Jumper by Steven Gould
“I thought I’d killed you,” he said, finally. “I thought I’d killed you.”
Ah. I remembered wondering if my ability to teleport was just the product of blackouts, familiar with blackouts because Dad had them so often. I almost smiled. He thinks I’ve been haunting him.
“What makes you think you didn’t kill me?” I said, and jumped behind him. “Maybe you did kill me.”
He flinched, turned around, and saw me there. His face was white, his eyes were wide. I jumped behind him again, grabbed him around the waist—oh God, he’s so light—and jumped to the living room of his house in Stanville. He flailed about and I let go of him, shoving him forward as I did. He tripped over the ottoman and fell forward. Before he hit the floor I jumped back to Florida, behind the Calloway-Jones Funeral Parlor.
When I came around the corner to go back inside, Sergeant Baker leaned suddenly against the side of the building and fumbled for a cigarette. I wondered if Sergeant Washburn was working his way up the other side of the building.
I went through the doors and sat down by Lionel.
“What happened?” he asked in a whisper, a distressed look on his face.
“He went home,” I said.
“Oh.”
Sergeants Baker and Washburn came in again and took up their station in the back. They looked puzzled.
The service was awful. The Methodist preacher had never met Mother, had never talked to those who loved her, hadn’t a clue about what sort of woman she was. He talked about senseless tragedy and God moving in mysterious ways and before it was over, I was ready to cause more senseless tragedies, starting with the pastor. He talked of Mom’s deep, unshakable faith and I knew that was bullshit. Mom had found some measure of spirituality after going through Alanon, but she’d admitted to me that she wasn’t at all sure what form or shape her “higher power” took.
The only thing that made it bearable was that I wasn’t alone in my opinion. When he came over afterward to express his sympathy, I just shook my head.
Lionel was less kind, saying, while we were shuffling out to the cars, “Where did they get him?”
“Silverstein said he spoke at my grandfather’s funeral. I guess Silverstein thought he’d do.”
“He was wrong.”
“Yeah.”
There was a great deal of jostling among the press as we filed outside. Cameras clicked and flashed and whirred and reporters talked into microphones and hand-held minicassette recorders. None of them approached us, yet.
They made me ride in a limousine behind the hearse, alone except for a silent driver. I thought Mr. Adams had a much nicer limo, but I didn’t say so. What am I doing here? For Mom. You’re here for Mom.
The burial was mercifully short, attended by Lionel and the woman of the Fly-Away Travel Agency, Leo Silverstein, and sergeants Baker and Washburn. The press was there also, at the edge of the cemetery, doing things with telephoto lenses and shotgun microphones. I was tempted to jump several times in front of them and give them something really exciting to report.
A reception was arranged for a local hotel. People were loading into cars when Washburn and Baker finally stepped forward.
“Ah, Sergeant Baker and Sergeant Washburn. How nice of you to come.” My voice was bitter.
That stopped them in midstride, confused for a moment. They didn’t know that I’d eavesdropped on them that time in the apartment. They pulled out their badges anyway, programmed to do things a certain way. “We’d like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Rice, or is it Mr. Reece?”
“You say tomato, I say rutabaga.” I took out the driver’s license and flipped it at Sergeant Washburn. “Here, it’s even got my fingerprints on it. Maybe they’ll match up with the pottery you guys dusted in my apartment. How’s your wife, Sergeant Washburn? Raised any good bruises, lately?”
The spinning card bounced off of Washburn’s chest and dropped to the grass. He stooped and picked it up, handling it by its edges. His face was getting red and Baker was looking sideways at him.
Silverstein stepped forward, a puzzled look on his face. I turned to him.
“Sergeant Washburn and Sergeant Baker, NYPD. They wrangled a vacation in Florida to question the notorious criminal... me.”
“Are you a criminal, David?”
