The Stolen - Jason Pinter [31]
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Jason Pinter
Somehow Sang's brain retained the memory of those
smells, despite the fact that the boy himself wasn't even
awake."
Wallace scratched his beard, put the papers down. I
could tell he was thinking about this, debating whether my
discovery warranted looking into, or was just a dead end
that would eat up time and resources.
"Let me dig a bit," I said. "I know there's no way to tell
right now, but if there is, and we can report exclusively..."
Wallace's head snapped up. I stopped speaking. He
knew my engine was running, that if he unleashed the
harness I'd be on this like a dog on fresh meat. I was
aching to run with this story. It burned to think that nobody
else seemed to care where Daniel Linwood had been for
five years, why he couldn't remember anything about his
disappearance or why the HCPD seemed content to
vacuum it all up. I hated that if nobody stepped up, Daniel
Linwood would just be another headline. A child with no
past, whose future would always be clouded.
"This is awful thin," Wallace said. "You realize it might
have been a slip of the tongue. A fault in the recording. My
mother used to call me Beth--that was my sister's name,
but she was just absentminded. There are a dozen ways to
explain what Daniel said, not all of them having anything
to do with some Korean boy."
"But you and I both want to know whether there's
more."
I looked at Wallace, trying to will him to say it. Then
he looked up at me, hands folded in front of him.
"Check it out. Report back if you find anything. And if
it turns out there's another way to explain it, you stop
digging immediately. We promised to treat the Linwood
family with respect--the last thing we need is to acciden- The Stolen
91
tally hit a nerve that doesn't need to feel pain. There's a
family at stake here, not to mention a town trying to
rebuild. So use a pipe cleaner to dig instead of a pickax."
"Gentle is my middle name."
"That's a goddamned lie," Wallace said, "but I'll give
you the benefit here. Good luck, Parker."
With Wallace's blessing, I went back to my desk and
took out the Linwoods' phone number. I held the Post-it
between my fingers and thought about the promise I'd
made to Shelly. Her family had been torn apart, and it
would take years before they could even hope to begin the
reparations. By giving me access to their home and to
their son, the Linwoods trusted me to do what was right.
And I had every intent of doing just that.
First I had to make sure there wasn't a simpler explanation.
I called the Linwood house. It went right to voice mail.
An automated system saying, "The person you wish to call
is not available at this time. Please leave a message at the
tone." I figured they'd disconnected their phone, changed
their number to confuse the vultures. Only now I'd become
one, too.
At the tone, I said, "Hi, Shelly, Randall, this is Henry
Parker. I wanted to thank you for the other day. I did have
one follow-up question, and I was wondering if one of you
could give me a call back at the office. Again, this is Henry
Parker at the New York Gazette. "
Then I hung up. And sat there. Twiddling my thumbs,
chewing a number two pencil, praying the wait wouldn't
be long.
Perhaps the most difficult thing about being a reporter
was waiting for a callback. If I was on deadline, and knew
that one transforming piece of information was available
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Jason Pinter
yet just beyond reach, the minutes crawled by like hours.
Waiting for that callback could drive you insane. I propped
my feet up on the desk, stuck a pencil between my teeth
and waited.
Thankfully I didn't have to worry about my sanity,
because my phone rang barely a minute after I'd hung up.
"This is Parker."
"Henry, it's Shelly Linwood." She sounded apprehensive, a little concerned. She had probably assumed once
my story ran I'd be out of her life.
"Shelly, thanks so much for getting back to me."
"It's no problem. We have to screen our calls, otherwise
we'd never get off the line. We're