The Stolen

3

The Lincoln Town Car pulled up at 10:00 a.m. on the dot, shiny and black and idling in front of my apartment as inconspicuous as a black rhinoceros. I'd heeded Wallace's advice and gone home, sleeping in my own bed for the first time in weeks. I stripped the sheets, used a few clean towels in their place, and got my winks under an old sleeping bag.

I woke up at eight-thirty, figured it'd be plenty of time, but it took forty-five minutes to clean the crud out of my coffee machine and brew a new pot, so by the time the driver buzzed my cell phone I was tucking my shirt in, making sure my suit jacket was devoid of any lint. Unfortunately I missed the open fly until we'd merged off the

West Side Highway onto I-87 North. My driver was a

Greek fellow named Stavros. Stavros was big, bald and had a pair of snake-eyed dice tattooed on the back of his neck that just peeked out over the headrest.

I sipped my Thermos of coffee, grimaced and doublechecked my briefcase. Pens, paper, tape recorder, business cards, digital camera in case I had a chance to take some shots of the neighborhood surrounding the Linwood residence in Hobbs County. Perhaps we'd use them in the article, give the reader a sense of local color recorded words could not.

Hobbs County was located about thirty miles north of

New York City, nestled in between Tarrytown and the snuggly, wealthy confines of Chappaqua. Just a few years ago Hobbs County was an ingrown toenail between the two other towns, but recently a tremendous influx of state funds and pricey renovations had things moving in the right direction. Good thing, too, because statistically,

Hobbs County had crime rates that would have made

Detroit and Baltimore shake their heads.

According to the FBI Report of Offenses Known to

Law Enforcement, the year before Daniel Linwood disappeared, Tarrytown, with 11,466 residents, had zero reported murders, zero rapes, one case of arson (a seventeen-year-old girl setting fire to her ex-boyfriend's baseball card collection), zero kidnappings and ten car thefts. Each of these numbers were microscopic compared to the national average.

That same year, Hobbs County, with 10,372 residents, had sixteen reported murders, five rapes, nine cases of arson, twenty-two car thefts and two kidnappings. If

Hobbs County had the population of New York City, it would be on pace for more than twelve thousand murders a year.

Hobbs County was literally killing itself.

One of those two reported kidnappings was Daniel

Linwood. The other was a nine-year-old girl whose body was later found in a drainage ditch. Since then, those crime rates had dropped like a rock. This past year, Hobbs had four murders. One rape. Eleven car thefts. And no kidnappings.

There was still a lot of work to be done, but something had lit a fire under Hobbs County. It was righting itself.

And then Daniel Linwood reappeared, hopefully speeding the cleansing process even more.

The rebuilding had naturally raised property values, and between the drop in crime and influx of new money,

Hobbs County found itself awash with wealthy carpetbaggers interested in the refurbished schools, reseeded parks and investment opportunities. Five years ago you could have bought a three-bedroom house for less than two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Today, if you scoured the real estate pages and found one for less than three quarters of a million, you'd be an idiot not to snap it up.

While there was no getting back Daniel Linwood's lost years, his family could at least be thankful he had come back to a town far safer than the one he'd left.

"Only been to Hobbs once," Stavros piped in from the front seat. "Few years ago. Pro football player going to visit his aunt just diagnosed with Hodgkins. She lived in the same house for thirty years, give or take. Guy told me he'd tried to buy her a new place, get her out of the life, but you know how old folks are. Rather die at the roots than reach for a vine. You know, even if the client's only booked for a one-way trip, I'll usually offer to hang around in case they decide they need a ride back to wherever.

Hobbs, though, man, you could offer me double the rate and I would have jetted faster than one of them Kenyan marathon runners. Not the kind of place you want to be sitting in a car alone at night. Or anytime, really."

I eyed those dice tattoos. Wondered what it took to scare a man who wasn't afraid to get ink shot into his neck with a needle.

"I hear the town is different now," I said. "A lot's changed in five years."

"New coat of paint, same cracked wood underneath,"

Stavros said. "You don't start from the ground up, poison's still gonna be there. Anyway, you're booked for a return trip, right? I'm sure you'll be fine, long as you're finished before the sun goes down. The dealers and hoods come out thinking you're the po-lice."

"I really think you're wrong," I said, my voice trying to convince me more than Stavros. "Anyway, when we get there, I don't think you'll have to worry too much about being alone. If I know the press, they'll be camped out at this house like ants at a picnic."

"That so? Where exactly you headed?"

"Interview," I said. "A kid."

"Not that kid who got kidnapped. Daniel something, right?"

"Daniel Linwood, yeah."

"Hot damn, I've been reading about that! Awful stuff.

I mean great he came back, but I got a six-year-old and I'd just about tear the earth apart if she ever went missing.

Those poor parents. Can't even imagine."

"Better you don't."

We merged onto 287, then headed north on Route 9, driving past a wide white billboard announcing our entry into the town limits.

Hobbs County was covered in lush green foliage, the summer sun shining golden through the thick leaves. Trees bracketed sleepy homes, supported by elegant marble columns. I lowered the window and could hear running water from a nearby stream. This was NewYork, but not the 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 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 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 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.

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 at 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 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.

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 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 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 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 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."