Not Even Past

by Dave White

  Martin shrugged. “We used to have fun, Eileen.”

  “We still could … if you were smart,” she said. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Martin walked to his car. As he drove up Route 18, he kept waiting for his phone to ring. For Eileen to tell him she found Jeanne. That call didn’t come.

  Not that day. And not the next.

  THREE WEEKS later, Martin had all but given up. He’d tapped out all of his contacts, made enough phone calls, and received too many “I don’t know”s. The tension headache and the shakes had gotten worse.

  Still, he didn’t make a call to the doctor. Instead he played the boring retiree.

  Each morning he took a walk, then spent the rest of the day doing the crossword puzzle or watching SportsCenter. He was sick of hearing about the Yankees, about steroids, and about NFL training camps. But he kept it on anyway, mainly just to pass the time.

  When his phone rang, he almost didn’t catch it. He’d had it on vibrate, and it was muffled by the couch pillow. He grabbed it just in time, spilling coffee onto his carpet.

  He picked it up, only to hear Eileen on the other end of the line.

  “I think I found her.”

  Three Weeks Later

  KATE LOOKED at the dresser in Jackson’s apartment. The landlord had been in touch, asking if Jackson was going to pay his rent next month. That was when she dropped the “out of town” bit. Jackson was probably dead. She told the landlord she was going to start moving Jackson’s things out.

  After the meeting with Luca’s girlfriend, everything dried up. Word must have gotten around. No one would speak to her. She’d call Stern’s office and was told the merger was at the end of the week. Kate had absolutely no shot of being able to speak with him.

  Monday night, after a 3 AM mental breakdown with full-on weeping, chest tightness, and muscle spasms, she wanted to give up. But, if Jackson was somehow alive, she couldn’t. She’d keep calling, keep googling, keep pounding the pavement, as her dad liked to say.

  But that wouldn’t pay his rent in a week. And Jackson’s landlord was ready to give up, find a new tenant.

  With an army of garbage bags, three boxes of tissues, and the phone number for the Vietnam Vets clothing pickup, Kate climbed the stairs to Jackson’s apartment. It would be at least two days of this. Her dad had given her the time off, as much as she needed.

  But now, standing in front of his dresser, the smell of his aftershave wafting in the air, she wondered if she could move on. Jackson had been murdered, and his body disappeared.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like this—no. They were supposed to be married in August.

  Now she was trapped in his apartment with a pile of memories. She looked at the bed and remembered the first time they made love. He wasn’t sure if they should; they’d only been on three dates. They were sitting on the couch making out like a couple of teenagers. He slid his hand under her blouse, hesitating at her navel. She groped for his belt. He stopped.

  “Are you sure?” The words were a breathless whisper.

  She laughed, kissed his neck, and brought him to the bed. Clumsily, he fumbled with her blouse and then her bra. She wasn’t sure if it was the beer or the situation. But it got better after that.

  The flash brought Kate to her knees. The sobs came in hard hacks, shaking her body to the core. She’d been here before, and she let it wash over her. When she was finished and caught her breath, she lay on her back and stared at the cracked paint on the ceiling.

  The ceiling she awoke to as he made her scrambled eggs in bed on Easter. The ceiling she’d been bugging him to fix for months because he didn’t need to lose his security deposit.

  Sit up, she told herself. You knew what was going to happen when you came here. Fight through it.

  Kate listened to herself.

  Everyone around her told her it was too soon. That she needed to grieve and take her time. She didn’t need to move on immediately. But Kate felt like she needed to continue going. To her, that was part of the process. Cleaning up was what you did when someone died. And the landlord had left her no choice.

  The first thing to go into the garbage bags was the underwear. Boxer shorts and briefs for when he worked out. Socks that hadn’t been balled together lay in his drawer unmatched. She tossed them all.

  It was easy to get rid of his day-to-day clothes first. College and beer T-shirts, polo shirts. Jeans and shorts. Nothing that brought back strong memories. Kate tried to remember what Jackson was wearing the last time she saw him, but the details wouldn’t come. She only remembered the blood.

