Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Page 11

  “That is complicated.”

  “Really?” My sardonic response surprises even me. The fear I felt the moment he sat down next to me has given way to a resigned confidence. I’ve got nothing to lose.

  “You don’t need to know more than you already do until the timing is right,” he says. “What you do need to know, is that you cannot trust anyone involved with this.”

  “Yeah,” I laugh. “Like that isn’t first the most trite spy novel, movie thriller line ever, and second, you told me to trust you.”

  “Look, I’m telling you to let this play out to what I imagine is its logical conclusion. Be careful. You’re traveling west?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I told you I know everything you’re doing,” he reminds me. “Go where you need to go and do what you need to do to figure this out. They’re more afraid of what you know than I am and I can only do so much to help.”

  “Why do you want to help me?” I ask him. “You tortured me for days. You could have killed me.”

  “I didn’t,” he says, the thin smile worming across his face again.

  “So?”

  “So,” he says as the train slows again. “That means I don’t want you dead.”

  “Whose side are you on?” I watch him stand to get off the train. As much as he makes my skin crawl, I don’t want him to leave. “What is happening?”

  “You’re doing my work for me, Jackson,” he says. “Right now, I’m on your side.”

  “But…” I stand and start to follow him. I’m too slow. The door shuts and the train pulls away from the platform. The Saint is gone.

  They’re afraid of what I know, he said.

  What do I know?

  Next to me in the molded plastic seat is a newspaper. The Saint left it. It’s turned to an article about the Governor’s race: Buell Picks Up Steam, Sympathy After Shooting

  A shot in the arm, so to speak. The bulk of the piece explores the latest polling:

  “Our internal numbers,” according to a source within the Buell campaign, “are showing large jumps in groups most likely to vote. They’re also indicating to us that, while the Governor’s ridiculous secession message is resonating with fringe-thinking Texans, it’s not as strong as his (Buell’s) likeability and his revolutionary thinking on a future for the energy industry. He knows this could usher in a new kind of energy dominance, the way Texas took the lead in wind power years ago.”

  The source spoke to the Chronicle on the condition of anonymity, because the source is not authorized to speak on behalf of the campaign.

  The campaign did point to the widely released polling averages on the website Real Clear Politics. Those numbers reveal a startling nine point swing in Buell’s favor since the attempted assassination in Houston less than a week ago.

  “Swings like this are not unprecedented,” said longtime University of Houston political science professor and pollster Bob Murray. “They generally indicate previously undecided voters have made up their minds. We’re not talking about many voters flipping their votes from one candidate to the other.”

  Buell’s lead is outside the margin of error for each of the polls used in the RCP.com index. It is not the kind of momentum the current Governor’s campaign expected to have at this point in the election cycle.

  “We’re aware of the apparent shift in sentiment after the unfortunate attempt on our opponent’s life,” said campaign spokesperson M. Wiley Helms. “We also believe Texas voters are smart enough to vote with their heads and not their hearts. Sound economics, staying on the path of making Texas stronger, and a realistic vision for our collective future as Texans, is what we think guides every voter’s decision come election day. People can feel sorry for a candidate without having to vote for him.”

  So Buell is seeing a bump from the shooting. He’s benefitting from almost getting killed. It’s similar to the movie Bob Roberts, where an upstart senate candidate sails to an unlikely victory after being shot and supposedly paralyzed.

  He benefits. I’m on the run.

  Why did The Saint want me to see this? It’s no coincidence. Maybe he’s trying to tell me something about the shooting without really telling me.

  I’ve got to get to West Texas.

  ***

  The George Bush Monument is on the west bank of Buffalo Bayou, the stream of brown water that runs through the city and empties into the Houston Ship Channel and Galveston Bay. The monument is on an elevated hill near Bagby and Franklin Streets, hidden from the streets by oaks and pines. I’ve been to Houston countless times and never seen it before.

  At the center of the monument is an eight-foot tall bronze sculpture of the forty-first president. He’s wearing a two-button suit and has his right hand in his pants pocket. His right knee is bent and there’s a Mona Lisa smile on his face. It’s impressive up close.

  Surrounding the statue is a semicircular wall depicting the four stages of the president’s life, highlighting various events from his birth to the inauguration of his son, George W. Bush, as forty-third President of the United States. I’m reading some of the bullet points when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  I spin around, swinging my arm at whoever it is behind me.

  “Hey,” George Townsend says, “it’s me.” He backs a couple of steps away from me.

  “Sorry,” I say. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I don’t want to call much attention to us so I didn’t call out your name.”

  I look around to see if there are any obvious snoops nearby. I don’t see anything.

  “Look,” George says. He steps closer to me and lowers his voice. “Whoever this is wants you dead.”

  “And? Tell me something I don’t know. Is that your breaking news?”

  George frowns. “I don’t need the attitude. You dragged me into this.”

  “Sorry,” I apologize. I take a deep breath to reset. “Let’s start over.”

  “Okay,” George looks over his shoulder and inches towards me. He’s whispering. “The plates on the car that crashed into us came back to a private security company. My assignment desk looked into it.”

