When Jeff Comes Home (7 page)

"What else do you need?" he asked, walking back to me with a smile. "Can you think of anything? Another pair of shoes? How about something fun—a CD player? Some in-line skates or—"

"I'm okay, really." I didn't want to go into any other store. The sun had made its way high over the tops of the tallest buildings, and I was starting to feel warm. I remembered how hot San Francisco could get in December. Holding a hand up to shield my eyes, I looked at the sky.

"Sunglasses!" Dad said. "How about a pair of sunglasses? There's a good place a few blocks over. ..."

It was only eleven o'clock on a Sunday morning but the streets were beginning to crowd up. I walked close to Dad, our differences set aside in my need to feel safe. I flinched every time someone's eyes flicked over me, moving even closer to Dad whenever there was a possibility someone was going to bump into me on the sidewalk. Dad strolled along, glancing at me often, smiling.

"Can we stop somewhere for a minute?" I finally asked him.

Dad stopped walking, pulling me over to the recessed window of a stationery store to let people by. "Are you tired? Hungry? You hardly touched your breakfast."

I shook my head. "No, it's just . . . can we go back now?"

"Back to the hotel?" I nodded. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"I think people know who I am," I said. "They keep staring. ..." My face burned. Dad placed his hand against my forehead. I felt too weak to deny him, laying my head against the store's glass window.

"Your skin is clammy," Dad said, frowning. "What's wrong? Do you feel sick?"

I'm scared. I don't want to be around all these people. I feel like a freak. They know about me.

"I guess I'm still tired."

Dad shook his head. "We can't give in to that. You have things you need to accomplish. You're just going to have to keep putting one foot in front of the other."

Thanks for the pep talk, Dad.

If I had the nerve, I would have sneered at him. He watched me closely for a moment, then relaxed.

"Come on. Let's get a soft drink or something."

We sat in an outdoor cafe, Dad drinking iced coffee, me on my second Pepsi. I had drained the first as soon as the waiter had set it in front of me.

"Better?" Dad asked me finally after we had sat in silence for some minutes.

I shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."

"What was making you nervous out there?"

"The crowds," I said quickly, glancing up at him.

"The crowds," he repeated. "Did this man . . . did you ever see anyone else? Did he take you out?"

I clasped my drink tightly, rubbing at the drops of moisture with my thumbs. "Please stop asking me questions like that."

"Questions like what?" he threw back at me, so fast I jumped. The waiter came over to leave our bill on the table. He was young, maybe five years older than me, short and fit, his dark hair cut close to the skull. He winked at me and I looked away quickly, hoping Dad hadn't seen.

"I don't want to talk about it," I said. "You're pushing me ..."

Dad took a deep breath. "That's not fair. I've been very patient with you. I'm doing my best not to push." He held up a hand as I started to respond. "As long as you make the effort to catch this guy, the rest of it can wait."

"There is no 'rest of it,' " I said, not looking at him. "Can we go back to the hotel now?"

Dad waited, then shook his head. "No. Not yet."

"People keep staring at me," I said, hoping to convince him. "Maybe they've seen me on the news or something."

He shook his head. "We've done a good job of keeping the press away from you. They don't know what you look like now." Dad cleared his throat. "The thing is, your appearance is striking. Your mother—Melia— was a beautiful woman. You've always resembled her, and now with your height. . . you're a beautiful young man. That's why people are looking at you."

Red-faced, I stared down at the table.

"Hey," he said, reaching across the table to lay his hand on mine, "I'm not trying to embarrass you. The way you look is not your fault."

My
fault.

"As soon as we get you a decent haircut, the effect will be less ..." Dad struggled for the right word, then shrugged. "Less striking."

He thinks I look like a girl. Like a woman.

The waiter bustled back, eyes widening as he saw Dad's hand on mine. "How 'bout some refills for you two?" he asked, smiling.

Before I could stop myself, I wrenched my hand away, hiding it in my lap. Dad looked confused, then angry. He glanced up at the waiter, ready to say something.

"Stop it," I said, not sure which one I was talking to.

"Sorry," the waiter said, his face smoothing back into a professional mask. "Anything else I can get for you?" I shook my head, and he left.

"What the . . . what the
hell."
 
Dad sputtered as comprehension began to dawn on his face.

"Dad, never mind, please," I said, unable to meet his eyes.

"San Francisco," he mumbled under his breath. Unbelievably, he seemed amused. "Well, I just figured out our next stop."

I had not visited Dad's office in years, not since we moved away from the Bay area when I was ten. I saw that his name was one of the six on the polished gold plate outside the elevator doors. I looked at him questioningly and he nodded.

"I'm one of the partners here. You knew that." If I had, I'd forgotten. But I nodded. "It's a good thing I had some standing in the firm when all this happened." He shook his head. "It's been a hell of a struggle these last few years."

I looked at Dad closely for the first time since I had come home. He looked older than I remembered, careworn, and like me, too thin.

"I don't begrudge a minute of the time I spent looking for you, Jeff. But I had to put the time in here too, to justify the salary they were giving me. Without that money, the whole operation would have fallen apart."

He wanted something from me, some kind of absolution, I could tell. I shifted, uncomfortable. I didn't have it in me to give.

"No matter what I was doing, even if I was here, talking to someone about estate planning or something, I was always thinking about you." Dad sighed. "God, you were the only thing I was working for, anyway."

I squirmed, picturing Charlie's face, and Brian's, and suddenly, Connie's.

"It's okay, Dad," I said. "You don't have to explain."

"No, I guess I don't," he said, smiling over at me. "I brought you here to get your hair cut. There's a barbershop right here in the building. It's where I go. The barber's a classic. From the old school."

