The Stolen - Jason Pinter [77]
no idea it was this bad."
"So you knew he was developing a problem." I was this
close to screaming at my boss, and I didn't care.
"Yes, but he was still turning his stories in on time and
he was still a valuable member of the team here."
"Wallace, we both know his stuff hasn't been top-notch
in a while."
"So Jack's lost a little off his fastball. But he's still
faster than most reporters, and he's got enough smarts,
contacts and writing chops to make up for anything he's
lost."
"He doesn't have to lose anything, it's being taken from
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him, bottle by bottle. He's worked for you for what, thirty
years? And you repay him by turning a blind eye?"
"Watch it, Parker," Wallace snapped. "You haven't been
here long enough and you haven't known Jack long
enough to judge either of us. We'll get O'Donnell the help
he needs. Right now your only job is as an employee of
this newspaper. Assuming you still want to be."
"Of course I do," I said. "More than ever."
"Good. Then show it."
Wallace hung up. I felt a great anger surge through me.
Both at the runaround I was getting on the Linwood/Oliveira
kidnappings, and now this. I'd looked up to Jack for so many
years, spent so much of my childhood idolizing this pillar
of a man, to see him reduced to a lump under a hospital throw
rug was like seeing a baseball bat taken to fine crystal. That's
one thing I'd learned in my years as a reporter. Every person,
no matter the pubic perception, had demons. And the higher
regard in which you held them in, the greater the disappointment when you realized their demons were as common
as anyone else's. I refused to believe that Jack O'Donnell
was a common alcoholic. The kind of guy who scrounged
around his cabinets for that one drop of Knob Creek he
knew was left. Jack had a gift that defied all of it. And once
he got help, he could polish that crystal back to a shine.
I took a cab back to my apartment. Last night I couldn't
wait to get to the office. Today I couldn't bear to spend
another minute there. I needed a respite, if only brief.
I threw my stuff on the couch, went into the kitchen and
found a Corona nestled behind a jar of pickles. The beer
tasted flat, but I didn't care. It had alcohol and that's all I
wanted right now. I needed a moment to feel oblivious,
blissfully ignorant, to have that feeling all alcoholics must
have when they pop the first top of the day and know that,
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pretty soon, the world outside wouldn't bother them for
much longer.
Before I could get to the second sip, my phone rang.
The caller ID read "Amanda." I picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Henry, everything all right? I've been trying to reach
you all day."
"Not really. Jack was admitted to the hospital this
morning. Alcohol poisoning. I walked in on him sitting in
a pile of his own vileness."
"Oh, God. I remember a while ago you thought he was
drinking too much."
"Yeah, I just never thought it would get this bad."
"I'm so sorry to hear that. I called you at the office, and
got worried when I couldn't find you. After the past few
days my mind's been all out of whack."
"I'm at home now. Having a beer. Feel the same way
as you."
There was a pregnant pause, and then Amanda said,
"Mind if I come over?"
Without waiting, I said, "No. That'd be nice."
"Be there in half an hour."
After we hung up, I got up and poured the rest of the
beer into the sink. Then I sat on the couch and waited.
I wondered: Would Dmitri Petrovsky still be alive if we
hadn't followed him? Possibly. But what the hell was he
mixed up in?
I still didn't know exactly what his link was to Danny
and Michelle. He was their pediatrician, but somehow he
was connected to my friend the Chesterfield-chainsmoking sociopath. One more trail to follow. I needed to
know who that man was, who lived in that house, and what
Dmitri Petrovsky knew that made necessary his permanent
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silence. One thing was for certain, my digging had opened
a can of worms someone very