Jumper:Griffin _s Story j-3

by Steven Gould

  I was polite to the adults and complimented the women, young and old, on their dresses. At the last minute, E.V.'s teacher, Madame Breskin, said, "We have a dinner reservation for fifteen but I wouldn't be surprised at all if they could squeeze you in, too."

  "That's very kind," I said, "but I'm not really dressed for it. Perhaps another time." I offered my hand to E.V. "Take a look at the sketches. I expect a scathing critique tomorrow. Ten o'clock, in the lobby?"

  She smiled and I could see her about to say something, but then her eyes darted sideways at the girls around her, and she just nodded firmly.

  It was still business hours in San Diego and I decided to give Proctor another try, this time from a bank of pay phones inside Horton Plaza Mall.

  "Please give me Agent Proctor's mobile phone number," I said, when the receptionist answered the phone. The woman said, "He's in the office this morning, may I connect you?"

  "All right."

  Proctor answered on the third ring.

  "Last time I answered your questions. Now it's your turn."

  " Griffin? Are you all right? They swore you must've drowned!"

  I ignored that. "Did you find any trace of Kemp?"

  "Maybe." Proctor paused. "What if you're working with him?"

  "Give me an effing break. Who gave you him in the first place?"

  "We don't disclose the details of our investigations."

  "Goodbye, then."

  "No, wait!"

  "Give me a reason."

  "We can protect you."

  "That scares me more than you can imagine. Give me a real reason. Has my sketch helped?"

  "I told you-"

  I hung up and walked away from the bank of phones, went over to the food court and bought a gyro sandwich, then jumped away from the antechamber outside the restrooms.

  I did laundry, in anticipation, washed extra hard, thick coat of deodorant, and brushed my teeth thoroughly. Twice. She called it a date!

  I took some deep breaths and told myself to calm down. It's not as if you'll be alone.

  And we started out with the entire group, walking to Regent's Park, but it turned out that the majority were going to the zoo and only Madame Breskin would be tagging along with us, "if you don't walk too fast. Two weeks of touring and my feet are swelling." She tapped a book under her opposite arm. "Sitting is my goal."

  When we hit the park, the rest of the group went west on the Outer Circle, headed for the zoo. We meandered down through the middle and ended up on the edge of the lake, with early rowers and the ducks, a bench for Madame Breskin, and us on the green, closer to the water.

  The critique was thorough but not scathing, with examples given on the spot, in pencil, using the boating lake and the reflections of the trees.

  She liked my work, though. "Didn't expect you to work from memory so much. It's really cool that you've been all these places and you remember them so well."

  What could I say? After an awkward pause I tapped the Oxford drawings. "I was drawing this in the flesh. No memory involved."

  "Well, I really love these pencils you did of the Bahamas."

  "Uh, no-that's Thailand, near Phuket. Guess they are a bit similar, but I've never been to the Bahamas. But in Dr. No and Thunderball I guess it's similar."

  "Well, are you going to sketch me?"

  "Yes." I moved around a bit, considering her against the available backgrounds. "Here." I settled down and took my sketchbook back. "With the gold dome of the mosque in the distance. Why don't you sit on your coat?"

  The day had started out gray, with wet pavements, and I'd been afraid it would rain, but the sun and the Londoners now flooded the park. She shrugged the coat off her shoulders, revealing a tight green sweater with three-quarter sleeves and a plunging neckline. I felt my cheeks heat up.

  And told myself not to stare. Well, not particularly.

  "Comfortable?"

  She folded her legs and leaned to the side, propped up by one elbow. "I'm set."

  Madame Breskin checked on us once, saw that the work was still in progress, and went off to fetch hot chocolate from the concessionaires. The clouds were coming back again when E.V. said, "Now I'm getting cold. Since you're not drinking it, can I have some of your hot chocolate?"

  I looked down, surprised. I hadn't touched it. I handed it to her. "I'm sorry, it's stone cold." I closed the sketchbook and started to stand, to help her rise, but my leg was asleep from the hip down and I fell over. As the blood started back in, I nearly screamed.

  She appeared over me, alarmed. "You okay?"

