Jason Pinter - The Stolen

"So if it's a cause for her, and it's about my job for me, what's it about for you?"

I thought about that for a moment, then said, "The truth, man. It's about the truth. That's my job."

"So since we're both on the job," Curt said, "how the hell do we find the Reeds? They obviously jetted from

Huntley before smokey the pyromaniac got his hands on the house. They're registered with Verizon, but the phone's going right to voice mail. No luck tracking it down just yet.

There are no known family members for either Robert or

Elaine Reed, and we're checking their phone records for friends and acquaintances."

"They won't be at a friend's house," I said. "Benjamin got them into the house on Huntley so they could keep private. That place was like a fortress. You don't go through all that trouble only to have Elaine spill the beans to someone in her knitting group. You said they have a minivan, right?"

"Yeah, a Windstar."

"Nobody buys a minivan for one kid. I'm getting more and more sure that they've kidnapped another child.

Anyway, I'm betting they're staying at a motel somewhere. A place where nobody knows them, and nobody knows where they are except for Benjamin and his crony."

"There's a lot of motels in this country, man. You can't expect us to cover all of them."

"No, but if you're a parent with two bawling kids in a minivan, do you really think you're driving ten, fifteen hours for the same kind of motel you can get within a few miles? My bet is they're still in the state. Say a four-hour drive, make it an even two hundred and forty miles, and that's your radius from Huntley Terrace. They'll stay away from major cities and metropolitan areas."

"There's still a shitload of fleabag motels in that range, Henry."

"Christ, Curt, you're a cop. Don't you guys do this all the time?"

Curt smiled at me. "I'm on it. Go run some more of your magic. I'll give you a ring if we get any more info on the Reeds or other missing children."

"Thanks, Curt, appreciate it. You want to sock me in the eye once, gain a little street cred among your fellow boys in blue?"

"Tempting, but tell you what. Leave the building like I broke you down into tears, we'll call it even. Deal?"

"Deal."

I left the 19th Precinct with a sullen look on my face, as if Curt Sheffield had just ripped the head off my favorite teddy bear. Rounding the corner onto Lexington, I called the Gazette from my cell phone. I asked to be connected to Wallace Langston's office, and the editor-in-chief picked up immediately.

"Wallace, it's Henry."

"Henry, good to hear from you. What's the latest?"

"I'm in the middle of tracking down a family that I'm ninety-nine percent sure is part of some sort of weird kidnapping ring that involves the Linwood and Oliveira children. There's a link between the Reed family and this psycho Benjamin who mistook me for an ashtray. I'm running down the link, and when I have that I'll let you know. How's Jack doing?"

Wallace sighed. "They released him yesterday. He's got the rest of the week off for some R and R and detox.

I've never seen the man like this before. It worries me."

"What do you mean?"

"Jack has been with this newspaper since he was a young man, Henry, younger than you are now. He's worked himself to the bone for his profession. He's a legend in this field, and he's paid his dues to become that.

But Jack's not a young man anymore. You can't go with that same kind of drive, that kind of passion at his age, without compensation. I wonder…God, I can't believe

I'm saying this…but I wonder if his career isn't beginning to wind down."

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. But rather than a sensation of pain emanating from it, I felt anger. How could Wallace even begin to question the longevity of

Jack's career? Things were looking bad now, but everyone was entitled to fall off the wagon once or twice. It was a divot in the road, not a full-blown earthquake. And it pissed me off to hear Wallace insinuate otherwise.

"He'll be just fine," I said through gritted teeth. "Give it a week or two, he'll be tracking leads and breaking stories like he's a new man."

"I sincerely hope you're right, Henry. But it worries and saddens me to think you may not be. Listen, my friend, keep pushing on this story. I've gotten three calls from

Gray Talbot's office since your detainment up in Hobbs

County. Our friend the senator is no doubt perturbed that we've ignored his requests. I expect a hate-o-gram to arrive any moment in the mail, but until you see me led away in handcuffs, keep pressing."

"That's what I do," I said. "Talk to you later, Wallace."

I hung up.

It took a moment to register that my stomach was growling. I stopped at a deli and wolfed down a bagel with lox spread and a large coffee. When that was polished off,

I had half a blueberry muffin for dessert. My natural reaction to that would be to run it off the next day, but my legs were beat. I hadn't put in for vacation time in ages. I didn't think Wallace would be all that surprised to see my paperwork cross his desk in the near future.

When I finished the meal, I took a cab back home, sat down on the couch and waited. This was the worst part of the game, and as a reporter the most frustrating part of the job. The waiting.

So much of my work was dependent on sources getting back to me, but every moment that phone didn't ring there was a fear that the story was slipping through my fingers.

I worried that Curt's searches would turn up empty. That

Amanda would discover Patrick Reed was born in Idaho and not Hobbs County like I suspected. Not to mention cigarette boy Benjamin wandering the streets somewhere, and I had a little more anxiety at that moment than I liked.

I had to distract myself. Music, that would do it. Calm, soothing music.

I turned my computer on, opened iTunes and started to play Dylan's "Not Dark Yet." The melody calmed me.

I thought about Daniel Linwood, Michelle Oliveira.

Two children with their lives once laid out in front of them, yet forevermore they would be outcasts. They would always live with that stigma, never fitting in. The beauty of a child, the pain from a life stolen away.

And just while those lyrics had begun to burrow their way into my skull, my cell phone rang. If there was ever a time to be jostled out of morose thoughts.

The caller ID read "Amanda cell." I answered it without hesitating.

"Hey, wondering what happened to you."

"Seriously? It's been, like, fifteen minutes. What the hell do you expect?"

"Sorry, just a little antsy here. I feel like things are starting to become clearer."

"Well, your feelings might be real. Turns out that

Patrick Reed, son of Robert and Elaine Reed, was born on

May 29 four and a half years ago at Yardley Medical

Center in Hobbs County."

"You're shitting me."

"Nope. And I'll give you three guesses at to who signed the delivery certificate."

"I'll take Dmitri Petrovsky for one thousand, Alex."

"Ding ding ding. I'm actually out of cash, so I hope you'll take your winning either in an IOU or a Sweet'n

Low packet I just dug out of my jeans pocket."

"Amanda, you know what this means, right? The Reeds knew Petrovsky. Their son was born at the same hospital as Daniel Linwood and Michelle Oliveira. That's their link to Raymond Benjamin. Somehow he found out about these kids through Petrovsky."

"Wait," Amanda said. "Patrick Reed wasn't kidnapped, he's the Reeds' biological son. What gives?"

"Patrick isn't the issue, I just needed a connection so we could figure out how the Reeds came in contact with

Benjamin. Petrovsky is the middleman. Benjamin the facilitator. The Reeds-I'm not quite sure what they are."