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

I was wearing sweatpants and a T–shirt, what I normally slept in. "Uh, yeah."
"So you were in bed? When it happened?"
I turned away and looked out the window. It was less than a half mile down the road to a
petrol station. To my back, he said, "Okay. I won't press but you want to avoid the cops, make
yourself scarce while I deal with the deputy, okay?" He pulled into the shade of the pump
awning and began rooting under the seat. After a moment he came up with one plastic
flip–flop but he had to get out of the car and crouch down before he finally snaked its mate
out from under. He took a couple of dollars out of his wallet and handed them and the
flip–flops to me. "Go wash up, then get yourself a soda, okay? Until we're done with the
EMS."
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:
DO NOT ENTER.
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