The Stolen - Jason Pinter [92]
teddy bear. Rounding the corner onto Lexington, I called
the Gazette from my cell phone. I asked to be connected
to Wallace Langston's office, and the editor-in-chief
picked up immediately.
"Wallace, it's Henry."
"Henry, good to hear from you. What's the latest?"
"I'm in the middle of tracking down a family that I'm
ninety-nine percent sure is part of some sort of weird kidnapping ring that involves the Linwood and Oliveira
children. There's a link between the Reed family and this
psycho Benjamin who mistook me for an ashtray. I'm
running down the link, and when I have that I'll let you
know. How's Jack doing?"
Wallace sighed. "They released him yesterday. He's
got the rest of the week off for some R and R and detox.
I've never seen the man like this before. It worries me."
"What do you mean?"
"Jack has been with this newspaper since he was a
young man, Henry, younger than you are now. He's
worked himself to the bone for his profession. He's a
legend in this field, and he's paid his dues to become that.
But Jack's not a young man anymore. You can't go with
that same kind of drive, that kind of passion at his age,
without compensation. I wonder...God, I can't believe
I'm saying this...but I wonder if his career isn't beginning
to wind down."
I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. But rather than
a sensation of pain emanating from it, I felt anger. How
could Wallace even begin to question the longevity of
Jack's career? Things were looking bad now, but everyone
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Jason Pinter
was entitled to fall off the wagon once or twice. It was a
divot in the road, not a full-blown earthquake. And it
pissed me off to hear Wallace insinuate otherwise.
"He'll be just fine," I said through gritted teeth. "Give
it a week or two, he'll be tracking leads and breaking
stories like he's a new man."
"I sincerely hope you're right, Henry. But it worries and
saddens me to think you may not be. Listen, my friend,
keep pushing on this story. I've gotten three calls from
Gray Talbot's office since your detainment up in Hobbs
County. Our friend the senator is no doubt perturbed that
we've ignored his requests. I expect a hate-o-gram to arrive
any moment in the mail, but until you see me led away in
handcuffs, keep pressing."
"That's what I do," I said. "Talk to you later, Wallace."
I hung up.
It took a moment to register that my stomach was
growling. I stopped at a deli and wolfed down a bagel with
lox spread and a large coffee. When that was polished off,
I had half a blueberry muffin for dessert. My natural
reaction to that would be to run it off the next day, but my
legs were beat. I hadn't put in for vacation time in ages. I
didn't think Wallace would be all that surprised to see my
paperwork cross his desk in the near future.
When I finished the meal, I took a cab back home, sat
down on the couch and waited. This was the worst part of
the game, and as a reporter the most frustrating part of the
job. The waiting.
So much of my work was dependent on sources getting
back to me, but every moment that phone didn't ring there
was a fear that the story was slipping through my fingers.
I worried that Curt's searches would turn up empty. That
Amanda would discover Patrick Reed was born in Idaho
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and not Hobbs County like I suspected. Not to mention
cigarette boy Benjamin wandering the streets somewhere,
and I had a little more anxiety at that moment than I liked.
I had to distract myself. Music, that would do it. Calm,
soothing music.
I turned my computer on, opened iTunes and started to
play Dylan's "Not Dark Yet." The melody calmed me.
I thought about Daniel Linwood, Michelle Oliveira.
Two children with their lives once laid out in front of
them, yet forevermore they would be outcasts. They would
always live with that stigma, never fitting in. The beauty
of a child, the pain from a life stolen away.
And just while those lyrics had begun to burrow their
way into my skull, my cell phone rang. If there was ever
a time to be jostled out