When Jeff Comes Home (5 page)

Dad stood with me. "Sit down, Jeff," he ordered.

I hesitated, then sat.

"Let's start over," Stephens said. "When you said he 'showed up' with the car, 'showed up' where? Were you staying at a house, or—"

"No, it was a street corner. Some city around L.A. I don't know where exactly. He drove me there in the van, told me to wait and came back with this car. Maybe he stole it or something. I couldn't ask him, you know."

"Wait a minute," Dad said, his voice slow, considering. "You were alone on a street corner somewhere? I don't understand. Why didn't you run away? Get help?"

I shrugged uncomfortably, realizing I had caught myself in a lie that sounded more suspicious than the truth.

"Jeff." Stephens's voice was intense. "What van?"

I looked up at him, suddenly alert. "Van? There was no van."

"You said he drove you to this street corner in 'the van'."

I stared at him, speechless, then tried to recover. "I made the whole thing up, okay? No street corner, no van."

He stared back at me for so long I began to squirm. "What?" I asked finally.

"What are you trying to pull here?" Stephens's voice was quiet.

"Nothing! God, why don't you just ..." I paused, trying to control my voice. "I'm here, okay?" I looked around the table at all of them. "I'm here. So why do we have to get into a whole big thing about—"

"Who is this guy?" Stephens said, unmoved. "Who are we talking about?"

"I don't know his name," I said, glaring at him. Stephens cocked an eyebrow. "I don't! He went by different names." Brian was staring at me open-mouthed, as if I was the best detective show he'd ever seen.

"Yeah? What name did he go by most often?"

"Harold," I lied. "John. Al. There were others."

"What does he look like? How old is he?"

"I don't know. He's just average. Just an average, middle-aged guy."

"Uh-huh. And where's he heading?"

"I'm not sure. He said he wanted to travel. He mentioned Nevada once."

Stephens threw his pen onto the table between us. The notebook followed. "So we're looking for a middle-aged male answering to Harold, John, or Al, in an unknown car heading for parts unknown. Maybe Nevada. If you're going to lie, you can do better than that."

I just shook my head, looking down at the table.

"Jeff," Dad pleaded, "come on now. Talk to Dave."

"I tried talking to him," I flared, looking sideways at Dad. "He doesn't want to listen."

"You're not telling the truth," Stephens said. He sounded disgusted. "You're protecting this guy."

"I'm not protecting
anyone
," I said, dangerously close to tears. I stood, the need fierce to get away from him, from all of them.

Dad reached out for me. I backstepped away, stumbling, banging my hip against the table.

"All right. All right," he said, to me or Stephens I didn't know. "That's enough for now."

Upstairs, I stared at myself in the mirror, despising the large green eyes, the high cheekbones, the full mouth, the features that had marked me "beautiful" in Ray's eyes. I flipped my hair out of my eyes, the thick, silky dark blond hair he loved to touch. I hated it. I hated myself.

Dad woke me at ten the next morning,
shaking my shoulder gently. I looked up at him bleary-eyed. I had sat up most of the night, allowing myself to fall into sleep only as dawn approached.

"Time to get up, Jeff," he said, smiling. "Come downstairs and have some breakfast."

"Good morning, honey," Connie greeted me as I walked into the kitchen. I noticed the fine lines under her eyes, more than I remembered from before.

"Morning, Connie. You look tired," I said, then blushed. "I'm sorry, I mean, you look good, just tired." I stood awkwardly against the counter, suddenly shy with her.

Connie smiled. "Actually, this morning I'm not. Usually on Saturdays I have to get up at five-thirty to take Charlie to her job at the stables. But Dave drove her today, and I slept in 'til eight. Can I get you something?"

"You don't have to. I don't know. Cereal's okay." She nodded and brought down a box of Rice Chex from one of the cabinets. "Charlie has a job?"

"Yes, she works at the fairgrounds weekend mornings grooming and exercising the horses. Charlie went out and got the job on her own. We were shocked. She's usually so quiet and . . . moody. The job has been wonderful for her, though."

"How long has she worked there?" I asked, taking the bowl of cereal from Connie.

"About three months, I guess. Since the end of summer. Vin Perini works there too, weekday mornings mostly, but sometimes on weekends with Charlie. She's so shy when she sees him. It's cute." Connie laughed. "Oh, she'd kill me if she heard me say that. Jeff, aren't you hungry?"

I had set the bowl on the counter without taking a bite. I could not remember the last time I had thought of Vinny. Getting used to my family again was one thing. But thinking of Vinny, of the complications of getting to know him again, of the process of reacquainting myself with kids my own age, school. .. the thought of the weeks and months to come overwhelmed me.

"Are you okay?" I realized Connie had spoken twice to me without my answering. She touched my arm.

"Yeah. I guess I'm still tired."

"Have you eaten yet?" Dad strode into the room. "No? Bring your bowl into the office. Dave wants to talk to you." I didn't move. "Come on, there's no better time. Charlie's out, Connie's taking Brian shopping with her. Let's get this over with."

Wordlessly I followed him to his office. The room looked the same as I remembered it, with the addition of some embarrassingly large photos of me. I lingered in front of one. It was me right after pitching a no-hitter in a Little League championship game. Vinny was in the foreground among my teammates congratulating me.

Dad laughed awkwardly. "Nice, huh? I bought a copy from the
Telegraph
and had it enlarged. That was some day, remember?"

"Yeah ..." I said, trailing off, disturbed by the picture. Stephens walked into the room.

"We'll have to get some new pictures of you," Dad said. "You . . . you've grown up since then."

Stephens cleared his throat. "Ken, you mind getting me some coffee?"

