The Stolen (2008) Read online

  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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  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

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  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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  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.

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  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 a
t 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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  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.

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  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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  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

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  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

&nb
sp; 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.