“What do you mean? Look at the pictures.”
“They don’t exist.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” He picked up a handful of photographs and shook them at her. “You come in here and tell me my own brother has committed these, these . . .” He stumbled over the word and finally just raced on. “. . . And now you say they don’t exist! What the hell?”
“They don’t exist.”
Jeffers sat back and folded his arms in front of his chest angrily. “I’ll listen to your explanation.”
“I always did it right, you see. Until this time. Finally, when I handle something that means something, everything, to me, I screw it up. Ruined.”
She reached out and picked up some of the pictures.
“I broke in here. I stole the key. I broke in there. This goes far beyond the definition of an illegal search . . .”
“A technicality!”
“No!” she screamed. “It’s the rules. Worse: it’s the reality!”
“So,” he said, trying hard to remain calm and analytical, “why don’t we go to the FBI? At least show them the pictures.”
“You don’t see,” she said. “We walk into the FBI and I say, look, Mr. Agent, I want to show you pictures of homicides which I’ve obtained in the course of an investigation. The first thing they’ll ask is what investigation. And I’ll say, no, actually I’m on medical leave from my department. That’ll ring their bell and then they’ll call my boss and he’ll say she was distraught and obsessed and, Jesus, I hope she’s okay. But he won’t say, Believe her, because he doesn’t believe that himself. And then they’ll call the county homicide people, who’ll say, yeah, she hasn’t been the same since her niece got killed and sure, we cleared that case and busted the guy, he’s doing a trillion years in solitary. And Mr. Agent will learn that I have access to hundreds of photographs, just like these, well, not quite, but close enough, and he’ll just conclude I’m crazy. End of story . . .”
“Suppose I say . . .”
“Say what? She’s convinced me about my brother? Mr. Agent will just figure we’re both out of our minds. But even if he does think maybe, just maybe, I better cover my ass, then what he’ll do is some sort of computer check on your brother and he’ll come up with zero. Well, not zero. He’ll find out that your brother has a security clearance into the White House, for starters, approved by the Secret Service, because that’s what I found when I did the same damn check. And then you know what he’ll do? I’ll tell you. He’ll write one short little memo and file it under distraught-head cases. In other words: nothing.”
“Well, can’t you persuade your own people?”
“They think I’m crazy and distraught.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“They’re right of course.”
Martin Jeffers looked about himself, wondering what next.
“So what do you want to do?” he asked.
“Find him.”
“So you can kill him?”
Detective Barren hesitated.
“Yes,” she said.
“Forget it.”
“I could have lied and said no,” she said.
“Right. You could have. One point for your honesty.”
He stared bitterly at her and she returned the look with equal intensity.
“All right,” she said. “You take a look at those pictures again. A real good look, and think about them for a minute and then you suggest a compromise.”
He answered quickly.
“We find him and arrest him and confront him and he’ll confess.”
“Like hell he will.”
“Detective, I have a great deal of experience with people who commit multiple crimes. They almost invariably want to take credit for what they’ve done . . .”
He stopped suddenly. My God! he thought. I’m talking about Doug!
He stood up and lurched around the room as if drunk on memory.
“This is crazy, you know . . .”
“I think I admitted that,” she said.
“I mean, this is my brother! He’s one of the top people in his profession! He’s a journalist. He’s an artist. He couldn’t have done these things! It’s just not in him! He’s never been violent . . .”
“No?”
They looked across at each other. Both knew the room was filled with denials, disbelief, anxiety, and confusion. Detective Mercedes Barren thought suddenly: This is my only chance. He will never return to that apartment. He will disappear. He will be swallowed up somewhere in the country and be lost forever. If the brother won’t provide the link, then there will be no link at all.
She swallowed and forced her face to hide the despair and dismay she felt pumping through her body like blood.
Martin Jeffers looked over at Detective Barren, trying to make his own face a mask to his emotions. He thought: I cannot lose sight of this woman. If I do, she will head off on some murderous tangent of her own.
And then a harder thought crept into his imagination: I must find out for myself what Doug has done.
He felt an almost palpable bond fixing him and the detective, in an equal but vastly different pursuit. He said brusquely:
“If I help to find him, so that we can clear this up intelligently, I must have your promise.”
“Promise what?”
Martin Jeffers stopped short. He wasn’t sure. He took a deep breath.
“Promise you won’t start shooting. Promise you’ll listen. Just goddamn promise you won’t kill him! He’s my brother, for chrissakes! Otherwise, forget it.”
She did not rush into a hasty agreement. Let him think that you’re giving this careful consideration, she said to herself.
“Well, I’ll promise this: I’ll give you a chance first. After that, well, whatever happens, happens.”
She said this solidly, confidently.
It was, she knew, a complete lie.
“All right,” he said, measured gratitude in his voice. “That’s fair.”
He did not trust her for an instant.
