Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Read online

  From the cooler, he pulled a bag of big yellow apples and carried them to rocks. He set five of them up in a row, almost exactly like he’d arranged the cans. He walked back with the bag in one hand and an apple in the other. He was chewing on a large bite.

  “So,” he said, still chomping as he picked up the matte black weapon, “this front part of the bow is called the stirrup. You point that at the ground, rest it, and load the bow from that position.”

  He placed it nose first into the ground and slipped his foot into the stirrup. Grabbing the string with both hands, he pulled it back until it caught. Another bite of the apple and he tossed it into the cooler.

  “What I did was pull the string into the catch. That locks the tension on the string. This front part you’d call a bow is actually called a lathe.”

  I nodded, my eyes wide and locked on the bow.

  “Now what do you think this is called?” he asked, holding up a shiny silver arrow with red feathers.

  “An arrow?”

  “Close,” he said. “But no. It’s called a bolt. When you load it into the bow, you need to always do it at the same position. There’s a little groove here it sits in. See it?”

  I nodded again.

  “Now before you lift it up, you check the auto and manual safeties here,” he pointed to them, “then you can aim and fire.”

  He picked up the bow, held the butt to his shoulder and aimed, his left eye squinting.

  Thooop!

  Miss. The bolt clanged off the rocks beneath the apples. My dad opened his left eye and smiled at me.

  “You get the point,” he said. “Now it’s your turn.”

  I fired five bolts. I hit five apples.

  “You’ve got a gift,” my dad said.

  My dad loved me. Both of my parents did. But I don’t think I’d ever seen him beam with such pride. He seemed to skip, float almost, as he went to retrieve the bolts.

  I had a gift. I was a natural.

  It was a good day.

  ***

  Across I-10, in front of the gas station where we’ve stashed George’s rental car, is a black Lincoln Town Car limousine. Exhaust puffing from the tailpipe tells me it’s running.

  “Who is that?” George asks, nodding toward the car. Its rear windows are illegally dark.

  “Dunno,” I say, easing across the intersection and into the parking lot next to the car.

  “Pickle?”

  “I don’t think so.” I put the car in park and turn it off. The keys are still in the ignition. “They would have killed us already.” We’re perpendicular to the Town Car on the driver’s side. I don’t see anyone in the front seat.

  “Or tried,” George laughs nervously.

  The rear driver’s side window rolls down and beyond it is a familiar face.

  The Saint.

  “Who is that?” George looks at the man in the car and back at me.

  “It’s the guy who drugged me, kidnapped me, tortured me, drugged me again, and then saved my life.”

  “Seriously?” George rubbernecks between the two of us again. “How did he find us?”

  “He has a way of doing that,” I huff and get out of the car. “What do you want?” I shout in no particular direction as I round the front of my car toward the Lincoln. I’m carrying the 9MM.

  “You look like bloody hell,” The Saint says from his comfortable seat. “Did somebody get hurt?”

  I look down at my shirt. It’s a Rorschach test of blood spatter. Disgusting.

  “Why are you here?” I asked again, approaching the window. “Where’s your driver?”

  “Well,” says The Saint, “to your first question, I am here to offer my assistance. To your second, he’s in the store getting a drink and using the facilities.”

  “What kind of assistance?” I can feel George over my shoulder.

  “Why don’t you gather your belongings and get inside the car? There’s plenty of room.”

  “I don’t know about this,” George whispers loudly enough for The Saint to hear. “Can you trust him?”

  “My dear George,” says The Saint, his eyes shifting to the reporter, “you cannot trust anyone implicitly. There are degrees of trust, are there not? Right now I don’t see anyone else offering you assistance.”

  “Where would you take us?” I ask.

  “To my plane.”

  George is considering the degrees of trust. “What plane?”

  “I have a small little aircraft,” The Saint says. “You can’t carry your munitions through security at a commercial airport. You might best be served on a charter flight.”

  “All right,” I say, “we’ll go. But you need to make two stops.”

