Steven Gould - Jumper

Steven Gould

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Harper Voyager An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publisher 2008

Copyright © Steven C. Gould 1992

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover art copyright © 2008 20th Century Fox Film Corporation. All rights reserved

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007275991

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2009 ISBN: 9780007283514

Version: 2019-02-26

For James Gould, soldier, craftsman, sailor, father

and

Laura J. Mixon, engineer, teacher, writer, wife

Cover Title Page Steven Gould Copyright Dedication Part 1: Beginnings Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Part 2: The Pursuit Of Happiness Chapter Five Chapter Six Part 3: Adjustments Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Part 4: Chinese Curse Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Part 5: Searching Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Part 6: Playing Tag Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Part 7: Olly, Olly, In Come Free Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Acknowledgments About the Author By Stephen Gould About the Publisher

PART 1:

ONE

The first time was like this.

I was reading when Dad got home. His voice echoed through the house and I cringed.

“Davy!”

I put the book down and sat up on the bed. “In here, Dad. I’m in my room.”

His footsteps on the hallway’s oak floor got louder and louder. I felt my head hunching between my shoulders; then Dad was at the door and raging.

“I thought I told you to mow the lawn today!” He came into the room and towered over me. “Well! Speak up when I ask you a question!”

“I’m gonna do it, Dad. I was just finishing a book.”

“You’ve been home from school for over two hours! I’m sick and tired of you lying around this house doing nothing!” He leaned close and the whiskey on his breath made my eyes water. I flinched back and he grabbed the back of my neck with fingers like a vise. He shook me. “You’re nothing but a lazy brat. I’m going to beat some industry into you if I have to kill you to do it!”

He pulled me to my feet, still gripping my neck. With his other hand he fumbled for the ornate rodeo buckle on his belt, then snaked the heavy Western strap out of his pants loops.

“No, Dad. I’ll mow the lawn right now. Honest!”

“Shut up,” he said. He pushed me into the wall. I barely got my hands up in time to keep my face from slamming nose-first into the plaster. He switched hands then, pressing me against the wall with his left while he took the belt in his right hand.

I twisted my head slightly, to keep my nose from grinding into the wall, and saw him switch his grip on the belt, so the heavy silver buckle hung on the end, away from his hand.

I yelled. “Not the buckle, Dad! You promised! ”

He ground my face into the wall harder. “ Shut UP! I didn’t hit you near hard enough the last time.” He extended his arm until he held me against the wall at arm’s length and swung the belt back slowly. Then his arm jerked forward and the belt sung though the air and my body betrayed me, squirming away from the impact and …

I was leaning against bookshelves, my neck free of Dad’s crushing grip, my body still braced to receive a blow. I looked around, gasping, my heart still racing. There was no sign of Dad, but this didn’t surprise me.

I was in the fiction section of the Stanville Public Library and, while I knew it as well as my own room, I didn’t think my father had ever been inside the building.

That was the first time.

The second time was like this.

The truck stop was new and busy, an island of glaring light and hard concrete in the night. I went in the glass doors to the restaurant and took a chair at the counter, near the section with the sign that said, DRIVERS ONLY. The clock on the wall read eleven-thirty. I put the rolled-up bundle of stuff on the floor under my feet and tried to look old.

The middle-aged waitress on the other side of the counter looked skeptical, but she put down a menu and a glass of water, then said, “Coffee?”

“Hot tea, please.”

She smiled mechanically and left.

The drivers’ section was half full, a thick haze of tobacco smoke over it. None of them looked like the kind of man who’d give me the time of day, much less a lift farther down the road.

The waitress returned with a cup, a tea bag, and one of those little metal pitchers filled with not very hot water. “What can I get you?” she asked.

“I’ll stick with this for a while.”

She looked at me steadily for a moment, then totaled the check and laid on the counter. “Cashier will take it when you’re ready. You want anything else, just let me know.”

I didn’t know to hold the lid open as I poured the water, so a third of it ended up on the counter. I mopped it up with napkins from the dispenser and tried not to cry.

“Been on the road long, kid?”

I jerked my head up. A man, sitting in the last seat of the drivers’ section, was looking at me. He was big, both tall and fat, with a roll of skin where his shirt neck opened. He was smiling and I could see his teeth were uneven and stained.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Your business. You don’t look like you’ve been running long.” His voice was higher-pitched than you’d expect for a man his size, but kind.

I looked past him, at the door. “About two weeks.”

He nodded. “Rough. You running from your parents?”

“My dad. My mom cut out long ago.”