Jumper 1 - Jumper (41 page)

Cox jerked, but covered well. I jumped to the cliff dwelling, picked up a chair and jumped back to the island about twenty feet away from both of them. I sat down, one leg crossed over the other, and stared at them.

Matar slowly approached the coffee and picked it up carefully, like it might bite him. He removed the lid and sniffed.

"It's not poisoned," I said.

"What are you? You conjure things from nowhere."

"Perhaps I'm an afrit, a genie. Perhaps I'm an angel."

Cox watched this exchange with interest.

"Perhaps you are
Shaitan,"
said Matar.

I raised my eyebrows and Cox obligingly said, "Satan."

I smiled a smile that didn't touch my eyes. The blood drained from Matar's face. "Perhaps," I said. "Welcome to hell."

"Are you ready to release Millie Harrison?"

"We don't negotiate with terrorists."

"I'm not a terrorist." I said it tiredly. "Besides, that's bullshit. The U.S. has
always
negotiated with terrorists, no matter what it's said. Why do you think we sold arms to Iran?"

"Release Brian Cox. We'll think about it."

"Millie Harrison is being illegally held. Brian Cox kidnapped her. Who is the terrorist? Who is attacking the innocent? Release her and I'll give you back Cox."

I hung up.

I brought firewood down to the island in the pit, matches, and newspaper. The wood was desert scrub, dry as parchment, and burned brightly. Matar and Cox moved close to the heat. With the sun down it was cold in the pit. I fetched my chair and sat, the three of us forming the points of an equilateral triangle. Sparks rode the smoke straight up in the still air, fading among cold pinpoints of starlight.

"Where are you really from?" Cox asked.

"Stanville. Ohio. United States of America. North American Continent. Earth. Sol System. Milky Way Galaxy." I added the last three to leave him wondering.
Are there more of me, Cox?

He narrowed his eyes and stared at me. I shrugged and went back to looking at Matar, hunched close to the fire, his eyes darting back and forth between Cox and myself.

Finally I said, "Why? Why did you kill her?"

Matar straightened. "Why? Why does your government support Israeli fascism in Lebanon? Why did your country overthrow the democratic government of Iran to put the Shah back in power? Why do your oil companies rob our countries of their wealth and power. Why does the west profane our religion, spit on our beliefs and holy places."

My stomach hurt. "Did my mother do any of those things? I know why you're angry with my government. Why don't you attack them instead of helpless women and children? Is this honorable? Is this something Mohammed would have wanted?"

He spat into the fire. "You know nothing of honor! Your government has no honor. You are godless tools of Satan. Your mother died for a just cause. She wasn't a victim—she was a martyr. You should be proud."

I hit him in the face, jumping close and punching upward from a crouched position. My hand glanced off his cheekbone and he went over backward. I felt a sharp pain from my knuckles, then jumped again to avoid his foot as he kicked out at me. He scrambled to his feet and I drew back my arm and jumped, appearing behind him. I struck him in the lower back over his kidney. He twisted away, clutching at his side. He swung at me with his left hand and I jumped again, slapping his face with my open hand, hard as I could. Then again from another angle, rocking his head back. He covered his face with both hands and I kicked him in the groin.

He dropped to the ground and I kicked him again and again. He rolled away in a ball, covering his head, trying to cover his front with his elbows, protecting his groin with his knees. "You should be proud!" I screamed at him. "You're a martyr to the cause." I chased him, not bothering to jump, just step, kick, step, kick, until he splashed into the cold, cold water of the shallows.

Oh, Christ. What am I doing? I'm worse than Dad.

I was sobbing, tears running down my face, my arms shaking. I turned. Cox was standing by the fire, his mouth open, staring. I jumped away, to the cliff dwelling, out of sight, hiding my shame.

Wrapped in blankets that smelled faintly of Millie, I curled up on the bed. My father's face kept intruding, warped in anger. Suddenly, I sat up in bed, a stray thought stabbing deep into my core and resonating with perfect truth.

The men in the pit were responsible for taking away the women I loved. Cox took Millie. Rashid took Mom. But then, so did Dad....

