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

"They came to the door asking for you? Not your dad or mom?"
"Didn't I just say that? It's not inheritance, though. And they weren't coming after me
because I saw something I shouldn't."
"Then why? This isn't the Sudan. People don't just kill kids for no reason. Even the sickos
have a reason."
"It's something I did." It just popped out of my mouth, without thought. My heart raced for
a moment but I took a deep breath and said, "It's something I can do."
Consuelo, working on dinner in the kitchen, stepped into the living room and held up a
plastic bag with a few pinto beans in the bottom. "Sam! Necesitamos habas. Okay?"
He glanced over his shoulder and said, "Okay. Manana compro?"
"Tempranito en la manana!"
"Okay–first thing." He shrugged and turned back to me. "What do you mean, something you
did? You kill their dog or something? Piss in their pool? And you're going to do it again?"
 It's against the rules. He'd never believe me without a demonstration. So why does it
matter if he believes you ? It just did. And they were Dad's and Mum's rules and they were
dead. "Remember at the petrol stop, when you asked me where I'd gotten these?" I pointed at
my shirt and pants.
His eyes narrowed. "Yeah. Thought maybe you'd stashed them near the station earlier."
I shook my head and stood up. "Consuelo needs beans."
"Yeah–I'll get 'em in the morning."
I jumped to the Safeway back in San Diego, where I'd gotten the crisps and salsa earlier. I
got the twenty–pound burlap bag of pinto beans and paid for it in the quick–check line.
Four minutes after I'd disappeared from Sam's living room I reappeared. The chair he'd
been sitting on was on the floor, on its side. He was in the corner, pouring something from a
bottle into a glass, but air swept around the room as I arrived and his hand jerked, spilling the
liquid. "Dammit!"
I hefted the bag. "Beans."
He stared for a moment then took a gulp from the glass.
I carried the beans into the kitchen and put them down on the counter.
Consuelo looked surprised, then pleased. "Bueno!" She rattled off a phrase in Spanish
toward the living room and Sam's voice, hoarser than usual, answered, "Si. Yo se."
I went back in and sat down on the couch.
After a moment, Sam put the bottle away and brought his glass across the room. He picked
up the chair and sat on it, forward this time, slumped a little.
"What was that?" he asked quietly, his voice still hoarse. The smell of whiskey came with
his breath, reminding me of Dad's weekly scotch.
"I went to a Safeway, in San Diego, bought the beans, and came back."
"I got the bean part. You bought them?"
"The express line was empty."
"Well, yeah, I guess I see that. What I don't get is the traveling to San Diego part."
I nodded. "It's the thing I can do. I jumped. Teleported. Whatever you want to call it."
"Is that how you got those clothes?"
I nodded. "Yeah, I went back to my flat and got my allowance and my passport." My voice
broke and convulsively I said, "The tape outlines were still there–and the blood. And someone
started to come up the stairs and I jumped away."
"Deep breaths, kid. Slow it down."
I nodded and tried that, until my heart wasn't racing.
After a bit he asked, "How long have you been able to do this thing?"
"I did it for the first time when I was five, back in Oxford. In public. In front of witnesses.
We've been moving ever since."