Read Online Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure by Tom Abrahams - Free Book Online
Authors: Tom Abrahams
Tags: Politics, UT, Texas, president, Assassination, Houston, Election, Health Care, Environment, David Baldacci, austin, alternative energy, Nanotechnology, texas aggies, income taxes, second amendment, brad thor, oil, texas chl, tom abrahams, gubernatorial, petrochemicals, post hill press, big oil, rice university, bill of rights, aggies, living presidents, texas politics, healthcare, george h w bush, texas am, taxes, transcanada, obamacare, wendy davis, gun control, rice owls, campaign, george bush, texas governor, ted cruz, rick perry, 2nd amendment, right to bear arms, vince flynn, keystone pipeline, chl, keystone xl, longhorns, phones, clean fuel, ipods, university of texas
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clear plastic sleeve in my wallet. It’s me. I look down at Bobby, struck by our resemblance to each other.
They thought he was me .
This jolts me back to the moment. The blood on the floor is about to seep beneath the bathroom door and into the store. I grab Bobby’s keys from his front pocket and the roll of paper towels. I unwrap half of the roll and stuff it on the floor underneath the door and slip out into the store.
As calmly as I can, I walk to the exit past the glass-enclosed register. The cashier doesn’t even look up as I make my way back to Bobby’s Mazda 3. As I am about to jump into the driver’s seat and leave, I notice a bus in the parking lot next to the Dairy Queen. Its marquee reads HOUSTON.
A group of people start to make their way back to the bus. I reach into Bobby’s car and grab my new cell phone. I also get his phone, his wallet, a worn UT baseball cap, my backpack and lock the keys in the car.
The group shuffles back to the bus and I merge with them as the driver opens the door. She’s writing on a clipboard and doesn’t even look up at me. I find a seat in the back by the bathroom, sit next to the window, and pull the hat low over my head.
As the bus pulls away, I call 9-1-1 from Bobby’s phone. In a voice barely above a whisper I tell the operator about Bobby. He’s dead in a bathroom at a gas station next to a Dairy Queen. His car and his keys are in the parking lot at a pump.
I hang up before giving her any more information, slip the window open, and toss the phone out of the window.
I get up quickly and open the accordion door to the bathroom at the rear of the bus, close it behind me, and lock it. I turn around to face the toilet, and puke into it. I keep vomiting until there’s nothing left and my stomach muscles burn from the contractions. The mirror above the small sink shows me that my eyes are sunken and my skin is pale, almost green.
I got him killed . It’s my fault .
I fill the small sink with cold water and splash it on my face. I’m cleaner but not cleansed. I grab a handful of paper towels and wipe the area around the toilet seat, wiping up residual vomit. I wash my hands again before I return to my seat.
Bobby’s wallet is holding a hundred dollars in twenties. Mine has blood on it. There’s still forty dollars in it. My credit cards are no good. Neither are Bobby’s. I toss them out the window, hoping someone might find them and use them. That might throw off whoever it is that wants me dead. It’ll keep the police from finding me until I can sort this out.
It’s only a matter of time before they see me on the surveillance video in the store. They’ll trace me to the car. My fingerprints are everywhere in the vehicle and in the bathroom. I need to hurry.
The bus is half empty. Nobody seems to notice me. I tilt the baseball cap back on my head and stare out the window.
We pass a mileage marker on the side of the highway. HOUSTON 94 MILES. That buys a little time to think.
***
I’m sick to my stomach. My throat burns. Whoever killed Bobby wants me dead.
Slouching in my seat on the Houston-bound bus, I dial 4-1-1 on my new phone and tell the operator I need the number and address for Channel 4 in Houston. I have the information texted to my phone and wait for the operator to connect me.
“News 4 Houston,” the voice answers. People who work the assignment desks in newsrooms are either old and homicidal or young and stressed. This woman sounds young and stressed. I ask her for George Townsend. She sighs loudly and her yell for George gets cut off when she puts me on hold.
“George Townsend.”
“George, this is…I’m the guy who called you earlier about Ripley.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Your phone goes straight to voicemail.”
I had forgotten my discarded phone was his only way to reach me. “This is my new number, sorry. The old one’s no good anymore.”
“Okay,” he says. I can
They thought he was me .
This jolts me back to the moment. The blood on the floor is about to seep beneath the bathroom door and into the store. I grab Bobby’s keys from his front pocket and the roll of paper towels. I unwrap half of the roll and stuff it on the floor underneath the door and slip out into the store.
As calmly as I can, I walk to the exit past the glass-enclosed register. The cashier doesn’t even look up as I make my way back to Bobby’s Mazda 3. As I am about to jump into the driver’s seat and leave, I notice a bus in the parking lot next to the Dairy Queen. Its marquee reads HOUSTON.
A group of people start to make their way back to the bus. I reach into Bobby’s car and grab my new cell phone. I also get his phone, his wallet, a worn UT baseball cap, my backpack and lock the keys in the car.
The group shuffles back to the bus and I merge with them as the driver opens the door. She’s writing on a clipboard and doesn’t even look up at me. I find a seat in the back by the bathroom, sit next to the window, and pull the hat low over my head.
As the bus pulls away, I call 9-1-1 from Bobby’s phone. In a voice barely above a whisper I tell the operator about Bobby. He’s dead in a bathroom at a gas station next to a Dairy Queen. His car and his keys are in the parking lot at a pump.
I hang up before giving her any more information, slip the window open, and toss the phone out of the window.
I get up quickly and open the accordion door to the bathroom at the rear of the bus, close it behind me, and lock it. I turn around to face the toilet, and puke into it. I keep vomiting until there’s nothing left and my stomach muscles burn from the contractions. The mirror above the small sink shows me that my eyes are sunken and my skin is pale, almost green.
I got him killed . It’s my fault .
I fill the small sink with cold water and splash it on my face. I’m cleaner but not cleansed. I grab a handful of paper towels and wipe the area around the toilet seat, wiping up residual vomit. I wash my hands again before I return to my seat.
Bobby’s wallet is holding a hundred dollars in twenties. Mine has blood on it. There’s still forty dollars in it. My credit cards are no good. Neither are Bobby’s. I toss them out the window, hoping someone might find them and use them. That might throw off whoever it is that wants me dead. It’ll keep the police from finding me until I can sort this out.
It’s only a matter of time before they see me on the surveillance video in the store. They’ll trace me to the car. My fingerprints are everywhere in the vehicle and in the bathroom. I need to hurry.
The bus is half empty. Nobody seems to notice me. I tilt the baseball cap back on my head and stare out the window.
We pass a mileage marker on the side of the highway. HOUSTON 94 MILES. That buys a little time to think.
***
I’m sick to my stomach. My throat burns. Whoever killed Bobby wants me dead.
Slouching in my seat on the Houston-bound bus, I dial 4-1-1 on my new phone and tell the operator I need the number and address for Channel 4 in Houston. I have the information texted to my phone and wait for the operator to connect me.
“News 4 Houston,” the voice answers. People who work the assignment desks in newsrooms are either old and homicidal or young and stressed. This woman sounds young and stressed. I ask her for George Townsend. She sighs loudly and her yell for George gets cut off when she puts me on hold.
“George Townsend.”
“George, this is…I’m the guy who called you earlier about Ripley.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Your phone goes straight to voicemail.”
I had forgotten my discarded phone was his only way to reach me. “This is my new number, sorry. The old one’s no good anymore.”
“Okay,” he says. I can
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