The Stolen

2

The bar was sweltering hot, but the swirling fans made it more palatable than the thick sweater choking the New

York streets. It didn't take long to learn that Augusts in

New York could be brutal. My first summer in the city, I made the mistake one day of wearing a T-shirt and sweater to the office. Jack told me between my clothes and the

Gazette 's sporadic air-conditioning, I'd lose ten pounds before the day was up. While I doubted the New York summer could get any hotter than my childhood years in

Bend, Oregon, when later that night I peeled off my sweater and squeezed out the moisture, I realized East

Coast summers were just as brutal as their West Coast counterparts.

I took another sip of my beer-my third of the night, and third in slightly under an hour-and casually glanced up at the baseball game. Out of the dozen or so patrons, only two or three seemed to care about the outcome. The others were nursing a drink, chatting up the bartender or, like the six people my age playing darts, far too busy reveling in their own bliss.

I'd gotten to know the bartender, Seamus. Things like that happen when you become a regular. Some nights I had trouble sleeping. This necessitated finding somewhere to go to kill time. Somewhere I could be lost in my own thoughts. That's how I stumbled upon Finnerty's. Quiet enough to lose yourself. Loud enough to drown everything out.

Most nights I was happy to imbibe among young Irish gents and apple-cheeked female bartenders. U2 and Morrissey seemed to emanate from the jukebox on an endless loop. Though I enjoyed the Irish pub, sitting in Finnerty's made me feel that much closer to the elder drinkers, sitting with bottomless glasses of whiskey, talking to the bartender because he was cheaper than a psychiatrist. All of this, by proxy, made me feel more and more like I was becoming Jack O'Donnell. In many ways being compared to Jack would be a compliment. Just not this one.

Jack O'Donnell, to put it bluntly, was my idol. He'd worked the city beat for going on forty years, and any conversation about New York journalism was incomplete without mention of the old man. Growing up, I'd gone out of my way to read every story O'Donnell wrote, not an easy task for a kid who lived three thousand miles away from New York. I had our library special-order the Gazette on microfiche. I would take on an extra newspaper route just so I could afford the next O'Donnell book in hardcover when it hit stores. I couldn't, or wouldn't, wait for the paperback.

A few years ago I'd arrived at the New York Gazette a fresh-faced newbie reporter who deigned only to shine

O'Donnell's shoes. He was a journalistic institution, writing some of the most important stories of the past half century. Despite his age, Jack seemed to grow younger with every word he typed. Even though Jack's first assignment for me led to disaster-namely me being accused of murder-he was the first person at the newspaper to give me an honest shot at showing what I was worth. Both Jack and Wallace Langston, the Gazette 's editor-in-chief, had taken me under their wings, given me stories that I grabbed on to tenaciously and reported the hell out of. Without Jack

I probably wouldn't have come to New York. Because of him I found my calling.

Like any idol, though, once you got closer you could see that some of the gold paint covered a chipped bronze interior. For all his brilliance with a pen, Jack's personal life was a disaster. Several times married and divorced. On the highway to alcoholism while seeming to hit every speed bump at sixty miles an hour. Yet, despite Jack's faults, he was the tent pole to which I aspired to in this business. As long as I could stop there.

Nights like tonight, I was content to sit on the aged bar stool and ignore everything. It was easier that way.

Then I felt a cold splash on my back, whipped around to see a tall, lithe redhead standing over my shoulder, her hand over her mouth as if she'd just seen a bad car accident.

"Oh, my gosh!" she said, grabbing a pile of napkins off the bar and mopping at my shirt where she'd spilled her drink. From the look and smell, I could tell she'd spilled a cosmopolitan. I'd say I was thankful it wasn't one of my good shirts, but the truth was I didn't own any good shirts.

Just one more article of clothing with an unidentifiable stain.

"No big deal," I said, wringing as much liquid from the cloth as I could. "It's a bar. You kind of expect to be hit with a drink or two."

She smiled at me. I wondered if she thought I was funny, or if she was just relieved I wasn't the kind of asshole who would bark and shout at a girl who'd accidentally spilled a drink on him.

She was pretty. Tall, in good shape, but I could tell a lot of effort went into her appearance. Probably too much.

Her jeans were tight, light blue tank top with a neckline that plunged far down enough to catch the eyes. Her cheeks and eyelids glistened with sweat on top of sweatproof makeup. She was probably a natural beauty but simply didn't trust herself. I thought I noticed a small dark spot, a mole perhaps, by her right collarbone, but quickly realized it was a passing shadow. She was the prettiest girl

I'd noticed in Finnerty's in a long while. Either that, or I just never bothered to notice.

