The Stolen

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."

Jason Pinter

"What if," I said, "the Reeds weren't linked directly to Benjamin?"

"Not sure I follow," Curt said.

"We're forgetting about Petrovsky. He knew Daniel

Linwood and Michelle Oliveira. His career was based around children. Bob and Elaine Reed have one son,

Patrick, and we suspect they might have kidnapped another child, too."

"I'm still waiting for the search on that," Curt said.

"I'm hoping you're wrong."

"Anyway, isn't it possible that somehow the Reeds became linked to Benjamin through Petrovsky?"

"Like some sort of middleman?" Amanda asked.

"Exactly. I'm willing to bet Petrovsky knew Benjamin, and Petrovsky knew the Reeds, as well. Amanda, is there any way you could get information about Patrick Reed? I have a feeling we might see Dmitri Petrovsky's signature on his delivery forms as well."

"I'm on it," Amanda said. She gathered up her coat and purse and stood up. "Good luck, guys." She spent an extra moment looking at me, then she left.

Curt waited until the door had closed, then he said, "So what's going on with you two?"

"Nothing," I said. "Absolutely nothing."

"You sound like you're as happy with that situation as

I am with my mortgage."

"Just don't know what to do. I broke up with her, but not a day goes by I don't regret it. In my mind I can erase that mistake, but expecting her to… I wouldn't expect that."

"You think maybe part of the reason you're working this story so hard is to be close to her?"

"I don't know."

"That's not a no."

"No, it's not."

"Part of me don't feel right letting her do some of the dirty work on this. I mean, look at you, man. Seems like every few months you get beat up. You really want her that close to you?"

"That's why I broke it off in the first place," I said. "I took the decision out of her hands. But she's been with me every step of the way on this. Relationship or not, she wants to be here. And it's not my place to tell her not to."

"That's a selfish way to look at the world, especially if she might be in danger."

"I'd kill myself if anything happened to her, Curt," I said. "But she's a hell of a strong woman, and I know that anything I can take, she can, too. Probably more so. She works with kids every day, and she's seen some of the most terrible cases of abuse you can imagine. She doesn't talk about it much, because, well, who wants to bring that kind of work home with her? But don't be fooled into thinking she's in this for me, or for the adrenaline. This is a cause for her. And I respect that."

"So if it's a cause for her, and it's about my job for me, what's it about for you?"

I thought about that for a moment, then said, "The truth, man. It's about the truth. That's my job."

"So since we're both on the job," Curt said, "how the hell do we find the Reeds? They obviously jetted from

Huntley before smokey the pyromaniac got his hands on the house. They're registered with Verizon, but the phone's going right to voice mail. No luck tracking it down just yet.

There are no known family members for either Robert or

Elaine Reed, and we're checking their phone records for friends and acquaintances."

"They won't be at a friend's house," I said. "Benjamin got them into the house on Huntley so they could keep private. That place was like a fortress. You don't go through all that trouble only to have Elaine spill the beans to someone in her knitting group. You said they have a minivan, right?"

"Yeah, a Windstar."

"Nobody buys a minivan for one kid. I'm getting more and more sure that they've kidnapped another child.

Anyway, I'm betting they're staying at a motel somewhere. A place where nobody knows them, and nobody knows where they are except for Benjamin and his crony."

"There's a lot of motels in this country, man. You can't expect us to cover all of them."

"No, but if you're a parent with two bawling kids in a minivan, do you really think you're driving ten, fifteen hours for the same kind of motel you can get within a few miles? My bet is they're still in the state. Say a four-hour drive, make it an even two hundred and forty miles, and that's your radius from Huntley Terrace. They'll stay away from major cities and metropolitan areas."

"There's still a shitload of fleabag motels in that range, Henry."

"Christ, Curt, you're a cop. Don't you guys do this all the time?"

Curt smiled at me. "I'm on it. Go run some more of your magic. I'll give you a ring if we get any more info on the Reeds or other missing children."

"Thanks, Curt, appreciate it. You want to sock me in the eye once, gain a little street cred among your fellow boys in blue?"

"Tempting, but tell you what. Leave the building like I broke you down into tears, we'll call it even. Deal?"

"Deal."

I left the 19th Precinct with a sullen look on my face, as if Curt Sheffield had just ripped the head off my favorite teddy bear. Rounding the corner onto Lexington, I called the Gazette from my cell phone. I asked to be connected to Wallace Langston's office, and the editor-in-chief picked up immediately.

