Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure (18 page)

“This and the hat,” I point to the cap on my head. “How much?”

“Twenty-three dollars even,” the cashier says, punching the buttons on the register without looking at me. I hand him a fifty, pocket the change, and start to trudge toward security.

Then I see her.

Charlie
!

She’s standing directly between me and the wide hallway dividing the ticketing terminal from the security checkpoint and the gates. Her hair is pulled back in a long ponytail and she’s wearing sunglasses. It’s her. Tall. Auburn hair. Kick-ass body. Definitely her.

She clearly hasn’t seen me yet, but there’s no way for me to move past her without being noticed.

I turn around and step back to the news stand. If I stand just right, I can see her in the mirrored rack that holds a couple of Space City hats. She’s looking at every man passing her on his way to security. She glances at her phone. I’m easily fifty yards from her. She doesn’t see me.

A tall man on his cell phone is standing directly behind me. “I don’t know,” he says to whoever is on the other end. “I guess I’ll check with baggage downstairs.”

Bingo
.

“Excuse me,” I say to the clerk behind the register. “Are you able to page people from your phone?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like a loudspeaker page. You know, from the airport. I’m trying to locate someone.”

“Oh, yes. We can do that. Who are you looking for?” He picks up the receiver to the cordless phone on the counter and pushes a couple of numbers.

“I need to meet Ms. Corday in Terminal B baggage claim.”

He raises the phone to his ear, tells the operator, or whoever, what to announce, and hangs up. “Thanks.” I turn back to the mirrored rack and hear the announcement over the airport’s public address system.

“Ms. Corday, please meet your party at the Terminal B baggage claim,” it’s a pleasant female voice. “Ms. Corday, your party is waiting for you at the Terminal B baggage claim.”

My view in the mirror is unobstructed, so I can see Charlie clearly staffing her post. At first, she doesn’t seem to hear the announcement. She tilts her head, squints, and checks her phone again. She punches something into the screen and puts the device to her ear.

She starts walking purposefully toward the center of the terminal and a bank of elevators, still talking to someone on the phone. Her free hand is flailing. She’s clearly irritated. When she reaches the elevator doors and presses a button, I turn toward security with my head down, and walk quickly to the checkpoint. Despite the temptation, I don’t turn back to look at her.

By the time I’ve cleared security, my head feels better. Once I’ve boarded the plane, my pulse has slowed.

I’m in seat thirteen A. It’s a small aircraft and seats maybe seventy people. Thankfully I’m in the emergency exit row. I’ve got a little extra legroom but my side is uncomfortable in the tight seat. There are two flight attendants helping the other passengers with their bags and the flight seems full.

I lean forward and pull out the emergency information card. The plane is a Bombardier CRJ700. I don’t know why I do it, but I always like to check the emergency card and learn the type of plane. Not that it’ll make any difference if we crash.

A woman slides into 13B next to me. She smiles at me and slips her small purse under the seat in front of her. I smile back and shift my weight to the left, against the interior wall of the plane.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a deep male voice fills the cabin through the intercom, “welcome aboard flight 2551 to El Paso, Texas. We appreciate you choosing US Airways for your travel plans today. Our trip will take approximately one hour and nineteen minutes. We’ll be cruising at 515 miles per hour and should have you to the gate a couple of minutes early.”

I tune out the rest of his message and close my eyes.

I remember being in a rhythm. In my head and on the track.

Breathe. Stride. Step. Stride. Step. Breathe.

The air was cool and damp, filling my lungs through my nose as I ran. Each breath out through my mouth was warm and puffed little clouds of fog as I chugged along the asphalt. It felt good. The burn in my legs was invigorating. My quads felt muscular and lean as they helped propel me forward.

Breathe. Stride. Step. Stride. Step. Breathe.

In through the nose. Out through the mouth. A small puff of air against the cool of the early evening. Chug. Chug. Chug.

I was on the junior high track, running my eleventh of twelve planned laps on the inside lane. I was running three miles after school, a good way to clear my mind and take a mental break before homework. All the organized teams were gone for the afternoon, so I was alone, with a mini-walkman strapped to my arm and Carl Carlton singing into my earphones. I was in an early 1980s funk phase.

