The Stolen

by Jason Pinter

  Thankfully, the coughing fits had passed. Bob and Elaine seemed relieved at this. Bob had said something strange that Caroline remembered.

  We’re supposed to take care of this girl, not kill her.

  Elaine had marched out of the room, slammed the door and didn’t speak to him until dinner. And now they were parked at some strange building, after having left that house in a matter of minutes.

  With a great sigh, Bob went around to the passenger side, climbed in and unhooked Caroline from her harness. His fingers weren’t nearly as gentle, as if he were unpacking a box rather than handling a human being.

  “Ow,” Caroline said as one of Bob’s fingers accidentally jabbed her ribs.

  “Christ, Bob, she’s not a piece of meat,” Elaine reprimanded. “Be careful.”

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “Honey, make sure to bring Boo Boo. You don’t want to lose him.”

  Caroline picked the small brown teddy bear off the seat and held it fast to her chest. That bear was the only thing she’d come with. Elaine had thrown together a bag of clothes, but the bear was the only thing she wanted.

  It had a goofy smile and button eyes, fur that was soft to the touch. Out of all the presents the Reeds had bought her over the past few weeks, this was by far her favorite.

  “Boo Boo,” Caroline said. “He’s scared. He wants to know where we are.”

  “Tell Boo Boo he’s safe and not to worry,” Elaine said. “And make sure he tells you the same thing.”

  Caroline wanted to believe Elaine, but there was something in her eyes that belied the truth.

  Bob reached in and picked up both the girl and Boo Boo, carried them gently out of the van. Caroline blinked sleep from her eyes, looked around.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  Bob didn’t say a word. Instead he looked at Elaine and shrugged. You can answer this one.

  Elaine walked over, put her hand against the young girl’s cheek.

  “We’re staying at another house for a little while,” she said. “Our home needs a little renovation, so we’ll just be staying here until it’s ready.”

  “What about my room?” Caroline asked. Even though she was happy with Boo Boo, she’d be sad if she didn’t get to play with her toys again. She couldn’t believe all those brand-new toys and dolls Elaine and Bob had bought for her. She’d never had a dollhouse. It would be so sad if she never got to play with it again.

  “Hopefully you’ll be back in it soon,” Elaine said. Then she smiled, gave Boo Boo a peck on the nose and made a funny grr noise. Caroline laughed.

  “Come on, hon,” Bob said. “We should check in.”

  “I never thought we’d see him again,” Elaine said. “At least not until much later down the road. When it was time to, you know.”

  “I know,” Bob said. “But he told us something might come up. Makes me wonder whether we should have ever listened to that scarred-up asshole. Sorry, kids, pardon my French.”

  “You know why we did,” Elaine said. They both looked at Patrick, and for a moment Caroline thought Elaine might cry.

  “Who are you talking about?” Caroline asked.

  “Nobody,” Elaine said. “Just a scary man that hopefully you’ll never have to meet. Now, come on, let’s get you to your new new room.”

  25

  I got to work at six o’clock in the morning. I had to get out of my apartment, where all I could do was think about who burned down that house. And any moments I was able to forget about that, my thoughts turned to Amanda.

  I’d spent half an hour the previous evening on the phone with Rent-a-Wreck, trying to explain how their car had disappeared from the scene of a massive fire. Thankfully I’d taken out insurance, but I wasn’t looking forward to the paperwork. Still, with that car gone, the company was out, what, a buck ninety-five?

  The cops had ushered us from the fire immediately. Before leaving, I saw the two cops who’d been questioning us. They were standing in the driveway, interviewing several people I presumed to be neighbors. There was fear on the cops’ faces. They saw us as we left, but this time their attitude was gone. I wondered if this would finally get them to investigate.

  Wallace drove us back to New York. He made it very clear that I was to stay on the Linwood investigation. I felt a swell of pride at this. Not only because I’d been right all along, but because now I wanted, needed to know what had happened to those children. And why someone seemed willing to kill to keep it quiet.

