Not Even Past

by Dave White

  Martin waited until the Cadillac was halfway down the block before pulling out into the street. If these guys were military, they’d make the tail quickly. Maybe they didn’t care.

  But Donne couldn’t let those last words from Martin go. “What are you talking about? What happened with Jeanne?”

  “You’ve always been paranoid too.”

  “Stop screwing with me.”

  “I have to concentrate. Let’s see where these guys are going.”

  They were winding down toward the docks. Donne could smell the bay through the cracked windows. Bill Martin hated air-conditioning. Donne felt lightheaded and energized at the same time, as if he’d drank two cups of coffee and taken a sedative simultaneously.

  The Cadillac acted like they didn’t know they were being followed. Martin said a few car lengths back, but it never felt like they were going to lose them. If these guys wanted Donne to go with them, having him follow them was an easy way to accomplish it.

  Three minutes later, Martin stopped the car. The Cadillac kept cruising up to on old shipping warehouse. Behind it was the water. One way in, one way out.

  “Looks like we’re both about to learn something new, kid.”

  Martin turned off the car and got out. Before Donne could do the same, Martin was ten feet away and heading toward the warehouse.

  KATE DELETED the text message without hitting Send.

  Outside the sun was starting to set, reflecting off the glass of the building across the street. The sun always made the apartment warmer in the late afternoon. She got up and turned on Donne’s air-conditioner and then found an unopened bottle of pinot in the fridge. She took it out, removed the cork, and poured herself a glass.

  After taking half the glass in one sip, she topped herself off again. The cool liquid spread thread her body, and she felt her muscles ease. Playing the scene in her head again, she tried to place the voice on the other end of the intercom. Nothing registered.

  Another sip of wine. She tried not to think about going into the office tomorrow; fighting through a hangover to catch up on the case she was working on.

  Her phone rang. It was a number she didn’t recognize. She answered.

  “Kate? Your father asked me to call.” It was a voice from a million TV commercials over the past year. Senator Henry Stern.

  “I’m in trouble, senator.”

  “Your father filled me in. Jeanne Baker’s been dead for years, Kate.” He took a breath. “This can’t be real.”

  “So you haven’t heard anything? You two were close when you were at Rutgers.”

  “She’s dead.”

  “Jackson doesn’t seem to think so.”

  “Why do you need me?”

  The question rolled through her mind. “I didn’t know where else to turn. Jackson’s run off with someone.”

  “Jeanne?”

  She exhaled. “No. A man. They were on to something. They must have been looking for her.”

  “Who, then?”

  She finished the second glass of pinot. The alcohol was rushing through her veins now, a good buzz going on. Sitting back, Kate closed her eyes and ran through her memories as if they were a Rolodex, trying to figure out who was in the picture. It had to be someone Jackson knew, maybe someone he’d introduced to to at a party?

  Jackson had said a name before he rushed out. Bill. Kate got up and went and poured the rest of the bottle of wine into her glass. Then she went into Jackson’s office, cell phone at her ear. The room was a cluttered mess: old textbooks strewn across the floor, paperbacks dumped on the table, and four old shoe boxes pushed off in the corner.

  “She said his name was Bill.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  It was the shoeboxes she was looking for. Jackson kept them out in the open, but never went through them. She asked him about them once, and he just shrugged. Old pictures, he said. Time to throw them out. When she asked if she could look through them, he just shrugged and asked if they could do it another night.

  They were of his old life. Mementos of his dead fiancée that he never talked about. Times he tried not to remember.

  Hell, he always said he couldn’t remember a lot of them.

  She didn’t bother him about it again. But now she wanted to find a picture of him in his old uniform. See if there were pictures of this Bill person. Maybe if she could see what he looked like, it would jar an old memory loose.

  “Is there anything else, Kate?”

  “If you hear anything, please help.”

  “I’ll look into it.” He paused. Then, “Listen, Kate. Do you love him?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve been divorced. Twice.”