Breathe. Stride. Step. Stride. Step. Breathe.

I was watching another puff of air dissolve in front of my nose, and totally into the music, when Blair Loxley appeared out of nowhere, tackling me onto the grass infield.

The hulk had been harassing me on and off for weeks. Since the locker incident, he’d found opportune moments to punch or trip me out of the sight of any adults. I’d punched back a couple of times, but for the most part I’d tried to avoid him. Either he found me easy pickings or a challenge.

Regardless, he was on top of me, straddling my hips as I tried to wriggle free. He was too strong and his first punch caught me in the right shoulder below my neck. The second hit was to my left jaw. My headphones were tangled around my neck, ripped from their connection to the mini-walkman still strapped to my thin bicep.

The third blow was to my ribs with his right elbow. I was taking a beating while he held me in place with his weight and left forearm.

“Take what’s coming to you,” he grumbled as I struggled against him. “Take what’s coming to you, Jacktard.”

I could hear crying, a foreign whining that sounded like a small child. It must have been me. There wasn’t anyone else around.

I was already winded from the more than two and half mile run. Once I’d taken his first salvo, I managed enough strength to knee him in the groin.

He grunted and grabbed himself, momentarily losing his hold of me. I used that split second to roll away from him and scramble to my feet.

I backed away from him and turned to run, but the adrenaline knocked me off balance and I fell to the ground, my chin sliding on the damp St. Augustine grass. By the time I’d managed to get to my feet again, he had me in a bear hug and lifted me off the ground before throwing me down.

My foot slammed awkwardly onto the ground, twisting my ankle and knee. Something popped and I felt a bolt of pain shoot from my knee to my foot as I fell awkwardly to the side. I let out a bizarre wail. The pain was like breaking glass.

Through the tears in my eyes I could see Loxley standing over me, his fists still clenched. His knuckles were white. I remember the anger in those knuckles. In those angry eyes, I saw something new. There was fear.

He knew he’d gone too far. Pushing me against a locker and punching my gut was one thing. Attacking me on the track and tearing the anterior cruciate ligament in my right knee was something else.

“You’re the one who’s gonna take what’s coming to you now!” I screamed at him through tears and spit. “You’re in for it now. I’m gonna kill you!”

Loxley took in the words without saying anything. He kept glancing at my knee. The bully refocused his gaze, narrowed his eyes, and spit on me.

“Whatever, Jacktard!” He sneered, turned, and walked away. No explanation. No apology.

I stayed on the ground for what must have been a half hour before a school maintenance worker found me and helped me from the field in a golf cart.

I never told my parents how it had happened. They believed it was an accident that happened during my run.

I never wanted to involve them or allow them to worry about me. I wanted to handle my own problems, to fix them by myself.

I missed the next three weeks of school. After surgery, crutches, and six months of rehabilitation, I was back on the track. It was slow at first, but I made a full recovery. At least my knee did. It occasionally ached from prolonged sitting or an awkward turn. It wasn’t bad. Not nearly as bad as what happened the next and last time Loxley and I got together.

***

“I’ve turned on the seat belt sign,” the captain alerts the cabin as we begin our descent into El Paso. “Please remain in your seats with those belts fastened until we’ve arrived at the gate and come to a complete stop. Thanks again for choosing US Airways.”

Through the emergency exit window, there’s a bright sky over West Texas and northern Mexico. The ground below slowly rises to meet our plane, and I focus on the veiny fingers of creeks and rivers almost dry in the tan hills west of the city. It’s barren almost; a wasteland. It’s like humanity has died and left behind an earth ready to rejuvenate itself. The world is free of consumption, ambition, and conspiracy.

We’ve descended a few hundred feet and rush past the neighborhoods that bridge the mountains from the runway.

I scan the small homes lining the blacktop streets. Most of the houses or trailers are on dirt lots without sodded yards. They look dry, save the occasional dot of green brush. It’s a big sandbox. I imagine the lives inside those houses and, right now, in this moment, I envy them.

