Read Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Online
Authors: Tom Abrahams
Tags: #income taxes, #second amendment, #brad thor, #ut, #oil, #austin, #texas chl, #nanotechnology, #tom abrahams, #gubernatorial, #petrochemicals, #post hill press, #big oil, #rice university, #bill of rights, #aggies, #living presidents, #texas politics, #healthcare, #george h w bush, #texas am, #texas aggies, #taxes, #transcanada, #obamacare, #wendy davis, #gun control, #assassination, #rice owls, #campaign, #politics, #george bush, #texas governor, #ted cruz, #rick perry, #2nd amendment, #right to bear arms, #vince flynn, #alternative energy, #keystone pipeline, #chl, #election, #keystone xl, #longhorns, #phones, #david baldacci, #houston, #texas, #clean fuel, #ipods, #university of texas, #president, #health care, #environment
She is
Days
of
Thunder
hot and whip smart. I’ve dated attractive women before, but I’ve never fallen for one until Charlie. I always run when things get too serious.
I had a busy Friday planned and hadn’t slept lately, but given how much I’d been traveling it was great to spend time with her.
The band 139 played on a small stage at the far end of the cramped pub. The rhythmic strum of the bass guitar vibrated in my hand wrapped around the glass mug on the table in front of me. I thumbed the condensation off of the glass and nodded to the beat.
Through the cigarette smoke haze hanging in the air there was the regular mix of college kids, politicos like Charlie and me, and Austin free spirits.
At the large black granite bar on the other side of the room, a group of gel-headed fraternity guys wearing Polo shirts clinging tightly to their biceps laughed and playfully punched the testosterone out of each other. Next to them were a couple of men in dark business suits, their bright silk ties loosened but still knotted beneath the collars of their pressed white cotton shirts. They worked at the Capitol. I didn’t recognize them, but their attitude and attire gave them away. They leaned against the granite, holding hi-ball glasses and whispering to each other about the women who passed by them. They ogled Charlie until she disappeared into the bathroom. Men were always looking at her. She pretended not to notice, but I knew she did.
Near the stage, in front of the band, about twenty people were bouncing to the music. They’d occasionally hold their glasses above their heads as they swayed back and forth. It seemed spontaneously choreographed; like a mosh pit without the slam-dancing.
I took a swig from the sweaty, vibrating glass of Shiner Bock. It was saltier than usual, and bitter. I remember thinking the bartender didn’t know how to pour a beer as I wiped foam from my lips with the back of my arm.
139 finished its set. I think. I don’t remember much after swigging the beer.
***
I am seated and chained to the floor.
Where
is
this
place
?
There’s a man standing over me, insisting I reveal whatever it is I know. His voice is deep and gravelly, as though he needs to clear his throat. He’s British.
What
does
he
want
?
“I don’t know anything.” I swallow past the dryness in my mouth.
“Are you hungry?” The voice behind me is calm this time. It’s almost a sympathetic whisper behind my right ear. Almost but not really. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten, good boy?”
My head aches at my temples from dehydration. My vision is blurred, my tongue is thick, and my lips are chapped and feel as though the dryness has glued them shut. I shake my head.
“Come along,” the voice says. “We’ll get you something to eat, a little water to drink. Perhaps that’ll help your memory. I know how hard it can be to concentrate.”
It’s obvious to me he’s done this before. He’s a professional extractor of information, standing a step outside my foggy line of sight. He sounds simultaneously proper and evil.
He walks away. There’s the sound of a door unlocking, opening, shutting, and finally being relocked from the outside. I’ve heard the series of clicks and creaks too many times to count. I imagine the door is thick and riveted. It has that sound to it when it slams closed.
I’m not sure of where or when I am.
When I’m not chained to the chair, I’m in my cell.
It’s cement floored, next to the much larger interrogation room, and is sized such that I cannot stand fully upright or lay down completely. The joints in my hips ache. My knees are killing me. I can’t fall asleep because of the throbbing in my head. Instead, I find myself in a constant haze where I begin to dream while fully aware of the noises around me.
There is loud, distorted music blasted into the cell for seconds or minutes or hours at a time. It’s speed metal that pounds with a pulsing light that, at times, is so blinding I swear I can feel the heat from it.
