Not Even Past

by Dave White

  “You don’t understand.”

  “No,” Stringer said, shaking his head. “I don’t.” He walked over to his desk. After leaning behind it, he came up with a cardboard box.

  “Layoffs?” Martin asked. “Who else?”

  Stringer slid the box across his desk. He didn’t say anything.

  “Who else?” Martin asked again. “I want to know so we can all go to the same bar and talk trash about you.”

  “None of your business.”

  Then the pieces started to click together. Stern said something about him not being a real cop. The receptionist kept telling Martin that Stern was on an important phone call. The incoming text from Stringer just seconds later. Too coincidental.

  “It’s just me, isn’t it?”

  Stringer’s eyes darted toward his phone and then back to Martin. “Listen, Bill, there’s nothing we can do.”

  “Were you ordered to do this?”

  “You need to get your stuff and leave. I’ll have Cantrell escort you.”

  “God damn it, Russell. Be straight with me. Henry Stern put you up to this, didn’t he?”

  Stringer shifted his jaw back and forth. His gaze met Martin’s. As he stood, he opened and closed his hands.

  “You have an hour.”

  “Jesus Christ, Russell. Don’t you understand? That guy is a piece of garbage. I’m working on something big.”

  Stringer’s eyes went wide. “Working on what? Henry Stern is not in your jurisdiction. That’s a fireable offense.”

  “Damn it.”

  Martin wanted scream and shout. He wanted to cause a scene. Instead, he reached out and grabbed the cardboard box and pulled it into his lap.

  “Severance?” he mumbled.

  “HR has it set up for you.”

  “Already? I’m just finding out about this now.”

  “You’ve been out for five days.”

  Stringer hit the intercom buzzer on his desk. Behind them his door opened. Martin turned to see Officer Cantrell waiting. When he met Martin’s eyes, he shrugged.

  We do what we gotta do.

  “It’s fair, Bill. You’ll get by with it.” Stringer’s voice was soft. “And go see a doctor. Christ, Bill. You have to take care of yourself.”

  “Fuck you,” Martin said.

  He got up and went out the door. Without waiting for Cantrell, he walked to his office. Two people said hi to him, but Martin ignored them. If he felt like he was on the outside while sitting in Stringer’s office, he felt like he was miles away now. The chatter—the din of the office—was an echo.

  The feeling was familiar. When the Donne trial was going on and the New Brunswick PD was shutting down the NARC department, Martin thought he’d thrown his career away for sure. At the time, he didn’t know Donne was trying to save Martin’s job, keeping him out of the case. And he had thought the union didn’t give two shits about him.

  Turns out they had, and were able to keep him a part of this thing.

  Now, though, it was over.

  And he didn’t have Jackson Donne to blame.

  No, Donne was dead.

  Now Martin had to turn his hate toward Henry Stern.

  LUCA WAS asleep.

  At least, as far as Donne could tell, he was out. The TV had been turned off, and he’d called his girlfriend one last time to get her to go over the conversation again. Donne didn’t pick up much more. The church was dark. Some moonlight sprinkled through the stained glass windows, but that was it.

  It was now or never.

  He guessed it was after midnight, but time had long changed from actual numbers to “night” and “day,” his inner clock lost to sleep and haze.

  Donne pushed himself up, and was excited to feel no pain. Stiffness he could deal with—it would slow but not stop him. The pain would halt him in his tracks. He got to his feet and looked around to regain his equilibrium. He found his center, and then eyed up the basketball net. The exit was on the complete opposite side of the room.

  After turning, his chest and shoulder whined at him. Clearly, they wanted him to stay in bed. One foot in front of the other. Walking across the church wasn’t going to be easy. He’d gotten used to leaning on the bed or Luca for help. This time it was all on his own.

  As he stepped, dust kicked up around him. His nose itched and he wiped at it to keep from sneezing. That would be the worst way to get caught, a sneeze. Yesterday, some dust got to him, and after the sneeze, he thought he chest wound would tear back open.