"Wallace, it's Henry."

"Henry, good to hear from you. What's the latest?"

"I'm in the middle of tracking down a family that I'm ninety-nine percent sure is part of some sort of weird kidnapping ring that involves the Linwood and Oliveira children. There's a link between the Reed family and this psycho Benjamin who mistook me for an ashtray. I'm running down the link, and when I have that I'll let you know. How's Jack doing?"

Wallace sighed. "They released him yesterday. He's got the rest of the week off for some R and R and detox.

I've never seen the man like this before. It worries me."

"What do you mean?"

"Jack has been with this newspaper since he was a young man, Henry, younger than you are now. He's worked himself to the bone for his profession. He's a legend in this field, and he's paid his dues to become that.

But Jack's not a young man anymore. You can't go with that same kind of drive, that kind of passion at his age, without compensation. I wonder…God, I can't believe

I'm saying this…but I wonder if his career isn't beginning to wind down."

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. But rather than a sensation of pain emanating from it, I felt anger. How could Wallace even begin to question the longevity of

Jack's career? Things were looking bad now, but everyone was entitled to fall off the wagon once or twice. It was a divot in the road, not a full-blown earthquake. And it pissed me off to hear Wallace insinuate otherwise.

"He'll be just fine," I said through gritted teeth. "Give it a week or two, he'll be tracking leads and breaking stories like he's a new man."

"I sincerely hope you're right, Henry. But it worries and saddens me to think you may not be. Listen, my friend, keep pushing on this story. I've gotten three calls from

Gray Talbot's office since your detainment up in Hobbs

County. Our friend the senator is no doubt perturbed that we've ignored his requests. I expect a hate-o-gram to arrive any moment in the mail, but until you see me led away in handcuffs, keep pressing."

"That's what I do," I said. "Talk to you later, Wallace."

I hung up.

It took a moment to register that my stomach was growling. I stopped at a deli and wolfed down a bagel with lox spread and a large coffee. When that was polished off,

I had half a blueberry muffin for dessert. My natural reaction to that would be to run it off the next day, but my legs were beat. I hadn't put in for vacation time in ages. I didn't think Wallace would be all that surprised to see my paperwork cross his desk in the near future.

When I finished the meal, I took a cab back home, sat down on the couch and waited. This was the worst part of the game, and as a reporter the most frustrating part of the job. The waiting.

So much of my work was dependent on sources getting back to me, but every moment that phone didn't ring there was a fear that the story was slipping through my fingers.

I worried that Curt's searches would turn up empty. That

Amanda would discover Patrick Reed was born in Idaho and not Hobbs County like I suspected. Not to mention cigarette boy Benjamin wandering the streets somewhere, and I had a little more anxiety at that moment than I liked.

I had to distract myself. Music, that would do it. Calm, soothing music.

I turned my computer on, opened iTunes and started to play Dylan's "Not Dark Yet." The melody calmed me.

I thought about Daniel Linwood, Michelle Oliveira.

Two children with their lives once laid out in front of them, yet forevermore they would be outcasts. They would always live with that stigma, never fitting in. The beauty of a child, the pain from a life stolen away.

And just while those lyrics had begun to burrow their way into my skull, my cell phone rang. If there was ever a time to be jostled out of morose thoughts.

The caller ID read "Amanda cell." I answered it without hesitating.

"Hey, wondering what happened to you."

"Seriously? It's been, like, fifteen minutes. What the hell do you expect?"

"Sorry, just a little antsy here. I feel like things are starting to become clearer."

"Well, your feelings might be real. Turns out that

Patrick Reed, son of Robert and Elaine Reed, was born on

May 29 four and a half years ago at Yardley Medical

Center in Hobbs County."

"You're shitting me."

"Nope. And I'll give you three guesses at to who signed the delivery certificate."

"I'll take Dmitri Petrovsky for one thousand, Alex."

"Ding ding ding. I'm actually out of cash, so I hope you'll take your winning either in an IOU or a Sweet'n

Low packet I just dug out of my jeans pocket."

"Amanda, you know what this means, right? The Reeds knew Petrovsky. Their son was born at the same hospital as Daniel Linwood and Michelle Oliveira. That's their link to Raymond Benjamin. Somehow he found out about these kids through Petrovsky."

"Wait," Amanda said. "Patrick Reed wasn't kidnapped, he's the Reeds' biological son. What gives?"