When the light is on consistently, I can only see by squinting though my swollen eyes. Then the room will go black. With the lights off, I can’t see anything. I can, however, smell the mess I’ve made of myself; the constant stink of body odor and worse. I can’t ever completely catch my breath.
In the larger room there are constant threats of pain, but very rarely pain itself. The threats are worse.
This is torture.
Sometimes there’s the sound of metal scraping against metal behind my ear, or maybe it’s a boiling pot of water held close enough to my face the steam makes snot drip my from my nose.
The only breaks are the occasional moments during which I black out from hunger or lack of sleep. I can’t keep track of it. Each time I wake from the painful twilight, I’m wearing a new jumpsuit. Some of them are too big. Others are uncomfortably tight. Whoever it is that has me here is trying to keep me off-balance. Despite my best efforts to catch clues of my surroundings, I’m too disoriented to do it.
“I must apologize,” the voice says as he spoons something toward my mouth. “I dropped a jar from the counter and it shattered.” He knows exactly what he’s doing. “So sorry.”
I take a mouthful and swallow what tastes like warm baby food. Carrots. Maybe beets.
The voice pauses as he shovels the goop. “I believe I removed all the glass, but some of it may have gotten into your food here. Chew carefully, good man.”
I suck down the beet/carrots as though some little functioning corner of my mind is telling me I am hungry. I should stop eating. I should refuse, but I slurp another spoonful, tasting the cold metal of the spoon and vague sweetness of the mush.
Another slurp. And another. Until a small shard of glass stabs the roof of my mouth. It sticks into the soft skin.
The blood pooling in my mouth tastes warm. I wince and try to remove the glass with my tongue before spitting it out onto the floor.
“Ooh!” The voice seems amused now, reacting to the pained face in front of him. “Perhaps I missed a shard? My apologies. I gather you’re finished.” He drops the spoon into the bowl and places it on a table next to him.
“Now,” the voice slows and deepens. “You were clumsily suggesting you don’t know anything. I suggest I don’t believe you.” The last four words hang in the air between us.
The blood pools in my mouth behind my lower front teeth. It’s warm and thick. I inhale and, with the strength I have, spit. The mix of blood and saliva sprays onto the Voice and drips down my chin. It’s hanging there from my lips.
“Who are you?” I try to suck back in the pink spittle and lick my lower lip with the back of my tongue.
“My friends,” he begins, “what few I have of them, prefer to call me a saint. Or rather
The
Saint.”
“Like that crappy 1990s Val Kilmer movie?”
“No. That film was horrid. I prefer the 1962 Roger Moore incarnation. It was on the telly,” he laughs and sits quietly awaiting another sarcastic remark. I give him nothing.
The Saint grabs the chain between the thick iron cuffs on my wrists, the rough edge of the hammered cuff digging into my skin at the point where the bones in my wrist widen. I can feel the existing bruises deepening, as though I had been punched in the same spot repeatedly.
“Stand!” he commands. He is both the good cop and the bad cop.
He adjusts the leg irons attached to a metal eye hook in the floor. I lurch forward suddenly, feeling a yank on my arms as the chain between my hands is locked to the eye hook. I’m bent at the waist, doubled over in a sadistic involuntary yoga pose; my ankles and wrists bound to the same spot. The pressure on my lower back is spreading through my torso. The muscles along my spine and shoulders are screaming at me to stand. I can’t. I whimper at the impossibility of this and it echoes against the concrete in the room. It’s a sound I don’t recognize as anything that would ever come from my mouth.
The Saint says nothing and leaves the room with a series of clicks and creaks at the door. It’s quiet.
The lights go out.
Without sight, my sense of smell intensifies almost instantaneously. I can smell the carrots. I am sure I ate carrots. It’s mixed with the odor of mildew and bleach. It’s such an odd combination of smells. It’s a welcome distraction.
How
long
have
I
been
here
?
Somebody
must
be
looking
for
me
.
My
boss
,
my
friends
,
Charlie
…
From above me there’s a long, inhuman moan and within seconds, an open-ended six inch pipe that drops a foot from the ceiling croaks to life and begins spitting water. I can’t see the pipe from my yoga pose, but it’s there. We’ve met before.
