Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure (32 page)

I copy one of the photographs to the computer’s desktop and insert it into an image search online.

It’s the public television station in Austin.

The location for the debate tonight.

Crockett’s still alive and he’s going to kill the Governor.

I’m staring at that last email on the screen, holding George’s cell phone to my ear. “George, where are you?”

“I’m at the station, downloading the video off of your phone. It’s almost too good to be true!” He sounds giddy. “I mean, the Governor is on camera, in somebody’s private jet, baring his soul to you. It’s ridiculous.”

“Have you shared it with anyone yet?”

“Not yet. It’s taking forever to dump this stuff from the phone onto my computer’s hard drive. I’ve got to get it onto the newsroom server and transfer the video I shot on that camera. You know, Ripley and Charlie. It’ll be a little while.”

“So, you’re not airing it.”

“I
am
airing it,” he says. “Of course I am airing it. When I am sure it’s usable video, I’m showing it to my news director and the executive producer. They’ll want to air it. Are you kidding me?”

“When do you think you’d put all of this on television?” I’m trying to process how this new development, the one I
should
have seen coming, is going to affect everything. I didn’t take him for the jerk he apparently is.

“I dunno,” he says. “Maybe tonight at ten. That would be my hope. I mean, really, Jackson, can you believe this? The story of my life fell into my lap because of you. I’m going to win all kinds of awards with this stuff.”

My world is collapsing, people are dead, and he’s talking about plaques and Lucite trophies. This is why people hate television news.

“You can’t air it,” I plead. “Not yet.” I hadn’t thought he’d be so quick to share it with his bosses. Sir Spencer
was
right. I can’t really trust anyone when everyone has their own self-interest in mind.

“Riiight,” George laughs. “We have the Governor admitting to payoffs from the oil industry, denouncing the secessionist movement on which he’s built a great deal of his campaign, and essentially calling his opponent a liar capable of conspiracy and murder. I can’t
not
air that! Furthermore, I’ve got Ripley on camera talking about his science stuff on camera. Not to mention the video I’ve got of Charlie confessing
something
about Buell’s involvement as she died. I mean, all of this, when it’s put together, it’s unreal. I can’t let this sit!”

“George, the Governor’s life is in danger. If you air this stuff, it gets him killed for sure.”

“No, it doesn’t,” he says. “It
saves
his life! If someone wants him dead, and this airs, nobody will touch him. I’d love to put this on the air after the debate tonight. The timing couldn’t be better.”

“You’re going to need to get reaction from the Governor’s camp and from Buell before you air it right?” I ask. “It’s Buell who wants him dead. The hit’s supposed to happen at the debate. This really screws up everything.”

“Not necessarily. We can ask certain questions without revealing we have video. It’s like we’re fishing.”

“The Governor
knows
you were on that plane,” I remind him. “He may be a narcissistic money grubbing pig, but he’s not stupid. The Pickle guys still want us dead. Buell
could
want us dead at any moment. You put yourself at risk. You put me at risk. The only people not trying to kill us right now are on the Governor’s side. Do we want to jeopardize that? Nobody else is going to get this stuff. Can’t you hold it?”

George doesn’t say anything.

“George?” I press. “After the last two days, you’re
now
abandoning me? You’re putting the story first?”

“Okay,” he sighs. “Here’s the deal. You knew I was always in this for the story, Jackson. That’s all this was. I wouldn’t risk my life for anything other than that. You should have known. I’m not a spy or a mercenary. I don’t
do
guns. I put up with it for the
get
. Now I’ve got it.”

“Are you kidding me?” I ask. “Is this a joke?”

“Jackson,” he says. I can hear his leg thumping against his desk in the background. “For a smart guy, who’s kind of a badass, you’re unbelievably naïve.”

“How naïve is this, George? Consider the fact that when your big
get
airs, we’ll both be hauled in for questioning after the trail of bodies we left behind. It doesn’t matter Sir Spencer had it cleaned up.
If
he had it cleaned up.”

George remained silent.