His house was still empty, locked. Not even NSA. Maybe they were doing everything remotely, afraid I'd jump more agents to the Middle East. I jumped to the downtown sidewalk and found him at the end of the bar in Gil's. Through the large plate-glass window, I saw that he had a glass of amber-colored liquid in front of him and he was staring at it like it was a snake, his hands spread to either side of it, flat on the bar's surface. At one point he started to pick it up, but he jerked his hand away from it, like it was hot.

He didn't drink from the glass until he saw me walk in the door; then his eyes opened wide and he slugged it down quickly, like I might take it away from him.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was half angry, half scared. He shrank back away from me on the barstool even though I stopped halfway down the narrow room.

My hands hurt when I flexed them in my coat pockets. The knuckles of my right hand throbbed and I thought they were swelling. The pain reminded me of Matar's face as I hit it again and again. I wanted to do the same to this man.

"What do you want?" This time fear predominated, desperation rattling the voice. He was louder than before and the bartender glanced his way.

I jumped, grabbed him from behind, and released him to sprawl forward onto the sand in the pit, his face a few feet from the fire. He scrambled back away from the light and stood.

Matar was on the far side of the fire, shivering, his hands held up suddenly, to protect himself. His wet clothes were steaming. Cox was farther back, sitting up, wrapped in his sleeping bag in the chair I'd left there.

Dad looked back and forth, bewildered. Not angry, not scared, but bewildered. This made me even angrier.

I jumped and hit him, an uppercut with my damaged knuckles that snapped his mouth shut with a click. He fell over backward and I jumped back to the fire, clutching my sore hand to my chest. Matar scrambled away from the circle of light, into the darkness.

"Is it my turn, next?"

"Huh?"

Cox sat up in the chair. "I said, is it my turn now? As long as you're in the business. Should I stand up?" He made as if to stand.

"Shut up. Sit down."

He settled back. "That's your father, isn't it?"

I glared at Cox.

Dad was sitting up, both hands on his jaw, moaning. I wanted to hit him again, even more than I wanted to keep punishing Matar.

Cox spoke again. "You've taken your time in striking back at your father. Why didn't you just kill him before? With that trick of yours, you could have made it look like suicide or at least provided a decent alibi. I mean...
look out!"

There was a rustle on the sand and I jumped sideways five feet. Matar moved through the space I'd occupied, his fist-sized rock swinging down, sharp edge forward. With my evasion, he had to skip awkwardly over the fire. He turned to face me, teeth bared.

"Throw it in the water," I said.

He blinked. I raised my left hand as if to slap, even though I was ten feet away from him. He turned quickly and threw the rock underhand, away, to splash out in the darkness. I put my hand down.

"That is my father," I said, pointing. To Dad, who was glaring now, honest hatred, not bewilderment, I said, "This is Rashid Matar, the man that killed Mother."

They looked at each other, wary, curious. Dad said, "Why is he still alive?"

I stared at the fire. The flames reminded me of the blast on the Cyprus runway. "Why are
you
still alive? If you want him dead, do it yourself."

Cox stood, holding the sleeping bag around himself like an Indian. I jumped behind him and said, "Hold still." I put my arms around his waist and lifted him. He stiffened but made no move to strike. I jumped him to the parking lot of the Pierce Building in Washington, the spot where I'd grabbed him, the night before. It was snowing. The guard in the doorway's glass cage saw us and pushed a button. Somewhere an alarm bell rang.

Cox turned around and looked at me, dancing from foot to foot on the icy pavement, surprised as he recognized the building.

"Are there any more of me, Cox?" I had to ask, I had to know.

He looked surprised, then thoughtful. I'd given him some information he didn't have. Now it was time to see if he'd reciprocate. Finally he said, "No. Not that we know of."

Alone. Forever alone. My shoulders slumped and my throat tightened.

"If Millie is released unharmed, I'll stop jumping NSA people all over the globe. I'll leave you guys completely alone. If she isn't released..." I started to say more, but stopped. "Just release her. She never did anything to you."

He licked his lips and started to shiver. Men began to pour through the building's door.

I jumped.

They would never leave me alone.

I sat on the floor of my cliff dwelling, feeding the wood stove, a blanket wrapped around me.

