What Janie Found (13 page)

Janie let go of her hair, shaking herself to free the curls.

Kathleen leaned around the three Springs. “What
did
you do, Reeve?’” she asked with her silken smile.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

They left the races early.

The girls headed for Kathleen’s room to scrub off track grime and get into something nice for dinner. While Kathleen was blowing her hair dry—something Janie could never do or she would have a red pyramid for a head—Janie said, “I have to mail a letter. I’m just going to run over to that box by the student center. I’ll meet you at Stephen’s dorm.’”

“I might take a few minutes,’” said Kathleen. “I have to change the reservations. Make sure the boys look decent, Janie. We’re not just getting pizza.’”

As if I don’t have enough to worry about without enforcing dress codes, thought Janie.

She walked out of Kathleen’s room, shut the door carefully and, instead of going to the stairs, followed the corridor until she arrived in the dorm commons: a sunny bright place with a television, a few Internet-dedicated computers, two sofas and some vending machines.

Nobody was there.

In summer, the dorm had a hot, waiting feel: dust collecting and thoughts set down.

Janie sat at one of the small slanting desks, designed before laptops needing flat low surfaces; designed for three-ring binders and sharp pencils. She opened her purse.

There was the envelope, stamped and addressed. There were three sheets of plain white writing paper, in case she made mistakes and had to make a second or even a third try at the letter to Hannah.

She took out the ballpoint pen and uncapped it.

Her hands got cold. She put the pen back and took out a pencil instead. She felt safer in pencil.

D
EAR
H
ANNAH
, she wrote, and the words leaped off the page and screamed at her. There was nothing “dear’” about Hannah.

This is not a letter, Janie reminded herself. This is a set of instructions. I’m going to tell her where and when. I’m going to leave out who and why. We’ll get to that when we talk.

She folded down an inch of paper, creased it with her fingernail and tore away the D
EAR
H
ANNAH
.

She quit using block letters. It felt criminal, as if Janie were demanding a ransom.

Frank Johnson has asked me to deliver your check by hand. He needs to know if he is giving you enough money, or if you need more
.

That idea had come to her in the night and it was brilliant. How could Hannah resist more money?

Meet me in the university library magazine room
.

What could be safer?

Libraries were full of people browsing here and there. She and Hannah would blend. But what time Monday? If Hannah did have a job, she wouldn’t be free until five or six. But by five or six, Stephen would be back from work, the boys would be hungry and Kathleen would be pouncing on everybody like a fox after mice.

It’s money, Janie told herself. Hannah never ignored the money before. She won’t ignore it now. She’ll get out of work to get the money.

At one-thirty, Janie would claim jet lag and leave Brian and Reeve and go to Kathleen’s room. Reeve would trust Janie to do what she said.

She wrote:

Two p.m.

Her hand shook. The writing was barely legible.

Her hand was so damp with perspiration, it left a complete and perfect five-fingered print on the paper. She would have to copy the letter over and use this effort as a blotter so that she didn’t pawprint again.

How was Hannah to know which person in the magazine room?

Janie’s identifying mark was certainly her bushel of red hair. But did she really want to refer to her hair, age and looks? Once they started talking, it would become clear that she was the tiny child Hannah had snatched all those years ago. But Janie needed to build up to that, or Hannah might take flight.

It’s a magazine room, she reminded herself. The signal can just be a magazine. She wrote:

I will be reading National Geographic
.

Janie copied the note, folded it, put it in the envelope and sealed it. She went down the stairs farthest from Kathleen’s side of the dorm and out the back, following paths over the grass, passing under trees and around shrubbery to a fat blue curved mailbox.

It was Saturday, seven
P.M
. Mail, the placard on the box said, would be retrieved Sunday at eight
A.M
.

The lid was protected by a blue overhang. Dropping her purse on the ground, Janie took the mailbox handle in her right hand and opened the slot.

Her left hand clutched convulsively on the envelope, wrinkling it badly. She had to stand for a moment, hanging on to the blue box, until a sick dizziness passed.

Do it, she said to herself. Don’t wimp out now. You came here to do this. Do it.

The boys took very hot showers, soaking out filth and grit and letting their muscles relax. When he was clean and had shaved, Stephen put on shorts and a T-shirt, so Brian and Reeve did too. The best thing about college was that you could wear anything anywhere.

“Kath picked a place for dinner,’” said Stephen. “I’d rather order pizza, but she likes restaurants.’”

“How can you afford all this?’” said Brian.

“Actually, I’m not sure how I’m going to afford tonight. I may have to veto her restaurant choice.’”

“I have money,’” said Reeve. “If it isn’t too expensive, I can pay.’”

They counted the available cash and suddenly they were starving, desperate, in pain, not a single interest in life except food and lots of it. They charged down the stairs and burst out the front door to meet the girls.

The campus road was quiet.

There was no traffic, there were no other people.

