The Stolen Read online

  Then, I wondered, how many nights had Jack O’Donnell had just like that?

  When I got to Jack’s building, I buzzed his apartment, dying to see that grizzled face in the hopes that it would all make sense. There was no answer. I buzzed again. Still nothing.

  I took out my cell phone and rang his house line. It went right to voice mail.

  “Jack,” I said. “This is Henry. Please call me back. I need to speak to you. Please tell me you’re all right.”

  I clicked off the phone and took one last look at the building. Then I turned around and went back to work.

  The old man stood by the window for a long time, watching the boy walk away until he’d disappeared from sight. When Henry Parker turned the corner, he stepped back into his apartment. His body was racked with convulsions, the sobs like mortar rounds. Then Jack O’Donnell slid down the wall until his frail, arthritic knees were tucked up under his chin, and he began to cry.

  46

  Though I hadn’t been a reporter that long, I can honestly say I’d had some long days on the job. The longest weren’t the ones where I was on deadline, typing page after page or sifting through an entire casebook worth of notes. The longest days were those where nothing happened. I wasn’t waiting for a source to call back. I wasn’t waiting for Legal to approve a story. I wasn’t waiting on anyone or anything. The day just passed.

  Today was perhaps the longest of my career. Every few minutes I would turn around to look at that empty desk, wishing upon nothing that Jack would appear magically and just start writing. There would be no story written by Jack O’Donnell in tomorrow’s edition, or next week’s papers, or any for the foreseeable future.

  I was merely a soldier who, until today, had been following the example set by Wallace Langston and Jack O’Donnell. But our ranks had been broken. And who knew if it would ever be repaired.

  I left the Gazette at five o’clock on the dot. The first day I could ever remember leaving on time. The train ride home was lonely. More so when I saw people reading the very paper that had changed the landscape of my world.

  When I stepped off the train, the sun was already beginning to set, and any day now the summer sun would begin to fade into fall. I walked down the street, my bag heavy, not caring where I stepped, my eyes looking no more than two feet in front of me.

  Rounding the corner onto my block, I was surprised to hear a voice call out, “Careful, there, I see a hydrant with your name on it.”

  I looked up to see Amanda standing in front of my building, her hair rippling lightly in the wind, her face golden in the orange haze. If there was one sight that could melt away a man’s sorrows, it was that one.

  She was wearing tight jeans and a red sweater. Walking closer, I recognized the sweater. I’d given it to her on our six-month anniversary. That seemed like ages ago.

  “What are you doing here?” I said, silently chiding myself for the impatient tone in my voice.

  “I thought you could use someone to talk to tonight,” she said. “I saw the newspaper.”

  I nodded, only because there was nothing else to say. Amanda approached me, put her hand on my shoulder; the other hand tilted my chin upward.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know what Jack meant to you.”

  “He’ll get things together,” I said softly. “He has to.”

  “I hope he does. I guess at some point everyone needs to take stock of their life.”

  “I’ve been doing a little of that,” I said.

  “Me, too.”

  I looked up at her. “Why you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, brushing a strand of brown hair from her eyes. “At this point in my life, I want to think about what I have. What I want. What I have that I don’t want. What I want that I don’t have.”

  “What do you want?” I said.

  She smiled demurely. “I’m not a hundred percent sure,” she said. “I didn’t say it happened all in one day. But I wanted to wait for you. I thought it might be a nice way to end what must have been a pretty crappy day.”

  “You have no idea,” I said.

  “How’s Curt doing?” she asked.

  “He’s going home this weekend. I sent a few Olsen twins movies to his apartment as a joke. Figured if Ashley and Mary Kate can’t cheer him up, the guy’s hopeless.”

  Amanda smiled. “You’re a true friend.”

  “He’s lucky to have me,” I said. “So you came here because you wanted to talk about things? About us?”

  “Not so much talk,” she said. “I had an even better idea. I hope you’re okay with it.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “I’m going to take you out tonight. Dinner and a movie. There’s an Italian place on Eighty-Third that’s supposed to serve the best gnocchi in the city.”

  “Wait,” I said, “this sounds an awful lot like a date.”

  “I could be coy and play hard to get, but what’s the point? Henry Parker, I would love to take you out on a date tonight.”

  My heart swelled. It was probably from the huge emotional swing, but suddenly I found myself hugging Amanda, pulling her as hard as I could into my chest. Then her hands were on me, pushing me away. Confused, I stepped back, looked at her.

  “Are you kidding?” she said, smiling. “This is a first date. You don’t get to hug before the movie popcorn.”

  “Wait, a first date?” I said. “Was I imagining, you know, our whole relationship?”

  “Uh-uh. But when I thought about it, I realized we’d never really gone on an actual first date. Meeting when you were on the run for your life and all. So I thought let’s go back, start where we never got the chance. Dinner and a movie, sport.”

  “Shouldn’t I pay, then?”

  “This is the twenty-first century, Henry, get real. Besides, I think I make more money than you.”

  “I can’t say no, can I?”

  Amanda smiled “Do you really want to?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Just a date,” she said. “Then we’ll go from there.”

  “Just give me one more chance,” I said, “and I promise it will be worth it.”

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-2003-8

  THE STOLEN

  Copyright © 2008 by Jason Pinter.

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