“…and when she came back.”
I looked at Delilah Lancaster. She was trembling, her
hands gripping the wheel so hard they’d become white.
“Somebody else taught her how to play that sonata.”
14
I marched into Wallace Langston’s office and sat down.
He was poring over a pile of loose pages. He simply
looked up and stared at me.
“I don’t recall that chair offering you a seat,” he said. I
stood back up. Without missing a beat, Wallace said, “Now
you can sit down, Henry. What’s up?”
I took out the tape recorder, put it on the desk in front of
Wallace. “I just spent the day in Meriden talking to Michelle
Oliveira’s old music teacher, Delilah Lancaster. She—”
“Michelle who?” he said. I forgot for a moment that
Wallace had dozens of other stories being run past him,
and that even though this was hugely important to me, I
needed to show him that I was right about my suspicions.
“Seven years before Daniel Linwood disappeared, a girl
named Michelle Oliveira vanished from Meriden, Connecticut. For almost four years there was no trace of her. No
suspects, no arrests, nada. Then, just like Danny Linwood,
she shows up at her parents’ doorstep without the vaguest
idea what happened. No scrapes, no bruises, and police can’t
figure out what the hell happened or where she’d been.”
Wallace slowly put down the pages. I had his full
attention.
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“I thought that whole ‘brothers’ thing was strange, but
it seemed clear to me that after Daniel was kidnapped, he
retained some information from his time gone. I wanted
to find out if this was a common occurrence for kidnapping victims. Upon running a search, I found this Oliveira
girl, who disappeared in the exact same way. Michelle was
very close to her music teacher, this Delilah Lancaster, so
I figured she might be able to shed some light and maybe
help me understand Danny’s case better. During the interview today, it turns out that in between Michelle Oliveira’s
disappearance and return, the girl learned an entire new
violin sonata. Somehow she’d had access to both instruments and music books. So not only was she kidnapped,
but she was kidnapped by somebody who knew her well
enough to know she was a violin prodigy.”
Wallace looked at me, looked at the recorder. “She
played violin, this Michelle Oliveira?”
“A prodigy,” I said. “She’s at Juilliard now.”
“There’s no chance she started studying this sonata
before she disappeared, and simply finished it later?”
I shook my head. “I asked Delilah that. She said they
were using a workbook in which that specific sonata was
not a part of the lesson. When they resumed lessons after
Michelle returned, suddenly this ten-year-old has turned
into Yo-Yo Ma.”
“How did Lancaster explain it?”
“She couldn’t,” I said. “And neither could Michelle.
Delilah asked her where she learned it, but Michelle
didn’t know.”
“And Lancaster believed her?”
“Without a doubt. Like Danny Linwood, it’s an imprint
on her brain, the moves in her muscle memory. Unconscious. I did leave several messages for the Oliveiras but
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haven’t heard back yet, and frankly I’m not expecting to.
But something strange is happening to these kids while
they’re gone. Obviously somebody took them, and they’re
retaining a piece of memory from their time away. It’s not
much, but it definitively links Michelle Oliveira and
Daniel Linwood. I don’t know how or why, but their disappearances are connected.”
“This is stunning stuff, Parker. And where did you get
all this information on Oliveira?” Wallace asked.
“I… Most of it from newspapers. Lancaster was interviewed by the Journal-Record. ”
“You just happened to come upon this?”
“I dig deep,” I said, thinking of Amanda, not wanting
to get her into any trouble.
Just then there was a knock at Wallace’s door. We both
turned. Our jaws simultaneously dropped when we saw the
striking figure in the doorway.
“Gray,” Wallace said. I recognized the man immediately, but for the life of me couldn’t imagine why he was
here.
The man entered, striding up to Wallace with casual
confidence.
Wallace said, “Henry, you’ve met…”
“Senator Talbot,” I said. “We met just the other day.”
Gray Talbot smiled at me. “Hello, Henry,” he said. “I
hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
15
I stood out in the hall, trying to hear what Wallace and
Gray Talbot were discussing behind closed doors. Though
Wallace had told me to wait by my desk, I wasn’t nearly
patient enough. I felt better pacing a tread on the carpet
outside of his office. I wondered what the hell Senator
Talbot was doing in the Gazette offices. Wallace seemed
surprised, and I was pretty sure Gray had stopped by
totally unannounced. Generally not the behavior of most
politicians who throw a press conference to announce
they’ve voided their bowels.
