Читать книгу Jumper - Steven Gould - Страница 9

THREE

In Washington Square Park I appeared before a bench that I’d sat upon two days previously. There was a man lying on it, shaking from the cold. He had newspapers tucked around his legs and his fists knotted in the collar of a dirty suit jacket, pulling it close around his neck. He opened his eyes, saw me, and screamed.

I blinked and took a step away from the bench. He sat up, grabbing for his newspapers before they blew away in the light breeze. He stared at me, wild-eyed, still shivering.

I jumped back to the hotel room in Brooklyn and took the blanket from the bed, then jumped back to the park.

He screamed again when I appeared, shrinking back onto the bench. “Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Leave me alone.” He repeated it over and over again.

Moving slowly, I put the blanket on the other end of his bench, then walked away down the walk to MacDougal Street. When I’d walked fifty feet or so, I looked back at the bench. He’d picked up the blanket and wrapped it around himself, but he wasn’t lying down yet. I wondered if someone was going to steal it from him before morning.

As I neared the street, two men, dark figures silhouetted by the streetlights, blocked my path.

I looked over my shoulder so I wouldn’t be taken by surprise again.

“Give us your wallet and your watch.” There was the gleam of a knife in the streetlight; the other man hefted a length of something heavy and hard.

“Too late,” I said. And jumped.

I appeared in the Stanville Library, back in front of the shelf that went from “Ruedinger, Cathy” to “Wells, Martha.” I smiled. I hadn’t had any particular destination in mind when I’d jumped, only escape. Every time I’d jumped from immediate, physical danger, I’d come here, to the safest haven I knew.

I mentally listed all the places I’d teleported to and considered them.

They were all places I’d frequented before jumping to them, either recently, in the case of Washington Square and the New York hotel, or repeatedly over a long period of time. They were places I could picture in my mind. I wondered if that was all it took.

I went to the card catalog and looked up New York. There was a listing under guidebooks, Dewey decimal 917.-471. This led me to the 1986 Foster’s Guide to New York City. On page 323 there was a picture of the lake in Central Park, in color, with a bench and trash can in the foreground, the Loeb Boathouse to one side.

When Mom and I were touring New York, she wouldn’t let us go farther into Central Park than the Metropolitan Museum on the park’s east side. She’d heard too many stories of muggers and rapes, so we didn’t get to see the boathouse. I’d never been there.

I stared at the picture until I could close my eyes and see it.

I jumped and opened my eyes.

I hadn’t moved. I was still standing in the library.

Hmph.

I flipped the pages and tried the same thing with other places I hadn’t been—Bloomingdale’s, the Bronx Zoo, the interior of the base of the Statue of Liberty. None of them worked.

Then I hit a picture of the observation deck of the Empire State Building.

“Look, Mom, that’s the Chrysler Building and you can see the World Trade Center and …

“Shhhh, Davy. Modulate your voice, please.”

That was Mom’s expression, “Modulate your voice.” Much kinder than saying “Shut up” or “Pipe down” or my dad’s “Shut your hole. “We’d gone there the second day of that trip and stayed up there an hour. Before I hit the picture I hadn’t realized what an impression it made on me. I thought I only had hazy memories of it at best. But now I could remember it clearly.

I jumped and my ears popped, like they do when you take off and land in an airliner. I was standing there, the cold wind off the East River blowing my hair and ruffling the pages of the guidebook I still held in my hands. It was deserted. I looked down into the book and saw that the hours were listed as 9:30 to midnight.

So, I could jump to places I’d been, which was a relief in a way. If Dad could teleport, he wouldn’t be able to jump into my hotel room in Brooklyn. He’d never been there.

The view was confusing, all the buildings lit, their actual outlines nebulous and blurring together. I saw a distant green floodlit figure and things fell into place. Liberty Island was south of the Empire State and I looked down Fifth Avenue toward Greenwich Village and downtown. The twin towers of the World Trade Center should have clued me in.

I could remember Mom feeding quarters into the mounted telescope so I could see the Statue of Liberty. We didn’t go out to the island because Mom was queasy on boats.

I felt a wave of sorrow. Where had Mom gone?

I jumped, then, back to the library and replaced the guidebook on the shelf.

So, was it just any place I’d been?

My granddad, my mother’s father, retired to a small house in Florida. My mom and I visited only once, when I was eleven. We were going to go again the next summer, but Mom left in the spring. I had a vague memory of a brightly painted house with white tile on the roof, and a canal in the back with boats. I tried to picture the living room but all I could picture was Granddad in this indefinite, generic sort of room. I tried to jump anyway, and it didn’t work.

