The Stolen - Jason Pinter [5]
no tomorrow, until his arms tentatively wrapped themselves
around her body and held on. She remembered how he'd felt
in her arms, and though heavier, he was the same child she'd
held in her arms for the first six years of his life. She
showered the boy's head with kisses until he pulled away
slightly, an embarrassed grin on his young face.
The Stolen
21
"Oh my God," she whispered. "Oh my God, oh my God,
oh my God. Baby, is it really you?" The boy shrugged, then
was muffled as Shelly attempted to squeeze the life out
of him again.
Shelly heard a car pull up. When the engine cut off, she
looked up to see Randy's silver V70 Volvo in the driveway.
The door opened, and her husband climbed out with a
groan. Randy was forty-one, just ten pounds heavier than
when they'd met in high school. His jawline was still
visible above a slight jowl, his arms still maintaining some
of the tone from his linebacker days at Hobbs High. Shelly
loved to run her hands down his arms when he lay on top
of her, the definition of his triceps making her shiver. It
had been a year since she last felt that, but now she needed
to feel him closer more than ever.
Her family.
Randy stretched his back, ran his fingers through his
thinning hair, then reached back inside to grab his briefcase.
"Honey," he said, noticing the commotion on the front
porch. "Please tell me there's a Michelob left in the fridge,
I--"
"It's Daniel," Shelly blurted. "He's back."
Randy looked up, confused. Then when everything
came into focus, his briefcase fell to the ground. He stared
for a moment, shaking his head, then ran up the steps to
join his wife. He placed his palm over the boy's forehead,
pulled his hair back, gazing into the young, confused eyes.
Then he joined his wife in the embrace.
"You people are weird," James muttered. "I don't get
it. Who is he?"
"This," Randy said, turning the boy to face him, tears
streaming down his face, "is your brother. His name is
Daniel. Do you remember him?"
22
Jason Pinter
James had been just three when it all happened. Shelly
didn't take it personally when Daniel looked at his sibling,
bewilderment reigning over his face, a slight twinkle of
memory.
"My brother?" James said. "I thought he was, like,
stolen or something."
"He was," Shelly said, stroking Daniel's hair. "But
thank you, God, somehow our boy has found his way
home."
James looked at Daniel. There were no bruises on his
body; no cuts or scrapes. His clothes looked new enough
to still have the tags on them. Though he was so young,
Shelly wondered if James remembered all those people
rushing in and out of their house. Men and women with
badges, other loud people with cameras and microphones.
Once on an Easter egg hunt, Shelly had entered the
bedroom to find James and Tasha rifling through a trunk
stuffed full of newspaper clippings about Daniel's disappearance. James had asked Shelly about Daniel once, and
she answered with a single tear, a trembling lip. He never
asked again.
To Shelly, this was God's will. It was fate that her
family be reunited.
To James Linwood, though, he couldn't understand
how his brother, who'd disappeared nearly five years ago
without a trace, could simply reappear like magic without
a scratch on him.
2
The bar was sweltering hot, but the swirling fans made
it more palatable than the thick sweater choking the New
York streets. It didn't take long to learn that Augusts in
New York could be brutal. My first summer in the city, I
made the mistake one day of wearing a T-shirt and sweater
to the office. Jack told me between my clothes and the
Gazette's sporadic air-conditioning, I'd lose ten pounds
before the day was up. While I doubted the New York
summer could get any hotter than my childhood years in
Bend, Oregon, when later that night I peeled off my
sweater and squeezed out the moisture, I realized East
Coast summers were just as brutal as their West Coast
counterparts.
I took another sip of my beer--my third of the night,
and third