  “And…”

  “And,” he pauses for effect as if he’s announcing the lowest vote getter on American Idol, “they do a lot of work for Don Carlos Buell.”

  “I knew it.”

  “They also do a lot of work for the Governor,” he adds. I’m not sure what to make of it. ““I didn’t see that coming. I mean, what does that mean?”

  “It means, powerful people, regardless of who they are, don’t want you around anymore.”

  “Okay.” I nod, trying to process this new information. “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?” George looks over his shoulder again, clearly nervous.

  “This doesn’t change anything. We still need to get to West Texas and talk to Ripley. We still need to know what this is about. Are you in?”

  “I don’t know…” he backs away a step.

  “Is work the problem? Do they need you at the station?”

  “No. They gave me a couple of days off because of the accident. And I don’t have anything on air until next week anyhow.”

  “George, if I’m in danger, you are too. You have to figure out what’s going on here too.”

  George looks at me and down at his feet. He shifts his weight and covers his face with his hands. He lets out a sigh and a frustrated grunt.

  “What?”

  “Okay,” he relents. “But we can’t fly there together. We need to travel separately.”

  “Whatever you say.” I don’t care how we get to West Texas as long as he goes with me.

  “I’ll fly out of Hobby on Southwest,” he informs me. “There’s a flight that leaves in two hours. You take United out of Intercontinental. It leaves in two and a half hours, but we’ll get in about the same time. I’ll meet you at the Dollar Car Rental counter.”

  “What city?”

  “Midland.
And, by the way, I’ve got your backpack. You left it in my car when we wrecked. I’ll get it to you at the airport in Midland.”

  “I thought you were backing out? Why would you already know about flights and rental cars if you were going to back out?”

  “I’m a reporter,” he says. “I cover my bases. I didn’t know what I was going to say when I got here. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I needed to be prepared in the event the story got the better of me.”

  I smile at him. He knew what he was doing all along.

  George turns to leave the park and I pull my cell phone out of my pocket.

  “I’ll see you there.”

  I wave at him and dial Charlie to tell her I need a ride to the airport.

  ***

  “You’ve completely lost it,” Charlie says as I buckle into the passenger seat of her Jetta. “I don’t understand what this is about. People are chasing you? You’re going to go where?”

  “I can’t really explain. I don’t want you getting into any trouble.”

  “Are you sure your head injuries aren’t more serious than the doctor let on?” She glances in the rear view mirror before looking at me. “I mean, seriously Jackson, you’re scaring me.”

  I take a deep breath and put my left hand on her thigh, turning my body toward hers. I can only imagine how confusing and frightening this must be for her.

  She’s a smart woman with experience in political circles, but she has no experience with espionage or treason or whatever my cloak and dagger life has instantaneously become.

  I can only imagine what’s running through her head. She must be terrified. I mean, she’s outwardly tough, she can hold her own in a bar or on the floor of the State House, but this is totally different.

  Time for the truth. At least a little of it. Maybe that will help ease her mind a little bit.

  “Look, this is real,” I explain. “I’ve somehow mixed myself up in something bigger than I knew, and not it’s all coming home to roost.”

  We pass the intersection for the north loop. Charlie’s in the fast lane, pushing 75 miles per hour.

  “What do you mean?” she asks without looking at me, her eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

  “I was doing some favors for some people, political fav—”

  “What people?” She cuts me off and steers into an interior lane. The car in front of us in the fast lane is moving at a considerably slower speed. Charlie passes him on the right and shifts back to the left, picking up speed again.

  “I can’t get into that. If I tell you too much, I’ll put you in danger.”

  “You’ve already put me in danger, Jackson. I mean, you asked me to drive you here to Houston this morning.” She glances into the rear view mirror again. “Wasn’t that putting me in danger?”

  She has a point. I’d risked her life the second I knocked on the door of her apartment after my kidnapping. I was being selfish, true, but I’d wanted to see her. Asking her to drive me here to Houston was another selfish move. In retrospect, it was dangerous too. It certainly was for Bobby. Now, to have her drive me to the airport, I’m endangering her again.

  Thinking of others, since my parents’ deaths, has not been my strong suit. My world revolves around me, and that revolution is clearly spinning out of control. I have to think about others losing their balance while I try to maintain mine.

  “You’re right,” I concede. “I’m really sorry.” She’s cruising at close to 80 miles per hour. To the right of the freeway is Gallery Furniture, its big LED sign proclaiming delivery TODAY!!! It stands apart from the seemingly endless blur of strip malls, power lines, and car dealerships that line Houston’s roads.

  She’s clearly irritated with me. “You need to tell me everything. Start with where you’re flying.”

  “West Texas.”

  “More specific,” she says, pushing the accelerator to move past a lumbering 18-wheeler.

  “Odessa.”

  “Why?” Charlie checks her rear view again, looks past me, and slides over two lanes to the right. We’re getting close to the beltway and the exit for the airport.

  “There’s someone there who can help me.”

