Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure (21 page)

"It wouldn't," he admits, "except Black Bayou Holdings is in Houston. Guess who is listed as one of its corporate officers with the Texas Secretary of State?"

"Who?"

"The Vice President in charge of strategic acquisitions for Aleutian Energy Providers."

"Who is he?"

"She," George smiles, his lips quivering. "You've met her. In Alaska."

***

The landscape rushing by the SUV is less mesquite and more piñon pine and juniper. The thermometer beneath the speedometer reads five degrees cooler than it did when we turned onto 118. I run over a dead rattlesnake; I'm not the first, or second, to have done so.

The road veers east and curves in an S before heading south and east again. We're getting close. We might beat the sunset.

"Mary Brown," I say for the third time, remembering her lack of warmth more than the chill of Anchorage. "The one with the Dorothy Hamill haircut. She's funding the black suits?"

"Not exactly," George says. "She's on two teams. On the surface, she's the go-between. She communicates to Black Bayou, or Pickle, whatever it is Aleutian needs. She takes the intelligence Pickle gathers and alerts those who need to know at Aleutian."

"Why would she be so clumsy to have public records connecting her to both companies?"

"It's not that clumsy," George has resumed thumping his knee intermittently. I don't think he’s aware of it. "I mean, how many people are going to cross-reference an Alaskan oil company vice president with some small holding company in Houston?"

"Somebody did."

"Yeah," he admits. "She's been doing both jobs for at least the last five years. This is nothing new. She's been operating in both capacities long enough, that this is a perpetual mode of operation. I bet, if I'd had time, my producer would have found more of your contacts involved in similar arrangements. This is something big that's been brewing for a while."

"So it’s the oil companies that wanted me dead to start with. They're the ones who killed Bobby. They're the ones who followed us to Rice and slammed into us downtown. They're the ones who nearly killed me in the tunnel bathroom."

"What?!?" George's jaw drops and his face draws a new shade of sallow. "What are you talking about?"

"I thought you knew? After the wreck I ran into the tunnels. I stopped in a bathroom to check my injuries when one of the black suits cornered me."

George is still slack jawed. He says nothing.

"I fought back against him, but I was losing too much blood," I swallow against my throat. "I got weak. The guy was about to kill me when..."

"When what?" George is riveted. His leg is in overdrive, up and down like a juiced pump jack.

"I don't know really." I shake my head. "Somebody came in and killed him."

"Who?" Up and down. Up and down. Up and down. It's beginning to drive me nuts.

"It was The Saint."

"The Saint?"

"The guy who kidnapped me."

"Holy crap." George grabs his heads with both hands. His eyebrows are pulled back tighter than Joan Rivers'. "I can't believe this crap. I can't believe this." George is starting to hyperventilate. So much for faking compassion.

"Look," I say in a soft but firm voice. "Calm down, George. This is good."

"How is it good?" He balls his hands into fists alongside his head, grabbing clumps of hair. "How is any of this good? I knew I shouldn't have come. No story is worth this. None."

"George," I repeat.

"I've won three Lone Star Emmys!" He holds up three fingers without completely letting go of his head. "Three! None of them put my life in danger. Even my Headliner Award. Nobody died. Nobody!"

George keeps ranting about awards and death. I tune him out long enough to notice a large deer off to the left side of the road, easily six points, with thick shoulders and a large white area on its neck. Its large ears make it look like a donkey with antlers.

***

The Governor took me deer hunting once. We were sitting in a couple of highchairs in the back of a Chevy Silverado at dawn. He handed me a cup of hot coffee and a gun.

"The coffee's Venezuelan," he nodded at the Styrofoam cup. "The rifle's a Ruger M77 Hawkeye All Weather Bolt Action. It's .308. Nice trigger action. She shoots true."

"Thanks for the coffee," I told him. We both smiled.

An hour later we were both cold despite the coffee. Then we saw the first buck. The Governor's eyes widened.

"My oh my," he whispered, motioning for me to shoulder the rifle. "See the white spots on the back?"

I nodded and slowly positioned the Ruger against my right shoulder.

