Jumper_ Griffin's Story Part 3

"All right," I said.

He tucked the Gatorade between my arm and my side. I thought about drinking again, but it was too much effort.

I don't even remember him pulling out of the petrol station.

Chapter Three.

Burning Bridges Consuelo lived with Sam, but it was a strange relationship, almost as if she was his girlofallwork and he was her little boy. I mean, she cleaned and cooked and did laundry. But she also scolded him constantly, long bursts of rapidfire Spanish to which he almost always answered, "I Clam que si!" At first I thought they were married, but she had her own little bedroom in the back with a wall of religious icons, saints, the Virgin Mary, and Jesus.

They stayed at home the day after they'd found me but for the next four days after that, they loaded the truck up with the stretcher and medical supplies and bottled water and drove out.

Consuelo would make me a lunch and show it to me before leaving. "Ahi te deje listo to lonche." Then she would say, "Descanza y bebe mucha agua." And she would mime drinking from a bottle.

And I would say, "/Claw que si!"

And Sam would laugh and she would start scolding him again.

I did rest and drank mucha water the first day. And slept. It was very easy to sleep. I was tired but thinking about anythingwell, about Mum and Dadexhausted me. It was cry or sleep and sometimes both.

The second day I walked around outside. It was an old adobe house in the middle of the desert, with weathered outbuildings for livestock and horses but they were long gone. The only remotely domesticated animals on the property were a few feral cats.

"They keep having kittens but the coyotes keep their population down," Sam'd told me. "My dad sold off most of the land in the fifties, when he went from ranching to running the coop in town, but it's been in the family since before the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo. Wouldn't be if they hadn't married Anglos into the family, but that way the land grant stuck. Didn't hurt that n.o.body really wanted this desert c.r.a.p."

He said there were neighbors about a mile away, but n.o.body closer. "Water's iffy. I've got a spring but most places around here you have to drill six hundred feet to get water."

I spent most of the time outside by the concrete tank that captured the spring. The runoff poured over a little notch in the edge and ran down into a gulleyI guess it would be called an arroyo. The little brook didn't last long before it sank into the sandy bottom, but this wet section of the arroyo was a riot of green. Three large cotton woods shaded the tank for most of the day and if I sat still I could count on seeing birds, jackrabbits, deer, and once Sam pointed at a track in the wet sand and said, "Desert bighorn. Very rare."

The third day I jumped to BalboaPark, on the southern edge near the aeros.p.a.ce museum, and crossed 15 on the Park Boulevard bridge to get to downtown and the public library on E street. It was a lot cooler in the citynear the ocean and all thatbut I still had to rest often.

Outside the library, from the plastic window of a newspaper vending machine, my face stared at me, like they'd put me in that metal box.

BOY STILL MISSING AFTER SUSPECTED DRUG SLAYING.

Drug slaying? I reached into my pocket to pull out quarters to buy the paper but it suddenly felt like every person on the street was staring at me. Instead I turned and entered the library, walked back to the men's loo, and locked myself in a stall.

Drug slaying? That didn't make any sense.

Thirty minutes later I peeked out the bathroom door but there wasn't the swarm of police I expected. No one seemed interested in me at all so I worked my way back to periodicals and snagged the Union Tribune, then found a chair facing the corner. They'd used a picture from Mum's desk that she took at the zoo three months earlier.

Police still seek missing nineyearold Griffin O'Conner (see photo) after finding both of his parents murdered in their Texas Street apartment Thursday night. DNA tests of blood found on the site are believed to be the boy's and he is feared dead, but there has been no sign of the boy dead or alive since he was last seen at his karate cla.s.s Thursday afternoon. Persons with information are urged to contact the police or Crime Stoppers at (888) 580TIPS.

Large quant.i.ties of cocaine found on the premises lead the police to believe that Robert and Hannah O'Conner, UK citizens, were involved in the smuggling and sale of drugs, and that the slaying was either the work of a rival gang or a drug deal gone bad.

Utter rubbish. Mum didn't even like it when Dad had more than one pint at a pub because she'd had alcoholics in her family. Why on earth would the police thinkwell, 'cause they found the cocaine. And the cocaine wasn't there before, right?

I felt this moment of doubt, a moment of worldtwisting alienation, then shook my head. If there was cocaine in the apartment, then someone brought it with him, and no matter how many times you see that sort of thing on TV, I doubted it was the police. So it was the murderers, but why?

Because n.o.body cares what happens to drug dealers.

