sat there, watching

the tubes drip, the machines beep, thinking about how the

man who single-handedly brought the New York Gazette

to prominence had to be carted out of his house like a

derelict.

After half an hour I couldn't sit there any longer, so I

left and called Wallace from the street.

"How is he?" the man said.

"About what you'd expect, only worse."

"I knew Jack was drinking, more than usual, but I had

no idea it was this bad."

"So you knew he was developing a problem." I was this

close to screaming at my boss, and I didn't care.

"Yes, but he was still turning his stories in on time and

he was still a valuable member of the team here."

"Wallace, we both know his stuff hasn't been top-notch

in a while."

"So Jack's lost a little off his fastball. But he's still

faster than most reporters, and he's got enough smarts,

contacts and writing chops to make up for anything he's

lost."

"He doesn't have to lose anything, it's being taken from

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him, bottle by bottle. He's worked for you for what, thirty

years? And you repay him by turning a blind eye?"

"Watch it, Parker," Wallace snapped. "You haven't been

here long enough and you haven't known Jack long

enough to judge either of us. We'll get O'Donnell the help

he needs. Right now your only job is as an employee of

this newspaper. Assuming you still want to be."

"Of course I do," I said. "More than ever."

"Good. Then show it."

Wallace hung up. I felt a great anger surge through me.

Both at the runaround I was getting on the Linwood/Oliveira

kidnappings, and now this. I'd looked up to Jack for so many

years, spent so much of my childhood idolizing this pillar

of a man, to see him reduced to a lump under a hospital throw

rug was like seeing a baseball bat taken to fine crystal. That's

one thing I'd learned in my years as a reporter. Every person,

no matter the pubic perception, had demons. And the higher

regard in which you held them in, the greater the disappointment when you realized their demons were as common

as anyone else's. I refused to believe that Jack O'Donnell

was a common alcoholic. The kind of guy who scrounged

around his cabinets for that one drop of Knob Creek he

knew was left. Jack had a gift that defied all of it. And once

he got help, he could polish that crystal back to a shine.

I took a cab back to my apartment. Last night I couldn't

wait to get to the office. Today I couldn't bear to spend

another minute there. I needed a respite, if only brief.

I threw my stuff on the couch, went into the kitchen and

found a Corona nestled behind a jar of pickles. The beer

tasted flat, but I didn't care. It had alcohol and that's all I

wanted right now. I needed a moment to feel oblivious,

blissfully ignorant, to have that feeling all alcoholics must

have when they pop the first top of the day and know that,

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pretty soon, the world outside wouldn't bother them for

much longer.

Before I could get to the second sip, my phone rang.

The caller ID read "Amanda." I picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Henry, everything all right? I've been trying to reach

you all day."

"Not really. Jack was admitted to the hospital this

morning. Alcohol poisoning. I walked in on him sitting in

a pile of his own vileness."

"Oh, God. I remember a while ago you thought he was

drinking too much."

"Yeah, I just never thought it would get this bad."

"I'm so sorry to hear that. I called you at the office, and

got worried when I couldn't find you. After the past few

days my mind's been all out of whack."

"I'm at home now. Having a beer. Feel the same way

as you."

There was a pregnant pause, and then Amanda said,

"Mind if I come over?"

Without waiting, I said, "No. That'd be nice."

"Be there in half an hour."

After we hung up, I got up and poured the rest of the

beer into the sink. Then I sat on the couch and waited.

I wondered: Would Dmitri Petrovsky still be alive if we

hadn't followed him? Possibly. But what the hell was he

mixed up in?

I still didn't know exactly what his link was to Danny

and Michelle. He was their pediatrician, but somehow he

was connected to my friend the Chesterfield-chainsmoking sociopath. One more trail to follow. I needed to

know who that man was, who lived in that house, and what

Dmitri Petrovsky knew that made necessary his permanent

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silence. One thing was for certain, my digging had opened

a can of worms someone very badly wanted kept closed.

I looked around my apartment. Humble even by

humble's standards. I knew when I moved to New York

that it was one of the most expensive cities in the world,

but nothing prepared me for three-dollar cups of coffee or

twelve-dollar movie tickets. I was paying about sixty

percent of my income to a landlord I never met, who took

longer to fix my air-conditioning than it would have taken

me to install a hot tub into a Buick Skylark. I had no idea

how long it took Jack to make a decent living, but I hoped

it wasn't too long in the waiting.

Twenty-five minutes later my buzzer rang. I peeked

out the window, saw Amanda standing on the street. She

looked up at me, waved. I let her in.

She came upstairs and sat down across the couch from

me. Hands folded under her chin. Her hair fell over her

shoulders, worry lines at her eyes. Though she was still

beautiful, the past few years had aged her slightly. We'd

been through so much together, yet strangely I'd known

this girl for less than two years. I still saw that brown hair

and remembered that on the day we met, despite the circumstances, she had made everything stand still, if only

for a moment. Women like Amanda, who were beautiful

almost in spite of their lack of effort, beautiful without

trying at all, they didn't come along too often.

We sat there in silence. It was the kind of quiet I hadn't

experienced with many other women. I longed for that

sense of confidence. Of comfort.

After a few minutes had passed, Amanda said, "What

do you think the cops will do now?"

"You mean the dedicated men and women of the Hobbs

County PD? Probably nothing. I'd bet my life savings that

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the same guy that mistook me for a barbecue started that

fire, but I can't imagine the cops will work very hard to

prove it. They want to wipe this whole mess under the bed

and be done with it."

"What about Petrovsky?"

"I don't know. They claim they never found a body,

either in the driveway or inside the bonfire. All they did

was file a missing persons report when his secretary said

he didn't show up at work. Petrovsky isn't married, no

children, no real family in the States, so until enough time

has gone by they won't have anything breathing down

their necks. And the press won't be putting pressure on

them if there are no weeping widows or no orphaned

children to plaster on the front page to stir sympathies."

She looked sad. "It's like a crime was never even

committed."

"It wasn't," I said. "Until a body turns up. Or we catch

these assholes."

"If someone is willing to kidnap two children, kill a

doctor, torture you and set a house on fire, I have a feeling

they wouldn't think twice about disposing of a body."

