The Stolen Read online

  Praise for the novels of

  JASON PINTER

  “Tension mounts, bullets fly and Pinter’s cool fusion of a new outlaw with blood ties to an old one hits the mark. The resolution is a ripsnorter, leaving thrill fans ready for the next Henry Parker newsflash.”

  —Publishers Weekly on The Guilty

  “A suspenseful and shocking tale that will leave readers clamoring for the next Henry Parker novel.”

  —Library Journal on The Guilty

  “A gripping page-turner you won’t be able to stop reading.”

  —James Patterson on The Mark

  “Jason Pinter has made a substantial contribution to the thriller genre with The Mark, a fast-paced, addictively suspenseful thriller.”

  —Allison Brennan

  “An excellent debut. You are going to love Henry Parker, and you’re going to hope he survives the story, but you’re not going to bet on it.”

  —Lee Child on The Mark

  “A harrowing journey—chilling, compelling, disquieting.”

  —Steve Berry on The Mark

  “Pinter’s a wizard at punching out page-turning action, and the voice of his headstrong protagonist is sure to win readers over; his wild ride should thrill any suspense junky.”

  —Publishers Weekly on The Mark

  “Jason Pinter has a wonderful voice. The Mark captivated me from the first. A page-turner from the get-go—I loved it.”

  —Heather Graham

  “From the opening sentence to the exhilarating conclusion, Pinter’s debut thriller gets the reader’s heart racing. Pinter is clearly one to watch.”

  —Library Journal on The Mark, starred review

  “A stunning debut by a major new talent!”

  —James Rollins on The Mark

  “A first-rate debut from an author who dares to take the traditional thriller in bold new directions.”

  —Tess Gerritsen on The Mark

  “Pinter’s debut novel showcases his fresh, witty voice…readers will undoubtedly look forward to many more.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKreviews on The Mark

  “Breathless, poignant and fresh.”

  —P. J. Parrish on The Mark

  “A terrific thriller.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “The Mark is a stunning debut.”

  —Jeffery Deaver

  “A top-notch debut…Fast-paced, gritty and often raw, The Mark is a tale you won’t soon forget.”

  —Michael Palmer

  “A harrowing novel that keeps the adrenaline level high. The plot is so fascinating and twisting you can’t put the book down to sleep.”

  —New Mystery Reader Magazine

  “A high-octane debut, The Mark introduces Jason Pinter as a major new talent in thriller fiction. It’s a brilliantly executed chase novel, but it’s also a heartfelt exploration of honor, ambition and courage.”

  —Jeff Abbott

  JASON PINTER

  THE STOLEN

  To my sister, who taught me the meaning of friendship.

  To my father, who taught me the meaning of generosity.

  To my mother, who taught me the meaning of strength.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The first thanks go to my beautiful wife, Susan, who more so than on any of my previous books humbled me with her patience and understanding. After many coffee-fueled late nighters and supportive pep talks, this book is as much yours as it is mine.

  Joe Veltre, who has proved time and time again that the best business relationships are also great friendships. Thank you for both. Thanks also to Diane Bartoli and Sara Wolski, who are always gracious with their time.

  Adam Wilson. Thanks for always being there in a pinch, and answering even the silliest questions faster than humanly possible. I’ll stump you soon, I promise….

  Donna Hayes, Dianne Moggy, Margaret O’Neill Marbury, Heather Foy, Maureen Stead, Ana Luxton, Jayne Hoogenberk, Ken Foy, Michelle Renaud, Don Lucey, Andi Richman, Katherine Orr, Craig Swinwood, Loriana Sacilotto and Stacy Widdrington. The best is yet to come. Thank you, thank you, thank you all.

  I also owe a debt to George Witte, Sally Richardson, Andy Martin, Kylah McNeill, Keith Kahla and Kelley Ragland. I’m sorry our time together was cut short, but every day was a real treat. I’m lucky to have spent so much time working with people who know how to publish the right way.

  Susan Schwartzman. After knowing you for just two weeks, I was in awe. By the time this book comes out, I can only imagine what you’ll have accomplished.

  Bonnie and Joe, Maggie Griffin and Terry Lucas. I still have a lot to learn about this crazy thing called writing, but when you’ve had friends like these, everything seems possible.

  Linda McFall. Three down, and hopefully many, many more to go. If I feel spoiled, it’s your fault for being such a terrific editor. Thanks also for your help on understanding the (often frightening) mind of the American toddler. Thank you again, ad infinitum.

  To the booksellers and librarians who have made it possible for people to read my stuff.

  To everyone who’s read one of my books, thanks for giving me the greatest job in the world. You keeping reading ‘em, I’ll keep writing ‘em.

