"Hey, Jackson," someone yelled.
Before I could answer Jackson, he began questioning.
Jackson wrote copious notes.
The only item of information I'd withheld from Detective Jackson was that the assailant had asked me where everybody else was.
Jackson, I presume was his name, jumped up.
Two medics came over and pushed Jackson out of the way and began to lift me.
As Jackson moved away, I heard him say to another officer, "Put a guard on him until we find out what happened."
I'd not remembered that tidbit when Jackson first questioned me, but even now, I was reluctant to move his inquiry in that direction.
Jackson asked, surprising me.
Jackson read the shocked look on my face.
Jackson believes my story.
Knowing the local police included Detective Jackson, I suggested he contact the Simi Valley attorney first to find out if the vehicle I saw was in fact his.
I related that Jackson spoke to our California associate.
Smart guy, this Jackson; you are holding back.
It might make me a few minutes late meeting with Jackson but all the more time for Brennan to speak with him first.
Jackson must have seen me drive up because he was waiting by the door.
"Take it easy," Jackson said as he turned away and continued down the hall forcing me to follow.
Detective Jackson looked up at me.
"If they're not there, call me back," Jackson said.
Whether it was the panic in my voice or my description of the facts, Jackson was beginning to realize the seriousness of what might be happening in his jurisdiction.
Jackson put out the word on the vehicle description and plate number.
I never did find out what Howie told Detective Jackson but whatever was said, it put Jackson in a tizzy.
Thankfully, Brennan or someone he contacted straightened Jackson out.
Does Jackson know about Howie's capabilities?
Earlier, my wife had taken care of all the logistics of our travels while I locked up the house and called Jackson to tell him we would be out of town for a couple of days, retrieving Howie from California.
Jackson had stopped by for Bumpus who reluctantly jumped into the back seat like an arrested felon.
Though I was anxious to speak with Detective Jackson for an update, it was too early to call.
Jackson must have thought I didn't hear him because he repeated what he'd said.
Jackson hadn't mentioned her!
I blurted out as soon as Jackson thankfully answered.
Jackson took a moment to respond.
I blurted out my suspicions to Detective Jackson and said a prayer.
"Here," I said, fumbling for my cell phone and keying the speed dial number for Detective Jackson back in Keene.
Wait a minute, he said just as Jackson answered my cell.
Detective Carl Dick remained on the line with Jackson for most of the three mile trip.
Autumn had begun to creep over New England, promising to transform the landscape into the backdrop that Jackson Parrish so loved.
Jackson rounded the corner onto Elm Street toward the Renaissance inspired estate he currently called home.
Jackson did not feed recklessly like many of his kind.
Jackson considered feeding a sport; one he excelled at.
Jackson called to his housemate and best friend.
If Jackson was Adonis, then Sarah was Aphrodite.
Like Jackson, she moved with incredible grace, seeming to float rather than walk.
Jackson had already begun pouring a rare single malt.
Jackson was thrilled at the thought of spending a decade or so at his favorite home, claiming North America to be fresh and new.
Struggling with consciousness, Jackson first noticed the intense burning in his throat.
Jackson crouched in front of her to meet her gaze.
While stroking her hair, he spoke softly, "My name is Jackson Parrish, and as God is my witness, I will do all in my power to correct this situation."
Jackson rose and spoke with authority.
The man who opened the door pushed Jackson against the wall, holding him easily.
Jackson held the goblet, mortified, yet he had never felt such a hunger, nay––lust, as he did for the contents.
Upon reaching the first floor, Jackson realized they were in a castle.
She turned to Jackson with pleading eyes as he entered his room.
Jackson recognized the black eyes as soon as they were leveled upon him.
Jackson moved closer, inhaling deeply, while bitter tasting saliva collected in his mouth.
The woman focused on Jackson and smiled.
When Andrew Jackson was a little boy he lived with his mother in South Carolina.
Andrew Jackson was then a tall white-haired boy, thirteen years old.
Well, Andy Jackson, get down here and clean the mud from my boots.
In time, Andrew Jackson became a very great man.
Jackson looked at a piece of paper.
Jackson began taking notes.
Jackson flipped pages in his note book.