I felt slightly dirty, like a journalistic Peeping Tom,
straining for quick glimpses. I could only make out corners
of the office—Wallace had drawn the shades. I could see
Talbot pacing back and forth, his face angry. He was
looking in one direction, which inferred that Wallace was
sitting at his desk, most likely being defensive.
I got the distinct impression that Wallace was being
read the riot act for something, I just wasn’t sure what.
Finally after about twenty minutes, the door opened and
Gray Talbot exited. His navy suit was unruffled, his hair
unmussed, his demeanor unshaken. Whatever he’d come
for today, he’d gotten it.
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As he walked by he slowed up, turned to me slightly,
leaned in. I could smell his light aftershave, saw a small
nick by his jawbone.
“Parker,” he said. “You’re better than this. I haven’t forgotten what we spoke about. And I hope you haven’t,
either.”
Before I could ask what the hell he was talking about,
Talbot was in the elevator.
Without waiting another second, I burst into Wallace’s
office. The editor-in-chief was sitting down, hands
steepled, chin resting on his thumbs. He looked up at me
without moving, his eyes flickering.
“Sit down, Henry.” I sat.
“How did you get that information about Michelle
Oliveira?” he asked. I opened my mouth to speak. “And
if you lie to me you’re fired.”
I sighed, knew I was cornered, knew there was nothing
I could do.
“I have a contact at the legal aid society. This person
gave me information about the Oliveira case. The police
report, and more.” I kept it gender nonspecific, just in
case. “The r
est I did myself. Frankly I didn’t really need
it, it was just a shortcut—”
“Shortcuts are the death of our industry, Parker,”
Wallace said. “Jayson Blair took shortcuts. Stephen Glass
took shortcuts. I don’t expect you to want or need those.
And I hope to God you yourself think you’re better than
them.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said. “I knew there was more
to this Linwood story than was being reported, and I
needed something to tie them together. You know there’s
a connection. And without those papers I might not have
found it. You can call it a shortcut, I call it a story worth
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investigating. My source is reliable, and the papers are
authentic.”
“Ethics and honesty are not always independent of each
other,” Wallace said.
I felt my body go slack. “So what now?” I said. “What
did Talbot want?”
“You forget about this story now.”
I felt my body go numb. “That’s ridiculous. He can’t
spike a story because he doesn’t like my sources.”
“Gray Talbot has threatened to prosecute you, and by
proxy us, if any of what you’ve told me about Daniel
Linwood or Michelle Oliveira ever runs. He knows that
you obtained those files and he knows you did it illegally,
without the knowledge of the LAS. Like you said, it was
one rogue employee. And like a good politician he’s going
to hold it over our heads until we bend to his will. I know
you’ve worked hard on this, Henry, but let it go.”
I stood up. “This is bullshit,” I said. “Do you really think
it’s the right thing to let it go? Do you honestly believe
there’s nothing more to find on this story?”
“We’re not crusaders,” Wallace said. “We’re not vigilantes, or judges or heroes. You are a reporter. Nothing
more or less. It’s not my call to say what’s right and what’s
wrong. But I can tell you what your job is. And as of
Monday, I’ll have a new assignment for you. Now go. Get
rid of any files you have. Take the weekend, recharge your
batteries and get ready to kick some ass next week.”
“Right. Kick some ass,” I said lethargically. I left
Wallace’s office without saying another word. I didn’t know
if I was going to be able to “recharge” over the weekend,
but one thing was for damn sure. I wasn’t getting rid of
those files. And I sure as hell wasn’t letting this story go.
16
I called Amanda as soon as I left the office. The call went
straight to her voice mail at work. For a moment my breath
caught in my throat. I prayed she hadn’t been fired. Then
I tried her cell phone. When she picked up, her voice
sounded upbeat, familiar. Not the voice of someone whose
life had taken a turn for the worse.
“Oh, thank God, are you OK?” I asked.
“Of course, why wouldn’t I be? Is that asteroid finally
headed for earth or something?”
“No, even worse. Gray Talbot came by our office
today.”
“The political dude?”
“Senator, yeah.”
“What was he doing at the Gazette? Doesn’t he get
enough press?”
“That’s the thing, he wasn’t there about a story that had
already run, he was there to make sure we didn’t print
anything else about Danny Linwood or Michelle Oliveira.”
“That’s ridiculous. Why?”
I took a breath. “He knows about the files.”
There was silence. Then she spoke. “I assume you’re referring to whatever files I definitely had nothing to do with.”
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“Those are the ones.”
“Goddamn it, Henry, you promised you wouldn’t say
anything!”