Because there wouldn't be a hue and cry to find out who did it if the victims were criminals themselves. And the police would be looking in the wrong directionfor other drug smugglers in the city, not for people who'd been following us since we'd lived in England.

I put the paper back, walked between two shelves, and jumped to the elementary school, between the hedge and the stairs, near the flat. I didn't want to go directly there. I was afraid they were still watching the place. If they wanted me, they could be waiting inside for me to appear again. And they'd kill me.

Dead.

Like Mum. Like Dad.

I didn't understand it. I hadn't done anything to them. I was pretty sure Mum and Dad hadn't, either. But they pretty clearly wanted me dead.

I walked toward the flat and almost immediately a woman pushing a baby pram stopped and said, "Aren't you that British boy whose parents were"

"No, ma'am." The only American accent I could do with any sort of conviction was Deep South. "Ah just look like him. You're the second person who's said that today."

"Oh."

I smiled and walked on but when I turned the corner she was talking on her cell phone. b.u.g.g.e.r all. I cut into an alley and when the tall fences hid me, I jumped away.

Empty Quarter again. Either I was getting better or I'd already moved so much of the loose dirt here that there wasn't as much to sweep into the air. The bloodstains were fading but ants were now mining the dark dirt. It still reminded me of bloodstains on carpet. I kicked gravel and sand over the spot, ants and all.

It took me a moment to calm down enough to jump back to Sam's place, by the spring. I splashed water over my face and sat down in the shade. After a bit, I wandered back to the house and pulled out the lunch that Consuelo had left me tamales with pork. The smell made me want tortilla crisps and salsa. Crunchy, salty crisps and a medium salsaI couldn't handle the hotter stuff.

Why not?

I jumped back to the elementary school. There was a Safeway market a block east of the school grounds and I went there and bought tortilla crisps and salsa and several large bottles of Gatorade, then jumped back to the spring. I started to put the extra Gatorade in the fridgethere was plenty of roombut then I thought about Sam and Consuelo seeing it there so I stashed the bottles under my bed instead. The crisps and salsa tasted goodreally goodand I ate them until the bag was empty and I was uncomfortably full.

The bag I buried at the bottom of the rubbish bin, but the salsa jar was half full so I put it at the back of the fridge, behind the pickles and mayonnaise.

I wanted to take another run at the flat, to try to get there without drawing attention, but I was tired and sleepy from the walking and the full stomach. I was still weak, I guess, from the blood loss. I thought about jumping directly back to my room, but I remembered the footsteps on the stair. Maybe they'd planted bugs? Maybe they were watching?

I sat down on the bed. The pillow pulled at me and I slumped over. I was asleep almost immediately after my head touched the pillowcase.

Sam brought home the San Diego News Daily and handed it to me in the living room. "They had this at the StopNGo," he said.

They'd used the same photo.

BOY FEARED DEAD AFTER PARENTS KILLED.

The story was a little different but had pretty much the same facts, including the bit about drugs and the implication that Dad and Mum were criminals. I clenched my teeth as I read it.

"It's rubbish, you know, about the drugs. Not in our homenever. Mum had an unclehe was an alcoholic and he died of it. We weren't very well off Mum wasn't working because she was homeschooling me, and Dad couldn't get proper work because they're supposed to hire Americans first in his specialty. To make the rent we were stretching every penny of Dad's salary. If they'd been selling drugs, think we'd have to live like that?"

He tilted his head to one side. "I only know what I've read and what you've told me. And you ain't told me much. And what you did tell has some, wellwhat is your name again?"

My ears got hot and I looked away. "Sorry. The newspaper has it right. It's just it was me they were asking for when they came to the door. My name. I" I looked at the wall and squeezed my eyes shut. "They weren't after Mum and Dad. They were after me!"

Never jump where someone can see me and never jump near home. I'd done both and Mum and Dad were dead.

"Really. They wanted to kill you?" He raised his eyebrows. "Did you see something you weren't supposed to? Or is there money involved? Do you stand to inherit something?" He pulled a wooden chair from the wall and straddled it backward, arms resting across the back. He gestured at the paper. "This wasn't your average sicko hunting little kids, was it? The paper said the neighbors saw multiple a.s.sailants leave, so there was more than one attacker, right?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

"They came to the door asking for you? Not your dad or mom?"

"Didn't I just say that? It's not inheritance, though. And they weren't coming after me because I saw something I shouldn't."

"Then why? This isn't the Sudan. People don't just kill kids for no reason. Even the sickos have a reason."