  Closing her eyes for a moment, she shook it off.

  Once the vets came to pick up the clothing, she would have room to start setting aside what she wanted to keep and what needed to go. An hour and a half later, she had six trash bags full of clothes. She’d gotten rid of everything except his suit.

  The paper she’d printed off the Internet was back in the living room, the instructions from and phone number for the vets. Her father used them all the time, like when he’d cleaned out the attic of stuff her mother said she wanted to keep but would never realize was gone. The vets were quick, her father said. Got rid of things before her mom was even home from work.

  It felt like so long ago.

  She fetched the paper and unlocked her phone at the same time. Before she could dial, she heard a scuffling sound outside the door. Footsteps maybe. The hair on her arms stood up.

  The doorknob jiggled.

  Instead of the vets’ number, she punched in 911.

  She saw the lock turn. Who the hell had a key to this place?

  “Who’s there?” she shouted.

  Maybe it was the landlord. Maybe he’d heard her come in and was coming up to check if she was okay. If she needed help. Her finger hovered over the Call button.

  “Who’s there?” she said again.

  The doorknob turned and the door swung open. And then, Kate almost fainted. Stars clouded the corners of her eyes and the blood drained from her face.

  “I’m sorry. I should have called. But I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

  Kate was on her knees again.

  Jackson Donne rushed through the doorway to her. He tried to catch her as she went down, but missed.

  “I’m—I—what?” The words wouldn’t come. The tears did, though.

  He kneeled in front of her and pulled her into him. She couldn’t smell his aftershave, but the scruff on his face scratching against her cheek was familiar. He kept apologizing.

  “You’re not dead. I prayed and searched, but—” she said. “How are you not dead?”

  “I got better,” he said.

  They stayed there for a long time. Questions and answers would come later. For now, she just wanted to hold him.

  Kate didn’t want to let him go. Her tears mixed with his on her cheek. They both pulled each other tight.

  The room was silent, and that was exactly what Kate needed.

  “YOU’VE LOST a lot of weight.”

  Donne shrugged. “Three weeks, no beer.”

  Kate leaned against him on the loveseat. Donne had his arm around her. They both let the silence sit. He was sure she had a lot of questions, but he liked that she wasn’t firing them off rapid-fire. He hoped she wouldn’t ask anything at all.

  She kissed his cheek, and he pulled her in tighter. The smell of apple shampoo filled his nostrils, and he felt a tear drop onto his skin.

  “I tried looking for you,” she said.

  “You can stop.”

  There were too many questions he didn’t want to answer, too many he couldn’t answer. Not yet, anyway. If he did, she would try to stop him, and that couldn’t happen.

  The apartment smelled like Lysol, the lemon freshness mixing with the must. The apartment had been closed up for nearly three weeks. If he had to guess, this was probably the first time Kate had been in it in that time as well.

  “I got shot. My old partner shot me. But some people found me. They
helped me.”

  “I found you in the warehouse,” she said. “Then I lost you again. I tried, Jackson.”

  The words hung in the air. His apartment felt foreign to him, a relic. The garbage bags of clothes decorating the living room reminded him of a tomb. Except these things were waiting for him like the pharaoh’s were. Kate had been packing him up. She was ready to move on.

  “You can stop what you’re doing. Stop asking around.”

  Kate sat up, and resting her hand on his chest. Right over the wound. It didn’t hurt any more; all that was left was scarred flesh. He wondered if she felt it. Using his good arm, he took her by the wrist and slid it off of him.

  “Jackson …”

  Before she could go any further, he said, “I promise, I will tell you everything, but not now. Not yet.”

  The sentence fell flat. Her body stiffened, and she leaned back onto the couch.

  “You can’t do that. I thought you were dead for three weeks.” She shook her head. “You’re not going to do this to me. You didn’t tell me about Jeanne, you just ran out. And now this?”

