When Jeff Comes Home

Copyright © 1999 by Catherine Atkins.

All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any

form without permission in writing from the publisher.

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS

a division of

Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers,

345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

G. P. Putnam's Sons, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off.

Published simultaneously in Canada.

Printed in the United States of America.

Book designed by Semadar Megged

Text set in Trump Mediaeval

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Atkins, Catherine.

When Jeff comes home / Catherine Atkins, p. cm.

Summary: Sixteen-year-old Jeff, returning home after

having been kidnapped and held prisoner for three years,

must face his family, friends, and school and

the widespread assumption that he engaged

in sexual activity with his kidnapper.

ISBN 0-399-23366-0

[1. Kidnapping—Fiction. 2. Child sexual abuse—Fiction.]

I. Title. PZ7.A862Wh 1999

[Fic]—dc21 98-44016  CIP  AC

1 3 5 7 9 10  8 6 4 2

First Impression

CATHERINE ATKINS lives in a Gold Rush town in Northern California. She teaches elementary and high-school students in alternative settings. Her background includes stints as a radio news reporter and talk-show host. She loves animals, art, and theater. At the age of four, she appeared in a nationally broadcast Pepsi commercial.
When Jeff Comes Home
is her first novel.

To My Grandmother

Catherine Tuohy Bass

Dad never believed me later, when I told him there was nothing he could have done.
. .
.

"I'm so thirsty," Brian whined, flopping his skinny arms over the front seat of the Jeep and panting like a dog. My stepmother, Connie, peered back at him over her sunglasses, grinning. Dad drove on, hands firm on the wheel. I could see one individual drop of sweat sliding down the back of his neck. Even in April, California's Central Valley was hot and dry. We were fifteen miles outside Fresno, heading back to Wayne after spending most of spring vacation in San Diego.

"I'm not stopping again," Dad said finally. "We just had lunch. We have to make time now. It's almost two o'clock, and Jeff's game is at six. As it is, we won't be home until close to five." Brian slumped down next to me in the second seat. He sighed, folding his arms across his chest.

"Jeff," Dad called back to me, turning his head slightly, "you ready to pitch tonight?" The question was rhetorical. We both knew I was. We had done all the tourist things in San Diego—the zoo, Balboa Park, Sea World, a Padres game—but Dad and I had worked out every morning and he'd also caught for me in the park near our hotel.

"Sure, Dad, no problem," I said, hoping Brian hadn't noticed how much warmer Dad's voice was when he spoke to me. I looked to the back of the Jeep to catch Charlotte's reaction, but only my sister's denim-clad knees were visible. Kneeling up on the seat, I leaned over to talk with her. Charlotte lay on her back, a book propped up against her knees.

"You want something to drink?" I asked quietly. She rolled her eyes in Dad's direction.

"Sure, why not? Dad," she called, "we had lunch two hours ago. I'm with Brian."

Revitalized, Brian sat up. "Yeah! Let's take a vote. Jeff?" He looked at me eagerly, knowing my vote counted for more than his and Charlie's put together.

Of the three of us, Brian was the only one who resembled Dad at all. Same brown eyes, same brown hair, same regular features. He did his best to act like him too, an eight-year-old version of a conservative, opinionated lawyer. Yet Dad was as indifferent to him as he was cold and disapproving to Charlie. Connie did not seem to notice. Her main interest was Dad and she spent most of her energy keeping him happy, though she worked too, as a sixth grade teacher at the elementary school we attended in Wayne. Charlie was in her class this year, while I was in eighth grade, about to graduate over to Wayne High.

Brian waited for my answer, staring at me impatiently.

"Yeah, I could use a drink." I turned to my stepmother. "Connie, how about you?"

Before she could answer, Dad said, "It's up to you. Do we waste a half hour getting off this damn highway and finding some place because the kids are bored, or do we move forward in a disciplined manner?"

Though Dad's tone was serious, I knew he had seen the humor in the situation. I leaned forward, hanging over the seat as Brian had done. Connie paused for effect, her light brown hair swirled high on her head in a ponytail, one finger holding her place in the latest Danielle Steel.

"Drinks," she said finally, holding back a smile. Dad groaned, and we cheered.

"Okay. This has to be quick. I'm not getting off in Fresno, so look for something right off the highway."

We had been passing ugly, blighted-looking fields of yellow weeds for miles, but billboards for businesses in Fresno had started to appear.

" 'Rest area ahead,' " Dad read off one sign. "That's us. We'll pull in, find a vending machine, and leave."

He waited for objections and heard none. I couldn't wait to get out just to stretch my legs.

Tall hedges lined either side of the driveway into the rest stop, curving around in an upside-down U shape that led back to the highway. Dad cruised by a Winnebago, the only other vehicle in sight, and pulled into a shady spot near some picnic tables and a stand of scrub oak trees. The vending machines and bathrooms were a football field's length away across an artificial-looking green lawn bisected by concrete walkways.

"Dad," Charlotte moaned, "can't you park any closer?"