This time the water is cold and hits me in uncomfortable spurts. Large exhaust fans begin to spin and the air chills. There’s a crackle from the intercom system.
“I forgot your water.” The Saint is relentless.
Tensing against the rustle of the intercom, my back seizes. The thickness of the cramped muscle along the right side of my spine hardens. The suddenness of it makes me laugh in pain and reflexively wince.
He wants me to talk.
***
I wake up to a sting on my right cheek. I’ve been slapped conscious.
“What?” I ask with every bit of defiant anger I can muster. He doesn’t answer me.
My eyes are watering and trying to adjust to the light, and I can see he’s connecting something to an electrical cord in front me. He’s plugging something into a socket. I can’t see exactly what it is. My heartbeat accelerates and I am having trouble catching my breath. It’s definitely something electrical. There’s water. There’s electricity.
What
is
he
going
to
do
to
me
now
?
My eyes dart around the room again.
This
is
where
I
am
going
to
die
?
Electrocuted
in
a
dungeon
?
My
body
burned
,
tossed
,
and
never
found
?
“What do you want from me?” This time my question is more of a whimper.
Directly in front of me, on a small rolling table is a laptop computer.
On the screen is the website from a Houston television station. Channel 4. In the large video box at the center of the screen is what appears to be news footage of a speech by the man challenging my boss for the Governor’s office. I can see an empty stage and lectern against the skyline of downtown Houston. The camera pans to the left to catch a group of dark colored SUV’s slowing to the curb near the stage.
“I’d like for you to watch this.” The Saint was again behind me. From over my shoulder he clicked the keyboard to bring the video full-screen. His breath warms my neck behind my ear. I exhale and the tension in my shoulders relaxes. The electricity is not for me.
On the screen is gubernatorial candidate Don Carlos Buell. He’s a tall man with broad shoulders and an angular jaw. He appears deeply tanned with a shock of gray hair atop his head as he steps from an SUV and onto the grass flanked by shorter, lesser bespoke aides. As he crosses the grass with his long, effortless strides, he turns his body to the crowd and waves with both hands above his head.
Buell climbs the half dozen steps onto the temporary stage that fronts the downtown eastern skyline. It’s elevated such that television and still photographers have to angle their cameras up at Buell, adding to his curb appeal.
Buell glad-hands a handful of local politicians and walks onto the stage and steps up to the lectern without an introduction.
Why does The Saint want me watching this? I start to shift in my seat and The Saint moves me.
“Watch.”
Buell is quieting the crowd. The camera zooms in to focus more clearly on the candidate.
“
Thank
you
,” he says, motioning again for the cheering crowd to lessen its enthusiasm. He shifts the flexible arm holding the mic. “
Muchas
gracias
amigos
!”
Someone in the crowd yells back an unintelligible encouragement. Buell smiles and points. He’s a formidable opponent despite his lack of political experience. My boss is right to be worried about him.
“
My
good
friends
,” Buell eases into his prepared remarks. No TelePrompTer, no notes. “
It
is
so
good
to
be
back
here
in
the
wonderful
city
of
Houston
!” He pauses and turns to admire the skyline that frames him. He turns back to the congregation. “
Look
at
this
beacon
of
American
ingenuity
;
the
city
known
for
energy
and
space
exploration
,
technology
and
medical
advancement
.
If
this
campaign
gives
me
a
heart
attack
I
know
where
I’m
heading
.
Right
over
there
!” The crowd laughs with him as he points southwest toward the Texas Medical Center. The camera widens and tightens again. There’s a glint in Buell’s eyes.
“
I
have
made
this
campaign
about
being
an
American
.
It’s
about
Texas
values
and
American
idealism
.
I
know
both
still
exist
in
abundance
here
in
Houston
.
I
want
to
be
the
one
who
harnesses
that
capital
which
exists
within
every
one
of
you
.
With
your
help
we
can
,
together
,
improve
the
lives
of
our
families
and
neighbors
.
We
can
lift
up
those
who
need
help
without
sacrificing
that
which
we’ve
worked
hard
to
accumulate
.”