Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure (17 page)

I hand her six one hundred dollar bills and tell her she can keep the change if she’s ready with the phone when I get back.

Next door to the Radio Shack is a Champs Sporting Goods store. I immediately pull an extra-large white and red University of Houston T-shirt from a hanger on the wall inside the doorway. It’s an extra large. I find a blue and gray Texans’ hoodie and some matching fleece sweatpants. With those tucked under my arm, I grab a pair of gray basketball shorts from a display table and pile it on the checkout counter.

“I need some shoes,” I tell the kid behind the counter. “Size eleven please. I don’t care what brand. Nike’s fine. Adidas. Whatever.”

“How much do you want to spend?” he asks, standing up from the small stool on which he was sitting, texting on his iPhone.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say.

“Okay.” He smiles and disappears behind a curtain leading to the back of the store. In three minutes he’s back with three boxes. Two of them are Nike and one is Under Armour.

“I’ll take them.”

“All of them?” He looks surprised. “Don’t you want to try them on?”

“No,” I say. “I’m good. How much?”

He takes a small electronic scanner and beeps the prices into the register. $279.58 appears on the green LED register display facing me. He scans the clothing and a small black backpack I toss on the counter. $394.53. I thumb out four one hundred dollar bills.

“Keep the change.”

I pull the boxes off the counter. I can’t hear what he’s saying to me as I bolt out of the store and back into the Radio Shack. I’ve got five minutes and five thousand dollars in my pocket.

“I’m back,” I say to the rep at Radio Shack as I stride toward the counter.

“It’s all ready to go,” she tells me, swinging her body from behind the counter and walking toward me with a small plastic bag in one hand and the phone in the other.

I thank her, grab the bag and the phone. I pull all three pairs of shoes from their boxes and stuff everything but the phone into my new backpack.

“Do you need me to get those?” The rep gestures to the three shoe boxes I dropped to the floor. Before I can say anything she’s already bent down to pick them up.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m in a hurry.” I sling the backpack over my left shoulder and turn to leave.

“I can tell,” she looks up at me as she gathers the boxes. “Be careful.”

Be
careful
.

“Too late,” I snicker. “
Way
too late.”

***

“I’m not meeting you in Midland,” I tell George. “It’s not safe.”

“What do you mean?” he asks. I can hear the public address speaker in the background. He must be at Hobby airport.

“Charlie, my girlfriend, is one of them.” I’m standing in a bathroom stall inside Terminal B at Bush Intercontinental Airport trying to speak softly. “She knows I’m going there. I mean,
was
going there.”

“What are you going to do? I mean, I’m boarding the plane in, like, five minutes.”

“I’m flying to El Paso.”

“El Paso? Why?”

“Dr. Aglo mentioned Midland or El Paso were good airports to get to the observatory,” I remind him. “I am on a US Airways flight. I need you to do me a favor before I land.”

“What?” He’s irritated. I can tell.

“I need you to reserve a car for me with your credit card. I can’t use mine.”

“Okay,” he sounds relieved the favor is no more dangerous than a rental car deposit. “Leave it in your name?”

“Leave it for Jackson Ellsworth.” I unzip the backpack full of clothing I have hanging on the back of the stall door.

“Ellsworth?”

“It’s my middle name. It’s on my driver’s license. Don’t leave it in my last name. They’ll find me. Use Advantage Rent a Car.” I give him the phone number.

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” I rip the tag off of the new T shirt, “I have a new phone number. After I hang up with you, this phone goes in the trash. I called Charlie with it. She’s been trying to call me. I don’t know if she can track me. I’ve got to ditch it.”

“Good idea,” he says. He tells me he’s got the new number, he’ll arrange for my car, and he’ll talk to me once I’ve landed in El Paso.

I hang up and toss the phone into the toilet, then pull the Kinky T-shirt over my head and toss it onto the floor along with my shoes and pants. I’ve spent a lot of time in public bathrooms these last two days; none of it good and none of it to actually go to the bathroom.

It feels good to slip on a clean shirt and shorts. I pick a pair of black and white Nike shoes from the bag and lace them up. They’re a little tight, but they’ll be fine.

