Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure (5 page)

I walk out into the combination family room/kitchen and yank open the refrigerator. There’s a carton of orange juice, a tub of margarine, a small can of Red Bull, and some leftover takeout from Iron Works Barbecue. I pull the carton of juice to my mouth and take a couple of gulps before I taste its bitterness. It’s sour. I smell it and wince. The expiration date tells me it’s got three days.
What
the
hell
?

The phone rings.

I trudge back to my bed and sit on its edge to pick up my cell, which apparently I left on the oak nightstand. San Antonio area code.

“Hello?” I rub my temples with my left hand as I hold the phone in my right. I’m looking at the digital clock next to the bed. The LED numbers announce 3:45.

It’s
that
late
?

“Jackson Quick?” I immediately recognize the voice.
The
Saint
.

I can’t speak.

“Okay, Jackson, my good man,” The Saint continues in an even, disturbing tone. “I’m going to explain this to you slowly. You are not to hang up. You are not to take notes. I want you to remember what it is I am about to tell you.”

I say nothing. I can’t. I physically can’t. The pounding at my temples is suddenly blinding.

“I’ll assume your silence implies your consent.”

What
is
going
on
?

“I am aware of everything you do, Jackson.” There is the sound of street traffic in the background. “I am watching you. You are not to tell anyone.”

This
is
not
a
dream
,
is
it
?

“I will know if you
snitch
, as they say,” he makes the word
snitch
sound particularly vile. “I will not be pleased with you. As for your whereabouts for the last five days…”

Five
days
?
I’ve
lost
five
days
?

“You’ve been ill,” he explained. “While you were with me, I sent text messages from your phone to anyone who tried to contact you.”

He
had
my
phone
and
my
keys
.

“If you fail to comply…” The Saint pauses, in the distance there’s what sounds like the air brakes of city bus, “…we’ll repeat our question and answer session.”

“Why did you let me go?”

It’s the only thing I can think to say. I can feel a clammy sweat forming on my forehead. My stomach feels tight. There’s an acidic ache in my chest. Bullies have always made me want to puke.

“You’ll be of more use to me this way.”

“Useful for what?”

There’s the honk of a car horn and the line goes silent. He’s hung up. I check the number on my phone and hit redial. Maybe he’ll answer.

It rings five times.

“Hello?” It’s a woman’s voice on the other end. She has a thick Texas drawl which catches me off guard.

I’m not sure what to say. “Uh, yeah. Where am I calling?”

“Dude,” the woman sounds incredulous. “This is a pay phone at the Stop N Go on Sahara Drive. You probably have the wrong number.”

“Are you in San Antonio?”

“No, Sahara Drive in Austin.” She hangs up.

I sit on the edge of my bed holding the phone. My mind is racing through my options, though it seems I have none. Unconsciously rubbing the soreness from my right knee, I try to evaluate my situation.

I can’t tell anyone where I’ve been for five days. I’m in danger of being kidnapped again. The iPods I’ve been faithfully delivering all over the world are somehow connected to the assassination of the man who wants my boss’s job. Whatever information is downloaded onto those iPods is treasonous.

I’ve got to figure out what is on those iPods. I need to draw the connection between that information and the shooting. Maybe, if I can do that, The Saint will leave me alone. He, and whoever he is working for, will let me go back to my life. I can focus on my future with Charlie.

Charlie
!

It seems like more than five days since I’ve seen her. It feels more like a year. Actually, I feel like I haven’t slept in a year. I fall back onto the bed and stare up at the spinning fan. If I focus on a single spot long enough, I can see the individual blades as they turn counterclockwise. It’s a welcome distraction.

I
need
to
see
Charlie
.

***

“I have missed you sooo much!” Charlie’s grip around my neck is tight. I don’t want her to let go. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” Charlie loosens her hold and moves back to look me in the eyes. She brushes my hair off my forehead. Her fingernails tickle.

“I’ve missed you too.” I have. She has no idea how much. “I’m sorry about leaving you at the bar on Thursday. I—”

“I know,” she interrupts and turns to lead me to her sofa. Her left hand grabs my right. “You felt sick. I got your text when I was still in the Ladies’ room. I was a little pissed off you left me there, but I got over it.”

I sit on the soft chenille of her overstuffed sofa and she straddles me, sitting on my lap with her legs tucked behind her. I rest my hands on her hips. She’s wearing a gray T-shirt and jeans. I thumb the copper rivets on the pockets of her jeans. It’s good to be with her.

She has her hands on my shoulders. Her T-shirt reads “Bush Cheney ‘04”. She’s more politically conservative than I am. I’m right-leaning moderate. We both, though, found our way onto the Governor’s staff ahead of his reelection.

“You look like you’ve lost weight, poor baby,” she noted. She pouts her lips and frowns, running the back of her hand along the right side of my face. “I wish you’d have let me come and nurse you back to health.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to see me like that.” I’m guessing my kidnapper had dissuaded her.

She leans forward and slides her hands onto my chest. Her lips meet mine and we kiss for a few moments. She’s an aggressive kisser and I like it. She can tell.

Twenty minutes later we’re cuddled together under a blanket on the sofa. I’m lying on my back and she’s curled around me, her left leg draped over me. We’re holding hands, playing with our fingers.

It’s dark outside and the soft lamplight in her apartment radiates warmth. There are framed reproductions of French impressionists and wrought iron sconces boasting thick candles. The walls are beige with thick crown molding. Her furniture is a mix of antique, glass, and overstuffed, floral-patterned chairs. I call it ultra-feminine. She calls it shabby chic.

