Jason Pinter - The Stolen

"The abdomen," she said.

"Gotcha. Caroline, would you come here?" The girl stood up warily, then went over to Bob. "Here, sweetie, sit down next to me."

She did. Bob rolled up the sleeve of her right arm, then took the smelly cotton ball and rubbed it all over the underside of her arm. Then he blew on it gently.

"That tickles," the girl said.

"Just needs to dry a bit," Bob said. He waited a minute, then took her arm and gently squeezed her skin until a fold stuck out. Caroline winced a bit but stayed still.

"Good girl," Elaine said.

"Now close your eyes," Bob said. When she did, she felt a sting as the needle entered her skin. She felt Bob's grip tighten, then a few seconds later it eased up. She opened her eyes. The needle was on the table and Bob was swabbing her arm with another cotton ball.

"You're such a brave girl," Elaine said. Caroline smiled.

The rental car zipped along like only a Hyundai with a hundred-and-twenty-five thousand miles could. Now that

I'd been summarily dismissed from the Daniel Linwood story by Wallace, I couldn't expect to be reimbursed for expenses anytime soon. Which meant watching my budget until I proved that it was worth potentially disrupting the lives of several families, not to mention putting my career on the line, to find out what happened to two missing children. Which meant that, for the time being, the $44.95a-day rates of the Rent-a-Wreck of Yonkers was the only thing that could fit my ever-extended budget.

As soon as I realized that both Michelle Oliveira and

Daniel Linwood not only were born in the same hospital, but were treated by the same doctor, I decided to speak to this man to see what, if anything, he could shed light on.

Dr. Dmitri Petrovsky worked in the pediatrics unit at the

Yardley Medical Center in Hobbs County. Amanda and I were on our way to speak to the good doctor. Like good guests we were coming uninvited.

As I drove up I-287, Amanda gripped the side door handle as though the car might split in half at any moment.

Ironic, considering a few years back Amanda had driven us to St. Louis at an average speed that would make Jeff

Gordon cry for mama.

I noticed her clutching the side, smirked and said,

"Come on, you really think I'm going to spin out or drive us both into the Hudson? Besides, between the two of us, who do you think has racked up more points on their license?"

She glared at me. "I've never had an accident in all the time I've been driving. And I've been in a car with you, oh, a total of, like, three times. Forgive me if I don't quite trust your instincts. Not to mention my Toyota was sturdier than the Verrazano bridge."

"I have such fond memories of that car."

Though Amanda and I had now been on speaking terms for just a few days, I was surprised at how easily we fell back into old patterns, the give-and-take of conversation. I was actually uncomfortable with it. Specifically, the fact that she seemed so calm. As if she knew our banter was nothing more than that, and would never get past the surface.

Two young children, both vanishing into nothing, reappearing after years, neither with any memory of their time gone. Both having been born in the same town, to lowincome families with other siblings. I had no idea exactly what we were looking for, or what I expected to find, but I hoped that Dmitri Petrovsky, having borne witness to the birth of both Michelle and Danny, could yield new information.

We arrived at Yardley Medical Center a little after nine in the morning.

We stepped out of the Hyundai. It was warm outside, the sun hot and vivid. I was wearing a pair of brown khakis and a navy-blue sport coat. Amanda was in a sweater and light blue jeans. She looked a millions times better than I did, which wasn't surprising, since I had to dig through a pile of unmentionables just to find two matching socks.

The Yardley Medical Center was a long building, twelve stories high, shaped like an L, with one taller side made of red brick, the other, shorter part windowed by steel and blue glass. We walked around to the main entrance, passing ambulatory care, and entered. The lobby was not large, but it was impeccably clean. Off to the side was a flower shop, a newsstand and a small cafeteria, and another path leading to a bank of elevators. In the middle was an information desk and security checkpoint. Half a dozen people were in line. When they finished talking to the attendant, she handed them a sticker to show Security, who let them enter the elevator bank.

We walked up to the information booth. The attendant, a heavyset black woman, said, "May I help you?"

"We're here to see Dr. Dmitri Petrovsky in Pediatrics,"

I said.

"Your names?"

"Henry Parker and Amanda Davies."

"Do you have identification?"

We both handed over our drivers licenses. I didn't want to announce myself as a member of the press just yet. In case Petrovsky knew anything, I didn't want to give him time to prepare.

The woman looked at our IDs, then at us, then handed them back. She scribbled our names on two orange stickers, then signed each one before peeling them off and pressing them against our shirts.

"Petrovsky, Pediatrics. Suite 1103."

We thanked her, showed the stickers to the guard and rode the elevator to the eleventh floor. The elevator was jam-packed, and the ride took forever. Finally we got off on eleven and followed the signs to the correct suite.

The eleventh-floor hallway was painted light blue. Very soothing. When we found 1103, a door marked Pediatrics, we paused for a moment, then entered.

We found ourselves in a waiting room littered with toys and parenting magazines. Various brochures were available. There were about a dozen chairs, almost all of which were filled with mothers, fathers and their tykes. I counted three pregnant women. Some of the kids were playing, some sleeping, and at least two were bawling their eyes out. Amanda took a seat, picked up a copy of Parenting magazine, and nodded toward the secretary.

"Would you mind signing us in, hon?"

"My pleasure, hon. "

I approached the secretary, a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair and a pair of red glasses perched on her nose.

"Help you?" she said.

"I'm here to see Dr. Petrovsky," I said.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, I'm sorry, we don't."

She swiveled to a computer, pressed a few keys, then swiveled back. "He can see you today, but not likely until eleven-thirty." She handed me a clipboard with several forms on it. "If you and your wife would please fill these out and return it back to me."

I opened my mouth to explain the whole not wife thing, but didn't think it was worth the time or explanation.

I took the papers and a pen, sat down next to Amanda.

"If anyone asks, you're my wife."

"'Scuse me?"

"Just go with it."

"Come on, Henry, these kind of matrimonial decisions should be made by both of us for Christ's sake."

A lady holding her infant son glared at us.

"Sorry," I said, turning to Amanda. "Honey, there are children present."

Amanda gave me a look that could have melted steel.

I concentrated on filling out the forms, being as vague as possible, while leaving most responses blank.

When they were completed, I went back up to the receptionist. Handing them over, I said, "I left a lot of this blank. Frankly, there are some personal issues I'd rather discuss with Dr. Petrovsky first, if you don't mind."

The woman rolled her eyes at me, said, "Suit yourself," and took the papers. When I returned to Amanda, she was buried in a copy of Parenting magazine.

"Wow," Amanda said, eyebrows raised. "Did you know that the World Health Organization recommends breastfeeding your child until they're at least two years old, and sometimes until they're four?"