  “Clearly,” The Saint feigns magnanimousness. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  I pop the trunk and grab my backpacks and Charlie’s duffel. George has the phones and the revolver. He slides into the car while I dump my belongings into The Saint’s trunk. I slam it shut and join George in the rear facing seats opposite our host.

  “What about my rental?” George asks.

  “We’ve got bigger problems than returning that car,” I say. “For instance, there’s a trail of dead bodies between here and the observatory.”

  “Including the one you dumped,” George snaps back.

  The Saint pulls a cut crystal glass from the cup holder to his right and swirls a caramel colored liquid before raising the glass to his lips.

  “A body? Dumped?” The Saint’s eyes widen with his smile. “Do tell, gentlemen!” Neither of us say anything.

  He swallows hard and rests the glass on his right knee. “How rude of me! Would either or you care for a drink? This is a Glennfiddich 1937.” He winks at George. “I’m more than happy to share.”

  “Must be pricey,” George says, his eyes on the knee-balanced glass in The Saint’s right hand. “Only bottle in the world, and all.”

  “A bit,” he raises the glass to his nose, closes his eyes, and inhales. “I paid twenty at an auction in 2006.”

  “Twenty dollars?”

  The Saint bellows with laughter, slapping his knee with his left hand. “Oh heaven’s no, good man. Twenty-thousand.” He sips from the heavy glass, and licks his lips. “Twenty dollars,” he mumbles. “Ha!”

  “I’m good,” I say. “Thank you.”

  He raises the glass toward me in a toast. “To each his own, Jackson.”

  The front door opens and shuts, and the limo lurches forward.

  “Where’s the plane? Midland or El Paso?”

  “It’s in Alpine at a small airstrip there,” he says. “Not a long drive. So, back to body dumping. Details please.”

  I tell him about our meeting with Ripley, the shootout in the room, Ripley’s death, Charlie and Crockett, and my attempt at coercion with the Pickle spooks. I’ve got nothing to lose by filling him in on what we’ve done.

  “Impressive,” says The Saint, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “You’re more than I anticipated you’d be, Jackson. Every step of this journey, you prove to be surprisingly formidable.”

  “Charlie said something like that,” I say. “It’s a backhanded compliment.”

  “Ahhh,” he nods. “Still not over the girl are we? She was a stunning beauty, I’ll admit. Let’s be honest with ourselves, Jackson. She was never who she claimed to be.”

  I turn to look out the window at the field of pump jacks, dotting the land like chess pieces on a board.

  Are any of us who we claim to be?

  “Enough about the siren who sent you careening into Charybdis,” The Saint says. “Whose body did you dump?”

  “Ripley’s,” George answers for me. “It’s on the side of highway 118.”

  “Ripley?” The Saint says. He seems surprised. “I didn’t anticipate that. Dumping Ripley reveals a calculating, self-preserving, almost cold-blooded side to you both. I’ll have some of my friends go retrieve what you’ve left behind and assure the authorities are left in the dark, so
to speak. That would be helpful wouldn’t it, George?”

  “It wasn’t my idea,” George says quickly.

  “You didn’t have any ideas,” I retort without taking my eyes off the horizon. “Call it whatever you want. I was doing what was necessary.”

  “Please don’t mistake me, good man,” The Saint offers, waving his hand for clarification. “I’m not judging you. I’m applauding you. Again, you’ve risen far above expectations.”

  “Whose expectations?” I turn to look at him. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Everyone involved, Jackson.” He pulls the glass to his lips and, before gulping fifteen hundred dollars’ worth of whisky in a single swig, he says, “You should be dead by now.”

  Chapter 11

  The airport is a couple of miles north of Alpine, Texas. It looks like a Martian landing strip. Reddish brown dirt is everywhere, and in the distance, there’s a small rise of jagged hills. There’s a small terminal building next to a couple of large fuel tanks. Past the terminal, which really looks more like an aluminum storage building, is a white twin engine jet. Except for a tail number, it’s unmarked.