"It's something I did." It just popped out of my mouth, without thought. My heart raced for a moment but I took a deep breath and said, "It's something I can do."

Consuelo, working on dinner in the kitchen, stepped into the living room and held up a plastic bag with a few pinto beans in the bottom. "Sam! Necesitamos habas. Okay?"

He glanced over his shoulder and said, "Okay. Manana compro?"

"Tempranito en la manana!"

"Okayfirst thing." He shrugged and turned back to me. "What do you mean, something you did? You kill their dog or something? p.i.s.s in their pool? And you're going to do it again?"

It's against the rules. He'd never believe me without a demonstration. So why does it matter if he believes you ? It just did. And they were Dad's and Mum's rules and they were dead. "Remember at the petrol stop, when you asked me where I'd gotten these?" I pointed at my shirt and pants.

His eyes narrowed. "Yeah. Thought maybe you'd stashed them near the station earlier."

I shook my head and stood up. "Consuelo needs beans."

"YeahI'll get 'em in the morning."

I jumped to the Safeway back in San Diego, where I'd gotten the crisps and salsa earlier. I got the twentypound burlap bag of pinto beans and paid for it in the quickcheck line.

Four minutes after I'd disappeared from Sam's living room I reappeared. The chair he'd been sitting on was on the floor, on its side. He was in the corner, pouring something from a bottle into a gla.s.s, but air swept around the room as I arrived and his hand jerked, spilling the liquid. "Dammit!"

I hefted the bag. "Beans."

He stared for a moment then took a gulp from the gla.s.s.

I carried the beans into the kitchen and put them down on the counter.

Consuelo looked surprised, then pleased. "Bueno!" She rattled off a phrase in Spanish toward the living room and Sam's voice, hoa.r.s.er than usual, answered, "Si. Yo se."

I went back in and sat down on the couch.

After a moment, Sam put the bottle away and brought his gla.s.s across the room. He picked up the chair and sat on it, forward this time, slumped a little.

"What was that?" he asked quietly, his voice still hoa.r.s.e. The smell of whiskey came with his breath, reminding me of Dad's weekly scotch.

"I went to a Safeway, in San Diego, bought the beans, and came back."

"I got the bean part. You bought them?"

"The express line was empty."

"Well, yeah, I guess I see that. What I don't get is the traveling to San Diego part."

I nodded. "It's the thing I can do. I jumped. Teleported. Whatever you want to call it."

"Is that how you got those clothes?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I went back to my flat and got my allowance and my pa.s.sport." My voice broke and convulsively I said, "The tape outlines were still thereand the blood. And someone started to come up the stairs and I jumped away."

"Deep breaths, kid. Slow it down."

I nodded and tried that, until my heart wasn't racing.

After a bit he asked, "How long have you been able to do this thing?"

"I did it for the first time when I was five, back in Oxford. In public. In front of witnesses. We've been moving ever since."

"Moving? Why?"

"Dad and Mum said it was the people who started showing up, asking questions at their work. Then there was a close call on the streeta car. I thought it was a careless driver. Anyway, I skipped back behind a postal box and he missed me but he kept driving. No harm done, I thought. But Mum saw it from upstairs. I heard her tell Dad he'd been waiting for me to cross."

He sucked on his teeth. "Can you go anywhere?"

"Anywhere I've been before that I can remember well enough."

He swallowed the last of his whiskey. "I can see why they'd want youcould be handy. But why do they want to kill you? If I could do what you doif I was the sort of man ... I'd want to capture you, to use what you do."

"Well, Dad talked about that, too. We read that Stephen King book about the girl who is kidnapped by the government."

"Firestarter" said Sam. "Didn't read it but I saw the movie."

"Yeah, with Drew Barrymore. We rented it after we read the book."

"But why not something like that? Why do they want to kill you instead?"

My heart started racing and I was breathing fast again. Before Sam said anything I deliberately took deep, slow breaths. Grief may have been one of the things that the gauze was m.u.f.fling but I recognized the other thing now.

Fear.

They were going to kill me. They followed us for over five years until they found us and then they tried to kill me. Made me want to hide under a bed. Made me want to curl up in a ball and pull dirt over me.

I went back to just breathing. Sam's question still floated out there, though, like a falling gla.s.s of milk. You can't grab it in time, you just watch it as it drops, antic.i.p.ating the spreading puddle of white liquid and jagged gla.s.s. "I don't know why they want to kill me."

Later, after supper, in the dusk after sunset, I told Sam I was going back to the flat. "Why?"