When Jeff Comes Home (4 page)

"All right," Dad said. "Jesus Christ, you don't have to turn this into a show. Jeff, these are the clothes you were wearing the day you disappeared. Aren't they?"

"Yes," I said, amazed at how calm I sounded.

"Someone set that bag against the front door last night. Connie found it this morning when she went out to get the paper."

"He came back," I said quietly.

“He
did ... or was it you who put the clothes out there?" Roysten asked.

"Me?" I looked at Roysten, then Dad. "No. I haven't seen those clothes since ..."

My face flamed.

Since Ray took them off me.

Dad stood up. Without looking at me, he touched my hair briefly. I ducked my head, staring at the floor.

"Roysten, that's enough," Dad said. "We'll take it from here."

"Hey," Roysten said, "we're just getting started."

"No," Dad said. "Your part in this is finished, at least as far as Jeff is concerned." He paused. "I've got someone coming up from the FBI. You can talk to him later if you're still interested."

Roysten stood. "You still want those patrols, don't you?"

Dad nodded, standing right in front of Roysten, forcing the man either to move back or physically confront him. Roysten moved.

"Yeah. I still want the patrols."

"I'll keep sending 'em then," the chief said as Dad ushered him out.

As their voices faded, Roysten's cajoling, Dad's cool and grim, I wondered why neither of them had mentioned the smell of the things piled on the table. It was not possible they hadn't noticed it. I swallowed hard, tasting bile in the back of my throat.

Gagging, I picked the bag up off the floor. Holding it open against the coffee table, I shoved the stuff back inside, feeling contaminated with every new item I touched.

I held the bag out from my body, no idea what to do next. Then I remembered the laundry room. When I lived here before, we had shared the chores around the house, and once in a while I had done the laundry.

I hurried to the small room off the kitchen. A wet load of laundry was still in the washer, and I dumped my things inside with it, then the bag too. I tossed in a measuring cup of Tide, shut the lid, turned the timing dial to Heavy Soil and pushed the button to start the cycle. As water began to fill the tub, I leaned heavily against the machine, trying to catch my breath.

"What are you doing?" Dad said. I stood up, turning to face him, my heart racing. My hands tingled, filthy. I held them out far from my sides, knowing I had to wash them before I touched anything else.

"Jeff?" He sounded bewildered.

"I'm washing the clothes."

"You're . .. washing the clothes," he repeated, running a hand through his hair. "You mean the clothes from the bag?"

"Yes," I said impatiently. "They were dirty. I had to wash them."

"Jeff..." Dad hesitated. "The police, not Roysten, the FBI, they might need those things. As evidence."

"I had to wash them."

"Why?" Dad asked, looking at me as though I was crazy.

I stared back at him. "Because they were dirty.

"Jeff, someone is coming up to talk with
you this evening," Dad announced as Connie dished the Chinese food into bowls along the table. "An FBI agent out of San Francisco. His name is Dave Stephens. He's been on your case almost since the day you disappeared."

"I don't want to talk to anyone," I said, ignoring the food. "I'm here, isn't that enough?" My stomach growled so loudly Brian laughed, then looked around as though he'd be punished for it.

"No," Dad said. "For everyone's safety, you have to talk. You'll like Dave. He's very gentle."

The word was an insult. "
Gentle
? Shit." I pushed my chair back.

"Jeff." Dad motioned me back to the table. "Relax. I'm trying to say that Dave is nothing like Roysten. He's a good man." I watched him. "Eat your food. Go on."

"I'm not talking," I warned him.

He nodded toward the food. "Eat."

I hesitated, but I was too hungry to argue with him.

Charlie and Brian had already served themselves, so I did the same, ladling a portion of beef with broccoli onto my plate. Self-consciously, I took a bite. It was delicious, the best food I ever remembered tasting, and I dove in, eating ravenously, not looking up again until my plate was clean. I looked at Connie, not sure how to ask for more.

"Try some cashew chicken next," she urged me, smiling, "or just help yourself, hon. You're the guest of honor."

"Go ahead," Dad said, too heartily. I scooped a good-sized portion onto my plate from each of the steaming bowls in the center of the table, then topped that off with a huge dollop of rice.

"I'm sorry, I haven't eaten in a while," I said after I finished, sitting back, feeling a little sick. I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve, then reached, too late, for a napkin. Dad caught my arm.

"Hey, you're with your family. This is your food too." He paused, then cleared his throat. "When did you eat last?"

My arm tingled where Dad held it. I looked away, and he released me.

"Sometime yesterday."

"Where?"

"You said we could wait 'til that guy got here."

"Jeff, just tell us if we have anything to fear," Connie said. "He came to our house. Twice, at least." She shivered, rubbing her arms.

"He's not coming back," I said flatly. "He dropped me off, he dropped the clothes off. There's no reason for him to come back now."

"But do you know that for sure?" Connie asked. I just stared at her. "I mean . . . who is he? What—"

"Connie," Dad murmured. She shut her mouth abruptly, looking down.

"I'm done eating," I said. "Thanks." I looked past Connie to Dad. "Can I go to my room now?"

"But we have ice cream," Brian said, smiling shyly at me. "I asked Mom if we could get some, after we got the Chinese. I remembered you used to like chocolate chip. You still do, don't you?"

"Come on, Jeff, help me get it," Charlotte said, tugging lightly at my shoulder. I followed her to the kitchen.

She nodded me toward the fridge and began to get the bowls out of the cabinet. Charlie's sleek black cat, Jack, crouched near the door leading out to the backyard. He looked up at me sideways, suspicious.

I knelt a few feet from him, holding out a cupped hand. "Hi, boy. Remember me?" Jack made a small noise, somewhere between a meow and a purr, and came to me. I rubbed the side of his face, grinning.