“You’ve got at least some of the carnage on camera, George. When you air the video of Charlie confessing whatever it was she confessed, it’s proof we were at the scene of a deadly accident and left without calling the cops. You’ve got video of a missing scientist whose body
we
dumped onto the side of the road. If Sir Spencer did clean up Ripley’s body, he’ll still be considered missing. There’ll be questions to answer there, George. We’ll be charged with, at the very least, leaving the scene of an accident, if not something more criminal. How good are your station’s attorneys? Will your boss foot the bill?”

He still says nothing.

“George?”

“Fine,” he sulks. “I can hold it for now.” True reporter. He’s all guts and glory until he needs guts for the glory. “I’m not sitting on this forever.”

“Thanks. Hold it until I get back to you. When I’m ready, you can air whatever you want.”

“What about the Governor? You said someone wants him dead now. Do you have any leads?”

“Yes.”

“And?” He expects I’m going to help him now. Unreal.

“Does your station have a reporter at the debate?”

“We have a crew there. Our political reporter is on the panel. She’s there with a photographer.”

“I’ll consider tipping
her
off when I see her.” I hang up.

***

I pointed to where I’d hidden the lever action rifle, standing several feet away from the shed. I’d tried to get the gun myself, but the officers stopped me.

One of them stood behind me, his thick hands on my shoulders, holding me in place while his partner crouched in front of the gap underneath the shed. He reached into the space, slid out the rifle, and held it up as he stood.

“This it?” he asked, checking the safety. “This your gun?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Speak up,” the officer behind me said, squeezing his mitts. “Is that your weapon?”

“Yes,” I whimpered. “It’s mine.”

“Is it loaded?” the officer holding the gun asked. “Did you put bullets into it?”

I shook my head, sniffing back the snot running from my nose.

“Speak up.” Another squeeze on my shoulders.

“No!: I shouted. “I didn’t load it!”

The officer holding the weapon unscrewed the spring loaded magazine beneath the barrel and checked for ammunition. Then he checked the bolt. He looked at the buttstock of the rifle and ran his thumb across it. He stared at it for a minute, his eyebrows squeezed together as though he was confused.

“What’s this mean?” he asks, walking toward me with the buttstock facing me. “Who’s Hank?”

On the buttstock was the nickname I’d scrawled into the wood with a buck knife.
HANK
was written in a cross between print and cursive. It was only legible because there were four letters. After I’d done it, my dad had taken a lighter and burned the etching so it blackened.

“It’s the rifle,” I told him, tears streaming down my cheeks.

“I don’t get it,” said the meat clawed officer behind me.

“It’s a Henry Lever Action Rifle,” I sniffled between gasps for air. “Hank is short for Henry. My dad gave me the gun. I named it ‘cause it’s mine now.”

“Not for much longer,” said the cop behind me. “That gun’s evidence. We’re gonna hold on to it for you and your dad.” There was condescension laced with disgust in his voice.

“C’mon,” said the other officer. “We’ve got to get you back to the school. When your parents get here, we’ll take you down to the station.”

“You’re arresting me?” I squeaked.

“Nobody said that,” the first officer, the one holding my gun, was trying to keep me calm. He understood I was a stupid, frustrated kid at the end of his rope. He knew the gun wasn’t loaded. “You have to understand this is very serious, Jackson.”

I did understand. I was terrified about the consequences as much as I was angry at myself for letting the bully get the better of me. Loxley was the instigator. He’d tortured me for months. Now he was getting a slap on the wrist and I was about to get expelled and have a dark blotch stain my permanent record.

The officers were walking me up the slight rise to the front of the school when I saw the assistant principal hurrying through the twin metal doors at the entrance. He was moving like those speed walkers who swing their hips unnaturally, to gain speed without running. Something was wrong, something other than my imminent academic demise.

The officers didn’t notice it, I don’t think. They were talking to each other about the amount of paperwork about to be required of them, despite their shift ending. One of them had a date. The other one mentioned having to call his wife to “advise her he was detained”.

The vice principal approached, out of breath as he spoke, and their attentions turned from their lives to mine.

“We’ve gotten a phone call,” he said, beads of sweat blooming on his wide forehead.

“And?” the married officer asked. “What about it?”

