Not Even Past

by Dave White

  “I think Jeanne is still alive,” Donne said. The words seemed to float from his mouth. He wanted to reach out and grab them. Stuff them into his pocket. Forget this ever happened.

  Martin paused, hands above his keyboard. The blue screen reflected on his cheeks, making them look pale. Donne waited. Martin put his hand on his lap and swiveled his chair back in the direction of Donne.

  “Who do you think you are?” he said. “Get the hell out of my office. Now!”

  DONNE DIDN’T leave, though every nerve ending in him fired and tried to force him to run.

  “I think Jeanne’s alive,” he said again.

  Martin’s hand shook as it hovered over the desk.

  Years ago, his old partner dropped a bomb on Donne, one that shook him to the core. Donne would have been lying to himself if he didn’t hope this news did the same to Martin.

  “What are you talking about?” Martin said. He put his trembling hand flat on the desk to stop it and pushed himself up into a standing position. He looked like Perry White in just about every comic book drawing ever. Two hands on the desk, leaning over it, about to scream.

  Donne quickly ran through the email and text message story. Martin’s mouth was parted, but he didn’t speak.

  When Donne was finished, Martin said, “Gotta be a fake.”

  “But I—“

  Martin shook his head. “Let me see the email.”

  Donne started to take out his phone.

  “No, idiot. Come around to my computer and login. I can’t see anything on those screens.”

  Donne did as he was told. He stepped around the desk, leaned over the keyboard, and got to his email. He opened it, then opened the email. He was about to click on the link when Martin nudged him aside. They stared at Donne in dress blues.

  “I remember that picture,” he said. “That was when you were smart, kid.”

  The last word came out sharp, like Martin bit the end of it off.

  He grabbed the mouse away from Donne and clicked on the link. The blank website opened up with the video box in the middle. They waited. Nothing happened.

  “It must have been a one-time-only deal,” Donne said.

  “Are you just here to ruin my day?” Martin clicked the mouse a few times.

  “You think I want to be here?”

  “Then go home.”

  Donne didn’t move.

  Martin stood up turned away from him. He opened a file cabinet and started to flip through files.

  “Think about it, Bill. I had to walk through a gauntlet to get here. Would I really come here just to pull a dumb joke?”

  Martin didn’t speak, but stopped looking through his papers.

  “Jesus already told me to stay away from this. I have no idea what he knows, but this is real, Bill. And I have nowhere else to turn.”

  “Jesus is doing pretty well for himself these days,” Martin said. “Thought you were out of the PI business. I believe I took your license.”

  Donne clenched his fists. “I keep in touch with old friends.”

  “You don’t keep in touch with me.” Martin’s shrugged his shoulders.

  “Enough.” Donne looked out the window and watched a car pull out of its parking spot in the deck across the way.

  “Let’s say I do believe you,” Martin said. “What’s the next step for you and me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’re not working together. What do they call it in the comic books? A team-up.”

  Donne smiled despite himself. Martin loved to read comics. He also liked the Hollies.

  “No,” Donne said. “We’re not working together.”

  “Then, I ask again, why come here?”

  Because I didn’t know what else to do. Donne wanted to shout it at him.

  “I’m out of the game, you said it yourself. Investigating is not something I do any more. I don’t have any contacts—”

  “You just said you keep in touch with old friends.” It sounded like Martin was speaking through clenched teeth. He turned back around to face Donne.

  Getting somewhere.

  Donne plowed on. “I don’t have any contacts. I can’t make any headway on this. But you—you slept with Jeanne.” He had to spit the words out. “You loved her. If Jeanne’s alive—”

  “‘If’? You came all the way down here for ‘if’?” Martin shook his head. He picked the mug off the floor and kicked at the liquid, rubbing it deeper into the rug.

  Donne exhaled. “Find her. Please find her.”

  “The text message and that email said you were the only one who could help.”

  “We’re going in circles here, Bill.”

