When Jeff Comes Home (8 page)

"That's quite a change," he said.

"We'll have him back to himself in no time," Dad said, but he sounded distracted.

Stephens looked from Dad to me, then back again. I was finding it hard to breathe, knowing what I had to do.

"Well," Stephens said, "have you guys had lunch yet? There's a Mexican place across the street. Jeff can look over the new pictures while we eat."

I folded my arms across my chest, looking down. "I don't need to look at any pictures," I mumbled.

Stephens sighed. "Jeff, this isn't fun for any of us. But it has to be done, you know that."

I looked up at him slowly. He went still, catching something in my expression. "What is it, Jeff?" he said at length.

"I remembered his name," I blurted out, feeling dizzy.

Next to me, Dad stiffened. "You said his name was Ray."

Stephens came forward. "Hang on, Ken. Jeff, sit down for a minute." He gestured back toward the rock wall where he had been sitting.

To my horror I began to cry. I stumbled past Stephens to the wall, sitting down hard, almost missing the ledge. Embarrassed, angry at myself, I rubbed my hands over my face, fighting for control.

"He's been upset about something all morning," Dad told Stephens in a low voice. "I don't know ... he's hard to reach."

I'm right here, Dad,
I wanted to shout. I didn't. I leaned forward, staring at the floor, feeling the light spray of the fountain hitting against my back.

Stephens sat down—not next to me, but in front of me, several feet away, Indian-style on the floor. He looked ridiculous, and if I'd had the energy I would have been insulted at his caution with me. Dad stood a few feet behind him, hands on his hips, looking down.

"What did you remember?" Stephens spoke slowly.

--

"His last name. Ray's last name. I saw it on an envelope once."

"What is it?"

"Slaight. His name is Ray Slaight. Not S-l-a-t-e. It's spelled S-l-a-i-g-h-t."

"And below that name," Stephens said quietly. "The address on the envelope. Do you remember that?"

"No. Just his name. Ray Slaight."

"All right," Stephens said. "We're going to find him."

It’s too late for that.

"Raymond Lucas Slaight," Stephens said,
glancing down at the yellow legal pad in his hand. "Forty-two years old. He is a lawyer, or was."

Dad nodded. Connie was next to him on the couch, tense, her back perfectly straight. Brian sat on the floor next to her, watching Stephens. Charlie was nearby, curled up in an armchair, her feet drawn up underneath her. She caught my eye as I paced by the window, across the room from the rest of them, and smiled encouragingly at me.

"Jeff," she said softly, patting the arm of the chair, indicating that I should sit there. Everyone turned to stare at me.

"No," I said rudely, looking away from Charlie as a hurt expression crossed her face.

"Slaight worked for a firm in Los Angeles," Stephens continued, looking down at his notes again, then back at Dad. "But he lived in Costa Mesa. Four years ago he was convicted of assault, the only evidence of a criminal record I found. He served four months in
 
the L.A. county jail." For the first time since Stephens had entered the room, I relaxed.

See, Ray may be a criminal, but he's a normal criminal, not
. . .

"'Assault
'
 could mean anything, though," Stephens said. "Sexual attacks against children, particularly boys, are often bargained down to simple assault." He curled his lip as I froze. "The lawyers always say it's to protect the victim. Of course, the one who really benefits is the perpetrator. He goes into jail as a tough guy who beat somebody up, not a pervert who raped a kid."

My face flamed. I glared at Stephens.

Don't talk that way in front of them.

"I'm going down to Southern California tomorrow to see what I can find out," Stephens said.

"While you're gone ..." Connie said nervously, clutching at Brian's shoulder.

"Don't worry. I have an agent stationed in the lobby."

"That's not necessary," Dad said. "I've got..."

Stephens raised his hands. "Don't tell me anything I'll have to officially discourage you against. Look, the agent is just a nice, precautionary measure. The odds are Slaight is long gone. Someone else's headache by now," he added. I held my face expressionless. "What you do have to worry about is if the media finds out where you're staying. At least my guy downstairs can keep them away."

Dad nodded grudgingly. He stood as Stephens did, reaching out to shake his hand. "All right. Good luck. And thanks."

"Sure," Stephens said. He pointed at me. "Jeff, take care. I'll see you soon." I nodded, wanting to tell him that his trip would be useless, that I wanted him here, yes,
here.

As Stephens turned to leave, his pager beeped.

"You mind?" he asked, not waiting for Dad's nod as he strode over to the living room phone, which happened to be near me. I backed away, but Stephens ignored me as he quickly punched in the number he read off the pager.

"Who could that be?" Connie said nervously. No one bothered to answer her. I watched Stephens's face.

The person on the other end of the line was doing all the talking, and I could hear the agitation in his voice. My stomach tightened.

It's about me.

"Yeah, he's here," Stephens said shortly. "I'll be right down." He hung up and turned to Dad. "Ken, this has to be fast, so don't argue with me. The agent downstairs has someone in custody resembling Slaight."

“What?”
Dad said, the color draining out of his face.

Stephens was already shaking his head. "I know you want to be there but you can't. Stay with the family and I'll call you as soon as I can.
Don't leave this room."
With that, Stephens ran off, slamming the door after him.

Dad watched him go, motionless, one hand on the back of the couch where Connie sat. She looked up at him, reaching for his hand, her face as pale as his.

"
Jeff,
"
 Charlie said finally, breaking the silence. "Oh my God. What does he want?"

"Maybe it's not him," Brian said.

"Shut up," Dad barked. "Both of you. No one say anything."