  His foot landed awkwardly, and he tightened his muscles to keep from falling. Suddenly, amid the cloud of kicked up dust, his chest was on fire. His shoulder tightened when he tried to reach up and rub his chest wound, and he felt paralyzed.

  Donne regained his balance, gritted his teeth, and tried to think the pain away. The more he moved, he thought, the more it would fade.

  Another step.

  The large wooden double doors had to be close to 100 yards away. At the pace he was moving, he’d get there by dawn. By that time, Luca would be up and Donne would be dragged back to bed.

  Maybe it was better to stay. Heal.

  No.

  Could not stay here any longer.

  Luca was going to kill Kate before he could get better.

  The doctor hadn’t shown up in days. They were just going to let him rot here. Senator Stern said they needed him, but never told him why. They kept Donne alive though, so there had to be a reason.

  Just not one that was important enough to stay here and figure out.

  Donne kept walking. He was starting to find his rhythm. Maybe it was like running. The way sweat seeped from his pores, they seemed to have a lot in common. Find a rhythm and even someone injured could get moving.

  The doors looked real now, thick wooded frames with big iron handles. The dust cleared, and it was like someone changed the channel to HD. They were closer. Donne reached out with his good arm, but still couldn’t touch them.

  Keep moving, keep pressing.

  His body was soaked, and he realized he was still shirtless and shoeless. His feet were dry and crusty, covered in dust. The way this place hadn’t been cleaned, it’d been sheer luck he fought off that infection.

  The light at the end of the tunnel. The doors were so close, he almost allowed himself to believe he was going to make it. How long had he been walking? The glimmer of the moon had certainly moved, illuminating different areas of the church floor.

  His chest throbbed, a bass drum beat of a marching band tune. Donne tried not to groan or grunt, but he was sure some sounds slipped out. Every time he made a noise, he paused, waiting to hear Luca’s panicked footsteps headed his way. They never came.

  Reaching out, his fingers grazed the metal handle. One more step, that’s all that was left. His breathing was ragged. He took that step and wrapped his right hand around the handle.

  And for the first time, he realized the door might be locked. This effort was for naught. He pulled. The door gave way. A salty summer breeze wafted into his face. He stepped out on to the stairs and eased the door shut behind him. It clicked closed, didn’t slam.

  Fighting to catch his breath, Donne looked around.

  The pain was background noise now. He was free. In front of him, across an empty street, were large beach houses. If he looked down the road, he could see sand dunes. He was two blocks from the ocean.

  Leaning on the handrail, he took the concrete stairs. One. Catch his breath. Two. Catch his breath. Three. He was huffing and puffing by the time he reached the sidewalk.

  The hint of sunshine came up over the ocean. Morning was here.

  He took more steps, trying to get to the street corner, trying to see the street sign. Figure out where he was and how he could get home.

  The corner wasn’t far, and he stumbled to it. He caught himself on the street sign and looked up.

  Baltimore Avenue.

  He ran the street through his head, trying to figure out why it was so familiar. A child
hood vacation with his sister and mother. Sunset Beach.

  Cape May.

  Untouched by Hurricane Sandy.

  And about as far from northern Jersey you could get without leaving the state.

  He leaned on the street sign, trying to hold himself up. His muscles were tight and sore, and he was soaked. Breathing was hard. His wounds played a rock song. Tears stung his eyes.

  A car screeched to a halt in front of him. Donne looked up, hoping to see a police car or a friendly face.

  But when the door opened, he saw neither.

  Instead, he faced Henry Stern.

  He smiled at Donne.

  “Little early to be out for a walk, Mr. Donne?”

  Donne let go of the street sign and dropped to the grass at his feet.

  GRAVEL SHARDS dug into his stomach as Luca pushed him forward. Warm red liquid mixed with sweat and ran down his chest. Needling pain pierced up and down his skin. The breeze cooled his back until Luca gave him another slap, the hand burning him on impact.