"I missed this guy," I said, almost to myself. I picked up the cat and rubbed my chin against his soft head. He leaned against me and began purring loudly. "He remembers me!" I looked up at Charlie, unguarded for the first time. She was leaning against the counter, hands over her face, crying soundlessly.

I stood up, uncomfortable, setting the cat down.

Charlie lowered her arms and gulped once, swallowing a sob.

"I want to hug you," she said. "Can I? If it wouldn't make you feel weird."

Trapped, I submitted with a shrug.

She released me quickly, reaching for a paper towel to mop her face. I busied myself scooping the ice cream into dishes.

"Hey, what are you kids doing?" Dad called from the dining room. "We're starving out here!"

"We're coming," Charlie called back, smiling at me.

She carried out two bowls of ice cream and I took the other three. Brian passed us, heading into the kitchen with the empty food cartons, Connie behind him with a pile of dirty dishes.

Once we'd all sat down again, there was a knock at the door.

"I'll get it!" Brian yelled, and sprang up.

"No, you won't," Dad said, jumping up to follow him. I let my spoon clink down in the bowl.

"I'm sure that's Dave," Connie said. But she watched after Dad, cocking her head to listen as he opened the door. A man's voice rang out in greeting and she nodded. "It's him."

Brian ran back in and sat down. Dad and a rumpled-looking man somewhere in his forties followed him.

The man from the FBI was huge. Dad was six feet tall, but this man dwarfed him. He outweighed Dad too, by a good eighty pounds, his potbelly straining against the white button-down shirt he wore under a wrinkled suit jacket. His full face was framed by a head of bushy brown hair. He noticed me staring at him and looked back at me, his deep-set brown eyes peering into mine. I looked down quickly.

Dad's here, they're all here, there's no reason to be scared.

But I was.

"Dave, you know Connie," Dad said, gesturing toward her. Connie stood to shake Stephens's hand.

"It's been too long," she said, smiling, a slight edge to her voice.

"Always a pleasure, Connie," he said, clasping her hand briefly.

"Brian ..." Dad nodded in his direction.

"Sure, Brian and I are old friends," Stephens said.

"Hi," Charlie said shyly, when Dad didn't introduce

her.

"Is this Charlotte? I haven't seen you for a while. What a pretty girl! Ken, you've got a good-looking family here."

What was this guy's act?

I glanced at Dad, who stood slightly behind Stephens. His face was red and it looked as though he was holding back tears. Panicked, I looked for an escape route.

Stephens stuck his big hand in my face. "You must be Jeff," he said. I looked at his hand and then down at my plate.

"I'd love some of that . . . what is it, chocolate chip?" Stephens said, pulling his hand back smoothly. "If you've got any to spare."

"Of course," Connie said. "I'll get some for you." She stopped by Dad on her way into the kitchen, squeezing his shoulder and whispering something in his ear. He nodded.

"I'll get you a chair, Dave," Dad said, his voice choked. He left the room quickly.

Stephens stood over the three of us, his eyes still on me. The room was silent until Brian piped up, "We just had Chinese food. It was good. Jeff ate most of it, though. He said he hasn't eaten since yesterday."

"Shut up," I snapped. "Shut the fuck up." Brian turned his shocked face my way, eyes wide. Charlie could have been his twin.

"Everything all right in here?" Dad asked as he walked back into the room, carrying the extra dining room chair.

"Sure, we're fine," Stephens said. "Ah, great," he sighed as he sank into the plush chair. Nothing but the best for the Hart family.

Connie returned with a heaping dish of ice cream and placed it before Stephens. "Dave, how about a real meal? We have a casserole left over from last night, or I could make you a sandwich."

"No, thanks, the ice cream's plenty," he said. "I grabbed a burger in some little town on the way up. Oak something."

"Oakdale? Main street, not much else?" Dad said.

"Yeah, that's the place. Kind of a nice change after the Bay area, but I don't think I'd want to live there."

Stephens ate his ice cream as if that was the reason he was here. He and Dad spoke to each other with an easiness that made them sound like colleagues. I sat across from them sullenly, watching my ice cream melt, my stomach protesting its unaccustomed load of Chinese food.

"Well," Stephens said finally, smiling, turning to me. "Let's get started. Jeff ..." He stopped at the look on my face. "Ken, is there a room we can use?"

"Of course," Dad said. "There's my office, or you could go upstairs—"

I broke in. "Look, I'm sorry he wasted his time coming here, but I have nothing to say."

Stephens smiled, leaning back in his chair. "A bowl of chocolate chip ice cream is never wasted, Jeff."

"Oh, that's funny," I said. "I'm sixteen, not six!" Then I stared down at the table, afraid of the anger I had shown.

"Look," Stephens said quietly. "You've just come home. You're disoriented, you want to sleep, you want everyone to quit looking at you. Right?" Reluctantly, I nodded. "All that is going to happen. Things are going to calm down. You're going to live a regular life again. But, Jeff..."

Something in his voice compelled me to look at him.

"Before that can happen, you have work to do. Now,

I don't need extensive testimony tonight, but we do need to establish a few basic facts."

I moved my chair back a little and sighed.

"It was a man who kidnapped you, yes?" I nodded. "Was he the one who brought you home last night?"

"Yeah."

Stephens took out a small notepad and pen. "Describe his vehicle: make, model and license number."

"I don't know. It was new. He just showed up with it. I don't know the plate number."

"Car? Truck? Van?" Stephens held the pen, ready to write.

"He's driving a car," I said. "Dark-colored. Maybe black."

"Yeah?" Stephens squinted at me. "And?"

"It's just a car nothing special about it. I don't know, all right?" I threw my napkin down on the table and stood up.