  I spent the first part of the morning reading various newspapers from Hobbs County over the past few years. The archives of the Hobbs County Register were available online, and it was easy to see that this was a city on the verge of tremendous change and tremendous gentrification.

  At around ten o’clock I stood up to grab a cup of coffee from the pantry, when I looked over at Jack’s desk and noticed that the old man wasn’t there. It was curious, since most mornings he was in the office before the sun rose, and I knew today wasn’t his day off.

  Walking over, I noticed that his computer wasn’t on and the red message light on his phone was blinking. His caller ID read sixteen missed calls. I checked the log. He hadn’t checked a single message since the previous night. That wasn’t like Jack, who I knew carried his work home with him, often calling his voice mail to see if a source had gotten back, or if there was a juicy new scoop from one of his many contacts around the city.

  Since my nerves were already a bit frayed from the previous few days, I half jogged over to Wallace’s office to see what the deal was. He was reading, looked up expectantly.

  “Parker. How you holding up?”

  “Been better,” I said. “Just doing some background work on Hobbs County right now. Hey, have you seen Jack recently?”

  Wallace shook his head. “Not since last night. He filed his story, then left. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “Well, it doesn’t look like he came in today, and I just wanted to make sure everything’s all right.”

  “Isn’t Jack off today?”

  I shook my head. “Not till Friday.”

  Wallace picked up a pen, twirled it as he thought. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve known Jack for nearly thirty years, and I’ve seen him go through some of the toughest times of his life. Three or four wives, a near bankruptcy. Missing a day of work at this point in his career, at this point he’s playing with the house’s money, so I won’t make a stink.”

  “Sir, if you don’t mind, I just want to be sure you’re right. He hasn’t been himself for a few months now. I’m going to swing by his place, make sure the status quo is, well, safe and sound.” And sober.

  Wallace shrugged. “Do what you must. If he’s there, tell him we’ll consider it a sick day.”

  “And if he’s not there?”

  “He’s a grown man. Check the nearest coffee shop or cigar lounge.” Or bar, I longed to add, but didn’t.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I said. “Hopefully he’s on the couch watching old Archie Bunker episodes or something.”

  As I was leaving the office, I heard Wallace say, “Henry?”

  I turned around. “Yes?”

  “Give me a call if you, well, find anything out of the ordinary.” The look in his eyes admitted that as much as he wanted to think Jack was at home watching TV or at a cigar lounge burning through a Macanudo, we both knew that wasn’t likely.

  “I’ll call as soon as I find him.”

  After grabbing my bag and cell phone, I hopped a cab to Jack’s apartment. It was one of those brand-spanking-new NYC cabs with the video monitor in the divider. Some hairsprayed goon was gushing over a musical comedy set to open that week. I put it on Mute, then when I got tired of seeing the primped-and-coiffed anchor I turned the screen off.

  I’d never been to Jack’s place. He’d invited me over once or twice for a drink, but I always had to decline for one reason or another. He’d stopped by mine a few times, though not in a while. Though I’d conside
red the man an icon and a mentor, someone without whom I wouldn’t have a career, my refusal to spend time with him outside of work seemed like an artificial boundary I’d recently had to create. I couldn’t think of spending a night in better company, hearing Jack’s thousands of stories about his career, what the news used to be like. I had to deprive myself of that, though, for his own sake.

  A few months ago, Jack had told me that to become a legend in any line of work, you had to rid yourself of outside distractions. Focus on the ball, put in your time, and greatness would come. He frowned on taking long vacations, having friends and even giving yourself up to a lover. Jack was thrice divorced and had admitted to me that though he enjoyed the companionship, at least the physical aspect, he’d never allowed himself to become a real husband. He never offered the emotional companionship his lovers needed, and never desired to. To Jack, the perfect relationship was one where he could come home to a delicious meal, talk about his day, make love and fall asleep. He knew he wasn’t able to give to someone else the same things he required, and that never bothered him. Most of his wives were aware of it before they met him. Yet they married him either in spite of this or with the misguided belief they could change him.

