Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure (8 page)

“Hey, Bobby!” I yell after him before he gets to the door of the station. “Take my wallet and pay inside. Give her the twenty.”

He runs about halfway back and I toss him my worn leather wallet. He catches it and acts as though he’s caught a touchdown as he dances to the station.

I wait for him to pay and when the pump grinds to life, I drop the nozzle into the fuel tank, lock it, and lean back against the car. I watch the analog numbers slowly spin on the old pump as the car fills up. My mind feels like those numbers. It’s spinning. It’s too full. I’m not sure what to make of everything.

I take mental inventory: I was kidnapped; I was interrogated and let go; I’m being stalked; I’m somehow part of an attempted assassination plot; I’ve been complicit in something treasonous by delivering iPods around the world; my girlfriend may be cheating on me; and I am busy chasing the invisible son of a secessionist sniper.

I would laugh at the ridiculousness of it all if I didn’t feel as though my world is unraveling.

The pump finally clicks to a stop. I replace the nozzle, screw the cap back on the tank and shut the little door.

I decide I might as well go to the bathroom while we’re stopped. I could use another Dr. Pepper anyway. I cross the parking lot to the store, stopping for a second to let a dark colored sedan with tinted windows squeal its way out of the parking lot. I think it’s the same car we passed on Highway 290 about a half hour earlier but I’m not sure.

The rush of air conditioning feels good as I walk into the store. I walk past the register and down an aisle of candy to the cooler on the back wall. There are shelves full of twenty ounce bottles: water, flavored water, sports drinks, energy drinks, and soft drinks. I have to double back a couple of times before I spot the Dr. Pepper.

I look behind me and over the other aisles. I don’t see Bobby; he must still be in the bathroom. I grab a couple of drinks from the cooler and walk them back to the register.

“I’ll pay for these in a minute,” I tell the clerk, who seems not to care.

I walk back to the bathroom and knock on the door marked
MEN
. There’s no answer. I knock again and try the brass door knob. It turns clockwise and I push the door, but it won’t open. There’s something leaning against it.

“Bobby?”

Again no answer. My pulse quickens and I start pushing harder against the resistance. I lean my left shoulder into the door and push. I can feel something sliding along the floor as I shove my way into the small bathroom. There’s a stall and the urinal on the wall opposite the door. I look down.

Bobby’s eyes are fixed and distant. The bullet holes between them are deep and round.

The bathroom door is locked behind me and I’m cradling Bobby’s head in my lap. His pants are unbuttoned and his belt unbuckled. His pant legs are soaked. They shot him while he was taking a leak. My wallet is on the floor next to him.

I move to lay his head gently on the bathroom floor and notice there’s blood all over my left hand. On the wall to the left, there’s red spatter mixed with the graffiti; two holes drilled into the drywall amidst the mess. The bullets went through his head and lodged in the wall.

I stand up, holding my bloody hand away from me. It drips on the floor as I step over Bobby and turn on the sink. There’s a cracked bar of green soap next to a roll of white paper towels. I wash my hands up to my wrists and dry them. There’s blood under the fingernails of my left hand but I can’t do anything about it. I can sense I’m moving almost robotically, dispassionately, as I pick up my wallet.

With Bobby on the floor beneath me, a pool of blood expanding beneath his head, the driver’s license photo stares at me from behind a protective, clear plastic sleeve in my wallet. It’s me. I look down at Bobby, struck by our resemblance to each other.

They
thought
he
was
me
.

This jolts me back to the moment. The blood on the floor is about to seep beneath the bathroom door and into the store. I grab Bobby’s keys from his front pocket and the roll of paper towels. I unwrap half of the roll and stuff it on the floor underneath the door and slip out into the store.

As calmly as I can, I walk to the exit past the glass-enclosed register. The cashier doesn’t even look up as I make my way back to Bobby’s Mazda 3. As I am about to jump into the driver’s seat and leave, I notice a bus in the parking lot next to the Dairy Queen. Its marquee reads HOUSTON.

A group of people start to make their way back to the bus. I reach into Bobby’s car and grab my new cell phone. I also get
his
phone, his wallet, a worn UT baseball cap, my backpack and lock the keys in the car.

