Steven Gould - Jumper:Griffin _s Story

I was embarrassed. "Uh, thanks so much. I really-"

"Thank me later. Deputy's coming." He jerked his chin and I saw a distant car way down the road. The roof glittered and I could believe it was a police car.

I dropped the flip-flops onto the tarmac and put my feet in them. They were way too big but I shuffled my way into the store and, avoiding the eyes of the woman at the counter, I turned away from the counter to the loo.

The men's bathroom stank and I looked horrible in the mirror. My hair was matted and there were circles under my eyes. When I twisted around, painfully, the lower edge of my T-shirt was stained brown with a mixture of dirt and dried blood. Fortunately, the dirt made it look more like a particularly reddish mud rather than blood, otherwise, I suspect the clerk would've said something-or even called 911.

I tried rinsing the blood out in the sink but it spread the stain over more of the shirt. I tried the soap dispenser but it was empty, and much as I needed to, I couldn't make myself put the shirt back on. It was wet and filthy and even though there was gauze and tape over the gouge in my side, I didn't want the thing near me.

I dropped it on the edge of the sink and jumped.

I thought it was a very sloppy jump at first-every drawer was out and dumped and the bed mattress flipped over and across the springs. Clothes on hangers were dumped on the floor of the closet. But they were still, not flying through the air. Someone else had caused the mess. I froze, listening.

I wanted to hear something. I wanted to hear my father talking to Mum. The silence was oppressive, weighing down on me like a hot day. Then there was a click and a thud and a whirring sound and my heart beat like a hammer.

Oh. It was the AC cycling on.

I looked out into the hall. More things littered the floors- books, dishes. I began noticing the black powder, almost everywhere. Fingerprinting powder. There were holes in the walls, large, jagged, the edges sticking out, like something had been pulled from the room.

There was masking tape on the floor in the living room, just like on TV, two taped outlines on the floor. And dried blood.

I turned away-flinched away, really. Glancing out glass panes beside the door I saw yellow plastic ribbon stretched across the top of the stairway printed with crime scene:

A police car sat at the curb, too, windows down. I couldn't see if anyone was in the driver's seat but there was a crackle after a bit and the sound of someone talking, scratchy, like a radio.

Shite.

I backed up from the doorway, then walked quickly back to my bedroom, the tape on my hip tugging painfully. I picked up a T-shirt, a pair of jeans, underwear, my track shoes, and socks. They'd swept most of the books from my bookshelf, but I found my passport and my hoard, three and a half months' allowance, where I'd left them, stuffed between Treasure Island and Little Big on the bottom shelf.

I turned to the wall for my sketches, but they were gone. They weren't on the floor, either.

There was a sound from the front, like steps on the stair, and I clutched my things to my chest and jumped.

I was back in the Empty Quarter, by the paintball-splattered boulder, sand and dried grass swirling around me. I heard buzzing, flies returning to the dried blood where it had pooled on the ground. I thought about the bandits who'd attacked Pablo but there didn't seem to be anybody around. I could see footsteps where Sam and Consuelo had carried me away.

I climbed on a rock to change into the clean clothes, easing the pants over the bandages on my hip and brushing the sand off my feet to put on the socks and shoes. It took a moment to visualize the petrol station's bathroom enough to jump back to it. It was the memory of the smell that finally did it. I stuffed the bloody clothes into the rubbish bin, beneath the used paper towels.

When I exited, there was a guy waiting who glared at me. "Shook the door hard enough. What's the matter, couldn't get it open? Is that why you took so fucking long?" He shouldered past me into the bathroom without acknowledging my faint, embarrassed "Sorry."

The ambulance and the police were outside. The medical chaps were just easing Pablo off the canvas stretcher and onto the fancy ambulance gurney. Consuelo was watching the paramedics while Sam was just outside, by the store door, talking with a uniformed deputy.

I went back to the refrigerated cabinets and picked out a large bottle of Gatorade, then got some potato crisps. American chips. That's what I miss from England -all the different flavors of crisps. Roast beef and horseradish was my fave.

I paid, using my money, and went out front, away from Sam and the deputy where there was a bench in the shade of the overhang. The Gatorade was good but the crisps were incredible, like my body was craving the salt. I almost went in and bought another bag, but though my mouth said yes my stomach said no. I settled back and sipped from the bottle.

The deputy went back to his vehicle and brought back a map. Sam and he moved up the porch to spread it across the top of a rubbish can. Sam pointed out some specific location for him and I heard him say, "… said there were three men. They spoke Spanish to him and each other. Could be a rival coyote gang-I've seen that happen."

"You see any vehicles?"

Sam shook his head. "Only dust. You know, kicked up, but miles away. Normal. Nothing close enough to ID. And I was lookin', too. Didn't want to run into the assholes who did for Pablo."

"Hmm." The deputy tilted back his hat and asked, "You run into anybody out there who wasn't in a vehicle? Someone who just needed a little more water but kept walkin'?"

Sam laughed. "Not today, Ken. The ones who do it right cross at night and hole up during the heat of the day. They may have seen me and Consuelo. I usually don't see 'em at all unless they're in a bad way." He jerked his chin toward the ambulance.

"Okay, then. You going back there?"

"Not today. Goin' home."

"Hmmm. Okay. I'll put the word out to the state police and the border patrol. You run across anything suspicious, let us know, right?"

"Right."

They shook hands and the deputy went back to his car and began talking on the radio.

Sam glanced at me and started to go into the store then stopped. "Huh. There you are. Where'd you get those clothes?"

I opened my mouth to tell him, but what could I say? Really?

"I didn't nick 'em." I stood up and handed him the flip-flops and the two dollars he'd given me earlier. As he took them I dropped back onto the bench, hard, surprised. My knees had given out and it seemed the gas pumps were swaying in the wind. "Whoa."

"Dizzy, eh?" He looked at me a moment longer. "Gonna gas up. Don't really need it but it'll give the deputy time to move off. You just sit here, right? Wish I-oh, well. Just sit. Rest. You feel faint, put your head between your knees."

I nodded.

He went back to the truck. They'd just finished putting Pablo in the back of the ambulance and Sam exchanged a few words with the paramedic before they closed up and drove off down the highway, lights flashing but no siren. I closed my eyes for a few seconds-I thought-then the truck was there, right in front of me.

"Why don't you lie down in back, Griff?"

I wondered if I should go with them at all, but I didn't know what else to do. The thought of lying down was good, really good. I nodded and he helped me climb over the tailgate and drop onto the canvas stretcher. He gave me a folded blanket to use as a pillow. "We're headed west-cab should shade you, takes about forty-five minutes, all right?"

"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.