When Jeff Comes Home (9 page)

"I couldn't tell you then."

"Why?" Dad demanded. I flinched at his tone. "I'm not trying to scare you ..."

"You're not scaring me."

"Don't you see, if I'd known I could have
done
something. Why didn't you give me the chance to do right by you this time?"

"Does it matter now? We're here, he's there—"

"Of course it matters!" Dad snapped. "Why didn't you tell me it was him?"

"I was scared, all right? He's ..." I fumbled for the right word. "Ray is crazy."

"I can be crazy too when it comes to defending my son," Dad said, his voice passionate.

I looked away, embarrassed. "Can we go now?"

Dad turned the water on again and moistened a paper towel.

"Wash your face," he said, handing it to me.

I obeyed him, feeling the thin, damp paper turning warm against my skin. I crumpled the paper into a soggy ball, then tossed it into a wall-mounted waste-can. Dad handed me a second towel to dry off.

"Let's go find Dave," he said when I was done.

Stephens led us to an interview room that was small and icily air-conditioned. A woman sat in the corner with a typewriter-like device and a laptop computer. A tape recorder was built into the wall over the white metal table where Stephens indicated we should sit.

Without preliminaries, Dad said, "When I took Jeff to get his hair cut in my building yesterday, Slaight was there. I don't know if he followed us, or knew where I worked and got lucky, or—"

"How did that happen, Jeff?" Stephens asked, his eyes intense. I shrugged. "Did you have an arrangement to meet him there?"

My detachment vanished in an instant.
"What?
No!" I turned to Dad. "You don't think that, do you?"

He hesitated just a second too long. "No. Of course not."

"Ray and I are not a team, okay?" I glared at Stephens. "How can you say that?" He didn't answer. "I wouldn't walk Dad into an ambush."

"Is that what it was, an ambush? Was Slaight armed, do you think?"

I relaxed a little. "Probably," I mumbled. "He had guns. And knives."

"Did he use them on you?" Stephens asked.

"No," I flared at him. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"I mean, did he threaten you with weapons?"

I looked from Stephens to Dad, to the young black stenographer, who looked away quickly when I met her eyes.

"He held a knife on me when he forced me into his van," I said flatly.

"This is when he kidnapped you?" I nodded. "Okay, tell us about it."

I looked straight at Stephens, avoiding Dad's eyes. "This is all I'm going to say. I'll tell you how he kidnapped me. That's it." Stephens remained expressionless. I waited for his agreement.

"Go on," he said finally.

"Ray came up behind me," I said. "That day. I didn't hear him. He held a knife to my throat. He cut me a little." I was back in that hot afternoon, feeling moisture on my neck, the cut stinging as sweat mingled with blood. "He walked me to his van, pushed me inside, and that was it."

"What happened next? Where did he take you?"

I shook my head. "He kidnapped me," I said. "That's a crime, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's a crime," Stephens said.

"So what more do you need? Ray kidnapped me. He kept me with him a long time and he made sure I couldn't leave. ..." I stopped, flushing.

"How did he make sure you couldn't leave?" Stephens's voice was quiet. "Did he abuse you? Did he physically abuse you?"

I clenched my hands into fists, shaking my head over and over again. Finally I answered him. "No. I told you no."

"Jeff has a point," Dad said, clearing his throat. "You've got Slaight cold on kidnapping. That's enough for now, isn't it? Come on, this has been one hell of a day."

Stephens sighed. "Ken, he's got to—"

"No," Dad said. "Not now. Let him alone."

Stephens agreed to put off the rest of my
"interrogation" until he had a chance to question Ray extensively and investigate his background. Though the relief came to me like air, I knew the reprieve was a brief one: Stephens would be back. All I could count on to protect me from his insinuations was Ray's instinct for self-preservation, and I wondered how strong that was. I pictured him again in the lineup: no attempt to blend in, the heavy stare into the mirror, the half smile on his face.

That expression was all I saw the entire three hour drive back to Wayne. I faked sleep to avoid questions, my eyes shut, my head lolling against the window. But no one was talking.

It was after ten when we arrived. I hurried up to my room, eager to be alone. But once I was there I began to feel scared again. All I could think about was Ray and how I had betrayed him. He would find a way to make me pay for that, I knew. I sat on the bed, wide awake, wondering how I was going to get through the night.

"Jeff?" Charlotte said, leaning into the room. "You want to play Monopoly with me and Brian?" I hesitated. "Come on. Dad said he didn't mind if we stay up for a while."

"Okay," I said.

We met Dad in the hallway. "You're going to play a game downstairs?" he asked. I nodded. "Good. But don't make it too late. I want you up early tomorrow to run some errands with me."

"Okay, Dad," I promised. He gathered me to him, hugging me hard, releasing me quickly. It was over before I could react and then Dad retreated to his bedroom. I looked up slowly and caught Charlie's cynical expression as she waited for me to join her on the stairs.

"You're more popular than me," she said dryly.

"I'm sorry" was all I could think to say.

"Forget it." She shrugged and walked down the stairs ahead of me.

Brian had already set up the Monopoly board on the living room floor. He looked up at me eagerly. "Hi, Jeff. You want to be real estate agent? I'm banker."

"Nah, let Charlie do it if she wants," I said, sitting down across from him. He looked so forlorn, I added, "Okay, I'll do it. Unless . . . Charlie?"

"I can live without it," she said sarcastically.

I had that "new kid" feeling, a sort of clammy awkwardness and hyperconsciousness of every move I made. In the few days I had been home—less than a week, I realized suddenly—I had barely spoken to either of them.