They have a home. They have a family. They know their place in the world for better and worse. They’re not running for their lives. They’re living them.

Me? I don’t know what’s next.

I don’t know what I’ll find in the mountains. Even if I get the answers I need, will it be enough to stop the people trying to catch me or kill me?

My stomach drops when the landing gear hits the runway. The wheels screech and the airplane bounces into the air before settling again onto the ground, whining to a slower speed.

“Welcome to El Paso, Texas,” says the captain, then he announces the local time. “We hope you have a wonderful time here in the Sun City or wherever your travels take you.”

Wherever
is right.

***

“I just landed.”

I’ve got my newest phone to my right ear and the backpack slung onto both shoulders as I make my way through the El Paso International Airport.

“It’s about time,” George says, sounding exasperated. “I’ve been waiting for your call for an hour now.

“Where are you?”

“I’m on I-20 near Monahans,” he says. “I gotta tell you. There’s somebody following me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hang on,” he says. “I’m lighting another cigarette.”

I can hear the click of his lighter and the sizzle of the end of the cigarette. He must be holding the phone close to his mouth.

“Isn’t your rental car nonsmoking?” I ask. Ahead, there’s the sign for the counters and an escalator to the lower floor of the terminal.

“Yeah,” he says and blows out the first puff of what I envision as a nasty cloud of smoke. “Like that’s the worst of my problems right now. I need the cigarette more than I need to worry about a smoking fee.”

“Understood.”

“So, back to me being followed,” he continues. “I get off of the plane and I’m looking around to make sure I don’t see anyone suspicious or anything. After you told me about switching your phone again, I got a little freaked.”

I step off of the escalator, turn left, and see a Starbucks ahead of me on the left. That’ll be my next stop. I need some caffeine to get me out of this “my life sucks and I’d rather be living in a dirt bowl next to an airport than be me” funk.

“I don’t see anyone. So I get my rental car, walk out to the lot, and grab my car,” he pauses and puffs. “No problem, right?”

“Right…”

“Then I’m on I-20 near Odessa when this black SUV speeds past me and exits on this loop that goes around the city. I notice it because the driver’s going so fast.”

I’m in line at Starbucks. The prices are even more outrageous in an airport.

“Well, that loop, 338, crosses I-20 twice,” George is speaking faster now. “Right when I pass it the second time, you know the western part of that loop?, the same SUV gets back on the highway right behind me.”

“How do you know it was the same SUV?”

I’m not surprised he’s being followed. The fact that they’d use a black SUV is weird. Isn’t there a less obvious car? The bad guys in movies are
always
in black SUVs.

“I’m positive.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it has New Mexico license plates.”

“And?”

“New Mexico plates are bright blue with yellow lettering,” he says in a tone that indicates how stupid he thinks I am. “They’re not hard to spot. It’s the same vehicle, Jackson.”

“Where are they now?”

“Two or three car lengths back.” He takes another drag. “There’s a minivan between us. They’re there. I don’t know how to shake them. I can’t let them follow me all the way to the observatory. We’re screwed.”

“We’re not screwed,” I try to reassure him. “Hang on. I’ll call you back in a minute.”

“I’d like a venti Americano with room for cream, please.” Espresso with a little milk will wake me up. I pay for the overpriced coffee, give the barista my name and slide over to the end of the counter.

I open the internet application on my phone. Opening a search window and keyboard I type in MONAHANS TEXAS.

Up pops a list of nearly two million results. I click on one of them linking to the visitor’s guide. The screen clears and refreshes with a list of restaurants. There’s a pull down menu for shopping. I activate that link. Most of the shopping is on either South Stockton or Sealy. I close the application and redial George.

“Yeah,” he answers on the first ring.

“Have you passed Monahans yet?”

“Not yet. Why?”

“Exit there and look for either Stockton or Sealy Streets.”

“Why?”

“There are a fair number of stores there. Those look like relatively busy streets. You might be able to find a way to shake the SUV.” I grab the Americano off the counter and move it over to the condiment table and pop off the lid.