The Stolen

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.

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."

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.

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 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, 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."

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 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.