The Stolen - Jason Pinter [74]
Jason Pinter
then flipped through a Rolodex. "Who may I ask is
visiting?"
"Henry Parker."
"Just a moment, Mr. Parker."
He pressed a buzzer, held the phone to his ear and
waited. After a minute he put the phone down. "I'm sorry,
sir, nobody's answering."
"Hold on one sec," I said. I took out my cell phone,
dialed Jack's home phone, then his cell phone. Both went
to voice mail before anyone picked up. Odd. "Would you
mind trying one more time?"
"Certainly, sir."
He pressed the buzzer again, held the phone to his ear. A
few seconds later the man's brow furrowed. "Yes, yes, hello?
Mr. O'Donnell?" The doorman seemed either confused or
concerned. "Mr. O'Donnell, is everything all right? There's
a Mr. Parker here to see you. Hello, Mr. O'Donnell?"
The doorman hung up,
"What happened?" I said, concern seeping into my
voice.
"I don't know, it sounded like Mr. O'Donnell, but he
sounded, well, I don't mean to judge, but how should I say,
out of it?"
"Out of it? Like how?"
"I really don't know." He looked concerned, then said,
"How do you know Jack?"
"I work with him at the Gazette. " He seemed unsure
of whether to let me up. "Look, Jack didn't come in to
work today and that's not like him. I just want to make
sure he's safe."
"Is that right," he said, not as a question. After considering this, he said, "He's on the fifth floor, the second
elevator bank on your left."
The Stolen
209
I thanked the doorman and walked swiftly to the
elevator. I rode it to five. Jack occupied the whole floor.
Not a bad deal. I approached and rang the doorbell. Immediately I could sense something was wrong. Not from
the door itself, but because the entire hallway stank of
booze and some sort of rot.
I pressed the bell again, then banged on the door, my
heart racing.
"Jack!" I yelled. "Jack, are you in there? Come on,
buddy, open up."
I heard a shuffling, and froze. The shuffling came from
behind the door, and it was getting closer. I backed up, didn't
know what the hell was going on. I heard a sound come from
inside the apartment, a soft moan that chilled my blood.
"Jack, goddamn it, open up!"
I heard a lock disengage, then the door opened a crack.
It didn't open any farther. I approached the door, pushed
it open wider.
"Jack? Where are...?"
My breath caught in my throat when I could see what
was behind the door. Jack was lying in a puddle of what
looked like vomit. His undershirt was covered in green
chunks, and the whole apartment smelled like a rotted distillery. Flecks were stuck to the man's beard.
"Oh, Jesus, Jack."
I shoved the door open and pushed in, gathering the old
man in my arms. He was heavy and essentially dead
weight, but I managed to drag him over to the couch. The
white leather was covered in odd stains. Empty bottles
littered the floor, tossed about like they were nothing more
than discarded paper clips.
"Jack, come on, talk to me." I patted his cheek, laying
him on the couch. Then I rushed into the kitchen, found
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Jason Pinter
where he kept his dishes and poured a glass of water. I
jogged back, tilted his head up. Raised the glass to his lips.
When I poured, the water ran down the sides of his mouth,
pooled in the folds of his pants.
"Come on! "
I tried again, this time opening his lips with my fingers.
When the water entered his mouth, he began to sputter and
cough. His eyes flickered open as he wiped the liquid
from his lips. He blinked a few times, his eyes red, lids
crusty.
"Henry?" he said.
"I'm here, Jack," I replied, cradling his head.
"Forgot to call in sick today," he said, before going
slack in my arms.
26
I sat by the side of the bed, thinking about how much time
I'd spent in hospitals recently. Jack had been taken to
Bellevue, where he was diagnosed with acute alcohol poisoning.
I'd heard sketchy things about Bellevue, some of which
were confirmed upon seeing several men clad all in inmate
orange walking handcuffed through the halls. I just prayed
the doctors here understood how important this patient
was, and had passed their medical