"Steven Gould - Jumper 03 - Griffin's Story" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Stephen Jay)

And after it happens, they don't think they can complain to the police on this side, and on
the other side, half the time it is the police." Sam paused as I painfully lowered myself into the
chair. "Now, once I heard you talk, I knew you weren't Mexican, but his story could be
yours–who attacked you?"
I looked away and put my hand to my mouth. The cotton gauze threatened to shred.
He added the unbearable bit: "Where are your parents?"
I nearly jumped. It was like a blow. I knew I wasn't in danger but I still wanted to flinch
away. I wanted to flee, to run, but I knew that no matter how far I went it wouldn't change the
facts.
 "They're d ... d ... DEAD!" There. I'd said it. Said something I couldn't even think.
"Where?" Sam's eyes widened a bit and his eyes twitched sideways. "When?"
He thinks it happened where they found me, that the people who attacked me could still
be around. "San Diego–last night."
Oh, bugger. What was the point of giving him a false name? Now he'd be able to read the
newspapers and figure out who I really was.
Something my dad used to say went through my head: Better to keep your mouth shut and
be thought an idiot than to speak and confirm it.
Sam dropped his shoulders back down. "How'd you get all the way out here? Did they
dump you? Could they still be around?"
I shook my head. "I got away–I came here because it was ... safe." I looked at the blue tarp.
"Well, I thought it was safe."
"How?"
I shook my head. "Can't tell you. But honest, those that kill–" I bit down on my lip and
squeezed my eyes shut for a second. "The last I saw of them was in San Diego. Not here."
He stared at me for a moment. "Well, Pablo, in there, needs some pretty urgent medical
attention. We'll be putting him in the truck and then I'll radio the county EMS, meet them out
at the highway. The police and the border patrol will get involved pretty quick, so I just have
one question. Should we be mentioning you? I mean, you didn't go to the police in San Diego,
did you?"
I stared at him. "What kind of adult are you? Of course you're going to tell the police, no
matter what I say. I'm just a kid. Doesn't matter what I want. I'm a minor."
He blinked, then laughed without making any noise, like I'd said something funny.
"So why are you even asking?" Too strident. I clamped my mouth shut, determined not to
say anything else.
He stared at me, his brow wrinkled. "Kid, something really bad happened to you and yours
but all I really know is that you're in trouble. I meet people in trouble all the time. They're
undocumented workers, crossing. I'm not here to judge them, either. What Consuelo and I do
is try and keep them from dying. Sometimes it's just a little water, sometimes it's major
medical evac. But we don't judge and we don't involve the INS unless we have to.
"I don't know what's best for you. I don't know enough about what happened or why.
You're not dying–I don't have to involve the county and the police. Don't know if the cops
would just take you back someplace where the people who did this could get at you again or
if they even would want to get at you. So, I'm askin' and I mean it: Should I tell the police
about you?"
I shook my head side to side, hard, and the scab on my neck tore and stung.
"Well okay, then. I won't." Sam started to get up.
Despite my best intentions, I said, "Why do you do this, helping the illegals, I mean?"
"Someone's gotta. I've been doing it for six years, since I found three dead men on the edge
of my property. Consuelo, she lost her husband and teenage son east of here. Their coyote got
them halfway across the worst of it and demanded more money before letting them into the