All the rage burst out. “Hell, yes. I’m guilty of running away from home, of buying a fake ID out of desperation, and of using it to open a bank account. Worst of all, I’m guilty of intervening when a policeman nearly beats his wife to death! Nearly as bad as a terrorist, any day.”
Leo blinked and looked at Washburn as if he were something he’d found under a rock. “Well, this hardly seems like hot pursuit. Why are you down here, gentlemen? Why didn’t you just request our Florida authorities to pick him up?”
“There is the question of identity,” Washburn said angrily.
“Not anymore,” I said.
He nodded. “That’s right. Not anymore.”
Silverstein looked from the New York police to me. “Well, again, you seem out of your jurisdiction. Have you talked to Sheriff Thatcher?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, then, come along, David. There’s a reception at the Holiday Inn. I doubt that many of your mother’s friends will be there, but there will be a lot of your grandfather’s friends who wish to pay their respects.”
Washburn, an irritated look on his face, stepped between us and the cars and said, “We still have a few questions.”
“David, my advice, as your lawyer and,” he added, looking over his glasses at Washburn, “as an officer, ipso facto, of a court which does have jurisdiction in this county, is not to answer these questions. Come along, we’ll be late for the reception.”
I spread my hands apart and shrugged at Washburn, then followed Silverstein as he walked back to the limo. When we were far enough away from them I whispered, “You’re not my lawyer.”
“Well, as I said earlier, I’m the executor of your mother’s estate and, with the exception of a few bequests to her friends at the travel agency and Mr. Bispeck, you are the recipient of the greater part of the estate. So, in a sense, I am your lawyer. Besides, I consider myself the family’s lawyer, old-fashioned as that may be. Unfortunately, you’re the only member left. By the way,” he said, opening the limo door, “what did you say to your father that made him leave?”
I climbed in. “I’d rather not say, actually.”
He shrugged. “Scoot over, I don’t think I should leave your side while the two sergeants are around. It’s amazing the ameliorating effect a lawyer has on a policeman’s behavior, especially when they’re out of their jurisdiction. I’ll come back and get my car later.”
On the way to the hotel he said, “Do you have a dollar, David?”
I looked in my wallet. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking very clearly this morning. I didn’t get out of my... room with anything smaller than a hundred.”
I looked back at Silverstein. He was staring at my open wallet, which held about twenty hundred-dollar bills. “Uh... just how do you make your money, David?”
“Banking, banking speculation.” I smiled slightly. I speculates whether there’s any money in a bank and I takes it.
“Well, give me a hundred dollars then.”
I’d read my share of Nero Wolfe mysteries. “Ah, the old lawyer-client confidentiality scam. You want to ask me some questions and you don’t want to have to tell the police the answers.”
He blushed. “Well... let’s just say I want to reserve the option of not answering their questions.”
I took out five hundred-dollar bills. “Might as well make it a convincing retainer.”
“Can you afford this?”
“Easily.”
He took a notebook out of his jacket pocket. “Let me write a receipt.”
“I trust you.”
“Well, thanks for that vote of confidence, but the receipt is to protect both of us. It provides a ‘documentation trail,’ as we say i
“Washburn was my downstairs neighbor in New York. He beats his wife. I helped her get to a shelter. He started investigating me and found that I’d purchased and used a forged New York State driver’s license.”
Silverstein’s eyebrows went up. “Why on earth did you do that?”
“I was a runaway in New York City and I couldn’t get a job without ID. That’s why!”
“You didn’t have a driver’s license from Ohio?”
“No. And I didn’t have a Social Security number either. And, worst of all, I didn’t have a birth certificate, so I couldn’t get the others.”
“Why didn’t you just write off for a copy of your birth certificate?”
“Huh? You can do that?”
He laughed, then stopped when he saw the look on my face. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what your circumstances were, but it just seems ironic that you broke the law without knowing there was a legal alternative.”
“Ho, ho, ho.”
“Is that all they want you for?”
