Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Page 5

  Chapter 3

  I shift on the uncomfortable seat at my fast food booth. My right knee aches. McDonald’s coffee may be as good as Starbucks, but the decor isn’t nearly as comfortable. Maybe if I were into jazz fusion and the rainforest I’d put up with the expensive java in exchange for more plush seating.

  After twenty minutes of searching variations of Ripley’s name, I can’t find anything that would help me find his son. I’m getting frustrated and ready to head back to my apartment, when my phone rings.

  The number is restricted. I figure it might be the reporter, George Townsend calling me back. Sometimes newsrooms will have blocked numbers.

  “What did you find out about Ripley?” I ask, fully expecting to hear Townsend’s voice on the other end.

  “What do you want with Mr. Ripley?” The voice is deep and resonant. It’s him. Again. The Saint.

  “Uh, I uh, I-I want to know how I’m connected to the shooting. He’s the shooter. I want to know what’s going on.” I gulp past the thick lump that’s instantaneously formed in my throat. I can feel a cool sweat forming on my forehead. I push what’s left of the coffee toward the edge of the table.

  “What do you want to know?” Matter of fact. Like he’s going to help me now.

  Right.

  “He claims his son is involved. Who is his son?” I have nothing to lose by asking.

  “How is it you know?” A change in tone. Surprise maybe?

  “I just do.”

  “Has that reporter, George Townsend, been feeding you this information?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I told you, Jackson,” he pauses, “I am watching everything you do, my good man. From your phone calls, to your work on the internet in a booth at McDonalds, I know what you’re doing. Might I suggest McDonalds is not particularly healthy. Eating there too much could shorten your life. ”

  I whip around to look over my shoulder toward the front counter. There’s a young couple and an elderly man sitting here. Where is he?

  “I’m outside, Jackson.” He can see me. Holy crap. He can see me.

  I’m white-knuckling the phone and turn to look out the window toward MLK. On the corner, near the parking meter where I stood a half hour ago, he is there. A big man, wearing a long sleeve black shirt or jacket with dark pants. The sun is behind him and so I can only make out his figure. He waves at me.

  “Why are you asking me any questions if you already know what I’m doing?” I can feel my knee bouncing up and down reflexively. I’m biting the inside of my cheek. I turn away from the window. I can’t look at him.

  “Old habit, I guess.” He laughs. “Look, chap. Ripley may not be the shooter. You’re onto something there. His son has nothing to do with this. Stay away from him.”

  “Who are you? Why should I believe you?”

  “I am your guardian angel, Jackson. Your saint, so to speak. You really don’t have a choice.”

  I turn back around to look out the window. He’s gone.

  I have got to figure out a way to lose him and find Ripley’s son.

  ***

  I call Charlie from a pay phone four blocks south of the Capitol near the corner of Congress and Eighth. “I need to get to Houston.” It’s not easy finding a payphone anymore. I left my cell phone in the bottom of a trash bin in McDonalds. I’m due for an upgrade anyway and, right now, I can’t take any chances.

  “Why?” She sounds confused or maybe annoyed I am asking her to drop what she’s doing and drive me 3 hours southeast. “Don’t you need to be at work or something?”

  “No,” I lie. I’ve completely forgotten about work. I’ll need to call in sick again or something. “I’ve got another day off. I need to get to Houston.”

  “Why not take your car?” She makes a good point. I don’t want to tell her than I can’t take my car because I’m being followed and tracked.

  “I need new tires,” I lie again. “Can’t risk getting a flat.” I don’t think I am a very convincing liar.

  “Well,” she sighs. “I wish I could, Jackson, but I can’t. I’ve got too much to do here at the Capitol.”

  “Okay,” I try to sound dejected. “I’ll figure it out. I’ll call you later. Love you.”

  “Love you too,” she purrs. “Hey, what number is this you’re calling me from? I don’t recognize it.”

  “I lost my cell,” I say. “I’ll explain later. Gotta go.”

  I say goodbye again, hang up, and weigh my options. I could take a bus. There are plenty of options there, but once I get to Houston, I am stuck at the terminal. I drop in another thirty-five cents and dial my friend Bobby.

  “Dude,” I say in as pathetically friendly a voice as I can muster. “I need your help.”

  “Of course you do,” he laughs. Bobby is a good guy. He works for a state representative from Lufkin and is as loyal as the day is long. We met shortly after I started working for the Governor and, when I am not with Charlie, we hang out a lot. He loves football and gets me great seats to UT games. I buy him a lot of beer.

  “I’ve got to get to Houston today and can’t take my car.”

  “What about Charlie?”

  I knew he’d ask me that. He doesn’t like her. He says he doesn’t trust her and tells me often any girl that hot cannot be good news.

  Bobby and I could be brothers. We often get mistaken for one another. Women who look like Charlie have never been interested in him, while I’ve had my share of attractive girlfriends. He’s jealous. If Charlie had liked him instead of me, it would be a different story.

  “She’s got too much work,” I tell him.

  “Sure,” he grunts. “What’s in Houston?”

  “I have a meeting.” I’m being honest with him. Sort of. I do need to meet with the reporter, George Townsend. I’m hopeful that by the time I get to Houston, he’ll have found Ripley’s son. “It can’t wait. It’s at a television station.”

  “Campaign thing?” “You could say that.” I don’t want to tell him any more than what he needs to know. No need to risk his safety further than I’m doing by asking him for a ride. “Meet me in an hour?”

  He agrees and hangs up. Hurriedly, I walk a couple of blocks west to Lavaca Street, and spend the next thirty minutes at a cell phone store. I need a cheap phone with a new phone number. The salesperson doesn’t seem to understand my sense of urgency, but I manage to get everything set up in time to grab a couple of sandwiches and Dr. Peppers and meet Bobby at the corner of Guadalupe and West Eleventh. He’s on time and seems grateful for the lunch.