  Donne pushed himself off the couch. His shoulder whined in protest, as it always did. He went into the kitchen and got a glass of water and chugged it down. Back in the living room, Kate now had her knees to her chest, hugging them.

  When he returned, he said, “You’re right. It’s not fair.”

  “Then tell me.” Kate didn’t look at him. Instead, she stared at the TV. It wasn’t on.

  “Kate, I’m going to have to go. This isn’t close to over yet.”

  She slammed her palms on the cushion of the couch. Dust motes exploded. His feet felt rough suddenly. He wanted to shower.

  “You aren’t leaving. This is not how a relationship works.”

  “Not tonight. I’m not going anywhere tonight. But tomorrow morning …”

  Kate’s eyes went wide. She turned her gaze, and he felt it slice through him. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “You didn’t even expect to see me. You came here to your apartment.”

  “I have important things to do.”

  “Did you call your sister? You professors? Anyone?”

  Donne’s stomach knotted up. If he told her, she’d be a part of this too. And he couldn’t do that to her. He wasn’t going to put her at risk.

  “No one knows, Kate. Not yet.”

  “Why not? How many times can I ask?” She spoke as if her jaw was rusty. He neck was tense. Her eyes were red, but there were no tears.

  The apartment felt cavernous. Had she taken down the pictures, or had he just never hung any? The usual beer bottles, dirty dishes, and old magazines were gone. His schoolbooks had been put away. Every piece of himself was gone, wrapped up in trash bags.

  She caught him looking around. “Casper didn’t want to wait anymore. I didn’t know what else to do. ”

  “You needed to keep moving,” he said.

  Kate didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

  When he thought Jeanne was dead, how long did he wait to clean up? Her parents helped throw everything out. They decided what to save and what to destroy. All he did was drink beer and watch. Occasionally, he’d fold some clothes and bag them, but even that hurt.

  This wasn’t Kate’s fault. And he couldn’t blame her for being angry.

  “Tell me what’s going on, Jackson.” She stood up.

  Donne stood there, fighting the urge to speak. He blinked once. Twice.

  “I’m out of here.”

  She turned and headed to the door. Her hand froze on the knob.

  “There has to be a reason for this, Jackson. A damn good one. This isn’t who you are.” She shook her head.

  “It’s who I’ve always been,” he said.

  “You can change. I’ve seen you change.”

  He didn’t speak.

  “Last chance,” she said.

  Donne didn’t stop her from leaving. It was better this way. A relationship could be mended, but what he had to do couldn’t wait. Kate would understand. When it was all out in the open, she would understand. And she would come back.

  But there wasn’t time for that now. Time was short. He had to get back to work.

  “MAN, DEAD looks good on you, yo,” Jesus said.

  Donne, hands in his pockets, stared at the sidewalk. A few college kids walked by, passing a forty of Bud. It was that time before they had to be out of their off-campus apartments, but well after finals were over. He wondered how he would have done on his last final.

  “I just figured, you know, since you ain’t takin’ my advice, you must be dead.”

  “Almost,” Donne said.

  Jesus pointed his chin at Donne. “Why you here?”

  An elderly couple walked by, mumbling to each other. They were trying to read a computer printout. Donne got a glimpse of the Google Maps logo.

  “How’s Tracy?” Donne asked.

  Jesus shrugged. “Why you here?”

  Donne took a look around. There weren’t any people around. Cars buzzed by them, heading toward the theater district. No one stopped to eye them up.

  “I need a gun,” Donne said. His chest burned as he spoke. The image of Bill Martin, arm around Jeanne, firing his gun, flashed through Donne’s brain. He took a deep breath.

  “No. You don’t.” Jesus turned and started walking away. “Go home, Jackson.”

  Donne jogged after him.

  “Enough of this,” he said. “I have money, and I’m not playing your games.”

  Jesus stopped walking. He shook his head. “No, man. This ain’t you.”

  Donne felt his jaw working overtime, pressing his teeth together. “You have no idea. When I was a cop, I was the first one in the building.”