Hmph.

Memory was important, apparently. I had to have a clear picture of the place, gained from actually being there.

I thought of another experiment to make.

I jumped.

On Forty-fifth Street there is store after store specializing in electronics. Stereo equipment, video equipment, computers, electronic instruments. Everybody was closed when I appeared at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-fifth, including the vendor of Italian ice that I’d patronized the day before.

I could see into the stores, though, their interiors lit for security or display purposes. There were steel bars lowered over most of the windows, secured with massive padlocks, but you could peer between them.

I stopped before one store with wider bars and better lighting than most. I studied the floor, the walls, the way the shelves were arranged, the merchandise closest to the window.

I had a very real sense of location. I was here on the sidewalk just six feet from the inside of the store. I could picture it clearly in my mind. I looked up the street both ways, closed my eyes, and jumped.

Two things happened. First, I appeared inside the store, inches from hundreds of bright, shiny electronic toys. Second, within an instant of my appearance, a siren, very loud and strident, went off both inside and outside the store, followed by the blinding flash of an electronic strobe which lit the interior like a bolt of lightning.

Jesus! I flinched. Then, almost without thought, I jumped back to the Stanville Library.

My knees felt weak. I sat, quickly, on the floor and shook for over a minute.

What was the matter with me? It was just an alarm, some sort of motion detector. I didn’t have this reaction when the two thugs in Washington Square accosted me.

I calmed down. That hadn’t been so unexpected, so abrupt. I took several deep breaths. I could probably have stayed there, transferred several VCRs back to my hotel room, before the police showed up.

What would I do with them? I wouldn’t know who to sell them to, not without getting ripped off or busted. The very thought of dealing with the kind of people who bought stolen goods made my skin crawl And what about the store owner? Wouldn’t he be hurt? Or would insurance cover it? I started feeling guilty just picturing it.

Another thought set my heart to beating harder and faster. Maybe that flask was for photos? Maybe they have closed-circuit TV cameras set up?

I stood up and started pacing across the library, breathing faster, almost gasping.

“Stop it!” I finally said to myself, my voice loud in the quiet building. How the hell are they going to catch you, even if they had your fingerprints, which they don’t? If they did catch you, what jail would hold you? Hell, no merchandise was stolen, no locks forced, no windows broken. Who’s going to believe there was someone in the store, much less press charges?

Suddenly, like a weight descending on my shoulders, I was exhausted, weaving on my feet. My head began to ache again, and I wanted to sleep.

I jumped to the hotel room and kicked off my shoes. The room was chilly, the radiator barely warm. I looked at the thin sheets on the bed. Inadequate. I thought about the man in Washington Square Park. Is he warm enough?

I jumped into the dark interior of my room in my father’s house, scooped up the quilt from the bed, and jumped back to the hotel room.

Then I slept.

It was midday when noise from the street, a horn I think, woke me. I pulled the quilt higher and looked at the cheap hotel room.

It was Wednesday, so I thought my dad should be at the office. I stood up, stretched, and jumped to the bathroom in the house. I listened carefully, then peered around the corner. Nobody. I jumped to the kitchen and looked out at the driveway. His car wasn’t there. I used the bathroom, then, and had breakfast.

I can’t live off my father forever. The thought made my stomach hurt. What was I going to do about money?

I jumped back to the hotel room and sorted through my clothes for something clean to wear. I was running out of underwear and all of my socks were dirty. I considered going to a store, picking out a selection of clothing, and then jumping without paying the bill. The ultimate shoplifter.

Real class, Davy. I shook my head violently, gathered up all my dirty clothes, and jumped back to my father’s house.

There—more and more, I was thinking of it as his house, not ours. I considered that a good step.

Well, he had left some of his clothes in the washing machine without moving them to the dryer. From the smell of the mildew, they’d been there a couple of days. I piled them on the dryer, then started a load of my clothes.

If it was his house, then why was I there? He owes me at least the odd meal and had of laundry. I refused to feel guilty for taking anything from him.

Of course, while the washer ran, I paced through the house and felt guilty.

It wasn’t the food, or doing laundry. I felt guilty about the twenty-two hundred I took from his wallet. It was stupid. The man made good money but made me wear secondhand clothes. He drove a car that cost over twenty thousand dollars but kept me, so he wouldn’t have to pay my mom child support.

And I still felt guilty. Angry, too.