"That's a fallow," he said, binoculars still to his eyes. "It's a trophy, Jackson. A real find." He motioned for me to take a shot.

The deer was a good fifty yards from us in a small clearing. It was stopped broadside. I kept both eyes open and spotted the deer through the scope. The Ruger’s butt was tight against my shoulder when I slowly, deliberately pulled the trigger.

One shot cracked through the chill. The deer fell.

"Jackson!" The Governor slapped me on the back a little harder than I'd have liked. "Right in the kill zone. In the shoulder, behind the heart and lungs. Beautiful! You say you've never fired a weapon?"

"No sir."

"You're a natural."

My stomach turned when he said it. I didn’t fire the weapon again that day.

***

George is finally beginning to calm himself as we drive past the Chihuahua Desert Research Station a couple of minutes from the McDonald Observatory Visitor's Center.

I look at him for a moment to catch his attention fully. "It's good we are beginning to figure out the sides here. The guy who kidnapped me doesn't want me dead. Charlie doesn't want me dead. They both had opportunities and didn't kill me."

"Okay," he says. His leg jitters have stopped.

"The one guy I'm not sure about is that fake detective with the Marines tattoo. I don't know for sure if he's with Charlie or on his own."

"Does it matter?" George asks. "He's against
us
."

***

The Frank N. Bash Visitors Center is an adobe colored stucco building that sits low between the mountains that frame it. In the distance atop Mount Locke, barely visible against the dark skies post-sunset, are a pair of large white domes. They have the appearance of grain silos, but they are powerful telescopes. They’re the centerpiece of the McDonald Observatory.

George and I walk up the circle drive to the entrance, hoping it’s open. The lights are on inside, and to our surprise, the doors are unlocked.

“Welcome to the McDonald Observatory,” greets a cheerful, round woman upon our entrance. “How may I help you? Are you here for the Star Party?”

“Yes ma’am,” I answer without thinking. “Do we need reservations?”

“I don’t think so,” she looks at a piece of paper in front of her. “We’re light on attendance tonight.”

“What’s a Star Party?” George whispers out of the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t know,” I whisper back. “Maybe it’ll help us find Ripley.”

The woman looks up as we approach her and she smiles. Her full cheeks are rouge red and her white shoulder-length hair is parted down the middle. She’s wearing a cardigan buttoned only at the top and horn-rimmed reading glasses on her disproportionately small nose.

“You’re in!” she says. “Now, it’s right here at the Gale Telescope Park behind this building. It lasts a couple of hours. Since it’s clear tonight, it should be fun viewing. Now, that’ll be twenty-four dollars.”

“What about the telescopes up the hill?” George asks and hands the woman the cash. She takes the money with one hand while pushing her glasses up her nose with the other. “Those are available on Special Viewing Nights. Those
do
require reservations. Would you like to make one for another night?”

“No thanks,” I answer. “What about your lodging?”

“If you are here for a Special Viewing Night or are a friend of the observatory, then yes. We do have a couple of rooms available. I happened to check with Nancy up at the lodge because we had a cancellation. Are you supporters of the observatory?” She smiles with her lips pressed together. Her eyeglasses slide down her nose again.

“We’d like to be,” I offer. “What sort of donation would make us the kinds of friends who could stay at the lodge tonight?”

“Hmmm,” she squints at George and at me. “It’s a little unusual, you know. Typically we don’t do this sort of thing, but we do have the room…”

“We’re happy to pay the rack rate,” George hopes to seal the deal. “In cash.”

“If you can both donate fifty dollars, you’ll be a friend at the Stargazer level,” she counters. “It’s our lowest level. It comes with complimentary Star Party passes, but since I already sold you those, I can’t cut you a discount. You could both have a room for eighty-eight dollars for tonight. There’s no rack rate. We’re not a hotel, sweetie.”

“Sounds good,” I tell her. We both give her our names and the cash for the membership and the room.

“Now,” she tells us as we start to leave, “when you head up to the lodge, you’ll need to check yourself in. Give it about thirty minutes. I’ll call up to Nancy. She’ll put your keys out in the great room. Sign in at the clipboard, take your key, and find your room. There’s snacks in the refrigerator and out on the tables. Breakfast is self-serve tomorrow morning.”