  Jesus laughed.

  A cop car sped down George Street, sirens wailing. Donne froze. Jesus didn’t even flinch.

  “How much you got?” Jesus asked.

  Donne showed him a stack of cash he’d retrieved from his apartment. Kate hadn’t found it, and Donne was glad. She would have asked him what it was for. He never wanted to explain a situation like this to her.

  Jesus flipped through it. Once it was in Jesus’s hands, it didn’t seem like as much as Donne had thought.

  “I’ll get you something.” Jesus walked off again. This time, Donne didn’t follow.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jesus was back with a soft lunch cooler. He handed it to Donne, who almost dropped it because of the weight.

  “Close-range revolver. Don’t try to kill anyone from a block away.” Jesus sucked his teeth. “You gotta look in their eyes.”

  Donne chewed on the inside of his lip for a moment. Then said, “That won’t be a problem.”

  NO ONE answered the door at Martin’s apartment. He buzzed and buzzed before finally hitting all the buttons on his floor. Someone called down and asked who it was. Donne said he was UPS. The person told him to leave the package at the door.

  No luck.

  A rash of fall-type weather had broken out around New Jersey, and a cool breeze funneled down the street. Donne enjoyed it. After being trapped in a church for weeks, healing and training, the outdoors felt like a blessing. The sun filtered through the tree leaves, speckling the sidewalk. The air wasn’t humid, a miracle during New Jersey summers. He wished he could stay outside all day and enjoy it.

  There was, however, too much to take care of.

  Back in his car, Donne watched the front door. Martin would have to return sooner or later. How long had it been since he’d staked something out? Three years? More? The world of private investigation still felt foreign to him. He was sure he was wide out in the open and would be spotted the second Martin got home. Didn’t matter, though—he had to be here.

  He needed to see Martin. It probably wouldn’t be much of a wait anyway. This time of the morning, Martin was probably just out getting coffee.

  Until then, Donne played with his iPhone. He checked Twitter, but found nothing interesting going on in the sports world. He play
ed a game of Angry Birds, but got stuck. Then he checked his email.

  They had sent him one. The hair on his arms straightened.

  How is the real world treating you? Friday is coming.

  Donne hit reply and sent a quick acknowledgment email. Things were moving quickly. It was already Wednesday.

  The press conference to announce the merger between UNJ and Ben Franklin was going to happen, and there was no way to stop it. If someone had told Donne he was going to play a role in it three weeks ago, he wouldn’t have believed it. But now, it was his only way to get back at them.

  Donne opened the console in between the seats of his car. The snub-nosed revolver, serial number scratched off, gleamed in the sunlight.

  By Friday, Donne would take care of everything.

  TWICE WEEKLY phone calls. Each one from a different disposable phone, and lasting less than a minute. She hadn’t heard them, but Eileen guessed they were check-in calls. Just Jeanne telling her parents she and William were okay. Bill believed that.

  At first, Eileen didn’t think much of the calls. Wrong numbers, pranks, that sort of thing happens all the time. But there was a pattern. The calls kept coming from one of three motels along the Pennsylvania–New Jersey border. There was one just outside of Clinton and two in towns Martin didn’t recognize. They all circled around Route 78—the interstate highway that connected New Jersey to the Keystone State.

  That’s where Martin drove after getting the information from Eileen. He wondered why Jeanne wasn’t being a bit cleverer. She switched motels every couple of days, but seemed to only vary it among three stops. Eventually someone would track her down.

  Martin drove to the farthest hotel first. It was a Days Inn, ten miles over the border, just off the exit, and the last place from which the Bakers had received a call, according to the records Eileen had pulled up. He parked in the lot after circling it and seeing nothing suspicious, except a pool that needed to be cleaned. Leaves and dead bugs pocked the surface of the water. If the pool was that dirty, he dreaded seeing the sheets on the bed.

  Jeanne had to be renting a car, though he was unsure how she got the money. It would be impossible to know if she was staying here without going inside.