I started counting silently:
one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand...

"The hell with this," Dad said suddenly, pulling away from Connie and heading for the door.

"No, Ken," Connie called after him, half rising from the couch, her face stricken.

"Dad, don't," I said, wrapping my arms around my stomach to ease the ache inside. He stopped, looking back at me. "Please don't leave. Please."

He winced as though I had struck him. "I didn't leave," he said, quietly angry. "I didn't leave. You understand that?"

He wasn't making much sense, but I thought I understood him.

Don't blame me for what happened to you.

The next day, Stephens drove Dad and me
to the San Francisco county jail, where I was to try to pick Ray out of a lineup. A mob of reporters and cameramen were milling around outside the front entrance to the jail as we passed by on our way to the private parking area. Once they realized who was in Stephens's Volvo, they rushed over, blocking the entrance to the lot, shouting questions and holding microphones out as if we were about to roll the windows down for them. A few cameramen pushed through, shoving their lenses right against the car's windows. The reporters followed, throwing out questions like darts.

"Jeff, are you happy to be home?"

"Is your kidnapper inside?"

"Did he molest you, Jeff?"

"Jeff, how does it feel to be back?"

I closed my ears to them, amazed by the fuss and scared too. Dad reached back over the seat and patted my head roughly.

"Don't worry about them," he said. "Don't worry about anything."

The reporters fell back only slightly as Stephens pulled forward by inches.

"Can't you do something?" Dad snarled, reaching between Stephens's arms to blast the horn.

"Hey, that won't help," Stephens said. But the reporters moved back enough then for him to slide the Volvo in past the gate.

"Is he in there?" I asked quietly, after Stephens piloted the car into a space near the side entrance of the jail.

"That's for you to tell us," Stephens said carefully. "After you see the lineup."

I promised him I would never do this
.

When Dad turned around again, I realized I had spoken out loud.

"It doesn't matter what you promised him." Dad's eyes were fierce.

The building was dingy inside, the walls painted a dull green, a faint chemical odor hanging over the hallways. I avoided the eyes of the men and women in uniform, but several of them stopped anyway to shake my hand.

"Why do they know me?" I asked Stephens.

He smiled. "You don't realize yet what a concerted effort there was to find you."

The lineup room was dimly lit and cluttered with folding chairs. One wall was blocked off by olive green curtains. A short, heavy female officer shook hands with Stephens, Dad and me. Two men in suits stood against the back wall. They did not introduce themselves.

"Jeff, I'm going to open these drapes," the officer said, meeting my eyes squarely. "You'll see five men standing in a lineup. They can't see you. Take your time, and look carefully at each man."

Dad pushed me gently toward the curtained window. I shivered, gooseflesh breaking out on my arms.

"They can't see you. They can't get at you," he whispered. I felt the dusty folds of the drapes against my nose, and for a moment I couldn't breathe.

"Not so close, please." Dad let me go immediately, stepping away. "No," I said, turning to him. "Just... I don't want to be that close to the window."

"Of course." Dad hesitated. "He can do this sitting down, can't he?"

"Sure," the officer said, gesturing back to the rows of folding chairs.

"Jeff, I'll get you a chair and you can sit."

"I don't need a chair, Dad!"

Everyone was silent until the officer cleared her throat.

"I'm going to open the curtain now, all right?" She pulled at some hidden cords. I did not look up.

"Jeff," Dad said softly.

"I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't."

Stephens stood behind me now.

"C'mon, kid," he whispered. "Take a look at these guys. Get it over with."

I walked away from him, toward the window.

All of the men in the lineup had dark hair and pale skin. All stood about six feet tall. The third man was clearly Ray—a different Ray than the one I had known, but Ray nonetheless. This Ray was clean-shaven and stood straight and proud and sported a military haircut like mine. To my horror, he was looking right at me.

From a distance, I heard Dad say, "Jesus Christ." I put my hands up to the glass and stared. Ray stared back at me boldly, and my focus narrowed down to his eyes.

I turned to Stephens. "She said he couldn't see me." I sounded calm, no indication of what was going on inside me.

"He can't," Stephens said. "No one in that room can see in here. It's impossible. Those men are looking at their own reflections in a mirror."

"He can see me. He's looking at me now."

"Jeff, you have to say the number. Do you see the man who kidnapped you?"

"The third one. From the left. That's Ray."

"Are you sure?"

I began to tremble uncontrollably. "Yes."

"Fine," Stephens said briskly.

"Where's the bathroom?" I managed to choke out, breaking for the door.

"It's down the hallway to your right," the officer called after me.

I found the men's restroom with no trouble. But once I was there, I could do nothing. I tasted vomit at the back of my throat, caught in a lump, but it wouldn't move. Leaning back against the tile wall, I wrapped my arms around my stomach. The bathroom door opened and I straightened up quickly. It was Dad.

"How are you feeling? Dumb question, I know." He came closer and I could see that his eyes were moist. "Did you throw up?"

"No." I hid my face in my hands for a moment.

Dad sighed and turned on the water. He washed his hands, then his face, then turned back to me.

"Dave said the man you identified is Slaight. If I had a gun, I'd kill him right now."

"Don't do that," I said distantly.

"Jeff, I'm not angry with you." I looked up at him slowly. "But I need you to tell me something. Is Ray Slaight the same man who asked me for directions yesterday?"

I closed my eyes. "Yes. I'm sorry, Dad. I'm . . . sorry."

"Okay," he said softly, "you're under a tremendous strain, I know. But why didn't you say something? My God."