"Here," she said, putting down the soiled napkins and reaching into her purse, "let me buy you a drink. Least I can do, right, since you're being such a gentleman? What kind of beer is that?"

I shook my head. "No need. It happens." I caught the ball game from the corner of my eye. The fans were on their feet. Looked like someone had hit a home run.

"Well, can I just buy you a drink to buy you a drink?"

I looked at her, a cautious smile. My beer was almost empty. And my wallet was running light.

"It's okay," I said after a moment. "Really, it's not necessary." She put her purse away, eyed me with a combination of skepticism and curiosity.

"Are you here with friends?" she asked.

"Nope. Just watching the game."

She glanced around the bar, watched the guys with gelled hair and long button-down shirts hanging over expensive jeans, high-fiving one another while a gaggle of girls cheered every dart throw.

"So you're just here to, what…hang out by yourself?"

"That's the idea," I said. Her smile turned demure. I felt her move closer. Her arm brushed mine, and for a moment I felt that tingle of electricity. It had been so long. I didn't move my arm.

"That's kind of cool," she said. "Lot of guys try too hard to be all macho and stuff. It takes confidence to stay quiet."

I had to stop myself from laughing, considering I was afraid of my own apartment and came here precisely so I could avoid the braying of testosterone-drenched i-bankers.

"Trust me, it's not confidence," I said. "Just comfort."

"See, that's confident right there!" Then she extended her hand. "I'm Emily."

"Henry," I said. For a moment I waited, then shook her hand. Didn't want to be rude.

"I'm here with some old college friends who are in town for the weekend," Emily said, "but we're probably going to ditch this place soon and go somewhere else more, like, alive. I know you're happy to be by yourself-" she used finger quotation marks to accent this statement

"-but it might be cool if you came with us."

Right then I could see the night laid out before me. Two paths. I could accept Emily's invitation, and presuming I played my cards right, that electric sensation of skin on skin would later become a wildfire.

Or I could sit here, sip my beer, stare at my reflection in the mirror and think about all the other paths I'd simply passed right by.

"I appreciate the offer, Emily," I said. "But I think I'll stay here for the night."

"You sure?" she said.

"Sure."

"Suit yourself." She grabbed a clean napkin from the bar, removed a tube of eyeliner from her purse and painstakingly drew something on the paper. When she was done, she smiled, handed me the napkin and walked away.

Jason Pinter

Her phone number was written in black, smudgy ink.

Emily offered one last wave as she went through the door, pausing for a moment to give me one last chance to reconsider. I raised the rest of my beer to her. She shrugged and left. Then I let the napkin fall to the floor.

I downed the last of my beer. Seamus took a pair of empty pitchers down off the bar and came over to me.

"Another?" he said.

I looked at my glass, felt the buzz swirling in my head and decided against it.

"That's it for me tonight." He took my glass and went to serve a man shaking his glass for a refill. I stood up, steadying myself as the blood swam to my head. When my equilibrium settled, I left the bar.

I checked my phone. Four missed calls, beginning at

11:00 p.m. They were all from the same prefix, which I recognized as the Gazette. I checked my watch. Late jobrelated calls were no longer a nuisance; they were a part of my life. Perhaps that's why I turned down another beer.

Somehow I had a feeling I'd have to return someone's call while relatively sober.

I walked down to the corner and bought a pack of Certs, slipping one in my mouth to try to remove the beer aftertaste. Then I dialed the Gazette. Wallace Langston, editorin-chief, picked up his private line on the first ring.

"Henry, Christ, where the hell've you been?"

"It's a Friday night. You don't pay me enough to have a 24/7 retainer."

"Okay, you don't want to answer your phone, I have half a newsroom of reporters who'd drop their off days faster than a hot iron for what I'm about to tell you, so let me know if this is an inconvenient time."

"What if I said it was?"

"I'd say two things," Wallace said. "First, you're a liar.

It sounds like you're standing on the street, which means you can't be that busy. Second, I'd say I don't give a crap because if you turn down this assignment, I can find another reporter who'll grab it faster than you can hang up."

"Sounds like a hot one," I said. "So maybe I'm interested."

" Hot isn't the word," Wallace said. "Scorching. Actually no, forget that. The only appropriate word is exclu- sive. "

"Oh, yeah? What kind of exclusive?"

"You hear about this Daniel Linwood case up in

Hobbs County?"

Immediately my buzz wore off. "Kid who was kidnapped five years ago and suddenly reappeared on his parents' doorstep, right?"