"Tomorrow," I said. "We start from the other end. We've

been looking for what happened to Michelle Oliveira and

Daniel Linwood, who kidnapped them and why. And we

haven't made a lot of headway on that end. So now we

follow this." I took a crumpled piece of paper from my

pocket. Tossed it at Amanda. She uncrumpled it, read it.

"The receipt," she said. I nodded.

"Toyz 4 Fun," I replied. "Let's see who was buying a

young girl some early Christmas presents. And I'll bet

whoever it is has another child. Someone who hasn't been

reported missing yet. Someone who in a few years is

meant to be another Danny Linwood."

27

James Keach walked down the off-white hallway, still

shaking after nearly tripping over an old man and his

walker, just thankful he didn't rip the old guy's IV from

his arm. James's jacket was unzipped, one hand in his

pocket while the other one hung loose. Just like Paulina

had taught him.

Be cool, she said. If anyone asks, you're visiting a

relative. It's okay to be nervous--nobody likes being in a

hospital--but nurses and orderlies are trained to sniff out

anyone who doesn't belong. You belong, right, James?

Just tell yourself you belong and you'll act like it. Just

don't be a pussy, James, and you'll be fine.

He still couldn't get over that word. His friends used it

in casual conversation all the time, usually out at bars or

while watching lumberjack competitions on Spike TV.

He'd never been called one. And to be called that name by

a woman, his boss, on a regular basis, was something

James still hadn't come to grips with.

Once this task was complete, he was going home,

getting under the covers and sleeping. Tomorrow he'd be

joining his father on a golf outing with Ted Allen, and he'd

need to be up for that. James knew his father had cashed

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in a favor in getting Ted Allen to hire him at the Dispatch.

That didn't bother him much. Everybody had connections

and used them. That was the point. Besides, wouldn't you

rather get a recommendation from a close friend than have

to slog through identical resumes from overachieving

losers? That he got stuck working for Paulina Cole was

something totally unexpected. Unlike any boss he'd ever

worked for, Paulina actually scared the piss out of him.

James felt the thin camera in his pocket. Point. Click.

Done.

That's it. This guy from IT, Wilmer or Wilbur or Wilfred

or something, showed him how to use it. Idiot proof was

his term. James laughed at that. Wondered who the idiots

were they had to design it for.

He knew the tip was good. Paulina's tips always were.

And while James was used to Paulina's volcanic temperament and mercurial attitude, James had noticed something

different about her the past few weeks. Her moods had

swung heavier, her demeanor more vicious, her attitudes

more severe. Like she was gearing up for something big,

steeling herself. Though he'd been running errands for

her for going on a year now, she was never totally candid

with him. He knew she was working on something big, but

she refused to share the details.

In good time Jamesy, she'd said.

He counted off the doors as he walked down the hall.

703.

704.

705.

706.

He was there.

But the door was closed.

It wasn't supposed to be closed. He hadn't expected it

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to be closed. He assumed it would be wide open, people

coming and going, nobody noticing a thing. But opening

a hospital door, man, someone would definitely notice

that. If not a nurse then another patient. He couldn't see

inside. A curtain was drawn. If a nurse was in there she'd

sure as hell see him, and there was no way he could get it

done without drawing suspicion and ruining the whole

thing.

James stepped back. Took a breath. Leaned against the

wall. He knew this was the very antithesis of what Paulina

had advised, but fuck it, he needed a moment to regroup.

What should he do? Open the door, waltz in, pray

nobody was in there? Or wait. Maybe someone would open

the door and pull the curtain back. Make it easy for him.

A minute passed. Then five more. He was sweating.

He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket, saw

the leather come away wet and shiny.

Time to sack up, Jim. Show the queen bitch what

you're made of.

James stepped in front of the door and reached for the

handle. He gripped it, closed his eyes and began to pull.

Just then the door swung outward, nearly knocking

James off his feet. When he regained his balance, a pretty

nurse was standing in the doorway. She was staring at

James. His heart was racing. Ohcrap, ohcrap, ohcrap,

ohcrap, ohcrap, ohcrap...

Then the nurse smiled, whispered to him.

"Are you here to see Mr. O'Donnell?"

James gulped, managed to eke out a "Yes, ma'am. I'm

his nephew."

"That's sweet of you to come. He hasn't had many

visitors. Mr. O'Donnell is resting right now," she said.

"But if you want to sit with him, go right ahead."

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"Thanks, I appreciate it."

The nurse held the door for James. Easy as pie.

When the door eased shut, he stepped around the

curtain and saw the man in bed.

He was much older than his picture in the paper.

Thinner, too, his face with a sickly gray pallor. He was

breathing steadily, tubes in each nostril, an IV in his arm.

James quickly took the camera out of his pocket.

He whispered, "Say cheese, Jack."

28

The Toyz 4 Fun store was located at 136 Evergreen Court

in White Plains, New York, about eight miles southeast of

Hobbs County. Since the Rent-a-Wreck company refused

to deal with us after we lost their car, I was forced to make

an expensive upgrade at a regular rental company. Thankfully I was now officially working the story, so I was able

to expense the ride. Not to mention how much of a relief

it was to drive a car that didn't feel like it was in danger

of spontaneously combusting at any moment.

The conversation on the ride up was pleasant, if a little

awkward. It was hard to put Jack and the Linwood story out

of my mind, and I think Amanda could tell I was distracted.

The Toyz 4 Fun store was wedged between a nail salon

and a paper goods shop in a strip mall right off Woodthrush. We parked in the lot next to a beat-up Camry. It

was a warm day out. I had on jeans and a white T-shirt,

while Amanda had on a yellow sundress. The kind of outfit

that made me wish we could forget about work and just

sit down on a bench somewhere, sip lemonade or do

whatever normal couples did when they weren't investigating kidnappings and disappearing murder victims.

The Toyz logo had the letters spelled out on different-226

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colored building blocks on the awning. A play easel was

set up in front of the store. Scribbled on the easel in

erasable magic marker was "Deluxe Easel: Special Price

$49.99!!!" It was nice to see an easel outside a store that

didn't feature the soups of the day.

Each exclamation point was topped with a smiley face.