  “That’s your plane?” I ask, tapping the tinted window. “The white one?”

  “Yes,” says The Saint. “It’s quite comfortable. An Embraer Legacy. I had it made to very particular specifications.”

  “That’s your plane?” George asks. “It’s not a loaner?”

  “A loaner?” The Saint laughs. “Heavens no. It’s mine. Although, I have to tell you the cost of jet fuel has skyrocketed so much, it’s almost not worth it. If it weren’t for the discretion it provides many of my friends, I’d likely have sold it.”

  “You’re good with stopping in Austin first and then Houston?” I asked. “I have things I need to take care of there.”

  “Of course. Whatever you need, Jackson. I have to stop in Austin regardless. It’s no bother.” I get the feeling there’s something he’s not telling me.

  The car stops beside the jet and the driver opens The Saint’s door first. He lumbers out of the car with help and the driver moves to our door.

  It’s warmer outside than it was at the gas station near the observatory. I’m glad to be in shorts and a T-shirt, regardless of the blood. I get my backpack from the driver before he loads the contents of the trunk into the belly of the jet. Its engines are on and the flip down steps into the jet are open. I can smell the jet fuel.

  A slender blonde is standing to the left of the steps. She’s in a tight blue skirt and tighter white blouse. Her hair is pulled tight against her head in a slick bun. She smiles with unnecessarily red lips and waves me aboard the plane.

  “Please watch your step, sir,” she says in a slight southern drawl. Virginia maybe, or North Carolina. Definitely not Texas. “Be careful of your head when you reach the top. Welcome aboard.”

  I thank her and step up and into the cabin. To the left is a wet bar with a refrigerator, a wine cooler, and a microwave. Farther left is the lavatory and the cockpit, its dual controls alit with green and red. To the right is a cabin nicer than my apartment.

  Facing the rear of the jet, I see it’s an ode to ivory leather and walnut trim. Along the right side of the aircraft, stretching much of its length, is a long sofa. To the left are four pairs of captain’s chairs. Two face forward, and both are occupied by uniformed Texas State troopers. They might be Rangers. Two more chairs face the rear of the aircraft and all of them have walnut tables between them. At the rear of the jet is a pair of what look like recliners.

  There’s the subtle sound of opera playing over the speakers and the hiss of air conditioning. The Saint is lounging on one of the recliners at the rear of the cabin. He’s waving at me to join him.

  “Come, my boy!” he commands. “Sit with me. There is much to discuss.”

  I walk back to the rear of the aircraft and sit in the recliner next to him. It’s incredibly comfortable. I’m physically exhausted. The smell of the leather, the plushness of the cushion, the gentle violin of the music would have me asleep if it weren’t for the adrenaline coursing through my body. I drop the backpack between the two recliners.

  “What do you think?” He spreads his arms, as if he’s parted the sea. “Far superior to a commercial flight, don’t you think?”

  “It’s the music that makes it,” I lean my head back against the thick high back of the chair.

  “It’s Charles Gounod,” he says affecting the French pronunciation. “His splendid adaptation of Goethe’s Faust.”

  “Is it?”

  He turns to me with interest. “It was originally rejected by the Paris Opera for not being lavish enough. It wasn’t until a revival years later that it became a hit.”

  “Did it?” I ask.

  “Oh yes,” he says. “Fascinating. You can interpret something one way, only to find out, much to your surprise, it was much better than you’d originally surmised.”

  “Fascinating,” I sigh. “Now what is it you want to discuss? You seem to be hiding something from me. It’s like you know a lot more than you’ve let on. You’re playing me.”

  George is spinning in a captain’s chair near the front of the cabin. He’s on my phone.

  “You are right,” he says. “I have not been fully transparent with you. I should tell you that—”

  “Gentlemen,” says the pilot over the intercom, “we’ll be taking off here in a couple of minutes on runway zero, one, nineteen. We’ll travel at about four hundred knots, fly up to about thirty-eight thousand feet and reach Austin, Texas in under an hour and twenty minutes. The skies are clear, winds are calm. We don’t expect any problems. If you need anything, please ask your cabin attendant Sally Anne. She’s here to help.”