  “Who?” Charlie spins the wheel to the right as she decelerates into the exit lane. She glances at me only momentarily. She’s focused and deadly serious. There is no hint of expression her face. This is not a side of my girlfriend I’ve seen. Somehow she flipped a switch.

  “Doesn’t matter.” “The hell it doesn’t,” she says and fingers her turn signal to indicate we’re exiting to the north beltway eastbound. Once she’s headed east, she glares at me. “You dragged me into this. I deserve answers.”

  I’m not sure where the switch flipped, but Charlie went from concerned, to agitated, to angry in the span of a few lane changes.

  “I’ll call you when I get there,” I say vaguely, trying to avoid the question. “That way you know I’m okay. It’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t think so,” she says. She yanks the wheel to the right, cutting off a small pickup truck, and exits onto the feeder road.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, bracing myself against the dashboard to avoid falling into her lap.

  Charlie doesn’t answer me. Instead, she pulls over into the parking lot of a gas station, squeals into a parking space, and turns off the engine. She unlatches her seatbelt and turns in her seat to look at me.

  “Look, I don’t mean to snap at you.” She reaches for my hand. “I am really worried. I don’t understand why you can’t tell me what is happening to you. Maybe I can help. We’re supposed to be a couple, you know.”

  “I get it, but your Jekyll and Hyde routine is freaking me out a little bit.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” She pulls her hand away.

  “Just that. You were a little intense there a minute ago. Going all, ‘I don’t think so!’ and ‘The hell it doesn’t!’” I mimic her serious face and wait for her reaction.

  Her face relaxes into a smile. She giggles.

  “It’s the adrenaline,” she says. “It got the better of me. I’m scared.”

  “I know.” I take her hand this time. “It’ll be okay. I’ve got to figure this out, then we can go back to normal.” I’m not sure I believe what I’m telling her. I hope she does.

  “Promise?”

  I nod and lean in to kiss her gently on her lips. She puts her hand on the back of my head and runs her fingers up my hair before I pull back.

  “I’ve got to go to the bathroom. I’m gonna run in here since we’ve stopped.”

  I turn to pull on the door handle and step out of the car. She laughs and I turn back to look at her checking herself in the mirror.

  “Good idea,” she says. “It’s a long drive from Odessa to the observatory.”

  “I bet it is,” I laugh and stand to shut the car door.

  An electronic chime rings when I slide through the gas station door. At the back of the small building and, past the beer cooler, there’s the bathroom door, marked with a plastic sign that reads, ‘Customers Only.’

  Once in the bathroom, I flip on the light and turn to the toilet.

  There’s blood everywhere. On the walls. On the floor. On my hands. I close my eyes and open them again. The blood is gone. The sight of Bobby, dead in my arms, is not. I take a deep breath and turn to lock the door when it hits me: It’s a long drive from Odessa to the observatory.

  Chapter 5

  I didn’t tell Charlie I was headed to the Ft. Davis Mountains and the McDonald Observatory.

  The mirror above the small porcelain sink has a crack in the glass running almost straight down the center of my face. Still, the sallow tone of my skin is evident along with the faint pattern of an ashen beard on my chin and jaw. My eyes are swollen and the dark circles underneath them more closely resemble bruises.

  How could she know?

  My hands spin the hot and cold taps and the water creaks into the basin. I pump some orange liquid soap from th
e dispenser and rub in into my palms. There’s a slight grit in the soap, an exfoliant maybe.

  The water, still cold, feels good splashed onto my face. I have to admit I was hoping for something more baptismal than refreshing.

  There is no hiding from what I now know is true. I am a patsy.

  The Governor played me. My girlfriend played me. I am alone, besides a reluctant reporter, in getting myself out of this.

  How could she know?

  I didn’t tell her, she doesn’t know George, and even Ripley doesn’t know we’re headed for him.

  I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell phone, dialing information for Rice University. The operator connects me.

  “The Richard E. Smalley Institute for Nanoscale Science and Technology at Rice University. How may I help you?”

  “Dr. Aglo, please.”

  “Just a moment,” her voice is replaced by silence, a series of clicks, and more silence.

  “Dr. Aglo here,” the scientist’s voice is familiar. “Who is this?”

  “This is Jackson Quick. We met yesterday. I think it was yesterday. I was with the reporter George Townsend.”

  “I know who you are.” His tone has changed. He doesn’t sound happy to hear from me.

  “Have you told anyone about our visit, sir?”

  Silence.

  “Sir?” I ask again.

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  A pause. I wait.

  “I don’t know,” he says finally. “They were not kind. Threatening really. Asking about you and what you wanted with me.”

  “What did you say?”

  “To be perfectly honest with you,” he huffs, “I don’t like being in the middle of this. I was doing a favor for a friend in letting George and you into Dr. Ripley’s lab. I didn’t have any idea you would cause me this kind of trouble.”

  “I understand. I didn’t think I’d cause you trouble either. Someone was following me and I didn’t know it. Can you tell me what the people looked like and what they asked you specifically?”