The guard eyed me suspiciously. Then he said, “I’m
going to have to pat you down.” I let him. He found
nothing. “Let me call upstairs.”
He picked up the switchboard phone and dialed a few
buttons. I was growing impatient. I needed to see that
bitch face-to-face.
The guard put down the phone and said, “Sir, Ms. Cole
is not picking up her phone. I can leave a message that you
stopped by.”
“I can wait for her upstairs.”
“No, sir, I can’t let you do that.”
“Listen, asshole,” I said. “I’m seeing Paulina Cole
today. Whether you let me upstairs or not.”
Just then I heard a commotion by the revolving door.
Several voices were congratulating someone. A throng of
people surrounding one person.
Then they parted and Paulina Cole continued walking
toward the turnstiles.
She saw me and stopped. She was startled for a
moment, then a slow smile spread across her face.
“Hi, Henry,” she said. “It’s been so long. Have you
been keeping up with the news?”
“You fucking bitch,” I said, starting toward her. I didn’t
take more than two steps before I felt a pair of hands grab
my arms and pull me backward. The security guards were
328
Jason Pinter
holding me. I thrashed and struggled to get free. “He was
a friend to you,” I spat. “How could you?”
“It was easy,” she said, stepping forward. “And you
know what probably angers you the most, Henry? That
every word of it is true.”
I tried to pull free, but then the two guards began
dragging me outside. We passed by Paulina. She raised her
hand, waved a sarcastic goodbye before the guards shoved
me through the doors and out onto the street.
I tumbled onto the sidewalk, then scrambled to my
feet. The guards stood there with their hands across
their chests.
“Sir,” one of them said, “if you don’t leave the premises,
we will be forced to call the authorities.”
I took one step forward, hatred boiling inside me, but
then I stopped. Jack had been broken. Defeated. Getting
arrested would affect nobody but myself. Jack had been
an idol to me for years. I owed him more than that.
I left the Dispatch and took the train up to Jack’s apartment. The whole way I sat there shaking, not knowing
what to say, what to think. After everything with Daniel
Linwood, now that Amanda and I seemed to be on good
terms, I’d finally felt like things were on the right track.
No more days drinking at bars by myself. No more nights
sleeping at the office because I couldn’t face my own bed.
Then, I wondered, how many nights had Jack O’Donnell had just like that?
When I got to Jack’s building, I buzzed his apartment,
dying to see that grizzled face in the hopes that it would
all make sense. There was no answer. I buzzed again. Still
nothing.
I took out my cell phone and rang his house line. It went
right to voice mail.
The Stolen
329
“Jack,” I said. “This is Henry. Please call me back. I
need to speak to you. Please tell me you’re all right.”
I clicked off the phone and took one last look at the
building. Then I turned around and went back to work.
The old man stood by the window for a long time,
watching the boy walk away until he’d disappeared from
sight. When Henry Parker turned the corner, he stepped
back into his apartment. His body was racked with convulsions, the sobs like mortar rounds. Then Jack O’Donnell slid down the wall until his frail, arthritic knees were
tucked up under his chin, and he began to cry.
46
Though I hadn’t been a reporter that long, I can honestly
say I’d had some long days on the job. The longest weren’t
the ones where I was on deadline, typing page after page
or sifting through an entire casebook worth of notes. The
longest days were those where nothing happened. I wasn’t
waiting for a source to call back. I wasn’t waiting for
Legal to approve a story. I wasn’t waiting on anyone or
anything. The day just passed.
Today was perhaps the longest of my career. Every few
minutes I would turn around to look at that empty desk,
wishing upon nothing that Jack would appear magically
and just start writing. There would be no story written by
Jack O’Donnell in tomorrow’s edition, or next week’s
papers, or any for the foreseeable future.
I was merely a soldier who, until today, had been
following the example set by Wallace Langston and Jack
O’Donnell. But our ranks had been broken. And who knew
if it would ever be repaired.
I left the Gazette at five o’clock on the dot. The first day
I could ever remember leaving on time. The train ride
home was lonely. More so when I saw people reading the
very paper that had changed the landscape of my world.