“You broke a nail,” I pointed out. The index finger on her right hand is missing its usual manicure. I rub the top of her finger with mine.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “I’m going to need to get a fill.” She shifts on the sofa and lays her head on my chest. I missed her. Before I get to figuring out what the hell happened to me and what I have to do with an assassination, I need a minute to decompress.

“Hey,” I ask as nonchalantly as I can muster, “what’s going to happen to the race now that Buell is dead? I guess the debate is cancelled?”

Charlie whips her head around to face me with a look of disbelief on her face. “What do you mean Buell is
dead
?” Her eyebrows are scrunched together and her eyes are drilling holes into mine. I can feel the immediate tension in her body.

“Wasn’t he shot at a rally in Houston? Wasn’t he killed?”

“Oh,” she relaxes. “No. You freaked me out. He’s alive.”

“But I thought…”

“No,” she lays her head back down. “He was hit in the shoulder. He was hurt bad but he lived. He’s already out of the hospital and campaigning again. He’s got this huge sling on his arm. It was on the news this morning.”

“Wow, I’m glad he’s not dead. Do they know who did it?”

“Yeah,” Charlie bites at the stub of a nail on her index finger. “A guy who is part of the Texas Independence movement. He has a website dedicated to secession.”

“What?”
Secession
?
Is
that
the
connection
?

“Some guy with a website who talks about Texas seceding from the United States. He thinks Buell would be a federal lapdog if he gets elected.”

“So…?”

“So he shot Buell.” She pats my stomach with her hand. “You really
were
out of the loop.”

“Guess so,” I said, only half listening to her as she talks about her policy struggles on the Capitol floor.

Secession. The iPods. My boss. My
treacherous
trips. I need to get some sleep so I can more clearly process all of this.

First thing in the morning I have work to do.

***

Charlie mumbles goodbye to me as I snake my body out from under hers on the sofa. I kiss her on the head. I want to stay with her, but know I can’t.

“Going for a run?” she asks groggily through her fog.

“Something like that,” I mumble.

I slip on some khakis, a Kinky Friedman T-shirt, and a pair of comfortable Merrell shoes. I grab my backpack and trot down the stairs to the sidewalk. My back still aches and I have to slow my pace. I walk a few blocks to the McDonald’s on MLK north of the Capitol and order a coffee. It’s a little out of the way, but it’s a lot cheaper than Starbucks and equally good. I grab a seat in a beige plastic booth and pull my netbook from the backpack. I pop open the screen and connect to the free Wi-Fi network, then pull a set of ear buds from the backpack and pop them in my ears.

I go to Google and type DON CARLOS BUELL SHOOTER.

A series of recent news articles fill the screen. I move the cursor to VIDEO and click. A new list appears; the first link is from Channel 4 in Houston, the same station that carried the shooting, so I click it.

My netbook’s processor isn’t the best around. It takes a few seconds to load the new page with a large video player in the middle of the screen. The caption beneath the player reads, RIPLEY DENIES SHOOTING GUBERNATORIAL CANDIDATE.

I press the play button, hit the full screen tab, and wait for the video to buffer. There are two anchors on the screen. I vaguely recognize the woman. She’s blonde and older than I remember her. The man speaks first.

“
Our
top
story
tonight
on
4
News
is
an
exclusive
interview
with
the
man
charged
with
trying
to
assassinate
gubernatorial
candidate
Don
Carlos
Buell
.”

“
4
News
reporter
George
Townsend
,” the woman anchor cut in, “
sat
down
with
suspect
Roswell
Ripley
for
his
first
televised
interview
since
being
arrested
hours
after
the
shooting
.
He
joins
us
live
from
outside
the
Harris
County
jail
downtown
.
George
?”

The reporter is standing in front of the jail, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His tie is knotted but loosened, a contrived look to make it appear he’s been working hard, gathering the news. He has thick blonde hair he parts to the side and wears round, frameless eyeglasses. He looks tall, though that’s always hard to tell on television without a frame of reference. People always told me I looked heavier and shorter on T.V. I never knew how to respond.

“
Roswell
Ripley
says
he’s
being
framed
.
He
says
he’s
a
target
of
the
federal
government
and
the
liberal
media
and
he
had
nothing
to
do
with
the
attempted
assassination
of
Don
Carlos
Buell
.” The reporter stands still for a moment, holding his position until the taped portion of his story rolls.

The video begins with a shot of Ripley in leg irons and handcuffs, being led into the small interview room at the jail. The reporter is talking about how
exclusive
the on-camera meeting is. News people like that word,
exclusive
. There’s a sound bite with Ripley.

“
I
didn’t
do
it
,” Ripley shuffles in his chair, seemingly uncomfortable with the restraints. He bangs his wrists on the small plastic table in front of him. “
They
know
I
didn’t
do
it
.
They
need
a
fall
guy
.
I
am
that
guy
.
Pure
and
simple
.”

“
Who
is
‘
they’
Mr
.
Ripley
?” the reporter asks. “Who
wants
you
to
be
a
fall
guy
?”

“
The
government
,
boy
!” Ripley seems irritated with the question, as though the reporter should have known the answer. His face is long and gaunt. I can tell he’s a smoker from the yellow in his graying hair. “
The
damn
government
.
I’m
telling
you
,
anybody
who
speaks
their
mind
against
the
federal
government
better
watch
out
.
They’ll
get
you
.”

The video switches from the interview room to a full-screen shot of a website. The reporter explains the website is run by Ripley and it advocates Texas seceding from the United States.