Jumper: Griffin's Story (17 page)

The big guy, from
Oaxaca
, the one I'd scared over the cliff–him I managed. It was that surprised and panicky look as he flinched over the edge. I also managed Senor Ortiz from the Agencia Federal de Investigation, though I didn't really count him as one of
them.
More of a minion– support staff, if you will. And I drew a good head shot of Mateo the bellman as I'd seen him that night at
the fiesta de Navidad.

They
could feel it when I jumped.
They
were dangerous.
They
wanted me dead. Maybe Ortiz did, too, but he wasn't the same level of threat.

I put the big man and Mateo up with Kemp. Ortiz I put down below. I scribbled stuff on the edges: where, when, and who, if I knew it.

Later I added a biggish world map. I used little Post–its for "named" ones. Kemp got one in
Oaxaca
and
San Diego
and
London
. Ortiz, the big man, and Mateo got one in
Oaxaca
. Then I put two pins in
London
for the guys who'd found me in the subway. I couldn't remember them well enough to draw them. Three other pins went to
San Diego
for the woman and the other two men who'd been there with Kemp.

That made seven, not counting Ortiz. Yet they'd detected me in
London
, so at least one had been stationed there, or traveling through, but it made sense, if they had enough of 'em, to station a "Sensitive" in major cities.

I wrote "Sensitives" on a big scrap of drawing paper and pinned it above the drawings of Kemp, the big man, and the bellman, Mateo. On another scrap I wrote, "Minions," and pinned it below, above Ortiz.

Then I went back to the library in
San Diego
and got printouts from the microfilm collection of the newspapers, the
News Daily
and the
Union Tribune
–the stories that told about that night, the murder of my parents.

On the side of the El Centro Ranch Market, there's this mural of women doing laundry in the river. One of them wears only her underwear–it's not exactly explicit but I still liked looking at it.

From the pay phone in the front of the store, I called Sam's number and, as usual, asked for
Rosa
in
espanol.
Sam's voice was hoarse and instead of using either of the code phrases
("numero incorrecto"
or 'Wo
la conozco")
he said, "
Griffin
, I need you here now. They've got Consuelo."

I drew breath to say "Who?" and another voice came on the line.

"Come on,
Griffin
. Don't make me hurt 'em." That thick
Bristol
accent was unmistakable. How on earth did he keep it? Didn't Kemp ever watch BBC as a kid?

"Let them go," I said. "Leave them alone."

"Don't waste their time, boy." He hung up.

I took a step to the left and lashed out, kicking the trash barrel over violently; my foot came down in the
Empty Quarter
, sand and trash swirling around me. I felt like throwing up.

I jumped to the Texaco petrol station and used the phone there, starting with 911. "There are men with guns holding Sam Coulton at his ranch house. They're torturing him– they're trying to get his bank account access numbers from him. No, I won't give you my name."

I hung up. They'd know where the call came from, of course, but the petrol station was a long way from nowhere.

The next number I had to get out of the phone book. When they answered I spoke in Spanish. "There are coyotes with guns at the ranch of Sam Coulton. They have thirty illegals and are waiting for their transport to meet them. If you hurry–" I hung up, not even waiting for the questions. I jumped to the turnoff–the place on old Highway 80 where the county dirt road joined the asphalt–and began walking. It was over seven miles to the ranch house but I didn't want them to feel my arrival and, if my calls worked, I might be able to hitch a ride.

An INS helicopter roared out of the east, probably coming from
El Centro
. They came in low, maybe seventy feet, obviously following the highway, then banking hard at the turnoff. I thought for a moment they were doing that for navigation, but I realized they wanted to spot any fleeing vehicles. This was the only road out.

I crouched off the road, in the mesquite, when I heard them, well before they flashed by overhead. I shook my fist in the air.

Go, go, GO!

I started running but that didn't last. I was still over five miles away and it was hot and the sun was like a hammer. The road ducked up and down, over a set of low ridges, and I couldn't see or hear
anything.
Well, I heard
something.

I got behind a stand of cholla before the sheriff's car came over the ridge behind me. It was followed almost immediately by an SUV in INS white and green and then an INS passenger van.

For my imaginary illegal aliens.

They bunched up and slowed, bumping through a washed–out section of the road on the way up the next ridge. I was out into the road and running, crouched low, trying to get behind the van before they noticed me in the rearview mirror.

I didn't have to worry–the patrol car, in the lead, should've brought up the rear. Three INS agents piled out of their SUV to push the patrol car past the point it was bottoming out.

I considered jumping into the interior of the van, but found I could crouch on the box receiver of its trailer hitch and hold on to the spare–tire rack.
Good.
Didn't want to jump–didn't want to clue in Kemp and his bunch.

Just let Sam and Consuelo be all right.

I dropped off the van while it bounced across a particularly nasty pothole and then rolled sideways into the brush. I got stuck by a prickly pear, hiding in a tuft of brown grass, but the van didn't stop, so I guess they didn't notice.

I scrambled through the brush, headed for the back of the stable.

The first thing I saw was one of the INS agents going by with an M–16 assault rifle. I ducked back into the brush. The second thing I saw was another INS agent.

He was dead. Very clearly dead. His head was half off and the blood was worse than–it was worse than
that
night. I gagged and moved carefully back into the bush, breathing through my nose, but finally, I couldn't help it–I vomited into the sand.