Great. Buzzcut city.

But I smiled back at him. "Okay."

As Dad and I entered the shop, an elderly man with a fringe of white hair around a bald top stood to greet us. He had been reading the
San Francisco Chronicle
and still held the paper in his hands.

"Mr. Hart, good to see you today." The man looked at me closely and his jaw dropped. I read the headline of his paper upside-down: Missing Boy Returns.

"Good morning, Mel. This is my son, Jeff." Dad pushed me forward and I extended my hand automatically. Mel collected himself fast, smiling warmly. Discretion had to come in handy serving a building full of lawyers.

"Jeff, how are you this fine day?" He shook my hand heartily, pumping it once, then nodding me toward a chair. "Your hair looks clean. Just a cut today?"

"That's fine, Mel," Dad answered, coming around to view me critically. "I want it short, above the ears."

Mel deferred to my dad. "Should we leave some fullness on top, Mr. Hart? That's how most of the young boys are wearing it these days."

"All right. Within reason. None of this floppy, hanging-down-over-shaved-sides stuff."

Mel laughed. "You know me better than that, sir. Though I could do that cut, if someone asked for it."

After fifteen minutes, one of my layers of protection was gone. My face was out, exposed for the world to see. My eyes looked huge. My cheekbones stood out like blades. Even my mouth looked fuller. Dad stood up from the second barber chair, where he'd watched the whole operation. After a moment, he smiled.

"Now, that's a nice job, Mel. You're an artist." He took out a twenty and placed it in the barber's hand with a flourish, waving off the change. Mel smiled broadly.

"I'll tell you, Mr. Hart, this is a handsome lad. Even a butcher couldn't go too far wrong with him. And might I say, sir, how pleased I am your son is back where he belongs?"

Dad's smile grew a little strained. "Thank you, Mel. I'm sure I don't need to mention we're trying to keep this as quiet as possible for as long as possible?"

Solemnly, Mel assured him he wouldn't think of breathing a word of our visit to anyone. Once we were outside, I ran a hand over my hair.

"Feels better, doesn't it?" Dad grinned at me, then flicked the ear where I'd worn the diamond ear stud. "That hole will close up on its own, if you leave it alone. I read that somewhere."

I half-listened to Dad, my ear tingling where he had touched it. My attention was focused on a man standing by the elevators, his back to us as he studied the list of names on the directory.

It can't be him. There's no way. . . .

The man was Ray's height, but his posture was erect, far from Ray's casual slouch. Ray lived in denims and T-shirts; this man wore an expensively cut gray suit. Ray's hair was long, feathered out over his collar; this man's hair was as tightly clipped as mine. The color, though, was the same: black and gray mixed.

I knew it was Ray. I had lived with the man too long, too closely, not to recognize his presence, however he had changed his looks.

He turned around, spotted us and smiled. I froze, dead inside, watching Ray as he walked toward us.

"Excuse me," he said formally, all of his attention on Dad. "I'm looking for the firm of Bowman, Leikus and Harrison. Someone said it was in this building."

Dad shook his head. "No, that's two blocks from here."

Ray chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I'm having a hell of a time finding the place. I wonder if you could ..."

"Sure," Dad said, after a quick glance at me. "I'll point you in the right direction, anyway." He gestured for Ray to follow him. As they made their way to the lobby doors, Ray looked back, signaling me with his eyes. I could not interpret his message, and I watched him blankly, waiting for whatever it was to happen.

"Bowman, Leikus is two blocks over, to your right," Dad said, pushing one of the heavy glass doors open and leaning halfway out. "See? The redbrick building, past the flag."

"Oh yes. I see it now. Thank you." Ray walked out past Dad without another look back. Dad watched after him for a moment, then shrugged, turning back to me.

"Dave has some more pictures he wants you to look through," he said, walking over. "We're supposed to meet him at the FBI building in a few minutes. It's an easy walk from here."

"I have to go to the bathroom," I said, trying to keep my face steady.

"Sure. Come on, I'll walk you there."

"No," I said. "Just. . . where?"

"Just around the corner from the elevators," he said, pointing. "Are you all right?"

I nodded, walking away quickly. As soon as I was out of his sight I leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath.

Why why would he be here? Why? It doesn't make any sense he .. .

"Jeff?" Dad was standing in front of me, frowning. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said. "I didn't have to go after all."

He did not look convinced. "You're so pale. What is it? Do you feel sick?"

I plastered a smile on my face. "I'm fine. My stomach's a little upset, that's all."

"Well..." Dad hesitated.

"Really," I told him. "I'm okay." My smile faltered when I realized how alone we were in the empty, echoing hallway. "Can we go see Mel again? I forgot to say thanks . . . you know, for the haircut."

Dad was looking at me strangely. "Sure, if you want."

The lobby was empty, and Mel had a sign in his window announcing he would be back at 1:00
p.m.
Ray could have come back into the building. He could be anywhere.. . .

"Dad, can we go up to your office? Mr. Stephens could meet us there, couldn't he?"

He stared at me. "Why?"

"Can you call him and ask if he'll..."

"Why would I want to do that?" Dad said. "The FBI building is just a few blocks away. Are you tired, is that it?"

I restrained myself from looking wildly around the lobby. The territory outside the building was uncontrolled. But if Ray caught us outside, at least there would be other people around, and room to run.

"You're right," I told Dad. "We should go over there. Sorry." He watched me for an uncomfortably long moment, then nodded.

Stephens sat waiting for us on a low brick wall that surrounded a fountain in the lobby of the FBI building. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of me. I stopped, self-conscious, remembering my hair.