Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Read online

  I try to speak, but my mouth is dry and my lips seem cauterized. Against the scratch in my throat I whisper, “How did you find out?”

  “How did I find out what?”

  My focus is improving and I can see the furrow in her brow. Her red hair is pulled back in a ponytail and there are thick smudges of black under her eyes. Her nose is red.

  “That I was here?”

  “They said they found my number in your phone. You’d texted me or something. They called the last number dialed.”

  She’s right. I did text her from the bus.

  “How did I get here?” I lick my top lip slowly. My mouth is dry.

  “Somebody dropped you off,” Charlie says. She reaches for a Styrofoam cup on the bedside table, dips a plastic spoon into it and shovels out some ice chips, which she scoops into my mouth. “This’ll help.”

  I guess the look on my face betrays my confusion, because she continues to explain.

  “Some guy pulled up into the ambulance bay right behind the emergency room entrance, found a wheelchair and put you in it. He wheeled you up to the nurses’ station and left. He didn’t say anything, just left you there with your head bleeding.” She scoops another spoonful of ice into my mouth.

  “The doctors told me you had two bad cuts to the back of your head. They removed a couple of pieces of glass too. They said it looked like you’d been in a car crash. You also had a concussion.”

  “I was in a car crash.” I clear my throat. “It was downtown.”

  “Is that why the cop is here?” She looks past me toward what I guess is the hallway outside my room. I hadn’t looked that way yet.

  Cop?

  “He’s been outside your room for an hour or two now,” she speaks softly again. “The doctors won’t let him in the room yet. They said he wants to talk to you.”

  I twist myself to the right and shift my weight to the right side of my body. I’m tangled a little bit in the IV line that disappears into my right hand, but I manage.

  Through the door to my room, I can see the hustle of the emergency nurses and doctors across the hallway. Sitting in a chair to the left of my door is who I suppose is the police officer. He’s wearing a white shirt with a blue blazer, gray pants, and a burgundy colored tie loosely knotted around his neck. He looks fit and his dark hair is combed back and gelled flat against his head.

  “He’s not in a uniform,” I say without turning back to Charlie.

  “I know. Someone must have died in that car crash, Jackson.”

  “What?” I spin around and feel the pinch of the needle in my hand.

  She takes my left hand again. “He told me he was a homicide detective and…” she pauses, as though she’s finding it difficult to share bad news, “he said he needs to talk to you when you’re up to it. Were you driving, Jackson?”

  Charlie’s eyes glass over and well up. A thick tear runs down her face and detours at her lips.

  “Oh God, Jackson,” she sighs. “Were you driving a car that killed someone?”

  I shake my head. I’m still fuzzy about many things going on around me, but I wasn’t driving. The cops should know that too.

  “I wasn’t driving.”

  Charlie wipes the mascara from under her eyes with the backs of her index fingers and puffs out her cheeks to exhale. She seems spent but she’s still beautiful.

  “I’ve got to clean up,” she says. She stands and fans her face with her hands. “I am a mess!” She leans down to kiss my forehead. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I roll back, still twisted in the IV line, to watch her leave. My eyes are fixed on her skinny jeans until she stops to talk to the officer in the chair. She says something, looks back at me and smiles, and disappears down the hall.

  The officer stands, brushes off the arms of his blazer, and walks to the doorway of my room.

  “Ah’m Detective Crockett,” he says, leaning in against the door jamb. He has a deep southern twang. “Your girlfriend here says you’re feelin’ better. Maybe we could talk?”

  “Sure,” I tell him. What other choice do I have? “Is George okay?”

  “Who’s George?” he asks. “I’m here to talk to ya ‘bout Bobby.”

  The beeping from the heart monitor gets louder and repeats faster. It’s an unintentional lie detector. The detective notices and tilts his head. His right hand has a red and yellow tattoo. There is something inked on his fingers too.

  “Hmmph,” he grunts and slips his hands into his pants pockets. “Sumpin’ got ya nervous, Mr. Quick?”