I thought about trashing the place, tearing up all the furniture, and burning his clothes. I considered coming back tonight, opening his Cadillac’s gas tank and lighting it off. Maybe the house would catch fire, too.

What am I doing? Every minute I stood in that house made me feel angrier. And the angrier I got, the more guilty I felt This is not worth it. I jumped to Manhattan and walked through Central Park, until I was calm again.

After forty minutes, I jumped back to Dad’s house, took the clothes out of the washer and put them in the dryer. Dad’s mildewed clothes I put back in the washing machine.

There was something else I needed from the house. I went down the hall to Dad’s den—his “office.” I wasn’t supposed to go in there, but I was a little past caring about his rules and regulations. I started in the three-drawer filing cabinet, then moved to his desk. By the time the clothes were finished drying, I was finished, too, but I hadn’t found my birth certificate anywhere.

I slammed the last drawer shut, then gathered my dried clothes up and jumped back to the hotel room.

What am I going to do about money?

I put the clothes on the bed, then jumped to Washington Square, in front of the park bench. There was no sign of the sleeper from the night before. Two old women sat there, deep in conversation. They glanced up at me, but kept on talking; I walked down the sidewalk.

I’d tried to get honest work. They wouldn’t take me without a social security number. Most of them also wanted proof of citizenship—either a birth certificate or a voter’s registration. I had none of these. I thought about illegal aliens working in the U.S. How did they get around this problem?

They buy fake documents.

Ah. When I’d walked down Broadway in Time’s Square, several guys had offered me everything from drugs to women to little boys. I bet they’d also know about fake IDs.

But I have no money.

I felt very third world, caught in a trap between needing money to make money and no superpower’s loan in sight. If I didn’t pay my hotel bill the next day, I was also back out on the street. I would need some form of debt relief.

The shriek from the Forty-second Street burglar alarm seemed less frightening in broad daylight. I thought about stealing VCRs or TVs and hocking them at pawn shops, then using the money to try and buy fake ID.

The thought of carrying a VCR into a pawnshop frightened me. I didn’t care that I was uncatchable. If someone was itchy enough I might take a bullet. Perhaps I was being paranoid. If I stole something worth more? Jewelry? Go to the museum and rip off paintings? The more expensive the item, the more chance I had of not making any money from it, getting ripped off or killed.

Maybe the government would hire me?

I shuddered I read Firestarter by Stephen King. I could imagine being dissected to find out how I did this thing. Or drugged so I wouldn’t do it—that’s how they controlled the father in that book. Kept him on drugs so he couldn’t think straight. I wondered if they already had people who could teleport.

Stay away from the government. Don’t let anyone know what I can do!

Well, then—I guessed I’d have to steal money itself.

The Chemical Bank of New York is on Fifth Avenue. I walked in and asked the guard if there was a bathroom in the bank. He shook his head.

“Up the street at the Trump Tower. They have a rest room in the lobby.”

I looked distressed. “Look, I really don’t mean to be a problem, but my dad’s meeting me here in just a few moments, and if I’m not here he’ll kill me, but I really got to pee. Isn’t there an employees’ rest room somewhere?”

I didn’t think he’d buy it, but the lie, plus any mention of my father, was making my distress real. He looked doubtful and I winced, knowing he was going to send me away.

“Ah, what the hell. See that door there?” He pointed to a door past the long line of teller’s windows. “Go through there and straight back. The bathroom is on the right at the end of the hall. If anyone gives you a problem, tell them Kelly sent you.”

I let out a lungful of air. “Thanks, Mr. Kelly. You’ve saved my life.”

I went through the door as if I knew what I was doing. My stomach was churning and I felt sure that everyone who passed me could read my intentions and knew I was a criminal.

The vault was two doors before the bathroom. Its huge steel door hung on hinges larger than myself, open, but a smaller door of bars within was shut and a guard sat before it, at a small table. I paused before him, looking past him to the interior of the vault. He looked up at me.

“Can I help you?” His voice was cold and he stared at me like a high school principal looks at a student without a hall pass.

I stammered, “I’m looking for the bathroom.”

The guard said, “There are no public rest rooms in this bank.”

“Mr. Kelly said I could use the employees’ rest room. It’s kind of an emergency.”

He relaxed a little. “End of the hall then. It’s certainly not here.”

I bobbed my head. “Right. Thank you.” I walked on. I really hadn’t gotten a good enough look. I went into the bathroom and washed my hands.

On the way back I stopped and said, “That sure is a huge door. Do you know how much it weighs?” I stepped a bit closer.

