The Stolen - Jason Pinter [11]
"That so? Where exactly you headed?"
"Interview," I said. "A kid."
"Not that kid who got kidnapped. Daniel something,
right?"
"Daniel Linwood, yeah."
"Hot damn, I've been reading about that! Awful stuff.
I mean great he came back, but I got a six-year-old and I'd
just about tear the earth apart if she ever went missing.
Those poor parents. Can't even imagine."
"Better you don't."
We merged onto 287, then headed north on Route 9,
driving past a wide white billboard announcing our entry
into the town limits.
Hobbs County was covered in lush green foliage, the
summer sun shining golden through the thick leaves. Trees
bracketed sleepy homes, supported by elegant marble
columns. I lowered the window and could hear running
water from a nearby stream. This was NewYork, but not the
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
The Stolen
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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,