They did not do anything as foolish as shake hands over the deadly business they were about to embark upon. Instead they both settled into their seats and stared ahead, waiting for the next moment to arrive with whatever novel revelations it contained.
The bright morning light enveloped them, imposing some reason, some clarity on their thoughts. Detective Barren finally broke the silence they’d maintained with an orderly question:
“So,” she said directly, “where do we start? What did he tell you about what he was going to do?”
“He didn’t tell me much. He said he was going on a sentimental journey. Those were his exact words. I pointed out that we didn’t have much to be sentimental about.”
“He must have said more.”
Martin Jeffers shut his eyes briefly, picturing his brother in the hospital cafeteria, grinning, as always.
“He said he was going to visit some memories. He didn’t specify what kind.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You don’t have to be sure.”
Jeffers paused, considering.
“Well, it would seem to me that, assuming all this is true”—he waved a hand in the direction of the photographs—“that he could have been talking about two kinds of memories. The first, obviously, are those memories he has from our childhood. The second group, of course, are the memories of these”—he stumbled—“events.”
Jeffers thought his voice sounded reasonable and calm. He hated it.
“Or, most likely, a combination of the two.”
Detective Barren suddenly felt invigorated, as if all the exhaustion slid away abruptly. Her mind raced ahead. She stood
up and strode about the room, punching her fist into her palm, thinking.
“Usually,” she said, “the process of deduction for policemen is to figure out why something happened and how. The two are generally linked . . .” She realized then that she had adopted almost the same lecturing tone that Martin Jeffers had. She ignored this, and continued. “It is rare that we are asked to anticipate . . .”
“My profession is no different,” Martin Jeffers said.
She nodded.
“But now we have to.”
She could see agreement in his eyes.
“So assume for a moment that it would take us months to figure out which picture belonged in which locale . . .”
“Which is true. Nor do we know what sort of priorities he places on each, which would affect his itinerary,” Jeffers interjected.
“So we look at the other type of memory: personal.”
“Well, the problem there is almost the same. We have no way of telling what priorities he puts on things. Nor do we know the order he might be traveling in.”
“But at least you can make some guesses.”
“But that’s all they would be. Guesses.”
“That’s enough! At least it’s doing something!”
Jeffers nodded.
“Well, for starters, we were abandoned in New Hampshire. That’s probably on his list of places to visit.”
“How do you mean, abandoned?”
Martin Jeffers snapped his reply: “Given up! Kicked out! Let loose! Shown the door! What the hell do you think?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, surprised by his sudden anger. “I didn’t know what you meant.”
“Look,” he said firmly, “it’s nothing that unusual, really. Our mother was the black sheep of the family. She ran away from home with a guy who’d just been discharged from the service. They worked in a carny show—you know, one of those fairs that travel around the country. She never married the guy, as best as we can tell. Anyway, Doug arrived. Then me. I don’t think either of them cared too much for children. First he left, then she arranged to have us adopted by some cousins. She was supposed to bring us here to New Jersey, but I guess she got impatient, because she left us in New Hampshire. Manchester, to be exact.”
He hesitated.
“I can still remember everything about that damn police station where we waited. It was dim and the walls were scraped with drawings and graffiti, none of which I could decipher, but which I knew was somehow wrong. And everyone seemed so huge. You know that sense you get when you’re little that the entire world is built for big people . . .”
“Your brother?”
“He got me through it. He took care of me.”
“What was his reaction?”
Jeffers took a deep breath.
“He hated her for leaving us. He hated her for not loving us. He hated our new parents just as much. Phony parents, he would say.”
“And you?”
“I hated. But not to the same degree.”
He wondered then if he was lying.
“Where did you end up?”
“Here.”
“No, I mean . . .”
“I know what you mean. Here is correct. The cousins who adopted us lived in Rocky Hill, just on the other side of Princeton. He was a druggist. Actually, though, he was a businessman. A damn good one. He owned a drugstore on Nassau Street which he finally sold to a chain for a helluva lot of money. He invested wisely. He was solid. Middle-class.”
“You don’t sound . . .”
“I didn’t. Doug hated him worse. The bastard wouldn’t even give us his name after the adoption went through. Jeffers is our natural mother’s name. Do you know how hard that is, growing up? You feel like you’ve got to explain things every time you register for school. Or make a new friend. Or anything. If he gave us anything, we worked for it.”
“You did okay.”
“You think so?”
She did not know what to say. Jeffers’ voice had grown in bitterness and anger. She wondered how he dealt with all the rage he had. She knew how his brother did.
“Why don’t we try Manchester?” she said.
“What good will it do?” Jeffers fairly spat out the words.
“I don’t know,” she said evenly, but her own temper rising through the words. “But at least it will be doing something other than waiting around for him to telephone you. Which he hasn’t done.”
“Not yet.”
“Do you think he will?”