I make sure my wallet and cash envelope are in the backpack before I zip it closed and put it over my left shoulder. It’s considerably lighter now, loaded with two pairs of shoes, the hoodie, the sweatpants, and the small Radio Shack bag. I put the new Smartphone into the backpack’s outer pocket and exit the stall.

My flight boards in a half hour, and I still have to switch terminals, buy a ticket, and get through security. Right now, more than making my flight, I am concerned with avoiding Charlie.

The realization our relationship is a lie, or
was
a lie, is disorienting. I’m not sure how to process it, really. I loved her. I thought she loved me. Until a couple of hours ago, I imagined the two of us together for the rest of our lives. Marriage, kids, family, the whole bit.

Family
.
My
Achilles
heel
.

Years of therapy have made me incredibly self-aware. They’ve blinded me too. I want so badly to have what I lost when my parents died, I’m not discerning enough to distinguish reality from desire.

When the desire involves a lifetime with a smart, engaging, gorgeous woman, I should know better than to ever think it involves reality.

My
reality is that I need to catch a flight, get to Ripley, and figure out why I am a target. I take the elevator to the lowest level in the terminal to catch the intra-terminal train.

The train looks more like a people mover from Disney World. That’s because it
is
from Disney World. I read once the same engineering firm that created the people mover in Tomorrowland designed the intra-terminal train. Bizarre.

I hop on the train and sit in a rear facing seat with my backpack in my lap. The train lumbers into motion and begins its jerky trek through the bowels of the airport. Next to the train is a carpeted walkway. A few people are speed walking from one terminal to another; others are clearly airport employees who are exercising during a break.

The first stop is the Marriott Hotel. I pull out my new smartphone and look for a signal. I have one, but it’s weak. There’s really nobody to call anyhow. George is on his flight by now.

A recorded voice announces our arrival at the hotel and the train stops. The doors slide open. Through the glass window in the back of my small train car, I can see a couple getting into the car behind mine. They’re lugging two huge suitcases and have trouble arranging themselves.

Terminal C is next. That’s the busiest part of the airport, since United runs every gate. I turn off my phone and slide it back into the outside pocket of the backpack.

“Now approaching Terminal C,” says the recorded, non-regional, pleasant sounding woman’s voice over the train’s speaker system. “Please gather your belongings and exit carefully.”

I lean back and close my eyes while the doors slide open. The adrenaline that’s kept me moving is draining its way out of my system. People shuffle on and off of the train in the other cars. It’s two more stops until I get off at Terminal A.

“Now departing for Terminals D and E,” says the recorded voice. “Departing Terminal C.” I can hear the train rumble to life as we jerk toward the next stop.

“You don’t know whachur doin’,” says a voice close to me. “You’re clueless.”

I sit up and open my eyes. There’s a man sitting in the seat across from me. He’s wearing a cheap looking blue blazer with a burgundy tie, gray pants, and a pair of brown leather boots. His hair is gelled flat against his muscular head and his teeth are clenching a toothpick.

He looks familiar.

“Excuse me?”

“Ah said,” his southern drawl is distractingly thick, “yew don’t know whachur doin’. You’re all mixed up in a big thang that’s got yew runnin’ scared. You think you can figgur it out.” I don’t say anything. I’m trying to place his face and his accent.

“Butcha caynt.” He leans back against the plastic seat and crosses his legs. His blazer drops open against the seat and I can see a handgun holstered against his left side. “Deep down,” he says with a smirk, glancing momentarily at the gun he knows I’ve spotted, “yew know you’re in over your head.”

“Who are you?” I ask, tightening my grip on my backpack.

“Detective Crockett,” he spits out his name like a wad of tobacco. “We met at the hospital. You bolted on me.” He says
you
like he’s referring to a sheep.

“What do you want,
Detective
?” My inflection makes it clear we
both
know he’s not a cop. The train jerks around a tight corner on the tracks.

“I guess that kinda depends on what
you
want, Jackson.”

“I want to know why you’re interested in me. I want to know why my friend Bobby is dead. I want to know what
you
want from
me
.”

