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

truck, still out in the middle of nowhere. She got the story from a woman who didn't have to
walk–who didn't die in the basin."
I licked my lips. "She had the cash?"
"She offered a different form of payment."
I looked at him, puzzled.
Sam said, "God, you're young. You talk like you're older so I keep forgetting. She offered
sex for passage."
I felt my ears get hot.
"How old are you, kid? Eleven, twelve?"
"I'm nine."
 Sam's jaw dropped.
"I'll be ten next month," I added.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I should talk to the police."
"You promised!"
"No, I didn't exactly promise." He shook his head. "But I said I wouldn't. I won't, I guess."
He stood. "Consuelo! jDebemos ir!" He opened the passenger door on the truck. "You ride
here. Consuelo is going to ride in the back and tend to Pablo."
"Can't I wait here?"
"Not coming back here. After we get Pablo into an ambulance, I'm heading back to my
place." He gestured toward the lowering sun. "Done for the day."
It took me almost as much time to get into the truck as it did for Consuelo and Sam to
move Pablo and the stretcher into the back of the pickup, fold the tarp, and stow the camp
chairs and ice chest.
He drove pretty slow, because the road–well, calling it a road was reaching. Sometimes it
disappeared completely and it felt like he was just driving blindly across the desert, but then
the twin ruts would reappear. Other places, going up a grade or down, water had carved
deeply into the ruts, and no matter how slowly he drove I was thrown hard against the seatbelt
or bounced off the door.
I looked around and saw Consuelo braced in the corner by the cab, shaded by her umbrella.
The stretcher and Pablo were secured with straps but Consuelo kept one hand on his forehead,
bracing his neck, I guess.
After a half hour we topped a rise and stopped the truck. Sam took a radio mike off its
bracket and switched the unit on. "We don't get into range until here." He depressed the
transmit button. "Tom–it's Sam Coulton. Got a Hispanic male, dehydrated, some trauma. Got
beaten and robbed after crossing south of Bankhead Springs. Was two days without water."
The voice that answered was fuzzed with static, barely recognizable. "You need air evac?"
Sam answered, "Nah. He was conscious when I found him. I've got him on IV fluids and
we're less than fifteen miles from Old Eighty. I can meet the ambulance at the Texaco near
Desert Rose Ranch Road in about thirty minutes."
"I'll call the sheriff's office. Is he legal?"
"Doubt it. Sheriff for the assault and the INS, if they want, but they might as well send
someone to just meet the ambulance at Regional in El Centro."
"Okay–they'll probably dispatch a unit to meet you at the Texaco. Anything else?"
"Nah. Gotta get going if I'm gonna meet the ambulance. Thanks loads. Love to Maribel."
He hung the mike back on the dash and concentrated on his driving. I didn't see how he
expected to make fifteen miles in thirty minutes. We were doing much less than ten miles an
hour because of the ruts and rocks, but we reached the plain below after five more
uncomfortable minutes and turned onto a dirt road that was a highway by comparison. Sam
sped up to fifty and we were up to the motorway in fifteen minutes.
"Are those pajamas?" he asked.