  Martin took a step toward him, and Donne tensed. Martin leaned in closer, until they were nearly nose-to-nose. Donne could smell old coffee on his breath.

  “I want to punch you in the face.” The words oozed from Martin. “I want to see nothing more than you lying on my carpet creating another stain. You know how many men out there lost their jobs, are in jail, because of you?”

  Without flinching, Donne said, “Do what you have to do, Bill.”

  Martin pursed his lips and rolled his right shoulder. For an instant, Donne actually expected a right cross to connect with his jaw.

  “I want to hear you beg.”

  Donne’s shoulders slumped.

  “Beg me to find her, Jackson. Do it.”

  Donne took a deep breath. He hoped his smelled as bad as Martin’s. “Help me, Bill. Help me find her. I need you to find her. Make her safe.”

  Martin held his position as another long puff of coffee breath exploded in Donne’s nostrils.

  “Forward me the email.” He rattled off his email address. “And then go the hell home.”

  “Thanks, Bill.”

  “I never want to see you again.”

  Martin turned and slammed the filing cabinet shut.

  “When you find her, call me.”

  Martin laughed. “Who are we kidding, Jackson? You’re not going to leave this alone.”

  Donne didn’t say anything.

  “You’re going to be out there looking too.” Martin paused. “You are the only one who actually believes what you’re saying.”

  “I’m not—”

  Martin waved a hand at him. “Save it.”

  Donne turned and left. Seconds later, he heard the door slam behind him.

  THE DRIVE to the shore took just over an hour.

  Bill Martin took a left turn on to a street named after some sort of tropical flower and cruised down it. Lavallette, like most Jersey Shore towns, was still cleaning up from Hurricane Sandy. There were empty lots where one-floor houses used to be. Garbage bags lined the curbs waiting for pickup. Damaged boats sat in driveways, waiting for repair.

  Martin hoped his destination hadn’t been harmed. He hadn’t come this way in more than six years, not since Jeanne died. Couldn’t allow himself to. Jeanne had made her choice, choosing to go back to Donne rather than be with him. There was no reason to go to the funeral or contact her parents other than to send condolences. But now, with the news Donne had brought, seeing Jeanne’s parents was the first logical destination.

  They deserved to know.

  The road curved around away from the lagoon that cut through everyone’s backyards. In this area of the shore, people didn’t have lawns. They littered their front and backyards with stones. If the lagoon every crested, as it did with Sandy, the stones were supposed to be better somehow. Martin never cared to ask how.

  He saw Jeanne’s parents’ home up ahead. It appeared to be in good shape. Being off the lagoon must have provided some form of security. He checked the clock on his dashboard. It was just before three, but he assumed they were home. The Bakers were long retired—both teachers—and collecting their pensions.

  Good for them.

  Martin parked across the street, turned the car off, and put both hands on the steering wheel. He hated that his hands had shook in front of Donne. And no
w the shakes were worse. He’d tried everything, giving up coffee and smoking. Eating better. More exercise.

  His heart pounded hard and his breath was ragged. He closed his eyes and tensed his upper body, willing it to slow down. Once it did, he got out of the car before the tremors could start again. He crossed the street, crunched his way over the front yard rocks, and stepped onto the stoop. The doorbell played Big Ben’s theme.

  Someone moved behind the door, and Martin’s heart rate picked up again. He put his hands behind his back and clenched them into fists. As the door opened, Martin focused on his breathing.

  Leonard Baker stood in front of him, and the years hadn’t been kind. His once salt-and-pepper hair was completely gray. The crow’s feet that had been at the corner of his eyes now stretched out across his face.

  “Bill Martin,” he said, his voice strong and full of bass.

  “Hi, Leonard. Can I come in?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  Martin dug his nails into his palms. “We should talk.”

  “Come in.” Leonard pushed open the door.

  “Is your wife here?”

  Leonard shook his head. “She’s out. Be back soon.”