  But Jack would never change. Not for anyone or anything. He was often wrong, but never in doubt. And that’s what alarmed me.

  Jack lived in a condominium in the Clinton area of New York at Forty-Eighth and Ninth. Floor-to-ceiling windows, he’d told me, and an unobstructed view that looked over the West Side Highway, where you could see past the Hudson River. A killer view. And since he’d bought it as a new construction, he regaled me about his brand-new appliances as though they were grandchildren. As far as I knew, Jack’s brand-new Viking stove had been untouched in two years, to the glee of the numerous takeout restaurants in the neighborhood who would have a hard time paying the rent each month if Jack ever decided to take a cooking class.

  A colleague once looked up Jack’s purchase on streeteasy.com, and learned that he’d bought the apartment for a cool $1.5 million, while also putting down a higher-than-usual twenty percent for the place. It gave me hope that at some point in the future, continuing in this line of work might enable me to afford such luxury. For now, my crummy rental with the friendly rodent staff and unfriendly super would have to do.

  We pulled up to his building and I paid the driver. I walked up to the lobby, slightly embarrassed that I was even doing this. Who the hell was I to have any doubts about Jack? The man had built a career any newsperson would die for, and here I was like the parent who thought his kid was playing hooky. That this child was in his sixties with a monthly mortgage payment likely larger than my college tuition was beside the point.

  The doorman was an elderly gent with a wisp of gray hair and teeth slightly yellow and askew. He opened the door for me and smiled pleasantly.

  “I’m here to see Jack O’Donnell,” I said.

  “Just a second.” He picked up a black phone that looked to be connected to some amazingly fancy and complicated intercom system. He fiddled with the buttons for a minute, then flipped through a Rolodex. “Who may I ask is visiting?”

  “Henry Parker.”

  “Just a moment, Mr. Parker.”

  He pressed a buzzer, held the phone to his ear and waited. After a minute he put the phone down. “I’m sorry, sir, nobody’s answering.”

  “Hold on one sec,” I said. I took out my cell phone, dialed Jack’s home phone, then his cell phone. Both went to voice mail before anyone picked up. Odd. “Would you mind trying one more time?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  He pressed the buzzer again, held the phone to his ear. A few seconds later the man’s brow furrowed. “Yes, yes, hello? Mr. O’Donnell?” The doorman seemed either confused or concerned. “Mr. O’Donnell, is everything all right? There’s a Mr. Parker here to see you. Hello, Mr. O’Donnell?”

  The doorman hung up,

  “What happened?” I said, concern seeping into my voice.

  “I don’t know, it sounded like Mr. O’Donnell, but he sounded, well, I don’t mean to judge, but how should I say, out of it?”

  “Out of it? Like how?”

  “I really don’t know.” He looked concerned, then said, “How do you know Jack?”

  “I work with him at the Gazette.” He seemed unsure of whether to let me up. “Look, Jack didn’t come in to work today and that’s not like him. I just want to make sure he’s safe.”

  “Is that right,” he said, not as a question. After considering this, he said, “He’s on the fifth floor, the second elevator bank on your left.”

  I thanked the doorman and walked swiftly to the elevator. I rode it to five. Jack occupied the whole floor. Not a bad deal. I approached and rang the doorbell. Immediately I could sense something was wrong. Not from the door itself, but because the entire hallway stank of booze and some sort of rot.

  I pressed the bell again, then banged on the door, my heart racing.

  “Jack!” I yelled. “Jack, are you in there? Come on, buddy, open up.”

  I heard a shuffling, and froze. The shuffling came from behind the door, and it was getting closer. I backed up, didn’t know what the hell was going on. I heard a sound come from inside the apartment, a soft moan that chilled my blood.

  “Jack, goddamn it, open up!”