  The morning sun peaked, illuminating the grass and sidewalk. Lawn sprinklers sputtered in the distance. No one was on the road this time or morning, no dog walkers, bikers, or joggers. Or, if there were, Luca and Stern didn’t seem to care.

  Donne was pushed back into the church. The smell of sea salt gave way to soaked wood.

  His body was on fire. Nerve endings screamed for relief. He tried to catch his breath and will his body to relax, but he couldn’t. As soon as he hit the church floor, he curled up into the fetal position. Someone kicked him in the ribs, and he screamed out. His eyes went wide, and he caught an image of Jesus reaching out from the stained glass window. The imagery and timing would have made him laugh if it didn’t hurt so much.

  “You goddamn prick,” Luca spat. “I knew you were trouble.”

  “Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Stern said.

  Luca kicked Donne again. Air left his body in a rush. His vision blurred and he tasted copper in his mouth. The dust that had slowed his escape earlier, now spread along his right side.

  “I said let me talk to him.” Stern pushed Luca out of the way.

  The senator crouched down in front of Donne. His ankles were tanned, but when the hem of his pants lifted, it revealed pale skin.

  “Is this worth it?”

  Donne tried to nod and say yes. Instead he blinked and coughed.

  “Should I give you a minute?”

  Rolling on to his back, Donne stared at the Tudor ceiling. Wooden braces held it together. They were decorated with twisting golden designs. Donne wondered if they were supposed to represent the crown of thorns, but more regal. Still, he tried to will the pain away.

  “I apologize for Luca acting a bit rash,” Stern said. “He’s overreacting.” Luca grunted something, but Stern held up a hand. He rolled his hand at his wrist while he searched for words. “He’s a go-getter. This is a big opportunity for him. You don’t find that much in the younger generation anymore. They feel too entitled. Luca wants it.”

  Air came a bit easier to Donne now. It felt like the muscles in his chest were being untied. He reached for the wound in his chest and put pressure on it. The pain spread away from the wound like ants after their hill had been kicked over.

  “Feeling better?” Stern scratched at the mole on his right cheek. “Let’s talk.”

  “About?”

  “Why you don’t trust us. I saved your life.” Stern words were conversational, as if they were at a Sunday afternoon barbecue.

  The ants now crawled under his skin, skittering up and down. Donne tried to picture the last time he spoke to Jeanne before she “died.” It was a moment he tried to bury deep within himself, push away into the dark recesses of his mind. Alcohol helped that mission.

  “What about Kate?”

  Stern rolled his eyes. “You dumbass romantic. I promised you she’s not in trouble.”

  Luca replied, “You’re making a mistake.”

  Donne was too busy fighting the pain through his body off to ask what he was talking about.

  Stern turned toward Luca. “What are you talking about?”

  Luca adjusted his jaw before speaking. “His girlfriend is asking around about me. You let her go free.”

  Stern shook his head. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t you worry.”

  Donne coughed. Changed the subject. “If I can help you, why is he beating the crap out of me?”

  “You tried to escape,” Stern said. “Cost of doing business.”

  “Listen,” Donne said.

  “Get back into bed.” Stern tapped Donne’s head with his forefinger. “I’m sure you’re going to see my side of things.”

  Donne exhaled and tried to sort out what the hell he was talking about. The sound in his ears was funny, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, like someone was fiddling with the fast-forward button in his skull.

  “Then again,” Stern said, “you have been through a traumatic event. You need to rest.” He grabbed Luca by the arm and dragged him away. “Don’t talk about this sort of thing in front of him.”

  But Luca looked over his shoulder at Donne and yelled, “She should be dead. I won’t let you make this mistake. The other girl too.”

  “Come with me,” Stern growled.

  Their conversation faded. Donne lay on his back, trying to catch his breath, willing the pain to go away.

  It took a long time.

  MARTIN DIDN’T have a headache from drinking. He stopped in Tumulty’s for one tumbler of scotch and then went home and went to bed. The headache he woke up with was different. It wasn’t pounding at his temples, instead stretching up the back of his neck to the top of his head.