  “Do I need a lawyer?” I don’t think I want to tell this guy anything.

  “I dunno,” he says, taking a step into the room. “Do ya?” He takes another step toward my bed when he’s interrupted.

  “Excuse me,” says a tall woman with broad shoulders and a surgical cap on her head who pushes past the detective and stands between him and me. “You can’t be in here.” I recognize the baritone. It’s the man-woman. “I’ve already told you this,” she says as her words push Crockett back out of the room. “He hasn’t been awake for ten minutes. I need to check his vitals. He’s had injuries to his head.”

  “The girlfriend gave me permission,” he says, maybe a little bit intimidated by the doctor. “So I figgered…”

  “You figgered wrong,” she mocks him. “Now go!” She waves him back to his chair. “If you bother him again until I give you permission, you’ll be out of my hospital.”

  The cop backs up to his chair and sits down. He brushes off his jacket sleeves and crosses his legs. He pulls out a cell phone and starts dialing.

  The man-woman turns her full attention to me and grabs a clipboard from the end of the bed. “I’m Doctor Graff,” she says, “and you are…Jackson Quick?”

  I nod.

  “You have had a nasty day, Mr. Quick,” she tells me. “A concussion. At least one. You’ve got a couple of deep lacerations to the scalp at the base of your skull. We pulled some glass fragments from your head. They looked like tinted window glass, probably from a car. Blood work shows no alcohol in your system, or any other drugs. You did lose a fair amount of blood and were dehydrated when you got here.”

  I just look at her.

  “So,” she says, “your prognosis is good. We stitched you up with a half dozen dissolving sutures. You might need a little Tylenol or something for the next couple of days, but other than that…”

  “I can go?”

  She shrugs her massive shoulders and folds her arms across her chest, pressing the clipboard flat against herself. “I guess so. It’ll be a few hours. We need to do some paperwork and such, but you should be out of here by later this morning.”

  “Morning?” I ask. “When did I get here?”

  “Middle of the night,” she says. “Six or seven hours ago. Someone just dropped you off. We thought you were homeless at first, then we found your wallet in your front pocket, and your phone.”

  I roll back onto my left side. For some reason, it’s more comfortable.

  “How do you want me to handle this cop out here?” Doctor Graff walks around to the left side of the bed, sitting in Charlie’s chair. “Want me to stall him? I mean, I know I should be helpful to the police. Lord knows, I don’t know you from Adam. But that cop gives me the creeps. He’s way pushier than most who come in here.”

  “Where is here?” I ask. I still don’t know where exactly I am.

  “Memorial Hermann Texas Medical Center. Busiest trauma room in the country,” she smiles, unconsciously pulling back those shoulders with pride. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Have you seen his badge?” I asked. “What police department is he with?”

  “You know,” she says, considering the question, “I don’t know. Let me check.” She gets up from the chair, still holding the clipboard and walks back across the room to the hallway. I can’t see into the hall.

  Charlie is standing in the doorway, her hands in her pockets. Her hair is out of its ponytail and sof
tly frames her face. She smiles at me and walks to the right side of my bed, next to the IV machine. She sits on the edge of the bed and puts her hand on the white sheet covering my legs.

  “You okay?” I ask. My voice still doesn’t sound normal. It’s raspy.

  “Am I okay?” She laughs and tosses her head back. “You’re in a horrible crash, the police want to talk to you, and you ask if I’m okay.”

  Doctor Graff appears in the room behind Charlie. “Mr. Quick, it looks like you’ll get out of here a little sooner than I thought.”

  “Why?”

  “Well,” she says, “when I asked the cop which agency he works for and to show me a badge, he up and left.”

  I look at Charlie and back at the doctor in confusion.

  “He didn’t want to answer me,” Doctor Graff said. “Maybe he wasn’t really a cop.”

  “I don’t get it.” I look at Charlie again. “I thought he talked to you, Charlie?”

  “He did,” she says. “He told me he worked for homicide.”