We both thank her and head back to the SUV.

“You heard her say there’s a clipboard for check-in?” I say to George as we step out of the visitors’ center and into the cool West Texas night. The temperature has dropped in the few minutes we were inside.

“Yep,” George says. “Means we can find which room Ripley is hiding in.”

“Yeah,” I say, popping the remote locks on the SUV and getting in. “It also means those black suits could find us.”

***

The clipboard was on a small folding table at one corner of what the woman at the visitors’ center called the great room. There were eight other names on the list, none of them Ripley’s.

“Let’s figure out these names,” I suggest. “G. Edwards, M. Harrold, F. Jackson, S. Blackmon, A. Johnson, J. Palance, P. Walker, Franklin.”

“When I called from the lab,” George reminds me, “the woman said there was a Ripley registered here. Maybe he’s not here.”

“He’s here. Where else would he go?”

“If we led the spooks here,” George suggests, tapping me on my shoulder, “maybe they got him.”

“Could be.” I study the names. “When you talked to the woman on the phone, she read a handful of names to you. Ripley was one. What were the others? Are they on this list?”

George steps up to the table and leans over the clipboard. He runs his finger down the list of names and back up again. He points to Franklin.

“I remember that one.” He points to Walker, “That one too.”

“Ripley…” I mumble. “Ripley….” I flip the pages on the clipboard back and forth, noticing Ripley’s name was there the previous two nights. He was in different rooms each night. Franklin, Walker, and Johnson were in the same rooms. There were no other guests. I flip back to tonight’s sign-in.

“Believe it or not,” George chuckles.

I figure it out.

“Room eight,” I tell him. “J. Palance.”

“What?” George looks at the name on the sign in sheet. “How do you know that?”

"Sign in and get your key." I scribble a pseudonym and take the key to room six. George does the same and picks room twelve.

The long hall to our left is dotted with numbered doors on either side of it, odd on the left, even on the right. The hallway is dark, so it’s not easy to read the numbers.

“Here it is,” I announce just above a whisper. “This is the one.”

“How do you know?”

“I thought it might be J. Palance,” I explain as we stand outside the door of room eight. “Because Jack Palance was the host of the
Ripley’s
Believe
It
Or
Not
! Television show in the 1980s. Pretty clever. I looked at the handwriting for Ripley and Palance. They matched.”

“How would you know about that show? Aren’t you a little young for that?”

“Reruns. Sci-fi channel.” I knock on the door and hold up a finger to my lips, suggesting George simmer down. "I had time on my hands as a kid."

There’s a shuffling in the room and a mattress creaks. Someone’s getting off the bed to come to the door.

“Hello?” says a meek voice from inside the room. “Who is it?”

“We’re here to help you, Mr. Ripley.”

“My name is Palance.”

George shoots me a look.

“Jack is it?” I ask.

“Uh,” there’s a pause. “Who is this?”

“I know you are hiding here. I am too. We are running from the same people.”

The floor creaks from inside the room.

“My name is Jackson Quick. I am an aide to the Governor. I did stuff for him that got me into trouble. I’m on the run like you.”

“I’m George Townsend. I’m a reporter from channel four in Houston. I interviewed your dad. He told me you were the key to whatever this thing is, that if we found you, you could help him.”

Nothing.

“Let us prove it to you,” I suggest. “I’m going to slip my license under the door. George is going to do the same. Then you know it’s us. We’re not here to hurt you. We’re not with the guys in the dark suits.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Say what?”

“The guys in the dark suits.”

“Have you seen them?” George asks.

“They killed my friend,” I offer. “They nearly killed me. We know who they are.”

George bends down on a knee and slides his license under the narrow gap between the floor and the bottom of the door. I follow his lead and do the same.

“You see the licenses?” George steps back from the door. “We’re telling the truth.”

There’s a click at the door and the sound of what’s probably the sliding chain of the door lock and the handle spins.

“Don’t come in yet!” Visible through the small opening is the thick barrel of a gun. A pistol probably. George and I raise our hands in surrender and the door opens a bit wider.