Read Online When Jeff Comes Home by Catherine Atkins - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Catherine Atkins
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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.
9
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
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.
9
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
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