  "Leg's asleep," I said through clenched teeth. "Why don't you toddle off and suggest luncheon to votre professeur, bien?"

  By the time she returned with Madame Breskin, I was on my feet, limping around in a circle.

  The three of us went to a little Indian place in Marylebone, though I had to promise Madame Breskin that we'd return to the hotel via taxi. In a booth, she and E.V. made me show them the drawing. I winced inwardly and pushed it over, watching their heads bend together as they looked.

  "Oh," said E.V. One hand reached to the neckline of her sweater and tugged it up higher. "You…flatterer."

  "My," said Madame Breskin. "I thought you were taking your time but you accomplished a great deal more than I expected."

  Almost convulsively, E.V. said, "Look what he's done, though. I never looked like that. This girl is… sensual." She covered her mouth and darted her eyes sideways at her teacher.

  Madame Breskin tilted her head. "Yes, I suppose. We all are, at times. If anything he's been more objective than idealistic. Sometimes we don't see what others… voir d'un coup d'ceil."

  "Madame?" said E.V, preoccupied, still staring at the drawing.

  Madame Breskin was regarding me and I translated, "See at a glance."

  E.V. looked confused but the waiter came just then and I was relieved and E.V. was clearly relieved and Madame Breskin was clearly amused.

  Later, in the lobby of the hotel, E.V. asked quietly, "I'd like a copy, if you could Xerox it."

  "You can have it, when I'm done. I've just started on the background. I'm not satisfied at all with the light on the mosque and the ducks, and the water-that goes without saying."

  She panicked. "We're leaving in the morning! You won't have time."

  "I meant, when you get back. To Trenton." I folded back the cover of the sketchbook and pointed at the blank cardboard. "Your address and phone number." I put a drawing pencil in her hand. "Please?"

  "Oh. Mail." She wrote the lines neatly, elegantly. "Of course."

  I shrugged.

  She said, "And your address?"

  "Post is… difficult where I live and I'm not on the phone. But I'll be in touch."

  Madame Breskin was giving us some space. She sat in an elegant lion-footed chair by the lifts and pretended to look at her book.

  I tucked the sketchbook under my arm and held out my hand. "Bon voyage, Mademoiselle Kelson."

  She took my hand and said, "A handshake? Screw that." She pulled and I stepped closer. The sweater was as soft as I'd drawn it, but the lips were, if anything, softer.

  "Oh!" she said. "You can smile."

  I had to pick up the sketchbook, after, and the doorman steered me gently out onto the wet pavement past the door frame after I'd collided with it once.

  It was raining, cold and nasty, but I didn't really care.

  Chapter Eleven

  Going for the Kidney I was really tempted to show up at the airport the next day and surprise her but I didn't know whether they were leaving from Gatwick or Heathrow or even what airline. I must admit the phrase "leave them wanting more" went through my head but I would've gone in an instant if I just knew where and when.

  I was the one wanting more.

  I spent two more hours in Regent's Park, finishing up the background. I did very little to her figure-just some blending and darkening of her outline so she stood out from the background. The lace edge of a bra had shown as
her neckline draped, due to gravity, and I'd drawn it faithfully, but now it drew me, my eyes returning to it, to her eyes, to her lips.

  I took the drawing to a Kinko's and used their largest-format machine to produce a double-sized copy on art stock. Then I went to a specialty art shop to have the original matted and framed. "Your work?" said the clerk, handling it carefully by the edges. "You haven't signed it. You want me to spray it with fixative?"

  Self-consciously, I signed it, first name only. Below I put "Regent's Park" and the date we'd sat there. Then he took it in the back and gave it a spritz with a can of Lascaux.

  "You want it boxed, too?"

  "Yes, please."

  "For shipping or hand carry?"

  "Hand carry-I'm going to deliver it."

  The trouble was, I didn't really recall the East Coast. We'd been there when I was very young, but I just didn't remember. I bought an Amtrak train ticket for the Southwest Chief, leaving Los Angeles in three days and arriving in Chicago forty-two hours later. "We've got some rooms available," the clerk said.

  I nodded. "Sure-that sounds good."

  She looked at me, the young teen of indeterminate age, and said, "It is expensive. I mean, the ticket is almost eight hundred dollars more with a room."

