The Stolen

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.

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 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.

"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?"

"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."

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."

"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.

"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 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 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…?"

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.