  “Ain’t nothin’ dude,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat of his 2009 Mazda 3.

  It’s a comfortable car. It fits Bobby; sensible with a slight edge of cool. Though, like him, the car pretends to be cooler than it really is.

  I pull my sandwich from the bag and peel back the wax paper. I take a bite and suddenly realize how hungry I am. I can’t remember the last time I ate. Between bites I uncap the Dr. Pepper and swallow a couple of gulps. I wipe my mouth with a napkin, ball it up, and put it in the cup holder.

  “Don’t mess up my car,” Bobby says, looking at the crumpled napkin. “I had it detailed.” He smiles and spins the steering wheel to merge onto Highway 290 towards Houston.

  “I’ll clean up my mess,” I say. “And I’ll pay for gas.”

  “That was a given,” Bobby states. He takes a bite of his sandwich, drops it onto the wax paper on his lap and cranks the music on his aftermarket sound system, a punk rock band from Austin called “16 Hour Drive”.

  Bobby starts bouncing his head up and down to the rapid beat of the drums, the speed of the electric guitar. I recognize the song. It’s called “Call to Arms”.

  He’s shouting along with the lyrics, alternating bites of food and swigs of his drink. I laugh to myself at the absurdity of it: a left-leaning aide, driving a sensible car, effectively slam dancing to politically conservative, sardonic punk rock. For a second, I forget the trouble into which I�
�ve fallen.

  I finish my sandwich and stuff the wax paper, along with the crumpled napkin, into a bag and place it on the floor between my legs. I put what’s left of my Dr. Pepper in the cup holder and settle in. I’m looking out the window, when Bobby turns down the music.

  “Dude, have you been watching The Walking Dead?” We are both fans of the television epic on AMC. It’s based on a graphic novel and follows a group of survivors in a post-apocalyptic, zombie infested world. We were late to get on board, after the show had gained an enormous cult-like following, and we watch the series online.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m way behind. I’ve got it on Netflix and I’m only a couple of episodes into season two.”

  “What part is that? I’m already in season four,” he says as if it’s a point of pride.

  “Um,” I think back to the last time I watched an episode. It seems forever ago, given the recent changes in my life. “The last episode I watched was the one where Carol’s daughter goes missing and Rick’s son gets shot.”

  “Dude, you are behind, but man, what’s coming up for you is awesome.”

  “Don’t spoil it.” I spin the cap off the Dr. Pepper and gulp down another swig.

  “Okay,” he laughs. “I won’t. It's good.” He’s quiet for a moment before he looks over at me with a smirk, his right hand draped over the steering wheel, his left on the driver’s door armrest. “Hey, Jackson, what happened the other night?”

  I play dumb. “What do you mean?”

  “I heard you got sick or something and ditched Charlie.”

  “You heard that?” I fidget in my seat and turn toward Bobby. He’s speeding at about 80 miles per hour. I have to speak up over the hum of the road noise.

  “Yeah,” he picks at his teeth with his free hand. “A couple of guys I know were there at the bar and recognized her. They didn’t know you.” He looks at me for a second, smiles, and laughs.

  “That figures.” I remember the two guys standing at the bar. I pegged them for Capitol staffers.

  “They said she was walking around asking where you were, if anybody had seen you. They told her you hobbled out of the joint with some guy, some big dude carried you out. They thought you were drunk and the bouncer was making you leave. She seemed pissed off.” Bobby checks the rearview mirror. He eases the car into the right lane to let a faster car pass. A black sedan with dark tinted windows zooms by us and merges right again in front of us. “They said she finally left with some other dude.”

  “What?” I can feel my cheeks getting flush and my chest ache. A wave of nausea slams into my gut.

  “Yeah…” Bobby must sense my discomfort but does nothing to ease it. “My friends said she made a couple of phone calls and some guy came to pick her up. He was a good looking guy. Older. My guys said he looked official, like a douche Jean Claude Van Damme.”

  “Okay,” I half-chuckle. “That’s redundant. How do they know it was Charlie?”

  “Dude,” Bobby looks at me like I am an idiot. “How could it not be her? They described her to a tee. The same way I described her to them.” Bobby pushed the gas and moves back into the fast lane. He passes the black sedan and moves back to the right.

  “You described them to her?”

  “Well, yeah.” Bobby checks his rearview mirror again. “I mean we were talking. I don’t remember when, but I told them about you and Charlie. I guess I described her accurately, because they knew it was her.”

  “How did you describe her?” I am going to puke. I roll down the window to get some air. It makes it harder to hear Bobby. At this point, I am not sure I want to hear him.

  “Hot,” his eyes grow wide as if he’s picturing her in his dirty mind. “Tall, leggy redhead. Awesome rack. Looks like she could kick a dude’s ass if she wasn’t so fine.”

  Bobby switches hands on the steering wheel and punches me in the shoulder. “Dude, why are you so bothered? I mean you ditched her. How else was she supposed to get home?”

  He has a point. I did ditch her as far as everyone’s concerned. Maybe she called someone from the office to get her. No big deal. I am panicking over nothing. With everything else going on right now, I am overreacting to the one thing in my life I know is safe.

  ***

  After a half hour of silence, Bobby tells me he has to go to the bathroom. His Mazda also needs gas. He pulls into a service station and up to the pump. The gas station shares a large parking lot with a Pizza Hut and a Dairy Queen.

  I pull out my wallet and try the credit card reader. It doesn’t work. Probably better anyhow; I don’t want to have my credit card traced. Thankfully, I have some cash in my wallet.

  “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.