  She knew. Everyone knew. Anyone who ran against him brought that up.

  “And here’s what I’ve learned.” His voice was soft, like a kind uncle. “Find him. Don’t let him go. Call him. Text him. Facebook him. Talk to him. Hold on to him as well as you can.”

  Her eyes burned. “Goodbye,” she said.

  She pulled the first box and started scanning through the pictures. It felt funny looking at developed film. She’d become so adjusted to seeing pictures on Facebook or a phone. The real thing felt odd; smooth, but sticky at the same time.

  The first few pictures were of Jackson at a bar, eyes slightly closed, crooked smile, toasting the camera or pretending to throw a dart. They were silly, drunken nights of his early twenties.

  Kate flipped through them quickly, not allowing herself the smile she would have if he’d been sitting next to her. Arm around her, pulling her close. She would smell his aftershave and tell him how cute he was in those pictures, and then give him a kiss on the cheek.

  The next picture was what stopped her short. Jackson was still in the bar. It must have been the Old Towne Tavern—where else could it have been? Must have been early in the night too. His eyes were clear and the smile was wide. He had his arm around another woman. The woman from the website.

  Kate’s heart was slamming against her rib cage, and the buzz had gone from her system. She picked up the wineglass and took another slug. Then she flipped the picture over. It was dated nearly eight years ago. Beneath that it said “Jackson and Jeanne” with a smiley face drawn next to it.

  She wondered if Jackson would do the same with a picture of the two of them. Her phone suddenly vibrated, and she snatched it up. It was a message from her father.

  Does Jackson have an iPhone?

  MARTIN SLAMMED his fist on the front door of the warehouse. It was metal and clanged against its hinges. The music of the banging made Donne’s ears ring. He jammed his hands in his pockets and looked out toward the water. He tried to focus on the sloshing of it against the docks, rather than the churning in his stomach or Martin’s slamming.

  The image of the two military men busting out of the door, guns blazing, tearing the two of them to shreds wouldn’t escape Donne’s mind. As Martin knocked, Donne felt naked without his own gun.

  Martin stopped banging and said, “Someone’s coming.”

  Taking a step back, Martin rested his hands on his hips. Donne couldn’t tell standing behind him, but he assumed Martin’s hands were as close to his weapon as possible. The lock in the door turned and Donne tensed. He was ready to run, dive, jump, duck, or whatever the hell else he had to do to save his own skin.

  The door swung open.

  “Hello, gentlemen.” It was the white guy this time. He’d taken his jacket off. Donne wondered if his shirt could take such strain against those biceps. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah,” Martin said. “I never caught your name.”

  The white guy stuck out his hand. “I’m Calvin. My partner over there is Nick.”

  Martin nodded, but didn’t return the invitation for a handshake. “Nice to meet you, Cal.”

  “Calvin,” he said, then cleared his throat. “What do you need?”

  “You said you wanted Donne to come with you. Then I showed up and you changed your m
ind. I was wondering why.”

  Calvin tilted his head. “You’re not needed.”

  Martin looked around the docks. “Isn’t most of this area owned by the mob? La Cosa Nostra. The mafia? Goombahs? What’s left of them, anyway.”

  Calvin shrugged. “There is no mob around this area anymore. Not since President’s Day.”

  “I must have missed that news.”

  “You must not read a newspaper.”

  Donne felt out of place, a spot on a pair of white pants. This wasn’t what he needed anymore. Again he thought about Kate. He thought about the exam he should have been studying for. The future he was throwing away.

  Calvin frowned, shook his head.

  “Listen,” Donne said, taking a step forward. He was reasonably sure if he was going to be shot, it would have happened already. “I’m here. What do you want from me?”

  Calvin shook his head again and stepped back from the doorframe. He put his hand on the door and was about to slam it.

  “Mind if we take a quick look around?” Martin said. “Five minutes.”

  Calvin said, “You beat up our friend.”

  “That was him.” Martin pointed his thumb and fist at Donne. “He can stay outside if you want.”