The group shuffles back to the bus and I merge with them as the driver opens the door. She’s writing on a clipboard and doesn’t even look up at me. I find a seat in the back by the bathroom, sit next to the window, and pull the hat low over my head.

As the bus pulls away, I call 9-1-1 from Bobby’s phone. In a voice barely above a whisper I tell the operator about Bobby. He’s dead in a bathroom at a gas station next to a Dairy Queen. His car and his keys are in the parking lot at a pump.

I hang up before giving her any more information, slip the window open, and toss the phone out of the window.

I get up quickly and open the accordion door to the bathroom at the rear of the bus, close it behind me, and lock it. I turn around to face the toilet, and puke into it. I keep vomiting until there’s nothing left and my stomach muscles burn from the contractions. The mirror above the small sink shows me that my eyes are sunken and my skin is pale, almost green.

I
got
him
killed
.
It’s
my
fault
.

I fill the small sink with cold water and splash it on my face. I’m cleaner but not cleansed. I grab a handful of paper towels and wipe the area around the toilet seat, wiping up residual vomit. I wash my hands again before I return to my seat.

Bobby’s wallet is holding a hundred dollars in twenties. Mine has blood on it. There’s still forty dollars in it. My credit cards are no good. Neither are Bobby’s. I toss them out the window, hoping someone might find them and use them. That might throw off whoever it is that wants me dead. It’ll keep the police from finding me until I can sort this out.

It’s only a matter of time before they see me on the surveillance video in the store. They’ll trace me to the car. My fingerprints are everywhere in the vehicle and in the bathroom. I need to hurry.

The bus is half empty. Nobody seems to notice me. I tilt the baseball cap back on my head and stare out the window.

We pass a mileage marker on the side of the highway. HOUSTON 94 MILES. That buys a little time to think.

***

I’m sick to my stomach. My throat burns. Whoever killed Bobby wants me dead.

Slouching in my seat on the Houston-bound bus, I dial 4-1-1 on my new phone and tell the operator I need the number and address for Channel 4 in Houston. I have the information texted to my phone and wait for the operator to connect me.

“News 4 Houston,” the voice answers. People who work the assignment desks in newsrooms are either old and homicidal or young and stressed. This woman sounds young and stressed. I ask her for George Townsend. She sighs loudly and her yell for George gets cut off when she puts me on hold.

“George Townsend.”

“George, this is…I’m the guy who called you earlier about Ripley.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Your phone goes straight to voicemail.”

I had forgotten my discarded phone was his only way to reach me. “This is my new number, sorry. The old one’s no good anymore.”

“Okay,” he says. I can hear him typing. He’s always typing. “I have good news.”

“Really?” I could use some good news.

“I found Ripley’s son.”

“You did?”

“He’s here in Houston.” Townsend stops typing. I assume he’s waiting to hear my response.

“Good,” I say. “I’m on my way to you right now.”

“What?” He sounds surprised. “Why?”

“Someone is trying to kill me. Whoever it is has something to do with Ripley.”

Townsend says nothing.

“George?”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you.”

“Say something.”

“That’s not the quid pro quo I was hoping for.”

I tell him I’ll meet him when I get into town and that he needs to have a place for us to meet privately. He hesitates.

“Look,” I say, “my name is Jackson Quick. I work for the Governor. Google me. I am legit. I am not crazy. I am telling you I am connected to the attempt on Don Carlos Buell’s life, Ripley, and his son. I need to find out how. You can help me.”

“Okay,” he sighs. “I’ll get us a place to talk. I’ll see you when you get here”

He hangs up and it takes everything in me to press the END button on my phone. I am spent. I send Charlie a quick text message from the phone. I don’t want her to worry:

it’s
jackson
.
have
new
temp
phone
.
taking
bus
.
lots
to
tell
u
.
will
call
l8r
from
houston
. <
3

I close the phone and lean my head against the window. The adrenaline rush has faded. I need some sleep.

***

The dream is always the same.

I’m trapped in a school locker. I bang on the door and scream for help. There’s nobody there, and I am running out of air.

