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

arroyo. The little brook didn't last long before it sank into the sandy bottom, but this wet
section of the arroyo was a riot of green. Three large cotton woods shaded the tank for most
of the day and if I sat still I could count on seeing birds, jackrabbits, deer, and once Sam
pointed at a track in the wet sand and said, "Desert bighorn. Very rare."
The third day I jumped to Balboa Park, on the southern edge near the aerospace museum,
and crossed 1–5 on the Park Boulevard bridge to get to downtown and the public library on E
street. It was a lot cooler in the city–near the ocean and all that–but I still had to rest often.
Outside the library, from the plastic window of a newspaper vending machine, my face
stared at me, like they'd put me in that metal box.
BOY STILL MISSING AFTER SUSPECTED DRUG SLAYING.
Drug slaying? I reached into my pocket to pull out quarters to buy the paper but it suddenly
felt like every person on the street was staring at me. Instead I turned and entered the library,
walked back to the men's loo, and locked myself in a stall.
Drug slaying? That didn't make any sense.
Thirty minutes later I peeked out the bathroom door but there wasn't the swarm of police
I expected. No one seemed interested in me at all so I worked my way back to periodicals
and snagged the Union Tribune, then found a chair facing the corner. They'd used a picture
from Mum's desk that she took at the zoo three months earlier.
Police still seek missing nine–year–old Griffin O'Conner (see photo) after finding both of
his parents murdered in their Texas Street apartment Thursday night. DNA tests of blood found
on the site are believed to be the boy's and he is feared dead, but there has been no sign of the
boy dead or alive since he was last seen at his karate class Thursday afternoon. Persons with
information are urged to contact the police or Crime Stoppers at (888) 580–TIPS.
Large quantities of cocaine found on the premises lead the police to believe that Robert
and Hannah O'Conner, UK citizens, were involved in the smuggling and sale of drugs, and that
the slaying was either the work of a rival gang or a drug deal gone bad.
Utter rubbish. Mum didn't even like it when Dad had more than one pint at a pub because
she'd had alcoholics in her family. Why on earth would the police think–well, 'cause they
found the cocaine. And the cocaine wasn't there before, right?
I felt this moment of doubt, a moment of world–twisting alienation, then shook my head. If
there was cocaine in the apartment, then someone brought it with him, and no matter how
many times you see that sort of thing on TV, I doubted it was the police. So it was the
murderers, but why?
Because nobody cares what happens to drug dealers.
Because there wouldn't be a hue and cry to find out who did it if the victims were
criminals themselves. And the police would be looking in the wrong direction–for other drug
smugglers in the city, not for people who'd been following us since we'd lived in England.
I put the paper back, walked between two shelves, and jumped to the elementary school,
between the hedge and the stairs, near the flat. I didn't want to go directly there. I was afraid
they were still watching the place. If they wanted me, they could be waiting inside for me to
appear again. And they'd kill me.
Dead.
Like Mum. Like Dad.
I didn't understand it. I hadn't done anything to them. I was pretty sure Mum and Dad hadn't,
either. But they pretty clearly wanted me dead.
I walked toward the flat and almost immediately a woman pushing a baby pram stopped
and said, "Aren't you that British boy whose parents were–"
"No, ma'am." The only American accent I could do with any sort of conviction was Deep
South. "Ah just look like him. You're the second person who's said that today."
"Oh."