"Patrick isn't the issue, I just needed a connection so we could figure out how the Reeds came in contact with

Benjamin. Petrovsky is the middleman. Benjamin the facilitator. The Reeds-I'm not quite sure what they are."

"So we have three pieces to the puzzle, but the three pieces are blank right now."

"Yeah, pretty much. We need to find the Reeds. Petrovsky is dead and Benjamin will kill us before he talks." I heard a beeping sound on my phone. I looked at the display. It read "Curt cell."

"Amanda, Curt's on the other line. I need to take this."

"Call me right back."

"Will do." I hung up. My palms were sweating. This was all coming together. The bigger picture was still invisible, but it would come. Benjamin. Petrovsky. The

Reeds. What the hell were they all involved in?

"Hello?" I said, answering the call.

"Hey, man, I got a ton of info for you." It was Curt. He was talking fast. "We might have found your girl. Two weeks ago, Caroline Twomey, age nine, was taken from her parents' home in Tarrytown. She was reported missing the next day, but the Tarrytown PD haven't turned up any leads. I did a background check on Caroline's parents, a

Mr. and Mrs. Harold and Phyllis Twomey. Harold works construction but hasn't made more than thirty-five grand a year in his whole life. Phyllis is a part-time schoolteacher. And by part-time, I mean she hasn't worked in nearly five years."

"Really? Why is that?"

"Five years ago, Phyllis Twomey was arrested for shoplifting. The store decided to press charges, and

Phyllis was fined five hundred bucks and sentenced to fifty hours of community service. She hasn't worked a day since."

"What store did she rob?"

"A Healthwise pharmacy just three miles from their house. They caught her on the security camera, cops met her at her house fifteen minutes after it was called in."

"Curt," I said. "What did she steal?"

"Says here she tried to steal two dozen vials of insulin."

There it was. I knew the link. I knew why Benjamin had come to Petrovsky. I knew why Daniel Linwood, Michelle

Oliveira and Caroline Twomey had been chosen.

"Curt," I said. "Daniel Linwood is a diabetic. So is

Caroline Twomey. When I spoke to Michelle Oliveira's violin teacher, Delilah Lancaster, she mentioned noticing needle marks on the girl's skin. She thought it might have been drugs, but it was because Michelle is a diabetic.

They're all diabetic."

"So Dmitri Petrovsky was feeding Raymond Benjamin information about diabetic children that were born in his pediatric ward. For what purpose?"

"Diabetics are more susceptible to lower thiamine levels," I said. "If they don't get proper nutrition, it can result in both short-term and long-term brain damage. One of the side effects of short-term brain damage is Korsakoff syndrome, which prevents the brain from processing certain compounds, and prevents the brain from retaining long-term memory."

"That would explain why Michelle and Dan Linwood had no recollection of their years missing."

"Right," I said. "But whoever took Dan and Michelle, and now this Twomey girl, knew about their conditions.

And they were prepared for it. They didn't want to kill these children, they just needed to get them away from their families for a period of time."

"Why?" Curt asked.

"I don't know yet," I said. "But I'm sure the Reeds can answer that question for us."

"Well, that was my next piece of information. You owe me a steak dinner after all this, Henry."

"Come on, cough it up."

"You're lucky it's a slow day. I had a dozen cops calling every hotel and motel within a two-hundred-and-fiftymile radius of that house on Huntley Terrace. We got an affirmative for a Mr. Robert Reed at a Sheraton in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. About two hundred miles from

Hobbs County."

"Holy shit, Curt, you're a godsend." I checked my watch. It was six o'clock. With any luck I could be in Harrisburg by nine. "Listen, I need to call Amanda. I'm driving up there right now."

"Like hell you are," Curt said. "You have no idea what's up there. Hell, that's not even my jurisdiction."

"Lucky for me I don't have to worry about jurisdiction,"

I said. "News is interstate. Sorry about that, bro."

"You asshole," Curt said. "All right, screw it. I'm coming with you. You got a car, right?"

"Sure do."

"Then count me in. And I call shotgun."

"Bitch, please. You think there's any chance in hell you're riding shotgun over the girl I'm still in love with?"

Curt laughed. "No, guess not, but at least you finally admitted it."

"What do you want, a cookie? Meet me here in half an hour." I hung up. Called Amanda. Set the meeting time.

Wondered if somehow Robert and Elaine Reed expected some company.