The guard looked annoyed. “A lot. If you’re quite through using the bathroom, I would appreciate it if you returned to the lobby!”

I pivoted. “Oh, certainly.” I stared at the door again from my new angle. I saw carts and a table up against one of vault’s interior doors. The carts had canvas bags on them, as well as stacks of bundled money. Another step and I glimpsed gray steel shelves against another wall.

Got it!

The guard started to stand up. I looked away from the door and saw his face color.

“On my way,” I said. “Thanks for your directions.”

He growled something, but I walked briskly down the hall. As I walked past the lobby guard, I smiled “Thanks, Mr. Kelly.”

He waved and I went out the door.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in the library, back in Stanville, first reading the encyclopedia entries under Banks, Bank Robberies, Alarm Systems, Safes, Vaults, Time Locks, and Closed-Circuit Television, then skimming a book on industrial security systems that I found in Applied Technologies.

“David? David Rice?”

I looked up. Mrs. Johnson, my geography teacher from Stanville High School, was walking toward me. I looked at the clock—school had been out for an hour.

I hadn’t been to school in three weeks, ever since the first day I had jumped. I felt my face get hot and I stood up.

“It really is you, David. I’m glad to see you’re all right. Have you gone home then?”

For some reason I was surprised that the school knew I’d run away. I started to agree. It was so much easier to lie, to say I’d come back and that I’d be in school tomorrow. I know that’s what I would have done a month before. Take the path of least resistance. Avoid fuss. Say whatever was necessary to keep people from being mad at me.

I hated for people to be mad at me.

I shook my head “No, ma’am. I haven’t. And I’m not going to.”

She didn’t seem shocked or even surprised “Your father seems very worried. He came up to the school and talked to all your classes, asking if anyone had seen you. He’s also put up those posters … well, you’ve probably seen them around town.”

I blinked, then shrugged. Posters?

“What about school?” she asked. “What are you going to do about classes? How are you going to go to college? Or get a job?”

“I … I guess I’ll have to make other arrangements.” I felt good about not lying to her, but was still afraid she was going to disapprove of me, “I tried to take the GED,” I said. “But they won’t let a seventeen-year-old take it without parental permission or a court order.”

Mrs. Johnson licked her lower lip, then asked, “Where are you staying, David? Are you getting enough to eat?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m okay.”

Her words seemed chosen very carefully. It dawned on me that she wasn’t going to bawl me out for missing school or for running away. It was as if she was trying to avoid spooking me—avoid scaring me off.

“I’m going to phone your father, David. It’s my duty. However, if you like we can talk to the county social worker. You don’t have to go home if you don’t want to.” She hesitated and then finally said, “Does he abuse you, David?”

The tears came then, like an anvil falling out of a clear blue sky. I thought I was fine up until then. I squeezed my eyes shut, and my shoulders were shaking. I kept quiet, stifling the sobs.

Mrs. Johnson took a step toward me, I think to hug me. I recoiled, stepping back and turning away, wiping furiously at my eyes with my right hand.

She dropped her arms to her side. She looked unhappy.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, then two more, the shakes gradually diminishing. “Sorry,” I said.

Mrs. Johnson spoke then, softly, carefully. “I won’t call your father, but only if you come see Mr. Mendoza with me. He”ll know what to do.”

I shook my head. “No. I’m doing okay. I don’t want to go see Mr. Mendoza.”

She looked even more unhappy. “Please, Davy. It’s not safe on the street, even in Stanville, Ohio. We can protect you from your father.”

Oh, yeah? Where were you for the last five years? I shook my head again. This was going nowhere.

“Do you still drive a gray VW, Mrs. Johnson?” I said, looking over her shoulder.

She blinked, surprised by the change of subject. “Yes.”

“I think somebody just hit it.”

She turned her head quickly. Before she figured out that you couldn’t see the parking lot from where we were standing, I jumped back to the Brooklyn hotel.

God damn it all to hell! I threw the industrial-security book across the room, then scrambled to get it, a wave of guilt washing over me, both about getting angry and about mistreating a library book. Books didn’t deserve to be abused … did people?

I curled up on the bed and pulled the pillow over my head.

It was dark when I sat up, dazed and uncomprehending, waking in slow, confusing stages. For a moment I looked around, expecting to find Mrs. Johnson standing over me and telling me many fascinating facts about western Africa, but I woke up a little more and the dim light coming through the thin shade revealed the room, my condition, my state of being.