“Amanda, I didn’t, I swear. But he knew about it and
threatened to either fire me or castrate Wallace if we ran
any stories about Michelle Oliveira, using the information
you gave me. Is it possible someone in your office knows
you took the files?”
“It’s possible,” she said. “I had to log in to our system
to print out a lot of it. But if they know I took them, why
haven’t I been led out by Security?”
“Same reason he came by our office. He wants this
kept quiet. You get fired, the press gets hold of that, and
he’s got much more than Wallace Langston to worry
about.”
“But why is he taking such an interest in Michelle and
Danny?” Amanda asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’ll find out.”
“I want to find out with you,” she said. “I’ll meet you
at your apartment in an hour.”
“Amanda,” I said. “I don’t think—”
“Right, don’t think anything. I want to help figure out
what the hell is going on. I work with kids seven days a
week. Kids that have been beaten and left for dead because
nobody fought for them. And now it turns out two of them
are missing pieces of their lives and some stuffed shirt
wants to step on it? Not on my watch.”
I came this close to saying I love you. I didn’t. But it
sounded great in my head.
“I’ll be at my place in an hour,” I said. “See you then.”
“Have a pot of coffee ready,” she said. “And please,
Henry. Pick up whatever dirty underwear is starting to
grow spores in your hamper.”
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“I have a hamper?”
She hung up.
I caught a cab back home, threw every article of clothing
that appeared salvageable into a garbage bag and shoved it
into my closet. I was apprehensive about letting her in.
Amanda hadn’t set foot in my apartment in six months. Like
me, Amanda had the inquisitive gene. And especially now
that her ass was on the line, she was going to be a part of
this until we figured out what happened to the years
Michelle and Danny had lost. I just needed to make sure
my nasty socks hadn’t grown a life of their own in the
meantime.
Once the apartment was clean enough to present, I
poured a glass of water and sat on the couch, thinking
about Daniel Linwood and Michelle Oliveira. It had made
me sick to read about how heartbroken their families were
when they disappeared, how two families could be shattered in seconds. I could only imagine the joy when they
came back, as though a hole in their parents’ hearts had
suddenly been repaired.
I hadn’t spoken to my father or mother in two years. The
last time was while I was on the run. I called my father
one night, holed up in a dank room, waiting for two men
who would either be my saviors or my executioners. I
called him for two reasons. The first was to say goodbye,
in the event that I didn’t make it out alive. The second was
out of the hope that that bastard would give me something
to keep going, a reason to live, to spite him if nothing
more. He gave me that, and I lived. And we had
n’t spoken
since. I never desired to. I didn’t wish him dead, but merely
hoped he took care of my poor, absent mother the best he
knew how. But I was glad to be gone from that home. I
was happy to be living a life where I was the only arbiter
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of my triumphs or failures. Like Danny and Michelle, I’d
been lost, too.
The buzzer jolted me out of my thoughts. I went to the
window, looked down to see Amanda standing at the
door. She looked up, saw me, gave me the finger. Classy
as always. I jogged to the intercom and released the door
lock, then did another once-over of the apartment to
make sure no dust bunnies—or actual bunnies—were
hiding from view.
In the minute I had before Amanda got to the door, I
considered how to answer it. Suave, with a Rhett Butleresque baritone in my voice? Should I leave the door unlatched, sit on the couch and try to act nonchalant? Maybe
greet her with a glass of water, or wine? A plate of cheese?
A half-eaten Snickers bar from my nightstand?
Then I remembered it was Amanda. She wasn’t impressed by overdone gestures. She’d spent years of her life
sizing people up in mere seconds, a habit brought on by
her adoption after the death of her parents. She was a
better judge of character than anyone I’d ever known. She
could tell who was real and who wanted you to believe
they were real. I’d been nothing but real during our relationship. And even though I doubted we’d ever be together
again, I couldn’t stop being that. She saw past it. And I
didn’t want her to look any further.
The doorbell rang. I cleared my throat—the least I
could do was talk to her phlegm-free—and answered it.
She was dressed in fitted jeans, a gray T-shirt and a thin
red cardigan. Her hair spilled gently over her shoulders.
It was a few seconds before I realized how much I’d
missed seeing her, cataloging her beauty on a daily basis.
I threw the thoughts from my head, and said, “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” She was holding two cups of coffee,
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and offered me one. “I figured you’d forget to brew a pot.
Milk and three hundred Splendas, right?”
I smiled. “Perfect. I was kind of hoping my teeth might
jitter all night. Come on in.”
She entered the apartment, looked around. “Looks
good,” she said. “It’s been a while. I was kind of expecting a bear to attack me, or some sort of underwear monster
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