Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure (14 page)

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.”

“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
.