Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure (30 page)

Blair Loxley never showed me mercy. As best I can from my position on top of him, I manage to grab his thumb. He’s flailing against me. My weight is in the right place. He can’t overpower me.

I gain control of his hand. “It ends now!”

At the same time I push into his face with my upper body, I bend back his thumb. He’s grunting against the ground; a repeated short grunt. He sounds like an ape.

The grunting stops only once I’ve pulled his thumb back enough to hear it pop. The grunt becomes a scream, followed by the collective gasp of the crowd.

With one last push onto his face, I roll off of him. He rolls onto his back, tears streaking through the dirt on his face. He curls into a ball cradling his hand.

I stand and look at the crowd around us. Not one of them stopped me. Not one of them, any one of whom could have easily overpowered me, stopped me from breaking his thumb.

Instead they stood there, wide-eyed and silent at what I’d done. Nobody said a word until, from behind me, I heard an adult’s voice.

“What’s going on here?”

I turned to see the assistant principal part the crowd. He looked down at Loxley and over at me. He knew what had happened, but probably couldn’t process it.

“Jackson,” he says, bending down to attend to Loxley, “did you do this?”

I took the fifth and didn’t say anything.

“Jackson!” he yelled at me as he helped Loxley to his feet. “I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” I said and wiped my face with the back of my arm.

“I’m taking Blair to the nurse,” he said. “I want the rest of you to stay here. That includes you, Jackson. The police are on their way.”

“Police?” I said. “Why? This is…it’s a school fight.”

“No, it’s not,” he says. “Where is your gun?”

For the first time since the Governor had appeared from the lavatory, I was aware of the music filtering through the cabin. It’s a chorus of men singing:

Glory
and
love
to
the
men
of
old
,

Their
sons
may
copy
their
virtues
bold
;

Courage
in
heart
and
a
sword
in
hand
,

Both
ready
to
fight
and
ready
to
die
for
Fatherland
!

“It’s the Soldier’s Chorus,” Sir Spencer said when he notices I’m listening. He is gently waving his right as if he’s conducting. “
’Gloire
immortelle
de
nos
aïeux
.’ It’s in Act Four. Valentin and his fellow soldiers are returning from war, singing about the glory of those who fought and died in combat. It’s moving.”

Glory
and
love
to
the
men
of
old
!

Their
sons
may
copy
their
virtues
bold
,

Courage
in
heart
and
a
sword
in
hand
,

All
ready
to
fight
for
Fatherland
.

“You’re building a private war chest?” I ask the Governor. He’s summoned another cup of coffee from Sally Anne.

“I guess you could call it that,” he says. “A man can’t go into battle without the proper resources. Am I right, Sir Spencer?”

“Spot on, Governor,” he says in response. “Spot on.”

“We are warriors, Jackson. It’s a battle between what’s right for Texans and what’s not. We’re on the side of good here. Our economy feeds off the energy industry. We survived the recession in ’09 because of oil and gas production. I mean, President Obama said it, ‘We’re the Saudi Arabia of natural gas!’ We can’t let anything affect that.”

“He meant the United States as a whole,” I say. “I don’t think he was talking specifically about Texas.”

“Get your head out of the sand, boy,” the Governor is preaching now. “Texas
is
The United States if you’re talking energy of any kind. Hell, we’re ahead of the Socialist Republic of California when it comes to wind energy production.
Wind
for goodness sake. Our economy, the nation’s economy would be impotent without what the energy folks do for us. Those so called ‘environmentalists’ are traitors as far as I’m concerned. You can’t have it both ways.”

Sally Anne returns with another coffee refill for the Governor. She assures him it’s without Bailey’s this time, and sways her hips back to the front of the plane. The Governor blows and sips from the new cup.

“I’ve heard you argue these points before,” I remind him. “How does that justify your plans to secede?”

The Governor almost spits out his coffee and he coughs at my question. “Secede?” He clears his throat and laughs. “Where did you get that idea?”

“Secession is a key talking point on the campaign trail. You’re talking about battles and us versus them. Why else would you need billions of dollars in what you called a war chest?”