  His hand still on the door, Calvin hesitated.

  Martin folded his arms in front of him. “Listen, remember that ruckus I was going to make back on the street? A ton of cops, sirens going, showing up? That’ll be nothing compared to what I bring here.”

  “I don’t understand. Why do you want to look around?” Calvin folded his arms too. Still, his shirt didn’t tear.

  Martin shrugged. “Gut feeling?”

  “You don’t have a warrant.”

  “I’ll find a reason. Come on, it’ll make both yours and my day easier.”

  “Easier. We should sue for what you did to Juan.”

  Martin thumbed over his shoulder at Donne again. The tremor was gone.

  Calvin took his hand off the door and Martin stepped in. Donne followed.

  They were in a small office, like one in a gas station. There were a few shelves with paperwork on them. A metal desk. On one side of the desk sat Nick. The other side was Juan, who still applied pressure to his nose. Donne wanted to apologize, but didn’t.

  “What the hell?” Nick said.

  Calvin held up a hand.

  “Just taking a quick peek around. No worries.” Martin looked at the door to his left. One that probably led into the big hangar. Donne wondered if this warehouse was built specifically for ship repair. Years ago, this area had to be bustling with shipping, but now the shipments went elsewhere. New York City or Baltimore, usually. Sometimes Newark.

  Next to the door was a hole that was cut into the wall. Through the hole ran a wire, thick and black. It was taped to the floor and went across the room to a giant electrical outlet. The outlet was the cleanest thing in the place.

  “Okay, thanks,” Martin said.

  Nick said, “What the fuck?”

  “Thank you for coming,” Calvin said, not missing a beat.

  “Anytime.” He pointed at Nick. “Watch your fucking language.” Paused. “Get it? I said fuck and he said—ah, nevermind.” Martin waved it off. “Let’s go, Jackson.”

  ONCE THE door to the warehouse closed and locked, Donne said, “That’s it?”

  “Not now,” Martin said, striding ahead.

  “You went in, took a glance around, and leave? That’s a search.”

  “Shut up. We’ll talk about it in the car.”

  Donne had to pick up the pace in order to keep up. Pretty soon, they’d be jogging. “And what’s going on with your hands? I see that slight shake. Are you okay?”

  Martin glanced at Donne. He said, “I’m fine.”

  They got to the car. Martin got in first. Donne rubbed his face and thought about how to the ask What the hell was that about? more politely. He pulled open the door, got in, and then slammed the door shut.

  Before he could even open his mouth, Martin cut him off. “Did you see that wire?”

  “What about it?”

  “You never worked a commercial shoot when you were with us?”

  Donne shook his head. “Get to the point.”

  “You should have. Good money, double time. Easy money too. Plus Craft Services.”

  “Get to it.”

  “That wire on the ground. I’ve seen those before. They’re camera wires. Like I’ve seen on those commercial sets.”

  Donne processed what he was saying. “Like in the video.”

  “From your email. Yeah.”

  The car went cold and still. Donne felt a rat nibbling on his shoulders. He rolled them to ease the pain, but to no avail.

  “Jesus,” he said. “She’s in there.” Donne undid his seatbelt. “Let’s go get her.”

  Martin shook his head as he started the car. “Tonight.”

  “I NEED a gun,” Donne said.

  Martin peered over his steaming cup of coffee and blew on it. “You didn’t bring a gun?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  Donne stirred sugar into his cup. The Starbucks was nearly empty, a few people on line asking for Venti this or Grande that. Off in the corner, someone typed furiously on a laptop. Starbucks wasn’t too popular in Perth Amboy, especially not at night, Donne guessed. He was surprised they even found one.

  He opened and closed his right hand. It was swollen from his punches and ached at the knuckles with each movement.

  “We should talk to Leonard Baker,” he said.

  “A private investigator who doesn’t own a gun?” Martin’s voice remained at a whisper, but it was now as tense as a Wallenda family tightrope. “I seem to remember you shooting up a National Park about two years ago.”