The assistant principal put his hands on his knees. “I’m sorry, I’m trying to catch my breath. I didn’t want to say any of this inside.”

“Who called?” asked the other officer, the one holding my gun.

“It was one of your colleagues,” he answered after letting out a deep breath through his mouth. “He knew you were here. He wanted me to tell you there’s been a horrible accident.”

“What kind of accident?” the married officer asked, a worried look on his face.

The assistant principal glanced at me for a split second and avoided eye contact. I knew it involved my parents. He didn’t want to tell me, but he had no choice. He had to be the bearer of bad news.

“Um,” he said without looking at me, “a car accident. A bad one. It happened maybe twenty minutes ago. I think two or three cars were involved. I’m not sure. The officer said it involved… involved Jackson’s parents.”

The officer with meat hook hands changed his grip around my shoulder. It softened while at the same time maintaining its hold on me less aggressively. He pulled me imperceptibly toward him.

“What do you mean it involves my parents?” I asked, pulling away from the officer as he tried to comfort me. “What does that mean exactly?”

The administrator still wouldn’t look at me, and addressed the cops. “Your colleagues quickly identified who was in the wreck from license plate and driver license information. The names rang a bell because of what’s happening here, and so...”

“What?” I pressed, hardly keeping my composure.

He finally looked me in the eyes. He was breathless, sweating, and uncomfortable. He pulled loose his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his short sleeve dress shirt. “Your parents aren’t coming to pick you up, Jackson,” he said. “Neither of them.”

***

Do
I
really
want
to
stop
Crockett
from
killing
the
Governor
?

It’s a legitimate question. If the Governor dies and Crockett gets caught, how does that help me?

The Governor clearly doesn’t care about me. He faked it. He used me. He had me kidnapped and interrogated. He’s no loss.

He also doesn’t want me dead. That’s a rare trait these days. Maybe he can impress upon the oil companies the benefits of leaving me alone. If he dies, Buell could become Governor. That’s not good for me.

Walking out of Charlie’s building, I turn left toward the bus stop. The phone in my pocket vibrates. It’s an unlisted number.

“Hello?”

“Jackson, good man,” says a cheerful, familiar voice. “How are you?” I’m not surprised he found me. Even with someone else’s phone, he never has any trouble tracking me down.

“Sir Spencer,” I answer. “Or Saint. Or whoever you are...what’s up?”

“Where are you headed?”

“To stop the Governor from getting killed,” I tell him. “He’s a target.”

“Whatever do you mean?” He laughs and his muffled voice tells someone, “He says your life is in danger.”

“Crockett is alive, right? I’ve got some information which leads me to believe his next target is the Governor.”

“Where are you getting this?” Sir Spencer isn’t laughing now.

“There was some stuff on Charlie’s computer...”

“You went to her apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I
told
you I was going there. I wanted to find out—”

“Who she really was?” There’s a lilting sarcasm in his voice. “Oh, dear boy.”

“Irrelevant,” I say, trying not to raise my voice. There’s a woman standing next to me at the bus stop now. “You need to be aware of the threat.”

“Do you have any suggestion as to when or where this threat might be?”

“The debate. It’ll happen at the debate or after the debate. I saw building diagrams.”

He sounds less dubious of my warning now, “We’ll make certain there is additional security.”

I step onto the blue city bus. “I’m coming there anyway. I know what he looks like.”

The bus driver looks at me as I step past him and into a seat a couple of rows back. The bus is half full so I’m able to sit alone.

George’s phone is basic, but it does have internet browsing capability. I open the browser and type in ‘FT DAVIS OBSERVATORY DEAD’ and hit the search button. The list populates on the screen but there’s nothing about shootouts or car crashes, no news of dead bodies lying on the highway. Maybe it’s my search terms. I type FT DAVIS CAR BLOOD SHOOT POLICE. Nothing. HIGHWAY 118 MCDONALD BODY INVESTIGATE. Nothing.

Maybe Sir Spencer did have the scenes cleaned up. That might mean the oil companies don’t know I’m alive and Buell is unaware Charlie is dead. Unless, of course, Crockett is in contact with him.