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

I got up. I could hear them–well, I could hear the TV. They always watched the late news
together and drank a cup of herbal tea. It was part of their routine, their last thing before
bedtime. Sometimes I'd sneak down the hall and watch from the corner. Half the time Mum
would doze off during the sports and Dad would tease her about it.
I eased open my door. I had to tell them. Whatever happened, I had to tell them. I took a
step out into the hall and the doorbell rang.
I felt a jolt in the stomach. Paully? His parents? Someone from the school?
Dad turned off the TV before he went to the door, followed by Mum, yawning. She hadn't
fallen asleep yet–the news was on the weather. She saw me in the doorway and blinked,
started to frown.
I heard Dad open the door–it was around the corner past the kitchen so I couldn't see it
from the hall.
"Mr. O'Conner?" It was a woman's voice. "I'm so sorry to drop by this late, but I'd like to
talk to you about Griffin. I'm from the Homeschooling Administration Department at SDSD."
Mum's head snapped around. "No, you're not."
"Beg your pardon?" the woman's voice said.
"You're not. It's not the SDSD. It's the San Diego Unified School District or the San Diego
City Schools. And there is no department for homeschooling. It's done through the charter
schools."
"Fine. Have it your way," said the woman. Her voice, previously warm and apologetic,
went hard like granite.
Mum took a step away from the door and I saw her eyes get really big. Her hand down at
her side jerked toward me and pointed back, a clear indication to go back into my room.
I took a step back but I left the door open so that I could still hear, but what I heard was
Dad saying, "Put the knife down. We're not armed. What do you want?"
There was a crash from my parents' room, at the other end of the hall.
Back at the door a man's voice, a Brit from Bristol by the accent, said, "Where's your
kiddie?"
Dad shouted, "Griff–" There was a thud and his voice cut off. Mum screamed and I jumped
–
– into the living room, magazine pages flying through the air, books falling off the
bookshelf.
Dad was on his knees, one hand to his head. There were two strange men and the woman
in the living room and they all twisted as I appeared, much faster than Dad ever managed,
odd–shaped guns coming to bear. I flinched away, into the kitchen, plates and cups shattering
against the wall and sink, and heard the guns fire, muffled, not unlike the paint gun, but there
was an odd whipping noise, and they were turning again, right to me by the refrigerator. Mum
screamed "Go!" and shoved one of the men into the other but the woman still fired and it
burned my neck and I was standing by the boulder, the moonlit, paint–splattered boulder two
hundred miles away.
I jumped back, but not to the kitchen. I appeared in the dark garage below and scrambled
up onto the workbench, to reach the shelf above, where Dad kept the paint gun. Steps
pounded down the outside stairs and then someone kicked the door, to force it open, but
there was a drop bar–it was that kind of neighborhood.
I put a C02 cartridge in the gun. The top of the door splintered but held. I fumbled a tubular
magazine of paintballs into the gun as a chunk of door fell into the room. The fat barrel of one
of the weird guns appeared in the gap and I jumped, this time to my room.
Steps pounded down the hall and I jumped again, back to the living room. A man held a
knife to Mum's throat and Dad lay on the ground, still.
I shot the man in the eyes, point–blank.