It was the kind of store I loved to see walking down the

street when I was a kid. Not the electronics extravaganzas

and smutty Bratz dolls that passed for toys these days, but

the true-to-heart toy stores, with owners that cared, knew

you by name, knew exactly what you wanted. I didn't get

many toys when I was a kid, but the once-a-year trip to

the Leapin' Lizards toy store in Bend was worth waiting

those other three-hundred-and-sixty-four days.

Amanda pushed the door open and a series of wind

chimes rang. I couldn't help but smile.

In front of us were rows and rows of toys. Building

blocks. Play-Doh. Action figures. Lego sets. Dollhouses.

Erector sets. Everything a growing boy or girl needed to

have fun and get into loads of trouble.

An elderly man sat behind the counter, thick glasses

shielding kind blue eyes. His hair was sparse, combed

over, but there was barely enough to do a passable job of

it. He was wearing blue overalls with suspenders, like the

OshKosh kid in his waning years. He smiled when we

entered. His face was lined, but his cheeks were red, veiny,

and his enthusiasm was genuine.

"Corolle doll, right?" the man said. "Or if it's a boy, let

me see...how about My First Pirate Set?"

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Well, I'm guessing you two to be, what? Twentyseven, twenty-eight? Thirty tops? Your kid is somewhere

between three and six. Those toys are my most popular

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sellers for that age group. So what'll it be? Corolle or

pirates?"

"I'm sorry sir," I said. "You've got us wrong. We don't

have any kids."

"Bun in the oven?" he said.

"Nope," Amanda said.

"Gift-hunting then?"

"Sorry," I said. "We're actually here because we're

hoping you can answer a few questions for us."

"Oh," the man said, confused. "Okay then, what can

I do you for?"

I took the receipt from my pocket.

"Were you working here at around three-thirty on July

27?"

"Assume I was. I'm here every day unless I'm sick, and

I haven't been sick in some time. My name's Freddie, by

the way. Nobody will be addressed by 'sir' in this store."

"No problem, Freddie," I said. I handed the receipt

across the desk. Freddie looked at me, unsure of what to

do with it.

"That's a receipt from this store, right?"

He picked it up, glanced at it, said, "Looks like it."

"Is there any way you could look up in your computer

and see who this receipt was issued to?"

"I'm sorry," he said. "It says here 'change'" He pointed

to a line at the bottom. "Means whoever paid, paid in

cash."

I grimaced. "I know it's a long shot, but is there any way

you might know who purchased that item?"

Freddie looked at the receipt again, furrowed his brow.

"This here is for accessories for a Victorian dollhouse," he

said. "I don't do a lot of sales on dollhouse accessories.

Sad to say they're a little old-fashioned. But I keep some

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in stock just in case. Probably to make me happy more than

the kids." He thought for another moment, then said,

"Elaine Reed."

"Excuse me?"

"Robert and Elaine Reed. Bob and Elaine. They came

into my store all the time when their son, Patrick, was

born. They bought that boy all sorts of toy soldiers, must

have spent more money than they made on those things. I

made sure they knew to keep them away from that boy's

mouth. All those sharp parts, you know. But I remember

Elaine suddenly buying everything under the sun for a

girl, including those accessories. Little tables, chairs, even

a tiny medicine chest."

"If they have a son, then why were they buying dollhouse accessories?" Amanda asked.

Freddie said, "That's what I wondered. It wasn't just the

accessories. The first thing they bought was an actual dollhouse. I had to special-order it for them. And not a cheap

one, mind you. Then they kept coming back over the next

few days to buy more doodads for it. I assumed it wasn't

for Patrick--don't know if you can tell a boy's, er, sexual

orientation at such a young age. So I asked Elaine one day.

Said, 'Elaine, what are all these doll parts for?' She told

me they'd just had a baby girl."

"Baby girl," I said. "Seems like bad parenting to buy

such tiny things for a baby."

"I thought the same thing, remembered what she'd done

with Patrick and warned her about that. Elaine told me the

girl was actually six years old. I thought, 'That's strange,

I didn't remember her being pregnant.'"

"Did you ask her about it?" I said.

"Naw," Freddie said. "It's not my right to pry into my

customers' business. But when I asked about it, Elaine

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kind of looked worried, like I'd pried or something. I

figured they might have adopted, or something else was

going on, but either way I was happy for the business. And

happy for Elaine, because anyone who spends that much

money on toys sure must love their child. Not to mention

how happy that kid's going to be. But after that day I

asked one question, Elaine and Bob never came back to

my store. I hate to think I offended them."

"Was Elaine a good parent?" Amanda asked.

"Wonderful," Freddie said. "Some of them, parents, I

mean, you can tell they just buy things 'cause they feel

obligated to. Like they just want to shut the kid up or think

they can buy affection. Elaine, though, she loved it. You

could tell she couldn't wait to get home and see the smiles

on her kids' faces."

"Did you happen to catch their daughter's name?" I

asked.

"No, I didn't."

"I know we're asking a lot, Freddie," I said, "but is there

any chance you might have an address for Mr. and Mrs.

Reed? It's very important we speak to them."

"I'm sorry, who did you say you were again?"

"My name's Henry Parker," I said, handing Freddie a

business card. "We're investigating a story and really need

to speak with the Reeds."

"I hope everything's okay," he said. The man was legitimately concerned.

"I hope so, too," I said. "But there's a chance there's

something wrong with one of their children and we need

to find them."

Freddie nodded. "I'll do whatever I can. I just hope

they're safe. I think a while ago Bob bought Patrick one

of those Erector sets, only Elaine didn't have enough room

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in the car and asked for it to be shipped home." Freddie

rummaged under the desk, pulled out a large file box. He

opened the lid, began to sift through alphabetical orders.

"Reed...Reed...Reed...here we go. Elaine and Bob

Reed."

"Can you give us the address?"

"No problem. That package was shipped to 482

Huntley Terrace."

My jaw dropped.

Amanda said, "Henry, that's the house..."

"That burned down yesterday."

