Read Online Jumper: Griffin's Story by Steven Gould - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steven Gould
Ads: Link
dresser. It took three armloads to strip the books off my two shelves.
I took the corners of the blankets and pulled them together. The bundle was almost as big as me but it still came with me when I jumped it to Sam's broken–down stable in
California
. I jumped back and grabbed the sheets and the raincoat hanging behind the door and the corkboard that held a few drawings, some snaps of Alejandra, a picture of Rodrigo with one of his girlfriends, and a picture of me sailing my boat. These, too, went into Sam's stable. Then I was back, pulling the sketches off the walls, tearing out the corners where they were tacked up. I carefully put these in Sam's stable, on the pile.
They'd taken all my pictures last time, when they killed Mum and Dad.
When I jumped back, the room looked weird–uninhabited. I wished I could put dust all over it, so they'd think it was abandoned months before, but I didn't know how to manage that.
I used the house phone to call Alejandra at the lawyer's office.
"Bueno?" she said when they called her to the phone.
"Te amo." I'd never said it before, but I did. As if she were Mom, or a sister.
"Guillermo, que estas loco?"
"No estoy loco. Veniron y deboir."
She switched to English. She wasn't understanding me but it wasn't the words, it was the situation. "Who has come? Why must you–oh. Oh, no!" She'd got it. ";Ve rapido!"
"Don't go home. They'll be watching." I hung up the phone and walked out the back door.
Five minutes later I was on the patio of the Hotel Villa Blanca when they pulled up. I had a newspaper covering my face, and I'd ordered a limonada to justify my presence. The paper shook in my hands and I had to brace my elbows against the table to stop the movement.
They drove by in two cars, one after the other, eyeing the house casually. One car parked up the street, the other pulled into the hotel's drive, not forty feet from where I sat.
It was all I could do not to jump away, but I realized they were there for the same reason I was–you could watch the house from here. The plates were Oaxacan and it was not a rental. The driver, a man in a rumpled white suit, looked Mexican. His passenger wasn't.
I'd last seen him in
San Diego
, the night the flat blew up.
My hands, for some bizarre reason, stopped shaking.
I shifted my chair slightly, letting me see through the archway to the registration desk. I couldn't hear them but Martin, the desk clerk, was shaking his head. The man in the white suit took his wallet out of his jacket and flipped it open, showing the clerk something. I saw Martin's eyes widen and then he picked up the phone and spoke into it.
Senor Heras, the manager, joined them from the office. After another moment's discussion, Vidal, the bellman, was summoned. They unloaded the trunk, only three pieces of luggage, but one piece the man from
San Diego
grabbed out of the trunk as Vidal reached for it.
"I'll get that," he said, loud enough that I heard it across the lobby. "Fragile." He still had that
Bristol
accent. I wanted to jump, away, mostly, but I remembered the night they killed the police officer in the street by the flat. They'd seemed to know when I jumped without seeing me.
I watched them take the stairs up while Vidal rolled his cart back to the freight lift. When they were out of sight I wandered back to the front of the hotel. Standing just inside the door, I could see the other car down the street, parked on the other side, where they could watch the front of Alejan–dra's house.
Vidal came back after a minute. "How did they tip?" I asked him in Spanish, rubbing my fingertips.
He made a face. "Los mezquinos." Cheapskates.
"What side are they on?"
He jerked his thumb to the left, toward Alejandra's. "En la planta tercera. Alfondo." He pointed to west. "l?or que preguntas?"
"Because they are looking for me." As I said it, I felt my face twist and I knew I was on the verge of tears. I took a deep breath and steadied myself. "So, you don't know me,
I took the corners of the blankets and pulled them together. The bundle was almost as big as me but it still came with me when I jumped it to Sam's broken–down stable in
California
. I jumped back and grabbed the sheets and the raincoat hanging behind the door and the corkboard that held a few drawings, some snaps of Alejandra, a picture of Rodrigo with one of his girlfriends, and a picture of me sailing my boat. These, too, went into Sam's stable. Then I was back, pulling the sketches off the walls, tearing out the corners where they were tacked up. I carefully put these in Sam's stable, on the pile.
They'd taken all my pictures last time, when they killed Mum and Dad.
When I jumped back, the room looked weird–uninhabited. I wished I could put dust all over it, so they'd think it was abandoned months before, but I didn't know how to manage that.
I used the house phone to call Alejandra at the lawyer's office.
"Bueno?" she said when they called her to the phone.
"Te amo." I'd never said it before, but I did. As if she were Mom, or a sister.
"Guillermo, que estas loco?"
"No estoy loco. Veniron y deboir."
She switched to English. She wasn't understanding me but it wasn't the words, it was the situation. "Who has come? Why must you–oh. Oh, no!" She'd got it. ";Ve rapido!"
"Don't go home. They'll be watching." I hung up the phone and walked out the back door.
Five minutes later I was on the patio of the Hotel Villa Blanca when they pulled up. I had a newspaper covering my face, and I'd ordered a limonada to justify my presence. The paper shook in my hands and I had to brace my elbows against the table to stop the movement.
They drove by in two cars, one after the other, eyeing the house casually. One car parked up the street, the other pulled into the hotel's drive, not forty feet from where I sat.
It was all I could do not to jump away, but I realized they were there for the same reason I was–you could watch the house from here. The plates were Oaxacan and it was not a rental. The driver, a man in a rumpled white suit, looked Mexican. His passenger wasn't.
I'd last seen him in
San Diego
, the night the flat blew up.
My hands, for some bizarre reason, stopped shaking.
I shifted my chair slightly, letting me see through the archway to the registration desk. I couldn't hear them but Martin, the desk clerk, was shaking his head. The man in the white suit took his wallet out of his jacket and flipped it open, showing the clerk something. I saw Martin's eyes widen and then he picked up the phone and spoke into it.
Senor Heras, the manager, joined them from the office. After another moment's discussion, Vidal, the bellman, was summoned. They unloaded the trunk, only three pieces of luggage, but one piece the man from
San Diego
grabbed out of the trunk as Vidal reached for it.
"I'll get that," he said, loud enough that I heard it across the lobby. "Fragile." He still had that
Bristol
accent. I wanted to jump, away, mostly, but I remembered the night they killed the police officer in the street by the flat. They'd seemed to know when I jumped without seeing me.
I watched them take the stairs up while Vidal rolled his cart back to the freight lift. When they were out of sight I wandered back to the front of the hotel. Standing just inside the door, I could see the other car down the street, parked on the other side, where they could watch the front of Alejan–dra's house.
Vidal came back after a minute. "How did they tip?" I asked him in Spanish, rubbing my fingertips.
He made a face. "Los mezquinos." Cheapskates.
"What side are they on?"
He jerked his thumb to the left, toward Alejandra's. "En la planta tercera. Alfondo." He pointed to west. "l?or que preguntas?"
"Because they are looking for me." As I said it, I felt my face twist and I knew I was on the verge of tears. I took a deep breath and steadied myself. "So, you don't know me,
Similar Books