  After showering and dressing, he popped four Advil, poured coffee into his travel mug, and hit the road. By the time he reached Union Beach, the headache still hadn’t passed. It felt like someone at the small of his back was tugging on a string attached to his skull. He rubbed his eyes and got out of the car.

  Eileen was waiting for him at the front door.

  “You should have called me about this days ago,” she said. She exhaled. “You should just call me.”

  Martin scratched his chin. “I’ve been preoccupied.”

  He didn’t want to admit it had slipped his mind. Maybe Stringer was right and something was wrong with him. The world was fuzzy around him; everything felt a hair off. The only thing in focus to him was Jeanne, but he was making too many mistakes, not following trails correctly.

  Making too many mistakes.

  Stress was leading to distraction, and that brought him too many mental errors.

  They went into Eileen’s computer room. She took a seat behind the desk; he leaned against the wall. The room smelled like burnt toast.

  “I started checking out the Bakers’ phone numbers and Internet reports. I went all the way back to the beginning of the week.” Eileen shook her head. “Nothing jumped out at me. They get a ton of telemarketer calls and spam email. A cousin from Texas emailed them.”

  Martin stepped away from the wall. “I didn’t know they had a cousin from Texas.”

  Eileen clicked the keys, and an image of a man Sarah’s age popped up on the screen. “This is him. I searched the IP already.”

  “Could it have been Jeanne writing the email?”

  Eileen clicked a few more keys and brought up the email. “They don’t do a good job protecting their account.”

  The email was vague and filled with Texas references. The barbecue he’d eaten the night before sounded good. If it was Jeanne, she had disguised an update with banality. For an instant, he thought about searching Travelocity for plane tickets. Dismissed the idea after thinking about the risk. A trip to Texas takes time, and if Jeanne wasn’t there, that time would be spent while she was getting farther away.

  Less than a week since she disappeared. But still, in that time, they could be anywhere.

  “Did you check airports?”

  Eileen nodded. “Do you think I’m incompet
ent?”

  “For the money I’m going to be paying you, you better not be.”

  “This was what I was able to track down after two hours last night. Give me some time and I’ll come up with something.”

  Martin patted Eileen on the shoulder. He left the room and went into the kitchen. The string attached to the back of his head kept pulling tighter. Finding a bottle of water in the fridge, he unscrewed the cap and took a long sip.

  “Why is she so important to you?” Eileen was standing behind him.

  “Because she’s supposed to be dead.” Martin finished the water. “And she’s not. And for a few hours, I had her in my arms. Things were different. The future looked different. And now she’s gone again.”

  Martin could picture William playing with Jeanne at the kitchen table. But it wasn’t her parents’ table. It was his. They were both laughing so hard, Jeanne had to wipe a tear from her eye.

  He had this scene playing through his head for days. He dreamt about it. He needed it.

  “I’m sorry, Bill. But there’s time. We’ll find her.”

  He threw the bottle at her recycling bin. It rattled around the rim and fell off to the side.

  “Leave it,” she said.

  “You should take care of this place.”

  Eileen shrugged. “I’d rather earn my money.”

  They hugged, then Martin wrote out a check. She reminded him not to make it out to Eileen Schaeffer, instead using her fake company’s title: Toadstool Cooking. It sounded disgusting, but he did it.

  She took the check and looked at it.

  “I burnt toast this morning,” she laughed. “Toast. But hell, people like to believe an old lady like me can cook. You know, I used to do this for you for free. Back when—”

  “They probably think you can barely use an iPhone.”

  Eileen nodded. “I will be in touch. Promise.”

  Martin walked to the front door, and pressed the button on his key chain to unlock the door.

  “You’re a good cop, Bill,” Eileen said. “Chasing this girl is a mistake.”

  He smiled. “Are you jealous?”

  Eileen shook her head. “It’s not that.”