  Martin followed Leonard into the living room. The floors were tiled, with a throw rug resting under the coffee table. There were no pictures in the room, just displays of the shore, sea shells, bottles full of sand, and a craft sign that said ON THE BEACH, IT’S ALWAYS HAPPY HOUR.

  Martin sat on the couch. Leonard took the loveseat across from him.

  “How did you guys do during the storm?” Martin asked.

  Leonard shrugged. “We’re still here.”

  “No damage?”

  “What’s going on, Bill?”

  Martin leaned back on the couch. Coming here wasn’t a good idea. No matter what he said, he was going to hurt Leonard. He didn’t expect such an older man. He expected to deal with the strong man Leonard had once been. The one who accepted him when he and Jeanne started dating. And who, six years ago, told Donne to stay out of the Baker family’s life once and for all. No, Martin wasn’t really thinking when he hit the Parkway.

  Martin said, “Jackson Donne came to see me.”

  Leonard Baker’s cheeks fired up red, but he didn’t respond.

  “He told me Jeanne’s still alive.”

  Baker looked toward his front door. “That’s ridiculous.” The bass left his voice.

  “He said he received an email with a link in it. When he clicked on the link—”

  “Did he show you the email?”

  Martin stopped for a moment. He studied Leonard and tried to pick up his body language. Leonard wasn’t looking at him, and his body went stiff in the chair. He kept staring at the front door.

  “He said when he clicked on the link, Jeanne was on it. Bound and gagged.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “You’re her dad.”

  Leonard tilted his head left, then—as if it was attached to a piece of elastic—snapped it straight back up again. “She’s dead. And Jackson is a drunk, drugged-up moron.” Leonard’s eye flicked upward. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. How can you listen to him?”

  “He wasn’t drunk when I talked to him.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  Martin glanced toward where Leonard gazed. The clock. Ten after three. “Do you believe me?”

  Leonard turned back toward Martin. The red in his cheeks had faded. “I believe Jackson Donne came to you and told you lies. I believe he is trying to hurt you, and now you’re here to hurt us.”

  Martin said, “That’s not it. There was something to this. It felt legitimate.”

  “You have to go.”

  Martin flinched. “We need to talk more about this. If Jackson isn’t lying—”

  “He is.”

  Martin shook his head. “If he isn’t lying, we need to find Jeanne before someone hurts her.”

  “You can’t hurt a dead person.”

  “I don’t know if—”

  Leonard stood up so fast, it was as if he leapt. “You have to leave. You have to go now. Get out of the house. Thank you for coming, Bill. Get out.”

  Martin didn’t move. Leonard started to walk to the door. “Come on now.”

  Martin stood up. “I wish you’d let me talk.”

  Before he could take another step, Leonard froze in front of him. Martin heard the front door swing open. He looked toward it expecting to see Mrs. Baker. He did. She stood there, looking just as old as her husband. She covered her mouth with her hand.

  By her side was a young boy, no older than five.

  “Grandpa!” the boy said, and ran toward Leonard.

  PART OF Bill Martin had always hoped she’d been lying. The day before she died, when she told him she was going back to Jackson Donne, Jeanne lied about being pregnant. It made things less painful, less horrible. He pushed it down, just like he pushed everything about Jeanne down. Hiding it away in the dark recesses of his memories.

  But now, with the boy in front of him, one whose age lined up with what Jeanne said, it was impossible to deny.

  The room tilted left and Martin dropped back on to the couch. He shook his head to clear his vision and looked up at the boy who was hugging Leonard Baker. Brown hair styled into a crewcut, a slight tan to his complexion. Spider-Man T-shirt and khaki shorts. A Thor bookbag. Smiling. Laughing.

  Sarah Baker was staring at Martin, and he could feel it on his skin. He rubbed his face and stood up again. The floor seemed to have regained its equilibrium, so he had little trouble standing.

  “Sarah,” he said, as a way of greeting her.

  Sarah turned toward Leonard and opened her mouth.

