Jumper: Griffin's Story

  “C’est bon. Votre père?” The waiter, passing by, surprised me.

  I was angry. The drawing didn’t look anything like me! “Non. Un homme mauvais.” A very bad man. Definitely not my father.

  The waiter shrugged. “Mon père est un homme mauvais.” He moved on before I said anything.

  Perhaps if my father had been a bad man, I wouldn’t miss him so.

  When I left, I carefully put the loose drawing in the back of my sketchbook.

  I stole some plywood paneling from a construction site, six sheets, four feet by eight, and leaned them against the wall of the cave. There wasn’t anyplace to pin up my drawings otherwise. The limestone was often damp and never flat, and my refrigerator, the little twelve-volt job, wasn’t exactly magnet heaven. One drawing overwhelmed it. I put six plywood sheets up, five of them as edge to edge as the irregular surfaces allowed.

  The one on the end, separated by a good yard, became the villains’ gallery—as far from my bed as possible—and while the rest were lit with lamps that were part of the regular circuit, I put in a separate light and switch for that end panel.

  I started with Kemp.

  I tried others—the woman who’d been there the night my parents died. The man I’d shot in the eyes with the paintball gun. The man I’d shot in the bollocks and then hit several times with the gun. But even though I could remember the woman’s voice, the visual memory wasn’t there. I tried but it was like drawing made-up comic book characters—no real basis in reality.

  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 Señor Ortiz from the Agencia Federal de Investigación, 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 español. Sam’s voice was hoarse and instead of using either of the code phrases (“número incorrecto” or “No 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 washedout 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 radi
o 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: “¿ Usted 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.”

  “¿Muertos? ¡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.” Deetoner? I was confused, then realized that tio was in Spanish, so I sounded it out. Day-Toe-Nar.

  “¿Alejandra, como se dice ‘detonar’ en inglés?”

  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—”

  She nearly lost it, too. “Okay!” She chopped down with her hand, cutting me off.

  “What’s your first priority?” I said, pointing toward the house. “What’s the most important thing in there?”

  “My mother’s jewelry, up on the closet shelf. The rosewood box.”

  “And then?”

  “The photo albums—you know, in the living room.”

  I took a deep breath and jumped to her room. The closet door was already open from before, and I stood on tiptoe and snagged the box. As it dropped into my hand, I jumped back.

  “Here,” I said, pushing the box into her hands. I pictured the living room and then we both flinched at the flash of light and the horribly loud, flat crack that shook us, and then the tile roof of her house rose up and scattered like confetti in smoke.

  I jumped her and the box away as the first fragments began to fall around us.

  TEN

  Turning the Corner

  I killed them.”

  Alejandra had been crying for about a half hour, lying on my bed. I’d tried patting her back, but I couldn’t keep still. I’d tried pacing, then I’d jumped away, to the makiwara in the Empty Quarter, and hit them, hit them, hit them until my knuckles split, bleeding, and the pain was finally enough to cut through the other pain.

  I was sitting by the cave pool, soaking my hand in the icy cold water, when I said it.

  Alejandra, lying on her side, staring into the dark corner of the cave, lifted her head. “What?”

  “I killed Sam and Consuelo.”

  I’d told her the circumstances already—the INS and the helicopter and the phone calls. The way I’d found them.

  A look of understanding came over her face and that was more painful than anything.

  “I killed them like I killed my parents. Like I killed that policeman in San Diego.” My voice was ragged; my breathing cut through the cave like a coarse-tooth saw. “Okay, I didn’t hold the knives, but I might as well have.”

  I looked at her and away. “And I’ve probably killed you.”

  “¡Callete!” she said. “Stop it.”

  I took another ragged breath and held it. She got up a
nd came over. “Hay caramba! What did you do to your hand?” She took it out of the water. The bleeding had slowed. “Did you hit someone? Mateo?”

  “Mateo? Oh, Christ!”

  I jumped.

  Mateo wasn’t on the island. It was a fairly short swim to the mainland, or he could’ve flagged down one of the dive boats and gotten a ride. I’d kicked him pretty hard, though, and his head did bang against the sidewalk.

  So maybe he drowned in the strait.

  I resented it either way, because I really wanted to hit someone.

  When I appeared back in the Hole, Alejandra said, “Never do that again!” Her voice was strident and I flinched.

  “Do what?”

  She gestured sharply around. “You said there’s no exit. What do I do when they kill you?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, but that phrase was like a can opener. “I’m sorry! Oh, God, I’m so sorry!”

  She put me on the bed and held me while the sobs wracked me over and over again. Sometimes she cried, too; eventually we slept.

  She stayed with me five days. With me—I never left her in the Hole if I wasn’t there, even if it was just fetching food from Phuket or the West End. We’d take turns with the solar shower in the jungle near Baha Chacacual, the other waiting down the hill (though I peeked once. Oh. My. I was uncomfortable for hours).

  I’d sleep on my side, away from her, aware of her every motion.

  On the sixth day, we shopped—Harrods in Knightsbridge—clothes and luggage. Back in the Hole we took the store tags off everything and packed them away in the two bags. I put fifty thousand dollars in the bottom of her main case without telling her. In London I’d already changed a thousand dollars to francs at Barclays.

  “Don’t flash it,” I said.

  “No, I’m not too stupid.”

  The comers of my mouth turned down and she laughed. “¡Solo estaba bromeando!” She pulled me to her and kissed my forehead, without bending. “Ai.”

  We jumped to Rennes and waited for them but apparently it wasn’t the sort of place they were monitoring. I started to buy the ticket for her but she stopped me. “Sweet, but I must do for myself now, eh?”