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
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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
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Jason Pinter
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
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39
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.
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Jason Pinter
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 a
t 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
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41
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.
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Jason Pinter
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
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43
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
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Jason Pinter
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
&nb
sp; 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
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45
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.”
4
Shelly led me through the foyer and into what looked like
their family room. A thirty-eight-inch television sat on a
wooden stand; toys and video-game cartridges were
spread about haphazardly. The couches and chairs were all
dark fabric and wood, the kind you buy when you expect
stains to make regular appearances.
“I was going to clean up for the senator, but…you
know…” Shelly said, slightly embarrassed at the mess.
The Stolen (2008) Page 4