“That’s all they have on me, but... I’m pretty sure Washburn has portrayed me as some kind of drug dealer.”
An expression of distaste crossed Silverstein’s face. “Are you?”
“God damn it! My father’s an alcoholic. That’s the closest I’ll ever get to drug dealing. No, I’m not a drug dealer. I’m not a user either.”
“Calm down. I’m glad you’re not, but I had to ask. I wouldn’t have disclosed our conversation, but I would have given you the retainer back.” He looked out the darkened glass at the back of the limousine. “The two sergeants are still with us. I would have thought they’d split up, one to follow us, one to go to Sheriff Thatcher.”
“They only have one car,” I reminded him. “They may call from the hotel, though.”
“Hmmm. Well, if I were you, I’d avoid being arrested. Extradition is a tricky process and you could end up sitting a long time in a Florida jail cell while I fought the procedure.”
“Are you advising me to run away?”
He shrugged. “Take a vacation.”
I shook my head. “You’re just as bad as me.”
He shrugged again. “We can lose them at the hotel. You go in for a moment, to the reception, and I’ll have Walt Steiger pick you up around back. There’s an exit by the men’s room. I’ve used it many a time to sneak out of Kiwanis meetings.”
“That’s kind of you, but I’ve made my own arrangements.”
“To get away?”
The limousine pulled into the hotel driveway and stopped at the door. “No, just travel arrangements, but they’ll do. Nobody’s going to arrest me.”
I shook more hands than seemed possible for the number of people in the room. I couldn’t help but wonder if someone in there was an octopus in disguise. “Yes, ma’am. Kind of you to say so, sir. Yes, I’ll miss her very much. Thank you for coming. It would have meant a lot to her that you came.” God, will this ever end?
The bunch from Sacramento rescued me after forty-five minutes.
“Mary called me from London, you know, to tell me how her visit with you went.” Lionel smiled. “Christ, she was scared to go see you.”
I swallowed. “It was mutual. Did she say the visit was a success?”
“Oh, yes. She was very happy to have seen you,” Lionel said.
Patricia nodded fiercely. “She talked about your weekend all through the trip. Even when we were in the plane, when the terrorists were... well, she said, ‘At least I saw Davy.’ “
I lost it then. “Uh, excuse me.” I stumbled blindly to the men’s room, into a toilet stall, and leaned against the tiled wall, tears streaming down my face. Inside a voice screamed, inarticulate, unintelligent, but pierced through with pain. It hurts. I don’t know why I should have been surprised.
After a few more minutes, a dozen or so deep breaths, and several blows of the nose, I left the stall, washed my face, and straightened my tie. Time to say good-bye and blow this joint.
There was a Florida police officer standing at the back door, the one Leo Silverstein used to avoid Kiwanis meetings. I went back into the reception hall and smiled reassuringly at Lionel and the Fly-Away girls. “Sorry.”
They made noises like they understood. Over by the main entrance stood sergeants Baker and Washburn with a more senior version of the Florida policeman in the hall. Leo Silverstein was talking to them, and his hands were waving emphatically. The Florida policeman held his hands up, placating. Washburn looked angry and Baker kept looking at Washburn, a worried look on his face.
Looks like Baker is catching on.
Jane, one of the Fly-Away agents, came up to me and said, “I know this is a bad time, but I’d like to get a picture of you, to keep with my picture of Mary.”
“Well, I’ll make a deal. I don’t have a current photo of Mom. If you send me a copy, I’ll pay you for it.”
She looked like she might cry. “Oh. Certainly. You don’t have to pay for it. I’d like to....”
I swallowed, then gave her the PO box in New York. I didn’t think the NYPD had that. The utility bills all came to the apartment, but Millie’s letters came to the PO box.
“Let’s make it a group shot, David and Lionel and the Fly-away girls. We’ll get someone else to take the shot.” I pointed over the refreshments. “We can do it against that wall.”