“
You
called it a war chest, Jackson,” he says. “I tacitly agreed with that assessment. We could never secede. It’s a talking point to assuage the most conservative elements of the party. Wow. Secession?”

“Don’t blame the boy for his assumption,” advises Sir Spencer. “You have made it seem as though you are on the extreme end of the Texas independence movement. You’ve often considered the costs and benefits of such an effort. I don’t think him naïve for taking you at your word.”

The Governor sips from the cup. He rolls his eyes at Sir Spencer but says nothing.

“What about F. Pickle?” I ask. “The security company. Where do they fit into this? They do work for you.”

“True,” added the Governor. “I’ve used them to do some work for me in the past, some opposition research you might say. That’s purely political stuff, campaign related tasks and such. I don’t think they’re working for us right now.” He looks to Sir Spencer for confirmation.

“Oh no,” says Sir Spencer. “We’re not using them this go ‘round, and because of our altercation in the tunnel toilet, I doubt we’ll employ them in the future.”

“They’re working for the oil companies?”

“Likely,” says Sir Spencer. “They’re protecting their interests, not ours. I gather someone felt
you
were not in their best interests.”

“Then what is all of this about?” I ask. “If it’s not about making Texas an independent republic, and the oil companies aren’t completely on the same page, why are you doing all of this? Why is my life at risk? Is it really about money?”

“Of course it’s about money! It’s about money and power and politics. All three of those are the same thing. I want to stay in power, the energy companies want to control the politics, Buell wants a little bit of both, and we all want MMM-O-N-E-Y.” He sings the last five letters as though he were Lyle Lovett.

“Look,” he licks his lips and pats me on the knee, “since you’re tired, or confused, or whatever…I’ll break this down for you, Jackson.”

George is still asleep. Sally Anne is leafing through a magazine at the far end of the cabin length sofa. Sir Spencer seems bored, typing into his phone. I’m dumbfounded. For some reason the Governor doesn’t seem to care who hears his psalm.

“Don Carlos Buell is the bad guy here. He wants my job and he wants to ruin the energy industry. On both those accounts he’s interested in destroying Texas.” He laughs at himself. He’s
so
clever. “The energy folks hired me to help them keep their favorable environment. I hired Ripley and Buell tried to steal him. When that didn’t work, Buell had your little Nikita shoot him for sympathy and then frame Ripley’s dad. Ripley’s dad was conveniently a secessionist. If he’s tagged for the shooting, it puts pressure on Ripley and makes my rhetoric appear violence-inducing. And here we are…”

“Do you know Ripley
didn’t
turn?” I ask. Charlie seemed certain he was working for Buell.

“I don’t think he did,” the Governor says. “I don’t know. Maybe he did. It doesn’t matter. We know enough about the Nanergetix marker now.”

“Here’s something that may matter,” Sir Spencer interjects. “Jackson, how many dead bodies did you say you’d left behind in Ft. Davis?”

“Three in the lodge – Ripley, Charlie and Crockett – and the two Pickle guys, who may or may not be dead. That makes six dead and two hurt.”

“As I feared,” says Sir Spencer, reading from his phone. “I’ve had a team cleaning up your mess. They report three in the lodge, Ripley, and Charlie as fatalities. They also confirm the two wounded F. Pickle employees. They didn’t find that sixth dead body.”

“Crockett?”

“Yes,” says Sir Spencer. “They report he is missing.”

“I thought he was dead!” I exclaimed, the implications racing through my head. “He didn’t move. I thought he was dead.”

The Governor tilts back the cup of coffee, inhaling the last drops. He leans back on the sofa and stretches his arms out to the side, crosses his right leg over his left and smirks.

“You thought wrong.”

***

“We are now in our final descent into Austin-Bergstrom International Airport,” the pilot says near the end of Faust’s fifth act to tell us we’re almost there. “The weather is beautiful. The winds are calm. We should have you there right on time. We’ll refuel, which should give you some time to stretch your legs, and we’ll be on our way to Houston-Hobby.”

Sally Anne walks toward us, carrying a tray stacked with white towels. In her right hand is a set of silver tongs, which she uses to pull a wet, steaming towel from the stack.