  “He didn’t tell you where he works?”

  “No.”

  My attention returns to the doctor. “Your hospital let him in here without knowing who he is?” My voice cracks.

  Doctor Graff arches her back in indignation, her voice deepens. “We let you in here without knowing who you are. We’re a hospital, not a secure government facility. We didn’t let him get close to you.”

  Close enough.

  Whoever he is, he knows about Bobby. He knew where to find me. I am not safe. Charlie is not safe.

  “Charlie,” I put my hand on her leg. “We have got to get out of here and disappear.”

  ***

  I’m at the back entrance of the hospital, sitting in a wheelchair and waiting for Charlie to pull her car around when I see “Detective Crockett” standing at the opposite end of the parking lot. He’s leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette. At first I don’t think he notices me, but he tosses the butt to the sidewalk, grinds it into the cement, and starts walking toward me.

  I can’t wait for Charlie. I stand up and push back from the wheelchair.

  “Sir,” says the nurse behind me, “you’ll need to stay in the chair until your ride pulls up.”

  I ignore her and spin to walk away from the hospital and Crockett.

  “Sir!”

  I’m too focused on where I need to go to answer her. I need to get away from this guy, whoever he is.

  I reach the end of the parking lot where it meets the street and turn left. My legs feel lighter than I would have expected. I guess being rehydrated has helped.

  “Jackson!” he’s calling after me. I don’t turn around, but I can hear the stress in his voice. He’s jogging, breathing heavily. “I need to… talk. To. You! You. Need. To. Stop.”

  I start to jog to the next intersection, which meets at the front entrance to the hospital. It’s Fannin Street, a main street that runs through the medical center, I remember. The traffic is heavy with early morning commuters.

  “Jackson!” He’s running now. Maybe only ten yards behind me. He’s fast.

  I pick up my pace and begin to run as Charlie drives past me in her silver Jetta. I try not to look at her, but I can sense she sees me and is confused. Her brakes screech on the pavement.

  “Jackson! What are you doing?”

  I don’t turn around. Can’t she see I’m being chased? Is she blind? I raise my hand to wave at her as I keep running and round the corner onto Fannin. I turn left in front of the hospital and notice the light rail train approaching in the distance. It’s coming toward me. Across the street, where the tracks run, there’s a train platform.

  Oblivious to the traffic, I sprint across two lanes to the platform just as the train passes in front of me, separating me from Crockett. The doors open and I slip into the rail car to find a seat. There are maybe a half dozen people on the train, and several of them appear homeless. I find a rear-facing seat in the front of the car.

  I slip into the molded plastic seat, which reminds me of a McDonalds’ booth, winded from the brief run and try to catch my breath. There’s blood on my Kinky shirt. I would have thought the hospital would wash my clothes.

  The Metro light rail trains run essentially north and south. The large, color-coded map on the wall of the train car shows a northbound stop at Rice University, which I consider, but decide to skip. A couple of stops away is a transfer station to buses. That’s a possibility, as is the one in the middle of downtown.

  What am I doing? I can’t keep running aimlessly. They’ll find me again. I have got to get to Ripley in West Texas.

  I pull my cell phone out of my front pocket and thumb through the menu until I find my missed calls. I toggle to George’s number and hit send. It rings twice.

  “George Townsend.”

  “George? Is that you?”

  “Is this Jackson?”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Dude, I can’t believe you answered your phone. I thought you were hurt or dead!”

  “Yeah,” he sighs, “almost.” He sounds tired. “I got bruised up pretty badly in the crash, but I’m okay. Where are you? “

  “On my way to find Ripley. Where are you?”

  “I’m at home. The station gave me the day off.”

  “I don’t get it,” I tell him. “Don’t you want to finish this?”

  “I am finished, Jackson,” he says. “I don’t think…”

  “Don’t think what?” I snap, irritated.

  “I don’t think I can help you anymore.”

  “What? Why not?” I lurch forward as the train stops at a platform. A few people get off, several more get on.

