Jason Pinter - The Stolen

"On leave? What the hell does that mean?"

"I assume you saw the story in today's Dispatch, " he said.

"I just finished it."

"Well, word came down from Harvey Hillerman himself that Jack had two choices. An extended personal leave to deal with his demons in a treatment center. Or the termination of his employment with the Gazette. " Harvey

Hillerman was the president and CEO of the Gazette. If it came from him, it meant Jack had no way out.

"And?"

"And as of this morning, Jack O'Donnell is no longer an employee of this newspaper."

I felt as if a cannonball had hit me square in the stomach. My knees went weak, and I fell into the chair across from Wallace.

"He can't do that," I said. "Jack is this newspaper."

"No, he's not, Henry. Jack has done more for this paper than any employee in its history. But we are not one and the same. You've seen Jack over the past few months. You know things have been going downhill. He was hospitalized just last week."

"Yeah, and I know that damn picture is out there for everyone to see."

"You need to think about Jack," Wallace said. "The man needs help. More than what you or I can do. If he chooses to do it on his own, so be it. My take is that he didn't want to be forced into doing anything. That doesn't surprise me. It's always been the way he's worked."

"So what now?" I said. "We just keep working like nothing ever happened?"

"That's impossible," Wallace said. "Jack's been here so long some of his blood does run through this paper's veins.

But we have to move on. You've done some amazing work in your time here, Henry. Jack has put down his mantle for now. And I expect you to be one of the people to take it.

To carry it with pride."

"You don't take that because it's been thrown down,"

I said. "You earn it. I can't just take Jack's place.

Nobody can."

"That's true. So just do your job to the best of his ability.

Learn from his mistakes. Don't let your problems overwhelm you. Because at the end of the day, you're remembered for the end of your career, not the beginning. And the saddest part of all this is a generation might only know the Jack O'Donnell on the cover of today's newspaper."

I couldn't listen to any more. I slammed the door to

Wallace's office and left the building. Hailing a taxi, I instructed the driver to take me to Twenty-Seventh and Park.

The offices of the New York Dispatch.

I left the cab, throwing the fare at the driver, and entered the building through the revolving door, feeling as if I could tear the walls apart with my bare hands. A security guard stopped me as I approached the turnstiles. He said,

"Sir, you'll need to check in and show your ID."

I went to the security post. Another guard sat there looking bored. "Who are you here to see?"

"Paulina Cole. New York Dispatch. "

"Do you have an appointment with Ms. Cole?"

"No."

"Does she know you're coming?"

"No."

The guard looked confused. "Sir, can you state your business with Ms. Cole?"

"That's between me and her."

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

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.

"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.

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.

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.