It didn't matter what I did to Dad, to Rashid Matar. It wouldn't bring Mom back. She was gone, dead, worm food, just like the little Greek maid from the
Argos.
Just like the skinny Arab wired to explode. She wasn't coming back.

And would the NSA ever stop trying to use me, capture me, or, failing that, kill me? Would Millie ever be safe? Would we ever have a chance to be happy?

I slammed the stove door and sparks flew upward, landing on the stone floor, burning minute holes in the blanket. I batted at them absently, then stood, letting the blanket slide to the floor. I jumped to the pit.

Matar was choking Dad, straddling him at the edge of the water, his hands locked around Dad's throat. Dad's hands pulled feebly at Matar's wrists. His face was dark in the firelight.

I jumped forward and kicked Matar in his unprotected ribs. He flew off Dad, into the water yet again, and clutched at his side. I think I cracked some ribs.

Dad started breathing again, deep, wheezing breaths. I grabbed him by his jacket collar and pulled him away from the water, up near the fire. Matar crawled slowly out of the water, still holding his side. He was breathing very carefully, short, shallow breaths of air.

Why did I stop him?

I considered jumping back to the cliff dwelling and getting one of the grenades, coming back, and pulling the pin. I didn't know whether I would jump away before it exploded. I didn't know whether I wanted to.

Matar's breathing regularized and he began speaking in Arabic and spitting at the ground between us. I realized that I couldn't do the grenade thing. If I killed myself and the NSA didn't know it, they might hold onto Millie forever.

Is it normal for women to enter your life and then leave forever? Oh, Millie....

I jumped behind Rashid and grabbed him at the collar and waist, keeping his wet clothes at arm's length. He lashed back with one of his shoes, scraping my shin. I jumped.

We appeared outside the observation deck of the World Trade Center. Twenty feet outside, well clear of the steel and glass sides, one hundred and ten stories up. The air was crisp and cold and we dropped toward the plaza below like rocks.

Matar screamed and I pushed him away from me, letting him flail and twist below me. The air filled my coat, flapping it like laundry on a line, slowing me slightly, increasing the distance between myself and Matar. In nine seconds we would impact the concrete below, a quick death. Slightly behind him, I'd be able to watch Matar die before kissing the pavement.

The NSA would identify the bodies and they'd let Millie go. Matar would never kill another innocent and I could stop hurting.

After two seconds the air sounded like a hurricane, tugging, numbing. After four seconds it was a steady upward pressure flattening my posture to face down. Matar was thirty feet below me and I was sliding sideways, my coat like a sail. I trailed my arms behind me, and the coat slid off as if jerked by an enormous hand. I fell quicker, closing on Matar again. The lighted fountain in the plaza grew closer and closer.

Matar kept screaming, a keening cry barely audible over the rush of the wind. The sound made me smile.

Fuck this.

I jumped the distance between us, grabbed onto his belt, and jumped back to the pit. Matar sprawled in the sand and kept screaming and screaming.

Dad was sitting by the fire. His eyes were on Rashid. "What did you—" He swallowed. His voice was raspy. "What did you do to him?"

"Sightseeing. Your turn."

He shivered. "No, that's all right."

I jumped behind him and hauled him up by the back of his shirt. He scrambled to get his feet under him. "What—" I jumped him to the cemetery in Pine Bluffs, Florida, then shoved him down again, to sprawl forward. It was after midnight but a mercury vapor light mounted over the cemetery gate brought the carved letters into sharp relief: Mary Niles, 13 March 1945 to 17 November 1989.

Dad whimpered. I reached down and pushed him flat onto the grave. With the other hand I snaked his belt out of his pants loops, then backed away.

"Remember this, Dad?" I swung the buckle back and forth like a pendulum, the silver rodeo buckle winking in the light. I swung it suddenly back, over my head, and down. It slammed into the ground by his side and grass flew up. He flinched away.

"How many times, Dad?" I brought it down on the other side. It gouged the earth. "How many times?"

I took a step closer and smashed it again and again on the gravestone. The enameled design cracked and splintered, and the silver edges buckled. Scratches marred the stone surface. I threw the belt down in his lap.

I pointed at the grave. "Would she be here if you hadn't beaten her? Abused her? Caved her face in? Would she be in this grave if you'd stopped drinking?"