The Stolen - Jason Pinter [101]
Reeds were hardly versed in espionage. Hell, he'd be surprised if Elaine even knew how to use e-mail. Soon he'd
have the car's location, and if the Reeds were there he
would correct everything that had gone wrong.
He raised the window and turned on the engine. He
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found a good jazz station with John Coltrane's quartet
playing "Pursuance." He sat and listened to the entire
song, felt the rhythm swim through his head. He reached
into the glove compartment, closed his hand around the
gun, and felt like everything would even out.
This time had been a mistake. It was unfortunate for
Caroline Twomey. The next time, though, they would
make things right.
39
I left the apartment with Amanda. We said our goodbyes
outside. She hailed a taxi. I watched it pull away, for a
second hoping that her window might lower, her head
drifting out like in an old movie, where the cab would pull
over and all sorts of romance would ensue. 'Course, that
didn't happen. The cab pulled up to the light, then turned
out of sight when it became green.
I trudged to the subway, feeling like the whole story had
begun anew. We'd found the Reeds once, and that was
almost out of blind luck. The next time, neither I, nor they,
would be so lucky.
The Harrisburg police believed every word I said, and
were more than happy to step up their patrol and look for
this man Benjamin. It was maddening that we were facing
such resistance in Meriden and Hobbs County, the cities
that preferred to keep their heads stuck in the sand.
I got onto the subway, flipping through the Gazette to
pass the time. As much as I was reading the paper for the
articles, I also felt somewhat obligated to advertise our
paper, make sure fellow straphangers were well aware of
the newspaper of choice. Given the fact that I'd probably
slept a total of five hours in the past two days and my eyes
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were totally bloodshot, they might have assumed the
Gazette was a paper for strung-out junkies. Not exactly the
target market for our reporting skills.
I got to the office at a quarter past nine. When I stepped
off the elevator, I was greeted by a sight that cheered me
up immediately.
Sitting at his usual desk was Jack O'Donnell. And he
looked no worse for wear.
Hardly able to contain my excitement, I half walked,
half sprinted through the newsroom and perched myself
by Jack's desk. He was wearing one of his patented suit
jackets with patched elbows, and pants that looked like
they'd survived a horrific gardening accident. He smelled
like Old Spice, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He
looked exactly like what you'd expect a seasoned reporter
would look like. The old newsman turned to me, a weary
smile spreading across his lips.
"Hey there, if it isn't the boy who saved an old man's life."
"Come on," I said, "stop it." I felt like a schoolgirl complimented by the starting quarterback.
"Seriously, Henry, I owe you a great deal of gratitude.
I've been on this earth for a long time--maybe I've outstayed my welcome considering some of the things I've
done--but if not for you there's a good chance I wouldn't
be here right now. So thank you."
"You don't need to thank me, Jack," I said. "You'd have
done the same for me."
"Saved your life?" he said. "An old bag of bones like
me can barely muster up the strength to get dressed in the
morning, let alone go around saving lives. I appreciate the
gesture, but you're the hero here."
"If you remember," I said, "you saved my life a few
years ago. You know, that whole thing where they thought
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I'd killed John Fredrickson? After Amanda, you were the
only one that helped me. So get off this modesty kick, it
doesn't suit you."
Jack smiled smugly. "Okay, I'll take it. But I promise,
that's the last time you'll have to go picking me up off a
floor. Unless I'm break-dancing, but then all bets are off.
Speaking of bets, Wallace tells me you're in the middle of
a pretty tense story. What's the deal?"
I recounted everything that had happened