Through the slits, I can see my mom. She’s in the distance, maybe a hundred yards from me, running toward me as fast as she can.

My dad joins her from out of nowhere. Side by side, they’re coming. They’re on their way to rescue me.

I bang harder and harder against the door of the locker. My hands are bruised but I keep banging. I need them to hear me. They need to know I am still here.

As my mother’s hands reach for the latch to free me she bursts into flames. My father catches fire too. I can smell their burning hair, hear their primal screams as both of my parents are incinerated into piles of ash on the ground. Trails of smoke waft from their remains and in through the slanted vents of the locker. I can feel the space shrinking around me, trapping me more impossibly than before. As I am about to be crushed, I awake. The image of the flames is still there.

I am still alone in the back of the bus, bothered I’ve left one nightmare for another. The UT cap is again pulled low over my eyes. My arms are folded across my chest. I can feel the sweat under the brim of the cap, against the small of my back, and under my arms.

Through my drowsiness and the window, I recognize the Houston Galleria. We’re heading south on what’s called The Loop, passing the high-end shopping district southwest of downtown.

The traffic slows and I check my cell phone. There’s a missed call. The phone’s on vibrate and I haven’t set the voicemail yet, so there’s no message. I hit redial for the number, which has a Houston 713 area code, and wait for an answer on the other end.

“George Townsend,” he answers. “Is this Jackson?”

“Yeah it’s me,” I speak softly, trying to remain as invisible as I can on the bus. “I’m here in Houston.”

“I tried calling you again,” George says. “You didn’t pick up.”

“New phone. I didn’t know the volume was off.”

“I’ve got a place we can talk. Where are you?”

“We’re about to get off of The Loop and head back north on highway 59 toward downtown. The bus station is there.”

“I know where it is,” he says. “I can meet you there in ten minutes. I’ll be in a black Lexus SUV.”

When we pull up to the station ten minutes later, Townsend’s Lexus is already there. I step from the bus and scan the parking lot for a dark sedan with tinted windows. I don’t find one. I’m startled when the bus releases its air brakes. I can’t believe this is my life. I take a deep breath and lower the cap on my head as I approach Townsend.

He’s taller than I expected. Thinner too. He’s wearing tan suit pants and a white dress shirt with French cuffs. His shoes are worn, brown leather loafers. It reminds me reporters always have horrible shoes. He has a cell phone in his left hand and offers his right as I approach him. I grip his hand with the little strength I can find and look him in the eyes, searching for signs of skepticism. He blinks and smiles.

“I’m George.” He shakes my hand up and down a couple of times and lets go. “I’m glad you made it here. I’m really interested in what you have to share with me.”

“I bet,” I chuckle at his honesty. “Aren’t you underdressed? I mean, no suit today?”

He shrugs and glances down at his clothes “I’m not on the air today. I’m part of the investigative team, so I’m not on the air every day.”

“He gestures to the passenger’s side of his car and turns to open the driver’s door. “So,” he says, “let’s hit the road.” He’s acting as though this is a Sunday drive, like I’m not some hit man’s target and he could be in danger now too. I’ll let him doubt me for now. He’ll find out I’m for real soon enough. I hope he doesn’t run when he does, or even worse, come to the realization the instant before two bullets rip through
his
head.

I slide into the car, toss my backpack into the back of the SUV, and am hit with the smell of cigarette smoke. The air is stale and sour and I can feel it in the back of my throat. There’s a half empty pack of Winston’s and an open can of Dr. Pepper in the center console. Everybody drinks Dr. Pepper. It’s the national drink of Texas or something.

“Who’s trying to kill you?” he asks me without any hint of disbelief in his voice. It catches me off guard.

“I don’t know, but it’s obviously got something to do with Don Carlos Buell and Ripley.”

“What’s your connection to them?” “I’m not ready to talk about that yet,” I say. “Let’s wait until we get to where we’re going.”

“Okay,” Townsend sounds frustrated. He has his arm around the back of my seat as he backs up, brakes, and pulls out of the parking lot and onto the street. He purses his lips as he merges into the left lane of traffic. “This seems to be a one way deal right now.”