"The walk will do you good," he said briskly.

"Yeah, the walk'll do you good," Brian echoed, turning back to grin at her.

"A walk will do us all good," Connie said, stepping out of the Jeep.

I jumped out and began jogging in place. The air held a yellow haze from the factories around Fresno, and I could smell the carbon monoxide from the thousands of cars passing by on Interstate 5. I took a deep breath anyway, shaking my hands out, then stretching my arms far back over my head.

"You can't wait, can you?" Dad stood next to Connie by the driver's side door, watching me, smiling.

"For the game? Yeah, I wish it was starting now. I feel ready." I was pitching the season opener for my Little League team, the Bobcats, against our division rivals, the Eagles, at Standard Field that night. My best friend, Vin Perini, was catching and I wanted to call him before the game and talk strategy.

Brian tugged at my arm. "Come on, Jeff, race you!"

I laughed. "Wait a minute, let's find out what everyone wants."

"I'll take a Diet Pepsi or Coke, whichever they 
have," Connie said, leaning back against Dad. He put his arms around her waist and smiled.

"I'll take anything with caffeine," he said.
"
Come on, Con, let's check this place out.
"
 Dad and Connie walked off together toward the picnic area.

"Okay, Brian," I said, "I'll race you. You get a five-second head start. Go!"

Brian took off like he had been shot out of a cannon. Charlie and I grinned at each other and started counting out loud.

By the time we reached five, Brian was a third of the way to the vending machines. I sprinted after him, my legs eating up the ground. I caught my brother in an instant, stayed even with him, then ran on ahead. I stopped, barely winded, at the entrance to the redwood and concrete enclosure that housed the vending machines.

"You're too fast," Brian puffed, when he pulled up a few seconds later.

I ruffled his hair. "You had me going there for a minute, though," I told him. "What do you want?"

There were two drink machines, one filled with sweetened teas, the other with soft drinks.

"Mountain Dew!" he exclaimed, dropping four quarters in the machine and punching the button. The chilled can plunked down and Brian grabbed it, holding it against his forehead.

"Charlie will want one too," I said, dropping four more quarters in for her drink.

"She shouldn't have that. It's fattening," he said, so primly I had to laugh. I glanced up. Charlie was taking her time, stopping to read a plaque mounted on a concrete block in the grassy area we had just crossed.

"What's it to you?" I asked Brian, who looked blank. " 'It's fattening'—what the hell are you talking about?"

"That's what Dad said. He told Mom to stop buying Mountain Dew, because Charlie's getting too fat."

"What Charlie wants to drink is her own business. Leave her alone about that, okay?"

Brian looked down. "Sure, Jeff. Sorry."

I touched his hair again. "Don't worry about it. She's got Dad on her back enough. She doesn't need us bugging her, right?" I deliberately threw in "us/' thinking that would impress him more.

"Okay, Jeff," he said, smiling up at me.

As Charlie reached us, I asked her casually, "Mountain Dew okay?"

"Yeah, thanks," she smiled. On a ninety-degree day, Charlie was dressed in a baggy purple T-shirt and jeans, the better to hide her body. She thought she was enormous, while I told her "chubby" was stretching it. I didn't give a damn either way. To me she was just Charlie, my sister with the same blond hair, green eyes and full mouth I had.

I got a root beer for myself, then patted my pockets. "That's it, I'm out of change. Brian, do you have any?" He shook his head. "Charlie?"

"No, I spent all my money on magazines in the hotel gift shop this morning."

"Damn," I muttered. "We should have gotten their drinks first. You guys go back and see if Dad or Connie has any change. I'll wait for you."

As Charlie and Brian took off, I popped my drink open and took a swig. The root beer was ice-cold and sweet, and I drank deeply, tilting my neck back.

An arm around my waist, a firm man's body behind mine, the sudden, close odor of tobacco and sweat, my head tilted farther back, cold metal pressed against the pulse point of my neck, the root beer dropped, thudding onto the concrete floor, rolling, its contents gurgling out in a steady flow. I struggled instinctively, thrashing my arms, then froze as I felt the metal advance against my skin.

"Yeah, you have a knife at your throat." The very calmness of the man's voice made it more frightening. "Listen now. Do what I tell you."

I didn't move or speak, but he applied more pressure to the knife. A small noise escaped me as I felt its point enter me, and he laughed softly. I raised my hand slowly back to touch my neck, and felt a tiny amount of sticky blood.

"Walk with me."

When I remained frozen, fingers spread over the tiny wound, he tightened his arm around my waist.

"We can always wait for the kids to come back. But you're the only one I want, so I'd have to kill them."

The man turned me around and marched me out of the redwood gazebo, opposite the way Brian, Charlie and I had come in. Only a short concrete walkway separated us from a side parking lot that was empty except for a late model blue van. The van's side panel was open a crack and I wondered if someone else was inside. More scared of what was coming than the knife now pressed against my bare stomach, I stopped walking. The man banged into me, cursing. Then he laughed.