29

I needed to learn more about the house on Huntley

Terrace. If Robert and Elaine Reed had bought it, there

would have to be sale records. I could look them up on

streeteasy.com. Even if they didn't have contact info for

the Reeds, there would surely be a brokerage firm that

would. It made sense. There was a dollhouse in the room

Amanda was held in, and the place looked like the perfect

abode for a family with young children. But what I didn't

understand was how the two men who held us that night

were connected to the Reeds. Or how the Reeds were connected by proxy to Dmitri Petrovsky.

We drove around the streets looking for an Internet

cafe. I didn't want to have to go all the way back to the

city to use the computers at work. We were getting close

to something. Many different spools, but I couldn't figure

out the common thread that attached them.

"Look, there." Amanda was pointing to a small pizza

parlor. A sign posted outside read "Internet Access."

"You up for a slice and a socket?"

"I am a little hungry."

"Cool. Eat first, search later," I said.

We parked, walked in and scarfed down two slices and

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a Coke apiece in less than ten minutes. When we finished,

we took two seats in front of a lonely computer in the back

of the restaurant. The keyboard was dusty, and I imagined

it didn't get much use. The counterman eyed us suspiciously, as though we were as likely to rip the computer

from the wall as use it properly.

When I clicked the computer off sleep mode, I entered

in my credit card number for access. Once we were in, I

directed the browser to streeteasy.com.

"What is this?" Amanda asked.

"Streeteasy.com is a pretty useful tool. It's an online

database that records any property transactions, along with

the buyer, seller, asking price and brokerage firm who

handled the deal. I have a log-in."

I plugged in my log-in information and entered the name

Robert Reed in the search field. Several listings came up,

with records dating back to 1989, and in five different states.

"This can't be right," Amanda said. "How could he live

in three different states at the same time?"

"It's probably not all the same Robert Reed. Hold on,

I'll narrow the search."

I narrowed the parameters to Hobbs County. The search

came up empty. I tried it again, only this time plugging in

Elaine Reed instead. Again the search came up empty.

"Maybe someone else bought it for them? Or Elaine

bought it under her maiden name?" Amanda asked.

"That's possible," I said. "We might have better luck

searching for the exact house." We had enough information to narrow the search range.

According to Freddie at Toyz, the Reeds' son, Patrick,

was currently somewhere between three and five years old.

Which meant the Reeds had probably moved into the

house on Huntley within the past seven years, either when

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they decided to try to start a family or when Patrick was

on the way and space was essential. I entered the date

range in the past eight years just to be sure.

The list came back with two thousand, seven hundred

and eighty-three hits.

"I think we can narrow it down more," Amanda said.

"We know there were at least three bedrooms in that house

on Huntley. That should help, right?"

"Definitely, one sec."

I refined the search to only include houses that had a

minimum of three bedrooms. The search came back with

three hundred and sixty-seven hits. We were making

progress.

"Now we just sift through these and look for anything

on Huntley. Anything that looks familiar."

We scrolled through page after page of home sales and

purchases through the past eight years. It was fascinating

to see the range of prices at which houses had been bought,

but it also gave an accurate overview of what the most expensive areas in the state were. Unsurprisingly, Hobbs

County homes were ridiculously cheap. Until a few years

ago at least, when I noticed they began to trend upward

by a large margin.

We'd been sitting at the computer for nearly two hours.

The computer had charged thirty-six bucks for the access.

I hoped Wallace wouldn't spent too much time scrutinizing my expense account.

Finally on the two hundred and twenty-fourth listing,

we found it.

"There we go," I said. "Four-eighty-two Huntley Terrace."

"Bingo," Amanda added.

According to the database, the house had been pur-234

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chased in 2001 for three hundred and forty thousand

dollars. There was a picture of the property on the Web

site. I clicked to enlarge it.

The house was easily recognizable. As was the driveway and garage we'd seen the other night. We clicked

through various photographs of the interior and exterior,

looking for anything familiar. The rooms were different;

obviously these shots had been taken before any renovations.

What was more surprising was that there was no sign

of the metal gates, nor the brick wall surrounding the

property. Whoever purchased the house in 2001 had built

them custom-made.

"That's odd," I said, clicking onto the "buyer/seller"

link. "According to this, the buyer wasn't Bob or Elaine

Reed, or anyone named Reed at all."

"Who was it, then?"

"Someone named Raymond Benjamin," I said. "Does

that name sound familiar at all?" Amanda shook her head.

Then her eyes opened wide.

"Wait a minute," she said, pointing at the name on the

screen. "When we were in that house, when you came

into the room where I was held, didn't one of the guys

call for a Ray?"

I thought hard, vaguely remembered hearing that, but

between the cigarette burn and my state of panic I couldn't

be sure. "You think this Raymond Benjamin might have

been the same guy from the other night?"

"Be a heck of a coincidence, a guy who obviously

knows the place well enough to set us up shares the same

first name as the man on the property deed."

"Yes, that would be a mighty coincidence. It would

also mean that Raymond Benjamin knows Dmitri Petrov- The Stolen

235

sky." I tapped my fingers on the keyboard. "The guy who

had me, he'd been in prison before. Attica. He was there

during the riot, and that was in '71. If he was telling the

truth, he'll have a criminal record."

"I think it's time to leave the pizza place," Amanda

said.

"It sure is. Let's see what we can find out about

Raymond Benjamin. It's been at least twenty-four hours

since I asked Curt Sheffield for a favor. Let's give him a

ring."

30

The diner smelled of cooking grease and burned coffee.

A plate of eggs sat in front of him, untouched. Raymond

Benjamin rubbed his aching jaw, then took another smoke

from his pocket, lit it and inhaled deeply. It was all he could

do to relax after the events of the past few days. Everything

had been going just the way he'd planned, in that there

were no disruptions, no mass hysterics. Everything cool,

calm and quiet. And then all of a sudden the newshound

Parker shows up at Petrovsky's office and everything goes

to shit.

He hadn't wanted to torch the house. Benjamin actually

had some fond memories of that place. But once Parker

decided to follow Petrovsky, it was only a matter of time

before somebody came knocking. Burning it down was a

necessary evil. There was too much inside for him and

Vince to get rid of in the little time they had, not to mention

having to dispose of the doctor and that beat-up car Parker

drove. Better to torch the whole thing and wipe their hands

than risk one little thing turning up and screwing up the

whole operation. Ray couldn't afford that. There was too

much at stake.