  “This is too heavy for me, man.” I can hear him suck on a cigarette and exhale. “This is life and death. I almost got killed.”

  “I told you this was life and death.” I’m trying hard to keep my voice down but it’s difficult. I’m pissed off. “You knew that. I told you my friend got killed. I told you I was kidnapped and tortured. There are big things happening here.”

  “Too big,” he says. He doesn’t sound like the same ambitious reporter he was yesterday.

  “They got to you didn’t they? Somebody scared you into backing off. Was it the other guy in the dark suit? The professor at Rice? Buell?”

  “Buell?” he scoffs. “You’re being paranoid.”

  “Paranoid?” I laugh. “It’s not paranoia when you’re really being followed and men are really trying to kill you, George.”

  He says nothing, sucks in another drag.

  “We have to meet.” Something’s not adding up and I can’t tell what it is over the phone.

  Silence.

  “George?”

  “Okay,” he reluctantly agrees. “George Bush Monument. It’s a public park. You know where it is?”

  “No.”

  “It’s across the street from the main post office on the corner of Franklin and Bagby. Meet me there in a half hour.”

  I flip the phone closed and slip it into my pocket. The train is slowing again. Another stop. No one gets off, but a couple of people get on.

  The map on the wall of the car tells me I should take the train to Preston, get off there, and walk four or five blocks west to Bagby. I can find the monument from there. I’m focused on the map when a man sits down next to me. I don’t recognize him until he speaks.

  “Jackson,” he says. “You are always on the run, aren’t you?” I smell the licorice on his breath. It reminds me of pain and I unconsciously rub my wrist.

  I start to get up but he firmly grabs my forearm and urges me to sit. I comply.

  “You should sit with me,” he hisses. “You owe me one.”

  His eyes are black and lifeless. It’s as though the iris bleeds into the pupils, making his eyes look permanently dilated. There are deep creases at his temples and thick swells of skin underneath his lower lids. He is older than I imagined. His hair is white, not gray, though his eyebrows are still black. He’s clean shaven and his
angular jaw protrudes forward. His skin is ruddy and folded. He is a large man who appears uncomfortable in his expensive clothing. He clears his throat.

  “I saved your life, good boy.”

  “Saved it?” My voice raises an octave and only the squeeze of his paw on my arm lowers the volume to a whisper. “You put me here. I am running because of you, you sadistic piece of—”

  “Right,” he says. “This is my fault. It is so typical of your generation to blame others for problems of their own making.” He releases his grip on my arm, closes his eyes, and sighs, adjusting the red silk cravat at his neck

  “What do you want from me? What do those other dudes want from me?”

  “Those other dudes,” he chuckles. “That’s why you owe me, Jackson.” For a split second, there’s life in his eyes. “You need to trust what I am about to tell you.” His stare lasts a second longer than is comfortable and I glance away. “You are well aware your life is at risk here. This, Jackson, is much bigger than you.”

  “I know,” I say, still avoiding eye contact.

  “Do you know what is on those iPods you delivered?” His grip tightens, but loosens when I squirm.

  “I told you I don’t,” I remind him. “You need to trust what I’m telling you.”

  The train lurches to a stop and more people get off.

  “We know,” he whispers close to my ear. “You synched an iPod to a computer before you delivered it to the contact in Tulsa.”

  Tulsa was my final delivery. It happened a week ago, or two weeks ago. I’ve lost track of my days. It was just a couple of days before the psycho sitting next to me managed to drug me and torture me. My pulse is quickening, sweat forming on my lip.

  “Is that why you took me?” I ask. “Trying to find out what I knew?”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Look,” I try to assure him. “I never hooked up any of the iPods to any computers.”

  “So,” his lips stretch into a smile, two worms simultaneously inching themselves across his cheeks. “You admit you know about the iPods. That is most assuredly progress, Jackson.”

  “Progress,” I shoot back, “would be you telling me what all of this has to do with Don Carlos Buell.”