  I began counting out hundred dollar bills and she said, "Very well. Room or roomette? The roomettes don't have their own showers and toilets, but they're not as expensive."

  In the end I paid a premium for the room and then again, on the Lakeshore Limited, for the Chicago – New York run, with a twenty-four-hour gap in between.

  I wasn't going anywhere near airports-places where they wanted ID. The name I had them put on the ticket was Paul MacLand, that bastard Paully from my old karate class.

  I gave Special Agent Proctor one more chance, again catching him at his desk.

  "One last chance," I told him from a pay phone near Balboa Park. "You want my cooperation or not?"

  He made a slight concession. "I'll answer your questions face-to-face. Not over the phone."

  "Where?" I seriously considered it. After all, it wasn't as if he could hold me.

  "Here-in my office."

  "Bugger that!" I bit my lip. "I might consider someplace else. Balboa Park, perhaps? You could be there in ten minutes, right?"

  "Maybe."

  "You'd have to come alone."

  "What, alone and unarmed?" You could cut the scorn with a knife.

  "Bring as many guns as you want. Just be alone." Pause. "I've got a call scheduled. How about forty-five minutes?"

  He was stalling. "Take it on your cell on the way here." "It's the deputy director. I can't." "I did mention that this is your last chance, right?" "But I really can't! Maybe I could cut it down to thirt-" I cut him off. "I won't be calling again." And hung up.

  The next morning I jumped to Universal Studios in L.A., a place I'd been with Mum and Dad. Saw the shark. I left immediately, overwhelmed by the memories.

  Why should happy memories hurt more than the images in my head from that night?

  I caught the brand-new Red Line extension at Hollywood and Vine and rode it all the way to Union Station. My train didn't leave until the next evening, but I wanted a jump site. I sketched the funky Mission-style clock tower from outside.

  Back in San Diego I called the sheriff's department from an office phone in the county courthouse. The office was empty for lunch and the door was locked but it was glass and I could see through it. The Central Investigations Division at the main office gave me a cell phone number. "Detective Vigil is coordinating with the federal authorities." She used the Spanish pronunciation, Vee-hill.

  I tried the number and after five rings a voice said, "Bob Vigil."

  "My name is Griffin O'Conner, Detective. I sent a sketch to your department."

  There was a sharp intake of breath. "Really. That's odd. The Feds seem to think you're in Europe."

  Huh. The U.K. Immigration Service was talking to the FBI? Maybe through New Scotland Yard? "You got caller ID?"

  "Yeah. I see you're local right now."

  "Any luck with the sketch? Was it helpful?"

  "Shit, yes! The car rental company ID'd him, the guy whose car they stole in Mexico ID'd him. The Azteca Airlines clerk at Rodriguez ID'd him."

  "Rodriguez? Where's that?"

  " Tijuana," said Vigil." General Abelardo L. Rodriguez International Airport."

  "Where'd he fly?"

  "They don't know. She doesn't remember and the ID he used apparently wasn't for 'Kemp.' That name wasn't on any of their manifests. Flights left for several cities both in and out of Mexico. The FBI are trying for security video on the departing flights in Tijuana and arriving flights at the possible cities."

  "Does Special Agent Proctor at the San Diego FBI office know this?"

  "That's who told me."

  Bastard.

  Vigil continued, "We surmise that Sam didn't have a phone number for you-that's why the perp's camped out there, right?"

  "Camped out? At Sam's place?"

  "Yeah-they were there a good week. It ties into the car rental and the amount of trash they generated. I take it that Sam couldn't just call you."

  I winced. "Uh, no. I called him. I'm semiregular, but-" God. They'd held Sam and Consuelo for an entire week waiting for me to call? I felt like throwing up. I wanted to race to Paris and search until I found Alejandra, to protect her.

  You 'djust lead them to her.

  Vigil interpreted my silence. "You see it, eh?"

  My breathing deepened. "Yes!"

  He was tactfully quiet for a moment.

  After my breathing calmed I said, "Anybody else? Have you figured how many there were?"

  "Paolo saw four. He's the guy who was carjacked on Highway Two. We have some pictures of them, from the camera at the rental place. You could take a look and see if you recognize them."