  And to reporters around the world who risk so much to write about good, evil and everything in between, Henry Parker offers a sincere thank-you. He wouldn’t be here without your inspiration.

  Dear Reader,

  It is said that the most painful experience a parent can endure is losing a child. The pain and anguish must be simply incalculable. But what happens when a child presumed gone forever returns suddenly with no explanation, no injuries and no recollection of where they’ve been?

  In The Stolen, Henry Parker must face perhaps the most difficult, and most personal, story of his young career. Because when he investigates the sudden reappearance of ten-year-old Daniel Linwood, Henry soon realizes that despite the jubilation of Daniel’s parents, something far more sinister is beginning to take shape. And as Henry fights to uncover the truth, caught in the balance are a family, a community and several people who will stop at nothing to make sure those questions stay unanswered, and that Henry is silenced—permanently.

  I hope as you read The Stolen, you might ask yourself the same question that drives Henry to find the truth: How far would you go to protect your loved ones?

  Enjoy The Stolen…

  Jason Pinter

  January 2008

  Prologue

&
nbsp; “Finished.”

  I saved the document and eased back in my chair. My body had grown accustomed to long days and nights spent in its discomfort. The last few months, I had arrived home nearly every night with a sore tailbone or stiff back, wondering if the supplies department would turn a blind eye and let me expense a newer model. Eventually I forgot about it. Then one day, I noticed I hadn’t thought about the aches and pains in a long time. They were a part of me now.

  The past three days and nights had sped by in a blur of keystrokes, Chinese food containers and discarded coffee cups. I was on the kind of crash deadline that a year ago would have had me sweating rivulets, but now barely raised my pulse. The fact was, without those deadlines to keep me focused, the pains might not have ebbed away.

  Saving the file, I looked outside my window over Rockefeller Plaza. The view had changed—bright morning into gauzy summer afternoon, fading into the kind of New York night where the constant bright lights disguised any sense of time.

  Until recently, the night always heralded the end of my workday. I would file my story with Evelyn Waterstone, the Gazette’s Metro editor, pack up my things, throw some goodbyes to my night-shift colleagues and one or two guys at the sports desk who were putting together the box scores, and head home to meet Amanda. Good conversation, a hot shower, maybe a movie or a show we’d recorded, they’d all be waiting. Then I’d fall asleep with a whisper of her hair across my face.

  Amanda.

  We met two years ago. Our introduction wasn’t exactly the setup for your average romantic comedy. Our paths crossed while I was on the run after being falsely accused of murder. I had nobody to turn to. Nowhere to go. And just when the situation was at its bleakest, Amanda offered a hand to me, a total stranger. She saved my life. She was running from her own demons, having come from a broken home, spending her childhood recapping her life in small notebooks because she assumed everyone she met would eventually abandon her. It was this that brought us together. We were both damaged, broken, but together we were whole. She was everything I wanted in a partner. Strong, brilliant, beautiful. And she laughed at my jokes that made everyone else cringe. I repaid her by offering all the love I had to give. Had I offered merely love, it would have been more than enough. It’s the other baggage I brought along that was too heavy for our relationship to bear.

  Six months ago, a killer began terrorizing the city by publicly executing those he felt deserved his wrath. I was able to weave together the strands of his mysterious past and learned the horrific truth about his ancestry. During my search, the killer turned his sights not just toward me, but to those I loved.

  He brutally attacked my ex, Mya Loverne, and left her fighting for her life. He broke into Amanda’s office at the New York Legal Aid Society and nearly killed her. It was then, in the aftermath of those acts of violence, that I realized what I had to do. To protect those I loved, I had to turn away. I had to shield them from myself.

  There was nothing more I would have wanted than to spend the rest of my life with her, playing shuffleboard and eating dinner at noon, doing whatever old couples did. It should have been easy. I mean, everyone complains about how hard it is to find someone in New York City. Once you find the right person, you hold on to them for dear life. Unfortunately I had to do the opposite.

  Amanda nearly lost her life because of me, because of my work. And because being a reporter was in my blood, I shuddered to think that it was only a matter of time before those odds caught up. So I left her. In the middle of the street. And every day since I’ve had ample time to think about my decision.

  We have not spoken in six months. My apartment, once warm with her presence, was now cold and uninviting. The stove, where we used to burn our attempts at lasagna, hadn’t seen a pan in weeks. The place reeked of carelessness, abandoned by a man who felt like a stranger in his own home.

  Work had always been my passion. Now it was my whole life.

  Underneath my desk was a small duffel bag in which I kept a clean shirt, slacks and a pair of loafers. Every other day I would venture back to that unfamiliar home, unload the dirty laundry and pack up a clean change of clothes. Every other week the accumulation of soiled attire would be sent to the cleaners, and the cycle would start again. I would change in the men’s room, always drawing a few weren’t you just wearing that? looks from my colleagues.

