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

and Little Big on the bottom shelf.
I turned to the wall for my sketches, but they were gone. They weren't on the floor, either.
There was a sound from the front, like steps on the stair, and I clutched my things to my
chest and jumped.
I was back in the Empty Quarter, by the paintball–splattered boulder, sand and dried grass
swirling around me. I heard buzzing, flies returning to the dried blood where it had pooled on
the ground. I thought about the bandits who'd attacked Pablo but there didn't seem to be
anybody around. I could see footsteps where Sam and Consuelo had carried me away.
I climbed on a rock to change into the clean clothes, easing the pants over the bandages on
my hip and brushing the sand off my feet to put on the socks and shoes. It took a moment to
visualize the petrol station's bathroom enough to jump back to it. It was the memory of the
smell that finally did it. I stuffed the bloody clothes into the rubbish bin, beneath the used
paper towels.
When I exited, there was a guy waiting who glared at me. "Shook the door hard enough.
What's the matter, couldn't get it open? Is that why you took so fucking long?" He shouldered
past me into the bathroom without acknowledging my faint, embarrassed "Sorry."
The ambulance and the police were outside. The medical chaps were just easing Pablo off
the canvas stretcher and onto the fancy ambulance gurney. Consuelo was watching the
paramedics while Sam was just outside, by the store door, talking with a uniformed deputy.
I went back to the refrigerated cabinets and picked out a large bottle of Gatorade, then got
some potato crisps. American chips. That's what I miss from England–all the different flavors
of crisps. Roast beef and horseradish was my fave.
I paid, using my money, and went out front, away from Sam and the deputy where there
was a bench in the shade of the overhang. The Gatorade was good but the crisps were
incredible, like my body was craving the salt. I almost went in and bought another bag, but
though my mouth said yes my stomach said no. I settled back and sipped from the bottle.
The deputy went back to his vehicle and brought back a map. Sam and he moved up the
porch to spread it across the top of a rubbish can. Sam pointed out some specific location for
him and I heard him say, ". . . said there were three men. They spoke Spanish to him and each
other. Could be a rival coyote gang–I've seen that happen."
"You see any vehicles?"
Sam shook his head. "Only dust. You know, kicked up, but miles away. Normal. Nothing
close enough to ID. And I was lookin', too. Didn't want to run into the assholes who did for
Pablo."
"Hmm." The deputy tilted back his hat and asked, "You run into anybody out there who
wasn't in a vehicle? Someone who just needed a little more water but kept walkin'?"
Sam laughed. "Not today, Ken. The ones who do it right cross at night and hole up during
the heat of the day. They may have seen me and Consuelo. I usually don't see 'em at all unless
they're in a bad way." He jerked his chin toward the ambulance.
"Okay, then. You going back there?"
"Not today. Goin' home."
"Hmmm. Okay. I'll put the word out to the state police and the border patrol. You run
across anything suspicious, let us know, right?"
"Right."
They shook hands and the deputy went back to his car and began talking on the radio.
Sam glanced at me and started to go into the store then stopped. "Huh. There you are.
Where'd you get those clothes?"
I opened my mouth to tell him, but what could I say? Really?
"I didn't nick 'em." I stood up and handed him the flip–flops and the two dollars he'd given
me earlier. As he took them I dropped back onto the bench, hard, surprised. My knees had