  I heard a lock disengage, then the door opened a crack. It didn’t open any farther. I approached the door, pushed it open wider.

  “Jack? Where are…?”

  My breath caught in my throat when I could see what was behind the door. Jack was lying in a puddle of what looked like vomit. His undershirt was covered in green chunks, and the whole apartment smelled like a rotted distillery. Flecks were stuck to the man’s beard.

  “Oh, Jesus, Jack.”

  I shoved the door open and pushed in, gathering the old man in my arms. He was heavy and essentially dead weight, but I managed to drag him over to the couch. The white leather was covered in odd stains. Empty bottles littered the floor, tossed about like they were nothing more than discarded paper clips.

  “Jack, come on, talk to me.” I patted his cheek, laying him on the couch. Then I rushed into the kitchen, found where he kept his dishes and poured a glass of water. I jogged back, tilted his head up. Raised the glass to his lips. When I poured, the water ran down the sides of his mouth, pooled in the folds of his pants.

  “Come on!”

  I tried again, this time opening his lips with my fingers. When the water entered his mouth, he began to sputter and cough. His eyes flickered open as he wiped the liquid from his lips. He blinked a few times, his eyes red, lids crusty.

  “Henry?” he said.

  “I’m here, Jack,” I replied, cradling his head.

  “Forgot to call in sick today,” he said, before going slack in my arms.

  26

  I sat by the side of the bed, thinking about how much time I’d spent in hospitals recently. Jack had been taken to Bellevue, where he was diagnosed with acute alcohol poisoning.

  I’d heard sketchy things about Bellevue, some of which were confirmed upon seeing several men clad all in inmate orange walking handcuffed through the halls. I just prayed the doctors here understood how important this patient was, and had passed their medical board exams with flying colors. Unfortunately, I was getting used to white hospital walls. The antiseptic smell. The forced, sad smiles on concerned friends and family members.

  My ex-girlfriend, Mya, was finally at home after recovering from several surgeries after her body was shattered by a ruthless sociopath earlier in the year. I’d stayed by Mya’s bed for weeks, comforting her mother when we didn’t know if Mya would pull through, then comforting Mya when she went through the agony of rehabilitation and coping with the murder of her father by the same man who’d tried to end her life.

  When you give yourself to someone, you carry the responsibility of not just being a friend or confidant, or even a lover, but giving yourself to them when
they need it most. I knew Mya had desired for us to get back together, and perhaps the most difficult part of those weeks was being a friend while keeping my distance. Physical pain went away, or could be stunted through medication. It broke my heart to deny her my affection when she probably needed it most. But she would have been hurt more later knowing my heart still belonged to another woman.

  Seeing Jack lying in bed made me wonder just what I could, or would, give the man. Perhaps I’d been too emotionally reserved. Or perhaps not given enough.

  The doctors had measured Jack’s blood alcohol level at an astonishing .19, well over double the legal limit in New York.

  An IV was hooked into his right arm, tubes in his nose pumping oxygen, his breathing slow and steady. A bag dripped fluids into his veins as they attempted to flush out Jack’s poisoned system. The doctors also informed me they would be testing for cirrhosis of the liver. They guessed—correctly—that this kind of drinking binge was not limited to last night.

  A doctor entered the room. He was middle-aged, wore thick glasses on his thin nose. His eyes were red, tired. He flipped through the chart at the foot of Jack’s bed, then checked out the readings on the monitors by the bedside. He scribbled in the folder, then placed it back.

  “How is he?” I asked. “Dr….”

  The doctor turned, then said with a faint smile, “Dr. Brenneman. I’ve seen worse.”

  “You didn’t see him before they cleaned him up.”

  “There’s always a worse, trust me. But he’s lucky you found him when you did. The biggest danger with alcohol poisoning is aspiration and asphyxiation. He could have literally choked to death on his own vomit.”

  “Ordinarily, I’d say he owes me a drink for saving his life, but…”

  “I don’t think that’s the wisest course of action,” Brenneman said.