  I heard a noise behind me, turned to see Evelyn Waterstone striding up to my desk. Evelyn had barely given me the time of day when I first started working at the Gazette, but she’d warmed considerably over the past few months. Evelyn was in her late fifties, a solid tree stump of a woman who commanded attention, respect, and made everyone leap to the side when she walked by. Like many of the newspaper’s top talent, Evelyn was unmarried and childless. She was also one of the best editors in the business. Somehow I’d grudgingly gained her respect. I figured as long as I kept my head down and did what I did best, it would stay that way.

  “Got your story, Parker,” she said, barely slowing down as she approached, then stopping abruptly before she knocked my desk over. “I swear you must have replaced your brain this year or taken basic grammar and spelling lessons. I haven’t had to smack my head in frustration at your copy in almost a month. You keep it up like this, I might actually be able to cut back on the migraine medication.”

  “They say reading is the cure for all ills,” I said.

  Evelyn eyed me skeptically. “Who said that?”

  “You know…they.”

  “Tell ‘they’ that they can shove their quotations up my keester. Anyway, keep up the not-so-terrible work. You’re giving me more time to spend with crustaceans whose brains haven’t fully grasped the ‘i before e’ concept.” Evelyn shot a glance toward Frank Rourke, the city’s top sports columnist, to whom grammar was a term of endearment for his mother’s mother.

  Then Evelyn leaned forward. Sniffed. Scrunched up her nose.

  “My God, Parker, you stink worse than O’Donnell the morning after St. Patrick’s Day. Your pieces might be clean, but you reek like my nephew’s diaper. Go home and shower, seriously, otherwise I’ll tell Wallace he has a rodent infestation in the vicinity of your desk.”

  “I’m not that bad, am I?” I raised an arm, took a whiff, and immediately nodded in agreement. “I’m on my way.”

  When Evelyn left, I took the duffel out from beneath my desk, opened it. Sniffed. Closed it right up. Maybe it was best to just burn this load.

  I grabbed the bag, left the office, took a cab to my apartment. I blew in the door, took a three-minute shower, and seven minutes after that I was wearing a fresh outfit with a spare packed away. Another cab brought me back to Rockefeller, where I strode into the office with a sense of pride that I knew was well undeserved. I waved to the night security team. They were too busy watching a ball game to wave back.

  The newsroom was nearly empty. A quiet newsroom felt like an unnatural beast, but I’d grown used to it.

  I opened my drawer, pulled out a down pillow I’d bought myself as a present. I took a fresh pillow cover from the bag, pulled it on. Buried somewhere in those drawers, beneath a mountain of papers, was a photo of Amanda. I’d taken it at a concert at Jones Beach last summer. It was raining. I was concerned the camera would be ruined. Amanda told me not to worry, that if special moments weren’t worth some sort of risk, how special could they be?

  Without saying another word I snapped the photo. She was right. The moment was worth far more than the risk.

  Her brown hair was plastered to her cheeks, her neck. Her tank top clinging to her rain-slick body like silk. Her eyes were closed, the music pouring through her. That was my favorite photo of Amanda. It used to sit on my desk. Now I couldn’t even look at it, because it only made me think of the night I ended the best thing in my life.

  Then I did what I’d been doing every night for the past four months. I placed the pillow on my desk, put my head down, and slept.

  1

  “James, get you
r behind down here and finish your greens!”

  Shelly’s voice boomed through the house, and even though it took eight-year-old James Linwood only thirty seconds to turn off his Xbox 360 and race down the stairs, his younger sister, Tasha, was already sitting at the table, eyeing him while munching loudly on a celery stalk. When James sat down, Tasha, six years old but already a grand-master at winning the game of sibling rivalry, stuck a green, mush-filled tongue out at her brother, who was more than happy to return the favor.

  “That’s enough, both of you. James, baby, I never excused you from the table. You have to ask to be excused.” James looked at his mother and gave an exaggerated sigh, then picked up a single piece of lettuce. He took a bite, grimacing as if it had been marinating in oyster juice. “I don’t know what you’re looking at me for,” Shelly said. “Some people actually think vegetables taste good.”

  Tasha nodded along with her mother, opened wide and shoved a whole stalk of celery in her mouth.

  “Those people are stupid,” James said, nibbling at the lettuce.

  “No, if you knew what kind of vitamins and minerals veggies had, you’d know those people are quite smart,” Shelly said. “Did you know LeBron James eats a double helping of carrots before every game?”

  “Does not,” James replied.