The Stolen (2008) Read online

  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

  ®

  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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  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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  13

  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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  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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  15

  “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 agree
ment. “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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  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