"So you follow the news. Glad to know we pay you for something. Daniel Linwood was five years old when he disappeared from his parents' home in Hobbs County,

New York. That was five years ago. One moment he's playing outside, then all of a sudden he's just gone. No witnesses, nobody saw or heard anything. His disappearance shakes the Hobbs County community to its roots. There's a media frenzy, politicians come out of the woodwork to show their support, but the cops come up empty. Then last night, Daniel shows up at his parents' house like he's been at the movies. Not a scratch on him. And get this-the kid has as much memory of the past five years as I have of my first marriage. He doesn't remember where he's been, who took him or how he even got home. Half the known world is waging war to talk to Daniel and his parents and get the story, but up until now it's been radio silence."

"Until now?" I said.

"Until you," Wallace said. "I've been calling the Linwoods for twenty-four hours nonstop."

"I bet they appreciate that," I said snidely.

"Shut up, Parker, or I'll smack that booze right off your breath."

"You don't know I've been drinking," I said, regretfully slurring the last word.

"I've worked with Jack O'Donnell for more than twenty years. You can't fool a professional bullshit detector. Anyway, tonight I get a call from Shelly Linwood out of nowhere. She says she's ready to talk. And before I can say another word, she says she and Daniel will talk to you, and only you."

"Me?" I said. "Why?"

Wallace said, "Shelly knows she can't keep silent forever, that at some point she and Daniel will need to speak to the press. So she said when he does speak to someone, she wants it to be to a reporter he won't be intimidated by. Someone who doesn't remind him of his parents. She wants Daniel to talk to someone he can trust, whom she can look in the eye and know he won't exploit her son. Between all of that, I offered you. And she accepted."

"Holy crap, are you serious?" I said. "This is a major story, Wallace. We're going to make a lot of reporters pretty jealous."

"And I'm going to revel in it," Wallace said. "This is your story now, Parker. Daniel Linwood has probably been through a kind of hell you and I can't even imagine, and his parents have spent almost five years assuming their oldest son was dead. Be gentle. Daniel is ten years old, and we still don't know the full psychological damage he's suffered. If you press the wrong button, touch the wrong nerve, he and Shelly will clam up fast. And the Dispatch will be on top of this as fast as Paulina Cole can get up to

Hobbs County."

"I'd die before Paulina scoops us," I said.

"Don't make it come to that, Henry. The Linwoods are expecting you tomorrow at two. Get there at noon, spend a few hours checking out the neighborhood for local color.

But if Daniel wants to talk to you at one-forty-five, twofifteen or three o'clock in the morning, you'll have your tape recorder ready to go."

"You got it."

"That means going home right now and sobering up."

"I'm on my way." This included a hot shower, a fresh set of clothes, suit and tie. I prayed these were all at the ready, otherwise an all-night Laundromat would soon be graced by my clothes' aromatic presence.

"Call me before you leave tomorrow," Wallace said.

"And I mean that. Call me. I don't want to come into the office tomorrow and see you asleep and drooling on your keyboard. You have a home. Go there."

I said nothing. Telling Wallace that my apartment didn't feel like a home was neither his business nor concern. All he cared about, and rightfully so, was this story. I'd been granted leeway the past few years most young reporters never got. Many in my position would have been shown the door, either landing in the safety net of a small-town paper or spewing angry blogs about the dumbing-down of

American media. I had no desire to do either, and preferred to help from the inside. Big-time news was in my blood.

A while ago Jack O'Donnell had told me that to truly become a legend in your field, you had to lead a life with one purpose. You had to devote yourself to your calling.

Splitting your passions between that and other pursuits- hobbies, family-would only make each endeavor suffer.

The past few months I'd whittled down my extracurriculars to nothing. All for stories like this.

"You'll hear from me first thing tomorrow morning," I said. "And, Wallace?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"Thanks for the opportunity."

"Don't thank me, thank Shelly Linwood. I'm not the only one counting on you to do the right thing."

The call ended. I stood there in the warm night, the sounds of the bar and the street fading away. This night held nothing else for me, but tomorrow presented a golden opportunity. So many circumstances surrounding Daniel

Linwood's disappearance were a mystery, and because the boy himself couldn't remember, I wondered how much, if any of it, would ever come to light. I wondered if never getting that closure would bother the Linwood family. Or if they were just thankful to have their son back.

I put the phone in my pocket, went to the corner and hailed a cab back to my apartment. For a moment I wondered if, like Daniel Linwood, I was returning to a place both strangely familiar, yet terribly foreign at the same time.