"Steven Gould - Jumper 02 - Reflex" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gould Stephen Jay)

against the wall. One of them had a ratty backpack, two carried bedrolls under their arms, and the
fourth wore an indeterminate number of blankets, Indian style.

She could tell that most of the blankets had been brightly colored but now they were muted, the
barest hint of pastels where once primary colors ruled. The man with the blankets wore old Nikes,
ripped, showing bare, dirty skin beneath. He turned his head as a brightly colored BMW went by.

These people are nearly always on the street.
 She looked in her purse at the picture of Davy she'd taken from the Aerie. She went down the
street to Kinko's and had his half of the photo blown up, black and white, a little fuzzy at
eight-and-a-half by eleven, but clearly recognizable.

She started to get a hundred run off, so she could post them, then stopped. How will they
contact me?

She rejected using her hotel room. The search might leave the area. She thought about putting
the number of the NSA on there, but if they hadn't found him yet, she wasn't sure she trusted them to
take the calls.

She asked the clerk, "Is there someplace around here that sells cell phones?"

Forty minutes later she had a local cell phone with several hundred pre-bought minutes. And,
most important, a phone number.

On the way back to Kinko's, she stopped in a hardware store and picked up a hammer-stapler
and a box of staples. When she left Kinko's, she had one hundred sheets with Davy's picture and the
words, "Have you seen this man?" the new cell phone number, and the place and date he had last
been seen.

She started at Interrobang and worked her way west on H over to George Washington
University, putting them up on the phone poles and the occasional plywood fence that blocked off
construction. At Twentieth she went north, first, up to Pennsylvania Avenue, then went back and did
the stretch down to G street, then east as far as Eighteenth.

Every homeless person she saw she gave two bucks and a flyer. "Hi, I'm looking for my
husband. This is his picture. Have you seen him?"

No.

Next person.

No.

She worked her way in a large square around the abduction site and the Interrobang. She'd
almost completed the square, coming west on H back from Eighteenth when she tried a pair of men
playing cards on a packing crate. One of them was clearly a recycler, leaning against three enormous
plastic bags filled with aluminum cans. The other had a bedroll and a basset hound.

"Nah. Never seen him," said the recycler.