The Stolen
331
When I stepped off the train, the sun was already beginning to set, and any day now the summer sun would
begin to fade into fall. I walked down the street, my bag
heavy, not caring where I stepped, my eyes looking no
more than two feet in front of me.
Rounding the corner onto my block, I was surprised to
hear a voice call out, “Careful, there, I see a hydrant with
your name on it.”
I looked up to see Amanda standing in front of my
building, her hair rippling lightly in the wind, her face
golden in the orange haze. If there was one sight that could
melt away a man’s sorrows, it was that one.
She was wearing tight jeans and a red sweater. Walking
closer, I recognized the sweater. I’d given it to her on our
six-month anniversary. That seemed like ages ago.
“What are you doing here?” I said, silently chiding
myself for the impatient tone in my voice.
“I thought you could use someone to talk to tonight,”
she said. “I saw the newspaper.”
I nodded, only because there was nothing else to say.
Amanda approached me, put her hand on my shoulder; the
other hand tilted my chin upward.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know what Jack meant to you.”
“He’ll get things together,” I said softly. “He has to.”
“I hope he does. I guess at some point everyone needs
to take stock of their life.”
“I’ve been doing a little of that,” I said.
“Me, too.”
I looked up at her. “Why you?”
“I don’t know,” she said, brushing a strand of brown
hair from her eyes. “At this point in my life, I want to think
about what I have. What I want. What I have that I don’t
want. What I want that I don’t have.”
332
Jason Pinter
“What do you want?” I said.
She smiled demurely. “I’m not a hundred percent sure,”
she said. “I didn’t say it happened all in one day. But I
&nbs
p; wanted to wait for you. I thought it might be a nice way
to end what must have been a pretty crappy day.”
“You have no idea,” I said.
“How’s Curt doing?” she asked.
“He’s going home this weekend. I sent a few Olsen
twins movies to his apartment as a joke. Figured if Ashley
and Mary Kate can’t cheer him up, the guy’s hopeless.”
Amanda smiled. “You’re a true friend.”
“He’s lucky to have me,” I said. “So you came here
because you wanted to talk about things? About us?”
“Not so much talk,” she said. “I had an even better idea.
I hope you’re okay with it.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“I’m going to take you out tonight. Dinner and a movie.
There’s an Italian place on Eighty-Third that’s supposed
to serve the best gnocchi in the city.”
“Wait,” I said, “this sounds an awful lot like a date.”
“I could be coy and play hard to get, but what’s the point?
Henry Parker, I would love to take you out on a date tonight.”
My heart swelled. It was probably from the huge emotional swing, but suddenly I found myself hugging
Amanda, pulling her as hard as I could into my chest.
Then her hands were on me, pushing me away. Confused,
I stepped back, looked at her.
“Are you kidding?” she said, smiling. “This is a first
date. You don’t get to hug before the movie popcorn.”
“Wait, a first date?” I said. “Was I imagining, you know,
our whole relationship?”
“Uh-uh. But when I thought about it, I realized we’d
never really gone on an actual first date. Meeting when you
The Stolen
333
were on the run for your life and all. So I thought let’s go
back, start where we never got the chance. Dinner and a
movie, sport.”
“Shouldn’t I pay, then?”
“This is the twenty-first century, Henry, get real.
Besides, I think I make more money than you.”
“I can’t say no, can I?”
Amanda smiled “Do you really want to?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Just a date,” she said. “Then we’ll go from there.”
“Just give me one more chance,” I said, “and I promise
it will be worth it.”
* * * * *
®
ISBN: 978-1-4268-2003-8
THE STOLEN
Copyright © 2008 by Jason Pinter.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or
utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic,
mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including
xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or
retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher,
MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and
any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
events or locales is entirely coincidental.
MIRA and the Star Colophon are trademarks used under license and registered
in Australia, New Zealand, Philippines, United States Patent and Trademark
Office and in other countries.
www.MIRABooks.com
The Stolen (2008) Page 32