"Hey, Brian," I tried, setting the Monopoly real estate cards into neat rows on the floor, "how come I had to get this buzzcut, and you get to keep yours long?" Brian's hair was collar length, and he kept flipping it back out of his eyes. Charlie shot me a look. Her message was clear.

Because Dad couldn't care less what Brian's hair looks like, dummy. Remember
?

Brian grinned. "I like my hair long. Most of the guys wear it this way. Vin Perini does."

"He does? Well, he always did." I finished setting up the cards. "Come on," I said, assuming the leadership role I had once held. "Let's roll to see who goes first."

Charlie picked up the dice and rolled a six. Brian moved closer to me, not watching the board. His closeness made me uncomfortable but I stayed where I was.

"Vin's in the paper a lot," Brian said. "He's the quarterback for the varsity football team. He was last year too, and he was only a sophomore then. He plays varsity baseball too."

"You know a lot about him," I said casually, as if I didn't care.

"You should ask Charlie. She's the real expert." Brian giggled.

Charlie blushed. "Vin says 'hi' to me at school and I work with him at the stables sometimes. That's it!" She looked at me shyly. "He really is a nice guy, though. He came up to me the first day of school and said if I needed anything, I should just ask him. Wasn't that nice?"

"Wasn't that
nice,"
Brian simpered, clasping his hands in front of his chest.

"Shut up, Brian. I don't like him that way. Anyway, he goes out with Jana Hunter. She's so phony. Boys have no taste."

Brian sighed extravagantly. "Jana Hunter is
so
pretty, Jeff."

"Charlie's pretty too," I said. She looked at me quickly, skeptical.

"Her?" Brian gasped, then laughed.

"Yeah, we have a pretty sister," I said.

"Yeah, right," Charlie said, hunching her shoulders. But now she was smiling.

"It's your turn to roll the dice, Brian," I told him.

The game became so absorbing I lost track of time, until my stomach reminded me I had to eat something. "You guys want some food?" I asked, still feeling constrained about going into the kitchen and just taking what I wanted.

"There's probably still some chocolate chip cookies," Charlie said. "They might be stale."

"That's okay," I said, my stomach growling. "Let's eat 'em anyway."

The three of us sat cross-legged on the floor picking cookies off a platter, sipping milk from heavy crystal drinking glasses.

"Dad doesn't like us to eat in the living room," Brian whispered.

"Screw him," Charlie said quietly. Brian looked at her, stricken. "Lighten up, Bri! I'm kidding."

"You shouldn't talk about him that way," he said, staring at the floor.

Charlie and I exchanged glances.

"Brian ..." she started, then softened her tone. "Sorry, okay?"

"Okay," he said, brightening. "What about Christmas?" he demanded.

"Christmas?" I asked. "When is it?"

"Two days," Charlie said automatically. "They'll do something, probably. Connie usually has to drag Dad into it. Not this year, though." I looked at her quickly, but she just smiled.

"Jeff, that guy you were with ..." Brian spoke hesitantly.

I froze.

"Did he give you presents? At Christmas, I mean."

"Brian ..." Charlie said softly, shaking her head.

"You were gone
two
Christmases," Brian said, ignoring her. I heard something like awe in his voice.

I looked at his stupid, innocent face, avid with curiosity, and hated him a little. Charlie was more subdued, but she watched me too, leaning forward, her legs drawn up in front of her, arms wrapped around her knees.

I press my body hard against the stucco wall, face first, my arms outstretched, running my fingers up and down the ridged surface, working to convince myself that I am alive in this darkness that has gone on for
...
two days? Five? A week? More?

I hear the first door opening. My heart pounding in excitement and terror; I scramble across the room. When the second door opens I am sitting on the bed, facing him, hands folded in my lap, my back against the wall, the way he has told me to wait for him.

The light spilling in from the passageway doesn't hit my face but it is light and it burns my eyes. I put my head down, covering my eyes with the heels of both hands, ready for him to pull the cord to the overhead light, the light he used to disable each time he left me, the one he trusts now I will not touch.

This time is different. He grabs my hands away from my eyes and pulls me off the bed.

“Come on," he says. “You're going out." He pulls a black silk bandanna out of his pocket, tying it tightly around my head.

He leads me, none too gently, through the garage. I slip a little when I step into a patch of greasy fluid, and he drags me a few steps. I regain my footing and I am outside for the first time since the day he took me.

I stop, taking in lungfuls of the fresh, icy air, my ears perked to listen for any sounds, any life beyond Ray. I hear nothing, and he yanks my arm hard to get me moving.

My feet skip over sharp pebbles, and I step glancingly on a thorn. I cry out and he releases me for a second to slap my face. “Sorry," I tell him, and then we are on flat stone—concrete by the feel of it. The relief is immense.

He pushes a door open and we are in another building. We walk over cool tile onto a bare wooden floor, then he pushes me into another room, catching me as I nearly trip over a throw rug. He steadies me, then pulls off the blindfold.

The room is small, square and sparsely furnished. It is a living room, with a fireplace that looks unused and no pictures on the walls. Dusty-looking floor-length beige curtains shield the room's one window. A tall lamp set on an end table provides the only light.

There is a Christmas tree in one corner, a few red and green ornaments hanging off it. Brightly wrapped packages are scattered underneath on the bare floor. I say nothing, not sure what Ray wants me to do. He points toward the tree. I am very aware of his muscular arm outstretched inches from my head.

“You like it?” His voice is deceptively casual.

“The tree?" I ask, flinching in advance. But Ray is in a good mood, and he laughs, cuffing me lightly on the back of the head.

“The tree, the presents, all of it. It's Christmas, you jerk."

“Christmas?” I repeat. My voice is dull, stunned.

“You're staying with me tonight," he tells me. I barely hear him.