  The music resumes. My host wipes the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger. “As I was about to tell you,” he begins before being interrupted again.

  The lavatory door pops open and out walks a familiar face.

  “Jackson Quick,” the man says as he struts to the back of the plane. “As I live and breathe.”

  I’m not quite sure how to react. He’s the last person in the world I’d expect to see on this plane.

  “Have you been playin’ hooky from work, son?” He laughs before sliding onto the end of the sofa in his dark blue suit. He adjusts his tie, spreads his arms across the back of the sofa, and rests a black ostrich skin boot on his knee. He exhales and smiles a large toothy grin. His hair is impossibly perfect, ice blue eyes looking right through me.

  “Governor,” I say. “How are you?”

  ***

  The day my life changed is seared into my mind. A perverse version of it plays repeatedly in my nightmares.

  It was the day I killed my parents.

  My knee was stiff. It was cold and rainy outside of my fogged bedroom window. I sat on the side of my bed and did slow leg extensions to loosen up the scar tissue. I didn’t want to go to school.

  Blair Loxley had been relentless that week – pushing me into lockers, sticking his flat palm into my Salisbury steak lunch and running the grease across the top of my head with his fingers.

  I took it. I was rising above it. I hoped if I continued to ignore him he would eventually quit. It wasn’t working. Bruised ribs, a knee operation, and situational depression were all evidence.

  Action was needed.

  Rather than climb back under the covers and fake a stomach flu, I got up and quietly walked down the hall to my dad’s office. I opened the accordion closet doors and, behind some winter coats, found his gun safe. He didn’t know I’d seen him enter the combination a couple of times and I had it memorized. Three spins and I had it open. Inside were a couple of handguns and a pair of rifles. I gripped my Henry, checked to make sure it was unloaded, and slowly closed the safe door. It clicked shut and I padded back to room to get ready for school.

  Both of my parents were in the kitchen when I bolted through the front door with a quick “Goodbye!” hollered over my shoulder. I
t was still dark outside, and I had the Henry, butt up, hidden under my coat and behind my messenger bag. In the daylight, someone would have noticed it. In the dark of predawn, I was good.

  At the track, I crouched behind a small equipment shed. There was a six-inch gap between the ground and the lower frame of the shed. The Henry slid perfectly between the two, hidden from view.

  I left my prized possession under the shed and trudged to school, stepping in puddles along the way, dirtying my new white Chuck Taylors. Mom wouldn’t be happy. Converse sneakers weren’t cheap.

  I was one of the few students in the hallways. The poor weather would have everybody running late, I was sure. It gave me plenty of time, and opportunity, to stop by Blair Loxley’s locker and slip a small envelope between the vent slats.

  The envelope’s contents reappeared after second period, when Loxley’s fist shoved an unfolded piece of notebook paper into my chest. We were in the hall near the gym.

  “Really, Jacktard?” he sneered. “You ain’t given up yet?”

  “To you?” I laughed. “Right.”

  “Well,” he spat, “you got it. After school. At the track.” He pushed my left shoulder and strode off down the hall.

  I looked down at the note, I was holding in my right hand:

  Hey, Stooge. Let’s end this. Today. I’ll see you where you tried to end ME. I doubt you’ll have the guts to show up.

  He knew it was me. Who else would it be, right?

  I didn’t see him again until the end of a very long day. I watched, it seemed, every tick of the classroom clock as last period wound down. My heart was pounding.

  I didn’t tell anyone about the antagonistic note. I didn’t want people around, seeing what I was about to do. I knew deep down, it was a bad idea. As I walked up the rise of a small hill overlooking the track, I could tell Loxley hadn’t been as judicious.

  There was a crowd of about twenty, maybe thirty, people standing around waiting. In the middle of them was the bully. He was laughing and joking around, clearly not daunted by my challenge. I’d have to leave the gun behind. There was no using it in this scenario.