Raymond Benjamin smoked his cigarette, eased back

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into the booth and took out his wallet. He looked at the

pictures inside. The first one was of a beautiful young

couple. Ray barely remembered what life had been like

back then. He'd been so impetuous, so violent. He was

amazed a woman had actually had the temerity to marry

him. The first photo had been a year or so before Ray Jr.

was born. The boy had Ray's nose, but got the rest of his

features from Ray's wife. Becca. Becca, who'd died

while he was holed up in that shithole prison. Ray Jr.,

born in 1970, the year before the riots changed everything.

Every person was born with a specific skill set. Ray's

son was born a technogeek, the kind of guy who could

build computer systems out of thin air, could design corporate Web sites and security systems as easily as he

buttered a bagel. The last Ray heard, his boy was making

nearly a hundred grand a year. He was married with two

kids. Ray hadn't seen them in a decade.

Ray himself was born with a different set of skills.

And in a cruel irony, it was that skill set that led Ray to

spend the majority of his twenties shuffling from prison

to prison. He was a born criminal. Burglar, fighter. Age

had sapped much of his brawn. No way that Parker kid

would have had the upper hand when Ray had his juices

flowing, when his fists were like unstoppable pistons.

Now, in his late fifties, Ray was holding on to his fighting

memories the way a jilted lover holds on to his, afraid of

what would become of him when he realized the man he

used to be was slipping away. Lives like Ray's didn't

have second acts.

He thought about his time in Attica. Somehow the worst

and best years of his life. They'd made him what he had

become, but he wasn't sure if the pain and sacrifice were

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Jason Pinter

worth it. He thought about that day back in '71, when his

fellow prisoners had finally risen up against the guards,

who'd tortured them for so long. Ray remembered watching Dog Day Afternoon as a young man, just a few years

after he got loose. He remembered the feeling of pride in

his gut when Pacino delivered that electrifying speech. It

was simply incredible, like a candle being lit in his

stomach, working its way through him until his whole

body was warm. He'd seen that in person. He'd been there.

Everyone watched that flick and got that vicarious thrill

of what it was like to make a stand. Ray had been there.

He'd made that stand.

When Vince came back from the bathroom, the red

welt above his eye was shining like a Christmas bulb. The

younger man slid into the booth across from Ray, went

right back to work on his ham, eggs and sausage links. Ray

watched Vince eat for a bit, the man shoveling food into

his yawning mouth like it was Thanksgiving and he didn't

have a care in the world.

"Eat enough of that, it'll kill you before a bullet does."

Vince smiled as he gnawed on a link. "Best to go out

having fun," he said.

"You know, as dumb as we were," Ray said, "things

could have gone worse the other night. Much worse."

"Sure could have," Vince said, a forkful of dripping egg

sliding back onto his plate. "What d'you think would have

happened if the cops had come before we'd taken care of

the place?"

Vince stopped chewing. Put the fork down. "We would

have been in a world of shit. Years wasted," Ray said.

Vince nodded as if he'd figured out the right answer on a

multiple-choice test.

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"Not really wasted. I mean, it's been fun, right? We've

made money."

"You know we're not doing this for money, for our

health," Ray said. "This isn't some two-bit scam we're

pulling. There are lives at stake."

Vince laughed. "You mean like Petrovsky," he said with

a goofy smile.

"No," Ray seethed. "Not fucking Petrovsky. Lives that

matter. Petrovsky was a degenerate. He was a means to an

end. And we have to protect that end, you hear me?"

"I hear you."

Ray lowered his voice. "I'll be talking to our friend

later. We need to make sure everything is sealed up on our

end. No doubt they'll find out that house was registered

in my name. I'll play the 'woe is me' card, but let it end

there. There isn't enough evidence in that house of

anything. I gave it a once-through before we lit the match.

Now I'm not too worried about the Hobbs police. If

anything they're doing a good job protecting what we've

created. But that Parker reporter, we can't give him

anything more to latch onto. The New York media gets

hold of this, it goes national. Nobody gives two shits about

a poor kid in a poor city."

"I hear you, Ray. Geez, it's not like I don't know this

already."

"Fucking Parker," Ray said. "Never been so stupid in

my life. Ten years ago, no way that kid gets the jump on

me. Never used to underestimate folks. All of a sudden

Parker can ID me and probably you. His word against

mine, and I've already spoken to our friend who's good

with tools who'll claim I was working late that night. So

here's what happens. If it even looks like this guy might

throw a wrench into things, we don't wait for him to fall

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Jason Pinter

into our lap. We take him out. And the girl if necessary.

No more cigarettes, no more nicey-nice. Quick, simple,

and they disappear."

"Like those kids we nabbed," Vince said, satisfied.

"No. Not like those kids. Parker and Davies have to stay

gone."

31

Manhattan's 19th Precinct was located on Sixty-Seventh

Street between Lexington and Third Avenue. I'd only been

there once, just a month or so after I'd arrived in New York.

It was to report a lost or possibly stolen cell phone. I'd

filled out a form with my information, handed it to the cop

behind the front desk, and that was the last I ever heard

about it. Probably for the best. The NYPD has more

important crimes to worry about than who took my Nokia.

Curt had worked at the 19th going on three years. I

knew he was well respected within the department, one of

those up-and-comers that are a rare breed in that they're

both clean-cut enough to stick on a recruiting poster, but

hardworking and intuitive enough to gain the respect of the

rank and file.

It was this respect that I was counting on as Amanda

and I entered the precinct. The majority of cops had no

love lost for me, and despite being vindicated many still

considered me responsible for the death of one of their

own. The irony was that even though the department loved

Curt's image, he couldn't have cared less. That's the only

reason he agreed to bring me into his precinct. It wouldn't

win him any friends, but it would help uncover the truth.

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Jason Pinter

The precinct was up a short flight of stairs. It had a red

brick facade and an arched entryway, bracketed by two

green lamps, above which hung a yellow banner that read

"Thank you for your support." The banner was bookended

by two images: the American flag and the badge of the

NYPD.