The shadows were long and dark.

The sky was thick and sullen, the color of suffocation.

Janie appeared in the distance, coming alone down a narrow path. She wore a long thin cotton dress that caught at her ankles. It was white, with tiny embroidered white flowers. Just washed, her hair was beginning to dry, and each separate curl was sproinging up.

She was so vivid; so noticeable.

The degree to which she stood out was frightening.

She stood out like that when she was three, thought Stephen. That’s why Hannah Javensen wanted her. She was an adorable doll to pick up and carry along.

Stephen felt queerly responsible, as if something were about to happen; as if, like a bird before a storm, he could feel a change in the weather. A change for the worse.

Janie had a strange expression on her face, like a toddler who knows she has done something wrong; who expects punishment.

Slowly, down the campus road, came a single car, its engine so well designed it was nearly silent. It was a black Lincoln Town Car, heavy doors and shadowed glass.

They all turned to watch it, Stephen with his undefined anxiety; Reeve with his nerves shot; Brian hungry; Janie walking as if she would like to be someplace else.

The car stopped in front of the boys while Janie was still several feet away. Stephen recognized the driver and felt his visit crumbling. This, then, must be the punishment Janie was expecting: yet another interrogation.

“What are you doing here?’” Stephen demanded. He walked sideways, not taking his eyes off the Lincoln, to stand in front of Janie. He knew he was not thinking clearly. He could not reach clarity. He said, “Get out of here.’”

Kathleen opened the passenger’s door. “Stephen,’” she said, astonished. “What’s the matter with you? Dad just happened to be in town again. He’s taking us all to dinner.’”

“FBI agents don’t just happen to be places,’” said Stephen. “Get away from us. My sister isn’t talking to you.’”

Harry Donnelly got out of the car too, standing in the L of the open driver’s door. He held up his two hands for peace. “Stephen, I’m just here as Kathleen’s dad. I’m really not thinking of anything but a good meal and some good conversation.’”

“Think again!’” Stephen could not stand it. Literally. He felt that his body might take wing, or swim, because he could not stand. Kathleen would puncture them all, like shards of glass under bare feet. She would never let go, she’d always be spitting questions. She would wring Stephen out again, when he had just conquered his past; just become himself.

Stephen backed his sister toward the dorm.

I’m acting as if we’re hostages, he thought murkily, and Harry Donnelly has a gun. But we are, and he does. We are hostages to our history, and they have a crowbar to break in and start it up again.

“What’s the matter with you?’” snapped Kathleen. “Grow up, Stephen.’”

I am late growing up, thought Stephen, and the reason is people like you, who never left us alone.

In spite of the dry July heat, dampness covered Janie’s body. She closed her eyes to keep a faint from happening and hung on to Stephen.

What will they do to me? she thought. What is happening?

Nothing can be happening! I panicked. I didn’t mail it. So if I haven’t mailed the letter, how does the FBI know? How could they be expecting me to contact my kidnapper? If they knew, they’d be there. They’d have Hannah in custody.

Her pulse and Stephen’s raced madly and she could feel their separate fears blending and doubling, because they were not comforting each other, they were scaring each other.

What if Mr. Donnelly was here to look in her purse? What if Kathleen had told him Janie was hiding something? What were the penalties?

What am I afraid of? thought Janie. There are no penalties for me. Only for Hannah.

But that was not true. Hannah got to run barefoot in Boulder, while Janie’s families suffered all the penalties.

Stephen shouted on, being a big brother, being savage. Being wrong, Janie decided finally. Harry Donnelly could only be coincidence. If he’d known about Hannah Javensen’s presence, he would not have handled it as a social affair.

What is a sister? she thought dimly, hidden by Stephen’s body. Should a sister protect? Shall I step aside and tell Stephen it’s all right?

But whatever was happening to Stephen Spring was not all right.

She let herself be inched backward. She was Stephen’s ally, and he hers, and if they had to back all the way to the East Coast, she would go with him.

Brian was gripped by fear without knowing what to be afraid of. He felt like bones inside the huge T-shirt he had borrowed from Stephen. He was cold under the shirt, which wasn’t clothing anymore but a windy tent.

Johnsons: We have never been in touch with Hannah.

Springs: You must never take a risk.

What was happening here? What was the risk?

“Stephen,’” began Mr. Donnelly in a peaceable voice. He looked ordinary; a tall broad man in a dark suit and a red tie—he could have had any occupation.

“Get out,’” said Stephen. “You’re not ruining this visit.’” His voice quivered like a failing radio signal. “My sister and my brother came to see
me.
This is a family visit. The FBI is not touching it.
Never
.’”

“What’s the matter with you, Stephen?’” snapped Kathleen. “This is my father. It’s a simple visit, just like yours is a simple visit. You can be polite about it.’” Her sun-streaked hair fell across her face and she whipped it angrily away.