I stood up and stretched, wondered what time it was, and jumped to the Stanville library to look at their wall clock. It was 9:20 P.M. in Ohio, and the same in New York. Time to get to work.

I jumped to my backyard, behind the oak tree. Dad’s car was in the driveway, but the only lights on were in his room, the den, and my room. What’s he doing with my room? I felt panic rising, but forced it down. Ignore it. You’ll be able to get to your room.

The gardening stuff was in the garage, on a shelf above the lawn mower. Rakes, shovels, and a hoe hung on nails across the wall below the shelf. I appeared before this collection and groped past insecticides, fertilizer, grass seed until my hands closed on the old gardening gloves. I put them on, then jumped to the front driveway.

Dad’s Caddy gleamed in the streetlight, a huge, hulking beast. I walked to the passenger side and tried the door, gently. It was locked. I looked in, at the plush upholstery and the gleaming dash. I could vividly remember the smell of it, the feel of the seats. I closed my eyes and jumped.

The car alarm went off with a whooping shriek, but I was expecting it. I opened the glove compartment and took the flashlight. The porch light came on and the front door started to open. I jumped to my room.

The alarm sounded a great deal quieter from here, but still unpleasant. I was sure that porch lights were coming on all over the neighborhood.

The ski mask was in the bottom drawer of my dresser, buried under several pairs of too-small long underwear. I found it just as the car alarm stopped. I started to jump, then realized I didn’t have the flashlight in my hand. I looked around the room and saw it on the dresser.

The front door shut and I heard footsteps in the hallway. I picked up the flashlight and jumped.

The gloves were leather, old and stiff. They hurt my fingers just to bend them. The ski mask was large enough, even though it was four years old. All the stretch was gone and it was pulled out of shape, but I thought it would work. Positioned right, it covered all of my face except my eyes and the bridge of my nose. The bottom half hung loosely over the rest of my face, but it concealed it.

It itched like hell.

I jumped

I appeared in a pitch black room with dead air and a smooth floor. I waited a moment before I turned on the light, steeling myself for the scream of an alarm. I was also afraid I wasn’t in the right place and didn’t want to rush the moment of failure’s discovery.

I didn’t hear any alarms, though, for all I knew, lights could be flashing on a dozen monitor consoles from the bank all the way to the police station. If there were other teleporters in the world, wouldn’t banks know about them and take measures? Like flooding the vault with poison gas when it was locked? Or booby traps? The air around me turned thick, and the darkness pressed in on me until I thought that perhaps the very walls were moving in. I flicked the flashlight switch without conscious volition.

So much money!

The carts I’d seen earlier were stacked high—either with neatly bundled piles of money or with trays of rolled coins or rough canvas bags with “Chemical Bank of New York” stenciled on their sides. Most of the shelves held bundled stacks of new bills.

I closed my eyes, suddenly dizzy. By the vault door there was a light switch. I turned it on and fluorescent lighting lit the room. There didn’t seem to be any TV cameras in the vault, and I couldn’t see any little boxes on the wall that looked like any of the heat sensors I’d read about that afternoon. No gas flooded from vents. No booby traps sprang into action.

I turned off the flashlight and went to work.

The first cart I came to was obviously from the previous day’s deposits. The money was definitely used, though bundled neatly. I picked up a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills. The paper band wrapped around the middle said “$5,000” and was stamped with the Chemical Bank’s name. There was a cardboard box on another cart. It was filled with packets of one-dollar bills, each packet holding fifty bills. I tried to estimate how deep the stack went, then shook my head. Count later, Davy.

I picked up the box and jumped to the hotel room. I dumped it on the bed, then jumped back.

I started at one end and moved to the other. If the packets looked new, I checked to see if the bills were in serial-number order. If they were I left them. If they weren’t I put them in the box. When the box was full, I jumped to the hotel room, dumped the contents on the bed, and jumped back.

When I was done with the loose money on the carts, I checked the bags. They seemed to be transfer deposits from subbranches, all in used bills. I took all the bags, without checking the contents of the others. Money was already spilling off the edges of the bed so I put the bags on the floor, under the bed.

The shelves held new bills, the range of their serial numbers neatly written on their paper bands. I left them and took a last look around. Still no ringing alarms. The door was solidly shut.

It didn’t matter. If what I had read about time clocks was true, it would take a very special set of circumstances to open the door before the next morning, even if alarms were ringing.

For one brief second I considered leaving a thank-you note, perhaps even some spray-painted graffiti, but decided against it.

I imagined there would be enough excitement the next morning without that.

I jumped.