"Coffee?" Dad hesitated a moment, watching me. "Sure."

I watched him go, not sure whether I was relieved or scared to be free of him.

"Would it be easier on you if your dad wasn't here for this?" Stephens's voice was quiet.

I put the cereal bowl on an end table and sat down, avoiding his eyes. "I'm not going to say anything, so it doesn't matter."

"But if you do say something," Stephens said patiently, "would you prefer he not be here?"

I shrugged, trying to hide my panic. Stephens left the room. I covered my ears, not wanting to hear the explanation he would give to Dad.

I lowered my hands quickly as Stephens lumbered back into the room. He pulled Dad's office chair over to the couch where I sat and perched on it, towering over me.

"First, please call me Dave. Everyone does."

I glanced up at him. The man looked like a movie version of a bodyguard—the big, dumb guy who backs up the slick villain. I held on to that image to keep my fear at bay.

"You're from the FBI?"

"That's right."

"And you let everyone call you Dave? Or is it just crime victims?"

He smiled wearily at me. "Okay. Forget the pleasantries. Was any of that story true last night?"

"Yes," I admitted. "But..." I looked away, laughing a little. "The thing is, I'm not going to talk. The guy's not coming back, okay? He left me off, I'm here, end of story."

"Uh-uh," Stephens said, still smiling. "An awful lot of people expended a lot of time and energy on you over the past few years. They want some return on their investment. So do I."

I looked at him as if he was insane. "What are you talking about? You mean people tried to find me and all that?"

"Yep. All that. Ask your dad sometime."

"Yeah, well, I never saw any of it," I told him hotly, then looked away, frowning.

"Why not? He keep you confined, or what?"

I looked back at the man. "Hey, I'm not stupid. You're not going to trip me up that way. I'm not talking, so you can just go back—"

"I know you're not stupid. In fact, I understand you used to be the perfect kid. Polite, respectful, good student, star athlete ..." He ticked the qualities off one by one on his fingers.

I squirmed. "Is there something wrong with that?"

He smiled a little. "The perfect kid with the perfect life. That's what your dad kept insisting. No problems at school, none at home, no reason to run."

"You thought I ran away?"

"I came onto your case the third day," Stephens said. "And only because Ken made such a stink. There's a knee-jerk response in law enforcement that kids over ten who go missing are probably runaways. Here you were, almost fourteen, so ... "

I felt sick. Here was my fear made flesh. "Is that what you thought?"

"I'm not big into knee-jerk responses." Stephens gave me a quick smile. "But if you didn't run, what happened to you? You were just
gone.
One of the most frustrating cases I ever worked."

I watched him, not sure where he was going with this.

"So . . . where were you?"

I shrugged, my stomach churning.

"Aside from everything else, I'm curious as hell.

You know we never came up with one solid lead about you? I finally figured you were so far underground that unless someone confessed, we were never going to find you."

"What do you mean, 'underground'?" I asked. "Dead?"

He nodded. "Dead—or dead to the world, anyway. Was I right?"

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"Simple. Where have you been for the last two and a half years?" I was silent. "Try this then: who kidnapped you?"

I looked down, shaking my head.

"What if he comes back again?"

"He won't."

"You sure? He came back once already to drop off your clothes."

"He's done. He won't come back."

"You know something, you're right," Stephens said slowly. "He probably won't come back for you. Brian, though, he's what, eleven?"

"Don't," I said, knowing what he was doing, reacting anyway.

"Face it, Jeff. If it's not Brian, it'll be some other kid. You want to be responsible for that?"

I stared at him, furious. "It's not my job to catch him, it's yours. I'm not responsible for what he does."

"You're the last known contact with this man. I'm not leaving until you tell me how to find him."

"I don't know how to find him. I can't help you." I looked down, miserable, my arms folded across my chest, one foot tapping nervously.

The silence went on so long I had to look up. Stephens was staring at me, looking disgusted, and angry too.

"I'm sorry," I said, shuddering involuntarily. I moved to get up, to leave him. Stephens reacted immediately, pushing his chair forward, knocking my legs apart with his own, clamping his hands on my thighs and leaning into me.

"You're not getting out of it this easy," he hissed, inches from my face. "Now come on. What's the man's name?"

Frozen, I could only blink at him. Just as I saw his face soften into a kind of regret, I was able to let out a strangled cry. Stephens pulled back immediately and stood up, cursing.

Dad ran into the room so fast I knew he must have been just outside, listening. He came swiftly to my side.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he yelled, and I shivered before I realized he was talking to Stephens. "If you treat him that way again," Dad continued, his voice quiet now, "I'll take the kid and disappear and your case can go to hell."

"Look, I'm sorry," Stephens said. "If we had the time, he could work this through at his own pace. But we don't. Jeff, the guy dropped you off Thursday night.

It's Saturday morning now. Your kidnapper has had a full day, and part of another, to start this whole process again. Take some other kid, ruin his life, ruin his family's life, maybe kill him this time. We've got to stop him. You know that."

I swallowed hard. "I can't talk about him."

"You're embarrassed about the sex. I understand that." Stephens's tone was gentle now.

I hid my face from him, from both of them. "There was no sex," I mumbled.

"Well, I don't believe you. But let's set that aside for now. I need to know who kidnapped you. The best description you can give me. I don't need to know anything more now than who he is and how to find him."

Dad squeezed my shoulder. Breathing deeply, I raised my head to look at Stephens. "He goes by 'Ray.' None of those other names I told you were true."

"Okay," Stephens said, sitting down again, a good distance from me this time. "Is Ray his first or last name?"