He pulls the toothpick from his teeth and leans forward, his palms flat against the edge of the plastic seat. On his right hand is a military insignia, maybe the Marines. On his pinkie and middle finger are numbers or letters – either fives or Ss. On his ring finger there’s a straight line or slash, and on his trigger finger, leading from the back of his hand to his middle knuckle, the letters B-O-O-M. He sees me looking at the ink and smirks, pinching the toothpick tighter between his pursed lips.

“I want you to git off of this train and skip wherever it is you think you’re goin’,” he spins the toothpick along his teeth. “Cause that ain’t gonna happen.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Right,” he laughs. “We’re gonna git off together here at the next stop. You are gonna come with me. Maybe, once you do that, you’ll get some of the other answers you want. Got it?”

I don’t respond. Or move.

“Now approaching Terminals D and E,” says the recording. “Please gather your belongings and exit carefully.”

Detective Crockett stands with the help of a chrome pole in the middle of the car. He holds the toothpick back loosely in the center of his lips like a cigarette, motioning with his hand for me to stand. The train is still moving.

I slowly stand up, holding the backpack in front me, and move toward the doors to face the glass. I can feel him move up behind me on my left. He’s shorter than I am but he’s more muscular.

“Awright,” he tells me, “when this train stops, you’re gonna walk to the left.”

“What?” I ask him as the train shudders to a stop.

He starts to repeat himself, but as he opens his mouth to speak, I swing to my left and throw an elbow to his face. I hit his mouth, shoving the toothpick past his teeth.

He grunts and staggers back into the chrome pole, grabbing his throat with his tattooed hand and pitifully reaching for me with the other. I can see his eyes bulging with shock and blood pouring from his mouth.

The doors slide open and I turn to run. Instead of turning left, I bolt to the right. There’s a twinge in my right knee. If I can get to Terminal A and past security before he can find me, I’ll be okay. He can’t get through the TSA checkpoint with his gun.

***

“That’ll be three hundred and seventy-nine dollars, Mr. Quick,” the US Airways desk agent says. “And I’ll need to see your identification.”

“It’ll be cash,” I tell her, handing her eight fifty dollar bills. Ridiculous for a one-way ticket. “Here’s my driver’s license.” She takes the money and my ID. “You’re sure you don’t need a return ticket?” She glances at the picture on the ID and at me before handing it back.

“No thanks. Not sure when I’m coming back yet.”

She hands me my change and my boarding pass. “Have a safe flight, Mr. Quick. You’ll be boarding at gate A18. Security is to the left and down the short hallway.”

After thanking her, I turn and scan the crowds. There’s no sign of Detective Toothpick. Still, I walk over to a row of seats near a Starbucks and drop my backpack onto one of the chairs. I unzip the large compartment, grab the hoodie, and pull it on over my T-shirt.

Across the terminal lobby, I spot a news stand and walk quickly over to the shop. There’s a tan colored “Houston-Space City” baseball cap on a mirrored rack next to the magnets and snow globes. I grab it, yank off the tag, put the cap on my head, and get in line at the register.

There are two people in front of me. The man working the cash register is painfully slow. I slip the cap lower across my brow and work the bill with my thumbs, trying to curve the fit. It’s not fitting like Bobby’s worn UT cap, which I must have lost in the car accident.

From beneath the stubborn bill, my eyes scan the crowds. Everyone in a black top is suspect. I don’t see the detective or Charlie. It hits me. I’m stupid for only now piecing this together.

Charlie knew where I was going. She had to know I was at Rice. The black suits knew I was at Rice. Charlie and the black suits could be on the same team.

Charlie and the detective were both at the hospital. He shows up at the airport after I shake Charlie. The detective could be one of the black suits.

But if they’re all working together, why did the black suits want me dead while Charlie didn’t try to kill me?

The detective could have killed me. He didn’t. Maybe Charlie and the detective are on one team and the black suits are on another.

Are some of them working for Buell? Are some on the Governor’s payroll? Where does The Saint fit in to all of this? Whose side is he backing?

My head starts to throb again. Maybe I wasn’t stupid for not thinking of all of these possibilities before. I reach the front of the line and spot a small bottle of Tylenol on the counter. I slide it over in front of the cashier and plop the hat tag onto the counter.