Free Jumper: Griffin's Story by Steven Gould

okay? I'm leaving but we don't want them to hurt Alejandra, right?"
    "Claro que si!"
    Everyone who knew her thought highly of Alejandra.
    "I owe you."
    He jerked his chin up and grinned. "Claro que si." At the edge of the beach park, vendors had tables selling Oaxacan souvenirs to the tourists–black pottery, Guatemalan clothes, painted wooden carvings made with tropical hardwoods. I found a small hand mirror set in painted copal wood for twenty dollars Americano. I paid for it without haggling.
    Vidal unlocked the back stairs of the hotel for me, to access the roof. It was a popular place for the employees when the resorts over at
Tangolunda
Bay
did fireworks, so I'd been there before, but I didn't jump.
    I didn't want to jump around them–not until I left for good.
    The roof was gravel over tar and I took my time moving across. I didn't think they'd be able to hear me through the roof, but all the rooms had balconies and if they were out there, or had the sliding door open, they might.
    As I approached the concrete parapet that edged the roof I heard them talking. From the sound, they weren't on the balcony but they must've opened the door.
    My Bristol–accented friend spoke: "–'e won't be the owner–'e's just a kid. We should find out who owns the house, and all of 'em that lives there." He groaned, surprising me.
    "Your stomach, still? It happens sometimes, to foreigners. Different bacteria, they say." Mexican–accented English. Probably the man from the Agencia Federal de Investigation.
    "Bugger the bacteria."
    "I will ask downstairs who owns the house."
    "No! They're neighbors. You ask questions, they might answer, but they also might pick up the phone, comprende ? There must be records you can check more discreetly."
    The agent of the AFI said, "Yes, there are records. Over the phone is not so good, though. With my badge in their face, the results are better. You will not need me directly?"
    "No. It's a waiting game now. Call me." I heard the door open, but before it closed I heard him add, "And please get me some Pepto–Bismol." It was a strain. This man clearly wasn't accustomed to saying please.
    "Of course, Sehor Kemp. And some more bottled water?"
    "Good of ya."
    The door closed.
    "Shite!" I heard him–Kemp?–groan again and then move. His footsteps changed, echoed.
    He's in the bathroom.
    I heard his belted pants dropping to the floor and the unmistakable sounds of gastric distress.
    Impulsively I shoved the mirror into my back pocket and swung over the parapet. It wasn't a hard climb at all. The divisions between the balconies were honeycombed bricks providing good foot and hand holds. Heights didn't bother me, since I could always "jump" to safety. I was on the balcony before he flushed the toilet. I knelt in the corner and silently edged one of the chairs back to partially hide me.
    There were footsteps and he came to the edge of the doorway, binoculars held to his face. He was scanning the house, Alejandra's house, my house.
    No. Not my house, not my home. Not anymore.
    Maybe I could push him off the balcony.
    He checked the street; he checked the windows of the house. He took something from his pocket and, still looking through the binoculars, he spoke into it.
    "Anything?"
    There was an answering voice, crackling with static, low volume. "No. Not since earlier, when we were driving over here from the dentist. Felt maybe seven jumps in a minute."
    "You've got better range than me–I only felt two of those, at the edge of town. I sent Ortiz out to find out who owns the house. Keep your eyes open, right? I can't watch continuously."
    The response was too low for me to hear, but this side of the conversation was loud and clear: " 'Cause the bloody toilet is not line of sight with the target, okay?" He put the radio back in his pocket and, groaning, turned back to the bathroom.
    I'd been right to climb down.
    Range. Varying range. One of them could sense me from, say, Dr. Ortega's office, five