Curt led Amanda and me through the precinct, though

not nearly as fast as I would have liked. I could feel

eyeballs boring holes through me as we snaked through the

corridors, and knew that many of these men had worked

with, probably known, John Fredrickson. A few years

back, I defended two people Fredrickson was beating to

death, and in the struggle the man's gun went off, killing

him. I didn't know he was a cop, and his death was the

result of choices made long before I came along. Yet perception was reality, and the feeling was if I hadn't stuck

my nose in, he'd still be alive.

"Just this way," Curt said. We followed him down the

hall into a row of cubicles, each one set up with large,

likely obsolete computers. We entered a larger cubicle

which was set up in a U-shape, two computers at either

end. The walls were covered with crime-scene photos,

mug shots, business cards. Curt pulled up a pair of chairs,

then sat in a larger one. He shifted around a few times, then

leaned forward and scratched his ass.

"That's lovely," Amanda said.

"Hey, if you can convince Chief Carruthers to spend an

extra nickel on chairs that don't make your ass feel like

it's the wrong side of a Velcro strip, you'd be spared seeing

illicit activities such as these."

"Is it really that bad?" I asked.

"Man, come around here during lunchtime when the

detectives are all eating at their desks. You'd think a family

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243

of porcupines must have made a nest in every seat. Like a

messed-up orchestra, all scratching at the time same."

I said, "Think I'll file that under 'visual imagery I hope

to file away and never see again.' So what is this here?"

"Here is where we find out about the criminal record

for this guy Benjamin, the dude listed on the property

deed on Huntley Terrace. You're sure this Ray Benjamin

is the same cat who hung you out to dry in that tinderbox out on Huntley?"

"I can't be sure, but that's what we're here to find out."

"Now, you said this guy made a comment about serving

time up at Attica, right?"

"That's right."

"Then our boy's damn sure got a record. Which means

he's just a mouse click away from being ours."

Curt logged in to a database, then proceeded to enter

first name "Raymond," last name "Benjamin," into the

fields. He plugged the years 1968 and 1972 into another

field marked "date range." He clicked a box marked "Caucasian" and pressed the search key. One of those helpful

little hourglass icons appeared on the screen. On my

computer, the sand fell through the hourglass at roughly

the same speed as cars cruising Fifth Avenue during the

Puerto Rican Day parade.

A few minutes and ass scratches later, the hourglass disappeared and a file appeared on the screen. A mug shot

appeared in the top-right corner of the page. I recognized

the man in the image at once.

"That's him," I said, pointing to the screen like I was

picking him out of a lineup. "Holy shit, that's the guy."

"From the other night?" Curt said. "This is Raymond

Benjamin."

I nodded. "No doubt."

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Jason Pinter

Despite the picture being at least twenty years old, it was

easy to tell this was the same man. The man in this photo

had a fuller head of hair, fewer lines cutting across his face,

but the look in his eye was the same. Defiance. Anger.

"There's no scar," I said. "When I saw Benjamin that

night, there was a faint scar on his right cheek. There's

nothing like that in this picture."

"Let's see here," Curt said. He clicked a button, then the

photo enlarged. Curt highlighted a line below the photo.

"Mug shot, dated 1969."

"Probably the last shot taken before he was sent to

Attica," I said.

Amanda traced her finger down the man's cheek on the

screen. "So if this photo was taken before he went to

prison, there's certainly a chance he either got that scar in

jail or afterward."

"Yeah, the scar actually did zigzag a little bit, like it had

been stitched up by someone who got their medical license

at the local butcher shop." I looked at Curt. "This is the

only photo on record for this guy?"

"Afraid so," he said. "So what I want to know is how

a dude who got busted for armed robbery in the sixties

ended up buying a house that got burned down over thirty

years later?"

"After he almost barbecued my balls," I added. "And if

the house is owned by a three-time loser, why did the

inside look fit for the Huxtables?"

"Obviously the house was in his name, but that was to

hide whoever actually lived there," Amanda said.

"What I think happened," I said, "is that this guy

Benjamin bought the house as a front. I'm not quite sure what

the catalyst was, but a husband and wife named Robert and

Elaine Reed have actually been the ones living on Huntley."

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"They weren't in the fire though," Amanda said.

"No, no bodies found. Not that Russian doctor or

anyone else," Curt said.

"So the papers are in this guy Benjamin's name, but he

sublets it to the Reeds. Only there's no paperwork or documentation. The Reeds have a young son, Patrick, but

according to receipts from a local toy store they'd been

purchasing gifts for a young girl within the past month. I

think very recently, the Reeds added a young girl to their

family. Only I don't think they did it through conception

or adoption."

"In vitro?" Curt said.

"No."

"Adopted a kid from Zaire?"

"Uh-uh. I think they kidnapped a child, and until that

house burned down they'd been holding the girl just like

whoever took Daniel Linwood and Michelle Oliveira had

done. Amanda, you saw all the toys in the room you were

held in. This wasn't some medieval torture chamber, this

was a home. A place for a family to live."

Amanda reluctantly nodded. "Actually reminded me a

little of my room when I went to live with Lawrence and

Harriet Stein," she said. She turned to Curt. "I was

adopted. My parents died when I was young, then I went

from orphanage to orphanage until the Steins took me

home. I remember my room feeling not really like an

actual room a young girl would live in, but the kind of

room parents thought a girl would want to live in. Too

many floral patterns, too many dolls. Just overkill to the

extreme."

"That's why the Reeds racked up a hefty bill at Toyz 4

Fun," I said. "They were pampering this kid like she was

their own."

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Curt said, "So why kidnap a kid if you're not holding

her for a ransom? What, you just pamper her for a few

years and then let her go? I mean, you're comparing this

Girl X to Danny Linwood and Michelle Oliveira. Both

those kids wound up returning home unharmed. If what

you're saying is true, the Reeds planned to eventually let

this kid go. Why go through all that trouble?"

"So she'd feel like a part of their family," I said. "When

I interviewed Danny Linwood, he made a brief reference

to his 'brothers.' I didn't think much of it at first, but

combined with this, I think all three of these kids were

taken with the intent of ingratiating them into their 'new'

families."

"But why?" Amanda said. "If the kidnappers knew they

were going to let them go, why bother?"