I started pushing and prodding and cajoling and in a minute, all of us were lined up against the wall, Sylvia in the middle flanked on one side by Lionel, Jane, and Patricia, and on the other side by myself, Bonnie, and Roberta. Mr. Steiger held the camera for us and took two quick shots.
“Great. Okay everybody, one giant step forward,” I said, pushing us gently away from the wall. Quietly I said to Bonnie, “I’m going to step back behind. Could you close up the gap when I do?”
She looked confused. “Why?”
I tilted my head toward the police. “Please?”
“Okay,” she said nervously.
I stepped back and she stepped over, pulling Roberta with her. This effectively screened me from everyone in the room.
I jumped.
Chapter 12
The third day of my little walks, my tenth at Serenity Lodge, Mrs. Barton stopped by my table at breakfast in the quiet dining room.
“Everything all right, Mr. Rice?”
“It’s Davy, Mrs. Barton.” That’s what my mother called me.
“All right, Davy. How is your cabin? Do you need anything?”
I shook my head. “No, thank you. Everything’s fine.”
She was fifty-six, a widow whose husband had died of cancer ten years before. She did grief counseling on request, but I’d only talked to her about Mom once, when I checked in. I didn’t tell her how she died, though.
“Well, we like to check. What are you doing with your days?”
“I go for walks. Long walks.”
“If you need anything....”
“Right. Thanks.”
She wandered on, stopping briefly at other tables. Most of the other guests were older, retired, but they left me alone. That was one of Mrs. Barton’s rules. Guests who wanted to socialize gathered in the lodge between meals. You weren’t supposed to talk to people otherwise. I stayed away from the social gatherings, the TV room, and the card parties.
I think Mrs. Barton was worried I might be suicidal.
On my way back to my cabin, I stopped by the front desk and stared at the large-scale topographical map of Presidio County, over three thousand square miles of desert containing whole mountain ranges, but with less population than even a large town. Brewster County, to the east, was even larger, but also more populous since it held Big Bend National Park in its confines. The area was right in the middle of the northern Chihuahuan desert.
Redford, th
I’d ridden out to Serenity Lodge with the weekly grocery delivery. The driver told me that he’d driven a geologic-survey team into El Solitario. They used four-wheel-drive vehicles and were lucky if they made seven miles a day.
On the map, my progress to date was pitiful.
I went back to the cabin and jumped away.
The first morning I left the cabin, I walked about seven miles over the rolling desert, starting just before dawn, at six-forty, and stopping when it got too hot, about twelve. I recorded the particular piece of sand, rock, and ocotillo with the video camera and jumped back to the cabin.
After eating at the lodge, I walked back to my cabin and napped through the afternoon. According to Mrs. Barton, this was to be expected, a common reaction to grief and depression. My first week at Serenity Lodge I slept seventeen to twenty hours a day.
At five, stiff from the morning walk, I stumbled over to the lodge, had my quiet dinner, and went back to study the videotape of the morning’s site. Then I jumped back out to the desert and kept walking until sunset, perhaps an hour. I could see well enough to keep walking, but I wanted enough light to record the site properly with the videocamera.
The rolling desert, with its sameness from place to place, was tricky to memorize. There were differences from site to site, but they were subtle—a weathered piece of mesquite lying so, a rock with a hole in it, a patch of lecheguia in the shape of Lake Ontario.
The second day I reached the foothills and the walking was harder. I did less than five miles, working up the hills slowly, my muscles still stiff from the previous day.
The first day I’d crossed dirt ranch roads with fresh tire tracks and “jumped” several barbed-wire fences. The second day I only jumped one fence, though I walked over several old, broken fences, torn and rusted. The kind of barbed wire was different, solid, antique. The posts on the old fences were sticks of mesquite, twisted and weathered. More and more of the terrain was defined by rock, from pea gravel to building-sized outcroppings, and the dirt roads, what few I crossed, were overgrown and washed out. There were no recent tracks.