Steven Gould - Jumper:Griffin _s Story

Fortunately, they didn't.

"What about the grounds? He could be out there."

Young voice, American English, nervous, it seemed.

"Relax," said the other, older, more confident. There was something faintly European in his accent. A trace of Scandinavian-like a young Max von Sydow. "If he's already here he'll still have to show himself when Vigil arrives."

"Kemp should be here."

"We kill jumpers. We're not jumpers ourselves! How's he supposed to get here from New Jersey in time?"

"I'd just feel better. He's had more experience, right? With grown jumpers? All I've ever dealt with are the kids."

"Well, yes-only Roland's group has more experience."

"Christ. Roland. Now that's one scary paladin."

The older man breathed out sharply, an exasperated sound. "Go watch out the back but be careful. Don't show yourself. Don't scare him off. He could approach on foot, but don't forget he knows this house. He could jump in. This one… if we get him, well, it will reflect well on us. Roland has been reading the reports and he's not pleased."

I barely heard the footsteps as the other man moved off.

I'd give them that-they were stealthy bastards.

Only two of them. Only two of them in the area, then. They'd have sent more if there'd been more. I just had that feeling.

All I've ever dealt with are the kids. Huh. I remembered the man in the car, back in Lechlade, when I was five. I remembered the night when I was nine. Go after 'em when they're young enough and they're easy.

All right, fuckers, time to pick on someone your own size.

By rolling my head to the side I could see under the skirting at the base of the couch. Across the carpet I could just see partway up his boots, brown, soft soled, back near the hallway, where he could look out both the front windows and also step back out of sight when someone showed up.

I didn't change posture as I jumped, staying down on the floor, jabbing the shock stick up into the back of his thigh. He got off a shot but was unable to aim, and the cables and spikes smashed one of the front windows as he fell over. For good measure I jabbed him again in the side, then, hearing footsteps, I jumped away, to the old stable across the graveled front yard.

He didn't use the door-he jumped out through the smashed window, then rolled sideways across the porch to his feet. He charged across the yard like a winger heading out of the scrum for the goal, changing directions randomly to avoid the opposing players. He had one of those guns, the spike and cable projectors, a hand on the handle and the other cradling the barrel.

I timed him, though, and on his next change of direction, I jumped, jabbing with the shock stick.

His foot caught me in the stomach and I was still rising in the air when I jumped away.

I came down in the Empty Quarter, stunned, unable to move. I was trying to inhale but it wasn't working. I jabbed at my diaphragm with my fingers and then it caught, like a motor, and my first breath turned into a raging, hacking cough.

Damn, he's fast.

He reminded me of the brown belt who'd taken first at Birmingham. I looked around for the shock stick but it was gone, probably lying on the ground back at Sam's place.

I jumped to the Hole, still coughing, intending to get the spike gun, the one I'd taken from Mateo in La Crucecita, but I saw the baseball bat instead.

Right.

I jumped back to the living room. The first man was still down, but he was fumbling with the gun-he'd opened the breech and was pulling out the spent cartridge. An unfired one lay on his stomach, ready to be inserted.

I took one sideways step and smashed the gun away with the bat, swinging up, underhanded. The gun smashed against the far wall but he never stopped moving and suddenly there was a knife in his hand, like it'd sprouted there.

I brought the bat back down on the return swing, smashing into his extended hand. The knife stuck in the floor, quivering, and he yelled.

The yell did it. I'd heard that yell before.

He'd been there, that night.

I'd shot him with the paintball gun in the bollocks twice and I'd hit him multiple times in the face with the barrel of the gun. I could see faint scars.

I backhanded him in the face with the bat. Junior was at the door, the gun rising. I remembered what Dad had told me so long ago: Don't let anyone even point a weapon at you.

I jumped to the porch, behind him, but this time I was expecting the foot that lashed out toward me and I twisted aside as I brought the bat down on the back of his extended knee.

I heard something pop in the joint and he screamed, but he still tried to turn, to bring the gun to bear through the doorway, but the bat got there first, smashing the barrel up and back and… it went off.

Both spikes came up through his jaw, one ripping through the carotid artery on his left side, spraying blood as he fell back. His legs spasmed once, twice, and he lay still.

I felt my stomach heave and I knew I was going to be sick, but then, halfway off the porch, hunched over, I stopped myself. I straightened up and took two deep breaths through my nose, then turned around and made myself look.

He bled quite a lot. Sam's heir, the distant cousin, had put new carpet in. He wasn't going to be happy.

I jumped past the body and the spreading stain.

The older man, the one who'd been there that night, wasn't breathing. A trickle of blood ran out of one ear. His eyes were wide and staring and one pupil was noticeably larger than the other.

"Good." I said it aloud and it echoed in the room, louder than I expected, and harsher.

I swam at the beach in Oaxaca, Bahia Chacacual, fighting higher surf than usual. There must've been a storm farther south, down Guatemala way, to send these swells north. I found myself rubbing my face under the water and realized I was still trying to get the blood off.

If it's not off now, it's not coming off. Get over it.

I bodysurfed back to shore and jumped up into the jungle where my showers were. It was all too easy to remember E.V. standing here, slippery, warm, and naked, and I cut the shower short.

Her coat still lay at the foot of the bed.

I jumped into New York City at rush hour and rode the train down to Trenton, walking through the streets with all the commuters. Mr. Kelson's body was lying in state at the Gruerio Funeral Home until the services on Saturday. My plan was to leave the coat and let her discover it but when the attendant ushered me into the chapel, she was sitting there.

The attendant stepped back outside and I went up to the front row and sat on the far end of the bench. The casket was open but I had no desire to view the departed.

"I brought your coat."

She was looking at me, her eyes wide, the comers of her mouth hooked down.

"Won't they come back? Won't they know you're here?"

I shrugged. "I took the train. I'll leave on the train. I won't jump from anywhere near here. Unless I have to."

She turned away and covered her face with both hands. I kept expecting her to say something, but she didn't.

"You could've trusted me," I finally said. "The result would've been almost exactly the same. Only we-"

She didn't respond. After a moment I got up and walked to the door.

That's when she said, "I'm glad you brought the coat. It was his." She jerked her head toward the casket. "He never gave it to me but I started wearing it when it no longer dragged on the floor. And he never said a word."

I took a wandering route back to the station, looping east, far from her house, and took the train to Philadelphia.

When it clanked passed Croydon, I jumped away to the Hole.

On the train, people all around, I'd pushed forward, numb.

Now I couldn't even move. I stood hunched over, between the table and the bed, my mouth half open. I was standing with my back to the plywood gallery.