  Leonard nodded. “I’m taking care of it. Why don’t you and William get a snack?”

  “I think I’m going to have cookies,” William said. He ran out of sight. Martin remembered the kitchen being in the direction William ran.

  “Wash your hands,” Sarah called and stalked off after him.

  “You still need to leave,” Leonard said when she was gone.

  Martin’s hands were trembling hard, and squeezing them into fists didn’t stop it. He thought about jamming them in his pockets, but didn’t want to look like a three-year-old. They remained at his sides, shaking.

  “You have to tell me what’s going on.”

  “I can’t. I made a promise.” Leonard turned toward the front door again. He pulled it open. “Leave us alone.”

  “William is hers. I know he is. Before she—” He paused, not sure how to say it. “Died. Before she died, she told me she was pregnant.”

  “Why are you chasing this?”

  Martin curled and then stretched his toes inside his shoes. He needed to be doing something.

  “Jackson Donne came to me and said she was in trouble.”

  “Please go.” Leonard’s cheeks weren’t red anymore. They were the opposite. Pale, as if all the blood had drained from his body and pooled in his feet.

  “How do you have a child in this house if she’s dead?”

  “It’s the neighbor’s kid.” The words were ice chips.

  “He called you Grandpa.”

  Leonard closed his eyes. Opened his mouth, closed it. Opened his eyes again. They were glistening.

  “Please go. You can’t—.”

  “She’s alive.”

  “Go, Bill.” His voice cracked.

  “I can help.”

  Leonard shook his head. “No. No, you can’t.”

  Martin waited a beat, then walked toward the front door, but turned left toward the kitchen. The hallway used to be barren of memories. Now, the Bakers had lined it with framed pictures. Martin’s eye registered them as he passed. William on a slide at a park. William eating cake. A picture of Jeanne graduating high school.

  William and Sarah sat at the kitchen table eating sugar cookies. Sarah was flipping through a magazine, but not really reading it. Her eyes were on Wi
lliam. He was looking at a comic book.

  They both looked up at Martin in the doorway. Martin felt Leonard’s hand on his shoulder. It was a gentle grasp, with a quick squeeze. Like he was saying please.

  “I’m so sorry, Sarah,” Martin said.

  Sarah looked back at William.

  “Hi, William,” Martin said.

  “Hi.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Spider-Man.”

  Martin nodded. “He’s the best.”

  William held up the book so Martin could see Spidey flipping through a hail of bullets. A thug had been firing a machine gun at him.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  William nodded.

  “Where’s your mom?”

  Sarah made a noise. Her hand flashed up and covered her mouth as if trying to push the sound back in.

  “She’s working,” William said.

  “Where does she work?”

  William looked at Sarah, then up at Leonard. If he read something on their faces, he didn’t show it. He just went back to looking at the comic book.

  “Far away,” he whispered.

  “Do you ever see her?”

  William shook his head. “Not for a while.”

  Martin nodded. “Don’t worry. Spider-Man always gets the bad guy.”

  “I know,” William said. “And sometimes he has help.”

  Martin paused. “You mean like Doctor Octopus?”

  “No. Doctor Octopus is a bad guy. They don’t work together. Doc Ock would hurt Spider-Man. I mean the Avengers.”

  A thought crossed Martin’s mind. He reached out and shook Will’s hand. “It was nice to meet you.”

  William nodded.

  Martin turned, trying to ignore the tears in Sarah’s eyes. Leonard stared at him as he walked by. He felt like he was passing through needles. It took until he got to the front door until it hit him.

  He’d been alone for so long, years. Martin didn’t go out with people. Didn’t talk to anyone.

  No one ever had long conversations with him. And when someone did need his attention, it was either by calling him “Bill” or “Martin.”

  No one had used his full first name in years. Maybe Jeanne was the last one. She liked the formality of it. It wasn’t a boy’s name. It wasn’t a baseball player’s name.