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