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

scratch Lucky's head. He panted and shifted, putting more of his body in reach. I was working
on his upper neck when I felt his ears go up and his head shifted to the right, down the alley.
He gave a halfhearted, "Woof!" but then shoved his head back into my hand. After a few more
seconds of scratching, I heard the distant scuffing of feet on gravel.
Lucky's fence put me in deep shadow and I was also screened from that direction by an
overdeveloped hibiscus growing into the alley from the corner of our yard. Peeking around
the hibiscus at knee level I saw the outline of three men walking down the alleyway, backlit
by the distant streetlight. One of them carried a shoulder–slung bag and they all walked
oddly–lifting each foot from the ground and then putting it down heel first before rolling the
foot forward to the toes.
I pulled my head back quickly, afraid they'd seen me, and, in fact, I heard someone say,
"What's that?"
Then Lucky began barking up a storm, right by my head. I nearly recoiled out into the alley
but realized it was the voice he was barking at.
Lucky's owner, Mr. Mayhew, came to the back door. "Lucky! Get your noisy ass in here!"
Lucky went bounding to the back door. "What did you hear?" he said quietly. He put the dog in
but stood there on the back porch for a moment, listening. I wondered if Lucky had been
barking the night they killed Mum and Dad.
After a moment I heard the door creak again and light silhouetted Mr. Mayhew as he
stepped back into his kitchen.
I leaned forward a tad, looking through the branches of the hibiscus. The three men had
flattened themselves against the garage door in response to Lucky's barking, but when Mr.
Mayhew went back inside they moved again, working quickly. The stairway from the flat
descended toward the street, and at ground level it was visible from the patrol car parked in
front. Instead of going that way, the one with the bag set it to the side, then stepped between
the other two. They both dropped to one knee and grabbed his ankles, then stood abruptly,
throwing him straight up.
He grabbed the railing above and got one foot on the landing with only the slightest noise,
then swung over the railing and dropped to a crouch before the door. I presumed the door
was locked but he had it open almost immediately. He stood up again and leaned over the
railing. The men below heaved up the hanging bag, but he almost missed it, snagging it by the
strap at the last minute. One of the men below said, "Careful, you blad!"
"Shhh!" the other hissed.
"Shhh yourself. The detonators would've made a lot more noise than me." I recognized the
voice. It was the man with the Bristol accent.
On the landing above, the man disappeared into the flat.
The two men below stepped back into the shadow of the garage door. "What keeps it from
blowing up someone else instead–the police, or the landlord?"
"The door sensor. People who come in normally, well, they're not gonna set it off. But if 'e
pops in, the motion sensor trips when the door sensor hasn't–see? That'll do 'im a treat."
Like you did for my parents? I groped for a rock–a big rock I could throw or strike with.
There was a line of bricks under the edge of the fence, to keep Lucky from digging out. I was
able to pull one from the corner, a jagged half brick tucked in to complete the row. I wanted
to heave it at them and jump away. Or maybe jump right next to them and hit them in the face
with it?
My hands were shaking and I didn't know if it was fear or rage but I didn't trust myself to
throw the brick and hit anything.
The guy from upstairs came out and dropped the empty shoulder bag over the railing, then
swung over, lowered himself until he hung at arm's length and dropped.
Dammit!