Jeffers paused.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if he’s pursuing shared memories, he’s bound to remember something that he will want to say to me. Or he’ll visit somewhere that prompts some need in him to express something, and I’m the only logical place to express it . . . other than that . . .” He gestured toward the photographs. “That’s how the mind works. It’s not a guarantee, but a good guess. An educated guess.”
She thought for a moment.
“I don’t want to wait around.”
He nodded.
“It’s Saturday,” he said. “I don’t have to be back at the hospital until Monday.”
She stood.
“New Hampshire,” she said. “We can show his picture around, make some inquiries.” She thought for an instant, then asked:
“Where are your folks now?”
She saw Martin Jeffers take a deep breath, as if marshaling his anger into some military row. When he did speak, it was in low, barely controlled tones. His voice surprised Detective Barren, chilling her. She sat down in her chair and watched as Jeffers struggled with his emotions and his memory, and for a moment she reminded herself instantly: Remember who he is. Remember they are brothers.
“Adoptive parents, both dead,” said Martin Jeffers coldly. “Natural father? Who knows. Probably dead or in some state home somewhere. Natural mother? The same, unless . . .”
He paused.
“. . . Unless Doug managed to kill her.”
He first drove her past the drugstore, rolling slowly down Nassau Street in Princeton. The university, with its ivy-covered buildings, rested across the street, quiet, as if patiently awaiting the fall with its excitement and bustle from behind a great black iron fence and wide grassy lawns. Martin Jeffers pointed out that it was a few weeks before the semester start, which transformed the entire town. This she knew. She did not tell him how familiar she was with the entire area. She did not want him to know any more than was barely necessary.
She saw the stone classroom buildings and dormitories and thought of her husband. She smiled, remembering how comfortable he’d been at college and how strange it was for him to leave it for the Army. He had loved the internal world of school, she thought. He had been swept up in the false society that placed value on books and ideas and measured achievement through scholarly papers and skilled presentations. On what? On literature, on mathematics, on political theory, on science.
My father’s world, too, she thought.
Not mine.
She had showered at her hotel while Martin Jeffers waited in his car outside. She had changed her underclothes and slipped into her jeans, dragged a comb through her hair, and was ready, oblivious to the lack of sleep, wide awake, excited, thinking only that she was getting closer, that she was narrowing down the world of Douglas Jeffers and that she would keep winnowing away at it until his world contained only her and her pistol. This thought had forced a bitter smile to her face.
She had looked in the room’s mirror, but instead of checking her appearance, had lifted up her weapon, pointing it at the reflection. She had said, alone, out loud, “This is what it will look like.”
She froze in the position and absorbed it silently.
; Then she had seized a small duffle bag packed with overnight gear and put the 9 millimeter inside. In the top of the bag she had also placed the self-portrait Douglas Jeffers had taken of himself in the jungle, along with two extra clips of bullets.
Martin Jeffers had insisted on using his car, which was fine with her. She thought that he wanted the elusive sense of control that driving his own vehicle gave him, as if in some way he were in charge of the expedition. She acquiesced quickly, thinking that it would allow her to relax, store up energy, even sleep, while he would be burdened with the added fatigue of driving.
After seeing the pharmacy, Martin Jeffers drove out of town and within a few moments was winding through narrow, tree-shaded country roads. After a moment they came to a quiet, small subdivision of houses, plunked incongruously down amidst some farms. He stopped and pointed.
“Third one in. The family homestead. I haven’t been here in ten years.”
She saw a modest, trim, three-story, gray and white frame house, with a green, well-kept lawn and a garage and a foreign car parked out in front.
“When we lived there,” Martin Jeffers continued, “it was painted brown. A dull, ugly, dark brown. The inside reflected the outside; it lacked imagination. It was never friendly, outgoing, open, the way kids’ houses ought to be. It was always dark and uncomfortable.”
“But it was a home. You weren’t abandoned like some street kids.”
He shrugged. “People sometimes overestimate the exterior factors. But the interior factors are what are critical for children.”
“What do you mean?”
“Love. Contact. Affection. Pride. Support. With them you can survive, and actually flourish, amidst the most horrendous circumstances. Without them, money and family and education and hired care, whatever, are all relatively useless. The ghetto child who works his way through school and becomes a lawyer. The younger-generation Kennedy kid who dies from a drug overdose. See what I mean?”
“Yes,” she replied. She thought of her niece, and her heart tightened for a single instant. She shook off the sensation by asking a question:
“You said both your adoptive parents are dead?”
“That’s right,” Martin Jeffers answered. “Our adoptive father died in an accident when we were teenagers and our adoptive mother died three years ago of what pathologists like to call natural causes, but which was really the result of too much drinking, too many tranquilizers, fast food, smoking, no exercise, and a heart that was too burdened by all this crap to go on any longer. In reality, totally unnatural causes.”
The Traveler Page 41