  Donne took a sip. The roof of his mouth burned. “Leonard’s avatar was on Skype. We should talk to him. We’ll be more prepared.”

  “You’re not speaking English to me.” Martin drank coffee. “What did you do with your guns?”

  “Got rid of them.”

  Martin shook his head. “I knew I should have kept better tabs on you. I hope some drug dealer didn’t end up with them.”

  It was too easy to fall back into their old patter. Years of working together would do that, but this wasn’t what Donne wanted. Too much history, too much tension. Martin had destroyed Donne when he told Donne about his relationship about Jeanne. The cloud hung over him for too long. The life he believed he was living wasn’t reality, and now his past was twisting even more. The taste of coffee went bitter in his mouth.

  “Did you go to the wake?” Donne asked.

  “There wasn’t a wake,” Martin said.

  Donne put his cup down so hard that some coffee splashed through the hole in the lid. He put his palms flat on the table as if to steady himself.

  “I was there,” Donne said. He remembered the coffin, he remembered how clean Jeanne looked, but how plastic as well.

  Martin tilted his head. “Couldn’t have been. There wasn’t one.”

  The guy at the next table tapping on his computer pressed Play on a Springsteen song. One of the baristas looked at him and pointed toward her ears. He plugged in headphones. Now they were left with John Mayer on the store’s speakers.

  “That …” Donne trailed off. He remembered the Bakers sobering him up. Didn’t they? The time period was so foggy in his mind. He couldn’t have just imagined things. Not possible.

  Martin drank. Then said, “Jeanne was cremated. What was left of her. The car burned badly, and she was inside. I was in touch with Leonard the whole time. They didn’t want a wake. Didn’t want an autopsy. Just wanted to start the moving on process.” He had more coffee. Then shrugged. “It made sense at the time, I guess. I didn’t ask too many questions.”

  “No one did,” Donne said. The muscles in his lower back tightened. The chair was uncomfortable.

  Martin shook his head. “Two cops. Neither of us thought to ask questions.”


  “I need a gun,” Donne said.

  “When was the last time you went to a range?”

  Donne rubbed his face. “Sometime before I got rid of my guns.”

  “I don’t want to get shot.” Martin tilted his head back to get the rest of his coffee. “If I knew I was working with an amateur ...”

  “And I’m not walking in there unarmed.” Donne’s cup was still three-quarters full.

  Martin looked out the window and tapped his fingers on the table.

  “Are you ready for this?”

  Donne leaned back trying to stretch out his muscles. “I’m not going to get you killed, Bill.”

  “Not what I meant.” Martin scratched his chin. “I have an extra gun in my trunk. Fuck that. You need one. Are you ready for what we’re going to find?”

  After taking a deep breath, Donne said, “I can’t believe she’s alive. How can I be ready for what we’re going to find?”

  “What if she’s alive?”

  “How?”

  The Springsteen guy slammed his laptop shut and left the coffee shop. It was just the two of them now. They’d had these conversations before, ten years ago. They’d talked about where they’d hide the “extra” drugs they’d found on a raid. Or how Donne was going to propose to Jeanne. And they’d spent one final time in a coffee shop, where the mood was just like tonight. Donne was about to throw the entire NARC division under the bus. And Martin tried to stop him.

  Martin tightened his jaw and flared his nostrils. He looked toward the ceiling fan. Then back at Donne.

  “I’m happy,” Martin said. “This afternoon I was doing my job, and I was happy.”

  “What happens if we do find her?” Donne asked. “If you’re so convinced she’s alive, and we’re going to save her. What happens then?”

  Martin stood up. “Let’s just go get her.”

  “I thought you said I was the one who wanted to run into the fire.”

  “Let me go get your gun.”

  Donne didn’t get up. “Let’s think about this.”

  Martin’s hand tremor was back. “They know we’re close. How much time do you think we have?”

  “What if she’s not there?”