"I'm not sure," I said. "But what scares me is that the

Reeds somehow knew Raymond Benjamin. He owned the

house they used. So how did a supposedly regular family,

a loving father and mother with a young son, wind up in

bed with a career criminal, and end up stealing someone

else's child?"

None of us had the answer.

"So what else can I do?" Curt said.

"We need to confirm that the Reeds did in fact kidnap

another child. And if we do that, and we can find out who

that child is, hopefully we can find the Reeds and they can

answer all these questions."

"It'll be tough," Curt said. "I can submit a request for

a breakdown of all children reported missing within the

past two weeks, but unless we can narrow down where the

child was from we're basically looking in every town in

every city in the country."

I thought for a moment. Then I said to Curt, "Cross- The Stolen

247

check your records with Yardley Medical Center, the pediatrics unit. I have a feeling whatever child was taken was

born in Hobbs County, and was a patient of Dr. Petrovsky's, just like Daniel Linwood and Michelle Oliveira."

"How can you be sure?" Amanda said.

"Thiamine levels," I said. "I spoke to Jack's doctor at

Bellevue and asked what might cause a child to go through

what Daniel and Michelle did. According to him, it's likely

they both suffered from a severe case of anterograde

amnesia, exacerbated by depleted thiamine levels. He said

that it was technically a form of short-term brain damage,

but when thiamine and vitamin B1 levels dropped in

patients whose thiamine levels were low to begin with, it

could cause exactly what afflicted Daniel and Michelle. I

think whoever has been kidnapped was born with low

thiamine levels, and Dr. Petrovsky supervised it all."

Amanda said, "That would have to mean the kids were

preselected based on their medical histories. Which means

Petrovsky knew which kids to look out for."

"I think there's a strong chance he did just that. So this

new Girl X was chosen for the same reasons Dan and

Michelle were years ago--they were susceptible to having

their thiamine levels tampered with to a far greater degree

than a normal child. With the right--or wrong--nutrition

and care, you could almost literally give a child short-term

brain damage and harm their memory receptors."

"Which would explain why Daniel and Michelle didn't

remember a thing about their time missing," Amanda said.

"And it means the Reeds are expecting the same thing

from this kid. Girl X."

"Find her," I said to Curt. "I'm tired of this bullshit, like

one lost kid doesn't matter. What, because Hobbs County

and Meriden got a few extra bucks, a few of the houses

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got a nice coat of paint, this is all swept under the carpet?

These kids are giving their lives for some awful cause I

don't understand."

"I hear you, man. Give me some time," Curt said. "I'll

need to get medical records from Petrovsky's office, which

won't be easy, especially since the dude's disappeared."

"He's dead," I said. "There's just no body to bury."

"Either way, the guy won't be answering his phone.

Give me a day. I'll get an answer."

"Thanks, Curt, every second counts. Benjamin wasn't

expecting us to follow Petrovsky, and who knows if the

Reeds are even still alive. There's a chance that, like

Petrovsky, they 'disappeared' the Reeds so nobody could

ask questions. We need to see if we can find the Reeds

before Benjamin takes desperate measures. And this is a

guy who seems to be redefining the term."

32

Raymond Benjamin dialed the number of the motel. He'd

made the reservation for the Reeds just before he'd told them

what was going to happen to their home. He'd broken it to

them matter-of-factly. He'd told them they might have to

leave at a moment's notice, but didn't really believe himself

it would ever come to that. Elaine seemed pretty unnerved

but agreed to cooperate. Like always. Bob stayed silent,

nodded at his wife's approval. But now it was Ray who was

unnerved.

When the receptionist picked up, he said, "Yes, can

you connect me to the room of Robert and Elaine Reed?"

"Hold a moment, sir." Ray heard typing in the background. "Sir, we don't have any record of anyone by that

name checking in."

"But you do have a reservation, right?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Reed, weekly rates,

supposed to have checked in yesterday, but according to

this they haven't."

"Fuck me," Ray said.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Nothing. You're sure about that?"

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"Yes, sir. Would you like me to have a message waiting

for them when they do check in?"

Ray slammed the phone down on the cradle so hard the

plastic receiver broke in half. It took him far too long to

jimmy open the door to the pay phone booth, and finally

he cracked the glass when he kicked it inward with his

foot. Vince was leaning up against the car, an errant toothpick sticking out of his mouth. Either it was lodged

between two teeth or the man had simply forgotten it was

there. Ray had a sudden desire to smack the thing out of

his mouth. But he restrained himself.

This wasn't going as he'd hoped. Things had taken a

drastic turn once Parker and the girl had arrived at the

house on Huntley, and that necessitated burning the place

down. Of course, doing that meant relocating the Reed

family, which was an ordeal in and of itself.

He'd begun to worry about Bob and Elaine from nearly

the moment they took the girl home. There was something

in their eyes that was different from the other families, a

sense of sorrow that worried him from the start. He'd told

them from the first time he met them that they'd have to

be strong. Keep everything in perspective. Look at this as

short-term pain for a long-term solution. They were doing

it for the right reasons, and years from now they'd be

happy they did it.

Now he wasn't so sure.

Bob and Elaine had a motive. There was a reason they

were chosen. The same way there was a reason Ray was

good at his job, he expected the Reeds to live up to their

end of the deal. Looking back on that one week that shaped

Raymond Benjamin into what he'd become, he knew how

fast one moment could change everything.

Few people knew the truth about Raymond Benjamin.

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That all of the violence, everything that had occurred

during the horrific, bloody days from September 9 to September 13 was because of him. While the riots started

because the Attica prisoners were tired of being treated like

animals, there was one spark that started the explosion.

The week of September 2, 1971, a small metal bucket

was placed inside Ray's cell. It contained about a gallon

of water. The guard told him it was his weekly supply of

water to shower with. On September 8, during mess hall,

Ray mouthed off about the food. He didn't remember his

exact words, but it boiled down to the meat loaf tasting like

it had been some poor guy's meat. That got him one cigarette burn behind his knee.

The next morning, on September 9, Raymond Benjamin

thought he was in for the worst day of his life. The previous

night, one of the guards came by, dropping a single roll of

toilet paper into Ray's cell. Hope you got a clean ass, 'cause

this is the last one you're getting until the end of the month.