  "Do you have Kemp in those shots?"

  "No. According to the rental agent he stayed outside. One of these other guys took care of the paperwork."

  I suppose he could be one of the guys I'd encountered in the London Tube, or the Big Man in Oaxaca. My train wasn't going to leave for another twenty-six hours. "I guess I could come look. Where are you?"

  "I'm at Lemon Grove substation. Your number looks like its downtown, yes?"

  "I'm at the county courthouse."

  "I'm going to the main office. I could meet you someplace closer to downtown."

  Well, he had answered my questions, unlike Proctor, and I wanted to see the pictures-the other faces.

  "Okay. The main library on E Street."

  "Right. Take me twenty-five minutes, okay? Just inside?"

  "Sure. Are you in uniform?"

  "No. I'll have a red folder with the pictures-I'll wave it. I'm Hispanic, about two hundred pounds, and I've got on a brown suit, no tie. Clean-shaven. Well, I was this morning."

  "Right."

  I jumped to the little staff parking lot behind the central branch library and walked around to the front. For a moment I stood under the covered entranceway on the sidewalk, looking around, but it was just a busy San Diego weekday. I went inside and found a place where I could watch the door from behind a circular book display rack and lean against a wall.

  Lots of people moved in and out through the doors in the next thirty minutes. Finally, as advertised, a man in a brown suit came in, a thick red file folder in his hand. He was holding it in front of him chest high.

  I pushed off the wall and went to meet him. As I passed the reference books I heard a step and twisted to my left to see a man lunge out from between the shelves. Something flashed in his hand and I felt a pressure on my back ribs, then excruciating pain. His hand, and the flashing metal, came back for another stroke, toward my stomach, and I was gone.

  I staggered across the uneven floor of the Hole and fell to one knee. When I tried to lift my left hand to feel back there, I screamed, and dropped it again. Where my arm rested against my leg, I
could feel the cloth was soaked. I couldn't even twist to look down but I tilted my hand and saw blood on the fingers.

  I needed a doctor, urgently, before I bled to death, but I also needed to avoid the places I frequented. Going to hospital in London could be quickly fatal. Definitely in San Diego, too, or the clinic I knew in La Crucecita. I managed to stand though the effort caused my sight to darken and the room to spin. I found myself staring at my sketches, pinned to the sheets of plywood.

  There.

  It was early evening in Hondarribia, but the old quarter was well lit, and when I sprawled facedown on the pavement, the red mess on the back of my pale shirt apparently stood out very well, for the last thing I heard was a woman screaming and a man's voice saying, "Por la sangre de Cristo!"

  Indeed.

  I woke up lying on my stomach, my head tilted to one side. My back didn't hurt as much but someone was tugging on it. I started to shift and a hand pressed down on my shoulder. A man's voice said, "No te muevas! Entiendes?"

  I settled back down. "Entiendo." After a minute I asked where I was. "Donde estoy?"

  "Mi clinica. Soy el doctor Uriarte. Elpolicia te trajo." The police brought me, eh? I thought about what was in my pockets. Just money. English pounds, some francs, some U.S. dollars. Maybe an art eraser. No ID-not since my passport had been confiscated by UK Immigration.

  "Treinta-nueve puntadas," Dr. Uriarte announced. "Por todo."

  Thirty-nine stitches. He'd obviously numbed it but my imagination made it itch and ache and tingle all at once. He dressed it.

  He helped me to sit. I was naked. My shirt, pants, underwear, my shoes, my socks, were all in a corner, in a bloody pile-even my shoes had blood on them. I had an IV in my left arm, some clear fluid running down the tube. The room spun and he kept his hands on my shoulders until I said, "Bien."

  He put a dressing on and fastened it by taping all the way around my ribs, watching me carefully to make sure I didn't fall over, "Usted recuerda ser atacado?"

  Well, yes, I did remember being attacked but I shook my head. "No. Sucedio muy rapido." It happened too fast.

  He took a plastic bag from the far counter and started to hand it to me. "Tenga su dinero-are you American?" He'd noticed the dollars. His English was thickly accented but colloquial.