There was a big green SUV I didn't recognize–not Sam's and it certainly wasn't an official vehicle. It also hadn't passed me on the dirt road. Kemp's people must've come in it.

He's still here?

I came up behind the car from the county sheriff's department. There was an officer talking on the radio, but he wasn't seated. He was crouched on the ground, shielded by the open door. "–forensics for sure, and body bags–uh, two for the residents and there were six INS guys on the chopper–five agents and the pilot."

"Got that, Joe," the radio crackled. "We've got our chopper up and heading your way, eyes wide open. Hopefully they'll spot the missing chopper. Sheriff says secure the crime scene."

I couldn't help myself.

I jumped into the house.

Sam was on the rug before the couch, his hands bound behind him with a plastic cable tie. Consuelo lay in the doorway to the kitchen. The rug had soaked up most of Sam's blood but in the kitchen it spread across the linoleum as far as the refrigerator and the cabinet.

I stuffed my fist in my mouth to keep from screaming.

There were footsteps on the porch outside, perhaps the deputy or one of the INS agents returning after checking the outbuildings.

In the
Empty Quarter
I took my hand out of my mouth and screamed.

I jumped to La Crucecita, to Alejandra's office at Significado Claro, but she wasn't there. I stared at my watch, juggling time zones with difficulty. Lunch–right.

I jumped to her house. Not there, either. I looked out the window, toward the hotel.

Mateo, the bellman, was striding up the sidewalk, a shoulder bag dangling from his hand, as if he'd snatched it up. He talked to a cell phone in his other hand.

I jumped to the next window and saw him jerk his head around, looking at the house. He was definitely one of the Sensitives.

I started in the living room, two quick steps forward, and jumped into the air.

The sole of my foot smashed into Mateo's chest hard enough to send him flying backward, his feet coming up waist high before he crashed to the sidewalk. I saw his head bounce and his eyes rolled back.

I bent over to check his pulse and he swung at me, weakly. I kicked him in the side, then grabbed him by his shirt and jumped five miles east, to the beach on Isla la Montosa, and spilled him half in sand, half in water. I pulled his wallet out. He'd dropped the phone and the bag, so I went back for them, before I returned to Alejandra's office.

She still wasn't there and I was very afraid that they'd taken her already. I let myself out and started asking questions:
"i listed ha visto Alejandra ? "

She wasn't at any of her regular lunch places and no one had seen her. There was a burning at the back of my nose and I was having trouble seeing.
They've already got her.
Then I saw her, coming across la Plaza Principal from the direction of the church, and my knees nearly buckled with the relief.

She took one look at me and her face went white. "What is it?"

I jumped her to her house, without asking, without warning.

She dropped to the floor. "Now I
know
it is bad."

"You need to pack," I said. "Whatever you care about."

She blinked. "Tell me! What is it?"

"They killed Consuelo and Sam."

"iMuertos? No!"
Both hands went to her face and her breath started coming in short, convulsive gasps, then sobs.

And that broke me, too.

I dropped to my knees and wrapped my arms around her and began sobbing as hard, then harder than her. Her arms pulled me in and I wrenched away. "No! They'll come! You need to pack."

She took one of the kitchen towels and blew her nose hard. "Where?" she managed after a moment.

I opened my mouth to speak and then blinked. "
New York City
," I said out loud, but then I shook my head vigorously and pointed at my ear and then around the room. She had an erasable whiteboard mounted on one of the cabinet doors. I grabbed the marker and wrote, "
France
," making sure she saw it, then took the dish towel she'd blown her nose with and wiped the writing off the board.

"What about him?" she said, pointing toward the Hotel Villa Blanca.

"Mateo? I took him on a trip. We've got some time, but I don't know how long." I had no idea if Mateo had local backup or not. How would they have taken me, anyway? I pushed her toward her room. "Pack, please!"

I'd stuffed Mateo's phone in my pocket and I took it out, curious. There were several programmed numbers but most of them were international. Two were local, though. One said
"Tio,"
meaning "uncle," and the other said "Detonar." Dee–toner? I was confused, then realized that
tio
was in Spanish, so I sounded it out. Day–Toe–Nar.

"
Alejandro,
como
se dice 'detonar'en ingles?"

She looked up. "Detonate? Explode?"

Oh, shit.

I grabbed her and jumped. She staggered away from me in the
Empty Quarter
, dust and underwear swirling around us.

"What?" she yelled. She looked angry and frightened.

I held up the phone. "I took this from Mateo. Look." I stabbed my finger at the quick–dial entry:
Detonar.

She read it and bit her lip. "We don't know what that refers to." She began scooping up her panties and bras. "It could be anything."

"And it could mean one very specific thing."

She shook her head in frustration.
"You
have
the phone
,
though."

"It's just a phone. Who
else
has that number?"

"I want my things!"

I jumped us to the Hole and left the bag and her clothes on the table. She opened her mouth to ask but I said, "This is my place. It's an old mine. I
detonar
the entry so the only way in or out is my way.”

"My things?"

I licked my lips. "Let's go see, okay?"

It took me a minute, but I eventually remembered the roof of the hotel well enough to jump. The memory wasn't from the last time I'd been there, sneaking up on Kemp, but from one of the firework–viewing parties.

I crouched at the parapet with Alejandra and looked over the patio and the swimming pool and the tennis courts to her house.

"See,"
she said. "You are too cautious."

I nearly broke down. "No. Not anywhere near cautious enough or Sam and Consuelo–"