“Would any of you care for a hot towel before we land?” She bends at the waist as she offers. The Governor’s eyes are fixed squarely on her revealing décolletage.

“Hot,” the Governor says. “Like I like it!” He seems unfazed by the conversation we’ve had during the flight.

“Why did you tell me all of that stuff?” I ask the Governor as Sally Anne hands me a towel. I use it first to wipe my hands even though they’re clean. “I mean, why let me in on all of this?”

“Mmmm,” the Governor says through the towel covering his face. “We thought you deserved to know. It’s not like you’re going to go running to the press with this. I mean, you’re up to your neck in it. You’re…what’s the word I’m looking for, Sir Spencer?”

“Complicit.”

“Yes,” the Governor wads up the towel and puts it on the table next to his coffee cup. “Complicit. Furthermore, you’re in a little bit of danger. You need our help.”

“Yeah,” I acknowledge with a nervous laugh. “I feel like I got the James Bond speech, where the bad guy tells him everything right before he attempts to kill him.”

“What’s with you and movie references?” the Governor asks. “
Zero
Dark
Thirty
,
James
Bond
. I don’t get it.”

“Coping mechanism,” Sir Spencer answers. “Quite understandable, really.”

Sally Anne gently shakes George’s shoulder to wake him. He opens his eyes and scoots up in the seat. She hands him a warm towel for his face and saunters to the wet bar.

“Speaking of the press,” the Governor says in George’s direction, “George Townsend is it? Channel 4 in Houston?”

“Uh,” George pulls the towel from his face and looks at the Governor. His eyes are wide. He looks around the plane and back at my boss. “Yes, sir. I’m George Townsend.”

“Well, George, your narcolepsy notwithstanding, this entire trip has been off the record. Am I right?”

George looks at me and I nod almost imperceptibly. “Sure, Governor,” he says. “May I get a comment when we land?”

The Governor tilts his head as would a confused dog. “A comment about what exactly, George?”

“The debate tonight?” George answers after a beat. “What else would I want to ask you about, sir?”

“Ha! Good one, George. I like you.” He wags his finger at the reporter and winks. “You’re a quick thinker. Good on your feet, right?”

George doesn’t answer. He pulls my phone from the desk and puts it in his lap.

“You gonna take notes, George?” the Governor asks.

“I have a video camera,” he says. “We can do it right after we land, before I hop back on to fly to Houston.”

The Governor looks like he’s weighing whether he wants to do that. “All right. That’s fine, but we only talk about the debate.”

The landing gear hits the tarmac in Austin. The plane lurches when the pilot applies the brakes.

“Welcome to Austin!” he exclaims over the speaker system. “A couple of minutes and we’ll be to the general aviation terminal. I’d appreciate it if you’d stay in your seats until Sally Anne has opened the exit door and lowered the steps for you.”

The plane slows and the pilot guides the jet to the left toward a series of hangars. I gather my backpack and think about the task ahead. My trip to Charlie’s apartment is all the more important now that Crockett is alive. As much as I want to know more about who she really was, I need evidence of her involvement with Crockett, Buell and Ripley. It’s bound to be somewhere in her place.

If I can find enough material there, I can get everyone off of my back. I can break my deal with the devil and move along. It’s what I’m best at doing anyhow.

“Hey, Jackson,” George snaps me from my mini-trance. “Here’s your phone.” He tosses me his phone, giving me a look that tells me he knows what he’s doing. “You’ve got a message.”

I look down at his phone and the MESSAGES icon reads “1”. I click the button that takes me to the message screen. Neither the Governor nor Sir Spencer is paying attention to me. They’re engaged with their own phones.

“I love Twitter,” says the Governor, thumbing the tiny keyboard on his iPhone. “Gives me a chance to connect with the people.”

“I don’t follow social media,” says Sir Spencer. “I don’t get the narcissism of it all. I couldn’t care less what you ate for lunch Governor.”

“C’mon, Sir Spencer, it’s the proletariat connecting with the bourgeois. You should appreciate that, given your French opera blasting in the plane the whole trip.”