Frustrated, Ray threw the roll back at the officer, hitting

him in the head. It barely stunned him, but soon all of 5

Company was laughing their ass off. The guard turned red,

told Ray he'd see him in the morning and walked off.

While his fellow inmates hooted and hollered at the newly

christened "Officer Shithead," Ray sat in his cell, shivering as if death itself was waiting for him. And for all he

assumed, it was.

The next morning, September 9, all of 5 Company's

cells opened, the sign for morning roll call. All cells except

for Ray Benjamin's. As his friends walked past, they saw

him still in the cell, sitting on the edge of his bed, knees

quaking. Ray had never been so scared in his life. He

could hear the footsteps of the guards as they did morning

rounds, could hear the clomps as his friends walked past,

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knowing their buddy was about to face the worst beating

of his life. Perhaps the last beating of his life.

Ray sat there and prayed. He apologized to the Lord for

what his life had become. He apologized for his sins and

promised that, if he was given another chance, he would

make the most of it. He would right those wrongs. Ray's

eyes were squeezed shut, tears pouring out the sides. He

hoped it would be quick, if anything. That would be something to be thankful for.

Then Ray heard something odd. Footsteps coming back

his way. But they weren't the loud thump-thump of the

guards', they were the soft, muffled steps of the prisoners. Then Ray heard a man yelling, and damned if it wasn't

Officer Shithead himself.

"You assholes get back here, right now!"

The 5 Company prisoners didn't go back to roll call.

Instead they walked right back to their cells and sat down.

Possum, a big black man from Alabama, said, "Fuck you.

You gonna take one man, you gonna take all the men."

Possum was talking about Ray.

Soon Officer Shithead was marching down the cell

block, nightstick unsheathed.

Officer Shithead didn't live another minute.

After they'd beat him to death with his own baton,

Ray's brothers in 5 Company managed to get his cell open.

Several minutes later, a guard heard a commotion down

A Tunnel, went to see what the hell was taking 5 Company

so long, and that's when the devil unleashed hell.

Ray survived the riots with his life, his sanity, and just

one small scar on his cheek obtained on September 13

when the cops finally opened fire. A glass pane shattered,

carving out a chunk of Ray's face. William "Billy Buds"

Moss, a surgeon in lockup for raping a patient, stitched it

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253

together with a spool and tweezers stolen from the nurse's

office, moments before it went up in flames.

Raymond Benjamin would be ejected from the penal

system two years later. Thirty-nine people died in those

riots. Most of them were buried. Officer Shithead, Ray

later learned, had been burned beyond recognition. There

was barely enough of him left to bury.

Leaving Attica, Ray Benjamin was a changed man. Not

so much in deeds. He was still prone to violence, still had

the temper of a pissed-off Viking, but now he had a cause.

Not to mention a massive nicotine addiction. He told

friends that after all the pain cigarettes had caused him in

prison, he might as well get a little pleasure out of them.

Several times a month Ray would wake up at night, remembering that morning sitting in his cell, praying for forgiveness. Waiting for a death that, with mercy, decided to

pass him over. He never forgot that. Never took it for

granted. And every act of violence, everything he did that

"society" wouldn't approve of, was going toward making

things right. It didn't matter if people couldn't understand

it. He knew it was right.

The Reeds were part of that plan. They were doing the

right thing.

But now they were gone, and Ray Benjamin felt

concern for the first time in a long time. If the Reeds lost

their will, they could give up everything. Ray would go

down. So would the big man. And everything Ray had

worked for over the past thirty years would be lost.

Ray thought about the Reeds. Where could they have

gone? And why would they suddenly decide to disobey

such simple fucking directions?

They weren't at the motel. Elaine wasn't picking up her

cell phone. He'd given them the address, a newly cloned

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phone, and now he couldn't find them. It was like they'd

looked him in the eye and lied to him.

"This isn't good," he said to Vince. "The Reeds have

disappeared."

Vince snorted a laugh, managed to keep the toothpick

in his mouth. "Ain't that ironic."

Ray looked at him, then said fuck it. He couldn't help

himself.

He slapped Vince across the face, the toothpick doing

a little spiral before landing in a puddle of sludge several

feet away. That made Ray smile.

When Vince recovered, he was holding his jaw, a thin

trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.

"Ow, man, what the fuck?"

"Couldn't take that stupid toothpick anymore."

"Christ, you could have asked me to throw it out!"

"Consider this an apology. Come on, let's go."

They got into the car, Ray shaking his head as Vince

started the engine.

"What is it?" Vince said, mopping up his lip with a

handkerchief.

"The Reeds," he said. "I don't trust them anymore.

They don't realize this thing is bigger than them. They're

being selfish, not realizing they're putting years of work

at risk. I thought they could be trusted, that they had their

family's best interests in mind. I guess I was wrong."

"What are you saying, boss?" Vince asked.

"I think when we find them, we need to make them gone."

"Gone like the kids? Or, like, gone gone?"

Ray looked at him, didn't say a word. Vince nodded

solemnly. Ray patted the kid on the back. That was his

answer right there. Then they drove away.

33

"According to DMV records," Curt said, "the Reeds

drive a 2002 silver Ford Windstar, license plate JV5 L16.

I don't think it'll come as a huge surprise to anyone that

their current address is listed as 482 Huntley Terrace."

We were still at the 19th Precinct, corralled in a conference room on the second floor. Curt had already had to

shoo away three other officers who tried to reclaim the

room. When they couldn't offer concrete reasons for

needing the space--the excuses ranged from "It has the

only good coffee machine in the building" to "Fuck your

mother"--I quickly figured out the cops simply didn't

want us there. And that was fine with me. The more roadblocks were put up in our effort to find out the circumstances surrounding these kidnappings and Petrovsky's

murder, the more insolent I became. Though I didn't think

Curt would go so far as to have my back if I lost control

and tried to pick a fight. And I was getting pretty damn

close to that.

Amanda said, "So at least we have direct legal proof that

ties the Reed family to this guy Benjamin. But we still

don't know why the hell they have anything to do with a

criminal."

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"What if," I said, "the Reeds weren't linked directly

to Benjamin?"

"Not sure I follow," Curt said.