by Dave White
And now they were going to try it again. UNJ or Benjamin Franklin or whatever they were going to call it would become the next big private university. New Jersey would have two of the best in the country, as the ranking would move the school into Princeton territory.
Or so the scholars said.
Taxpayers would be happy. Henry Stern would be happy. And he would even profit.
But then, stuck in his head, was the image of Jeanne trying to ruin things by coming forward with whatever she had on Stern. The picture of Bill Martin firing the gun kept him up at night.
“I’m doing this for both of us,” Donne said.
Stern nodded and opened his iPad again. Donne exhaled and stared out the window. A few students were striding down the street with backpacks slung over their shoulders. They stared at their cell phones, and one strolled into the crosswalk without looking. A campus bus jammed on its brakes.
“You have an iPhone, correct?” Stern asked.
Donne nodded and took it out of his pocket. Stern tapped some things into the iPad, and Donne’s phoned ringed with a text message. It had a note attached to it. Donne opened it up and saw three addresses. One of them was the motel Donne visited earlier that morning in Pennsylvania.
“For the last two and half weeks, Jeanne Baker has been staying in one of these motels. She’s been moving around, varying her pattern. She hasn’t stayed in one of them for longer than three days. I’m not sure which one she’s in today, because, well, Eileen …”
From the driver’s seat, Luca didn’t react. The blinker clicked, and they made a left turn on to Somerset Street.
The car stopped, and Donne realized they were in front of his apartment building. There was a lead ball sitting in his stomach, pressing against his abdomen.
“Know this,” Stern said. “If you fail, if you’re brought in by the police—”
“Is this the Mission: Impossible speech?”
Stern shook his head. “Worse.”
The car doors unlocked, and Donne could see Luca’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He’d taken off his sunglasses. They weren’t the bright, excited eyes of their time in the church. Instead, they were cold. Donne sniffed, then coughed.
He pulled the handle, opened the door, and got out. Just before he got to the door of his apartment building, Stern called his name.
“There’s something else,” he said.
Donne walked back to the open window. Stern pressed his lips together and took a deep breath. Donne waited.
Finally, Stern said, “Good luck.”
The window closed and the car pulled away.
BILL MARTIN stood on the campus of UNJ, just outside of Trenton. He was in the middle of the quad, with the two-story freshman apartment building to his left. He shook his head. They used to have dorms, a single cinderblock room with two beds and two desks. Now these kids got apartments.
He walked over to the entrance and inspected the door. The apartments were empty now with school out of session. He pulled the glass door, but it wouldn’t open. To the right was a place to slide a key card to gain access. Martin gave the door another tug, with no luck. That wouldn’t work tomorrow.
A guy wearing khakis and a UNJ polo shirt approached him, hands in his pockets. He smiled and said, “Can I help you?”
Martin returned the grin. “My son is starting here in August, and I wanted to walk the campus.”
The guy looked around. “Without your son?”
Martin shrugged. “He’s working. I’m retired. Thought I’d take a tour.”
“An official tour starts at three. You can catch it over at the student union.” He pointed over his shoulder. Martin could see the building down far away down the lawn. It was maybe three football fields away, at the end of all the academic buildings.
“Yeah, but what fun is that?”
The guy laughed. “Enjoy your day, sir. I hope your son enjoys UNJ.” He paused. “I mean Ben Franklin University. I really have to get used to saying that. Today’s the last day I can wear this shirt.”
Martin nodded, and said, “Thanks for your help.”
The guy gave a little wave, turned, and left. Martin whistled “Air That I Breathe” quietly. He waited until he was alone again and then crossed the quad to the Robert F. Jenkins building. The name was written across the wall of the building in thick, painted pieces of aluminum. Must have been a hell of a donation.
When Martin tugged on this door, it swung open. Martin entered, and his skin immediately cooled from the air-conditioning. On the wall to his right was a directory, listing the building’s science labs. Martin ignored it and found the staircase. The stairwell was the way Martin remembered the dorms. Cinderblock walls painted yellow. The stairs were metal and clanked underneath his feet as he stepped. He reached the top floor and kept going to the roof.
The door to the roof wasn’t locked either. Martin pushed it opened and stepped onto gravel. The sun felt warmer—the October-like weather was gone—but there was a noticeable breeze that cooled the heat. Without the buildings blocking the wind, it was actually a pretty nice day. Martin walked to the edge of the roof and looked out on one of the campus’s many parking lots. He could see his car, alone in the empty lot. He’d been here once when class was in session and couldn’t find a spot, circling for almost forty-five minutes. Today, his Mazda was all by itself.
Seeing the distance between the car and building, he wondered if he’d be quick enough to get up here unnoticed. Probably. Everyone’s attention would be on the other side of the building. Security would be light, anyway, nothing beyond the usual state trooper presence. This wasn’t a high-priority target. Football games were more worrisome to law enforcement. This was going to be a small outdoor press conference. No longer than an hour.
That’s what happened at Rutgers, though that happened indoors. Martin remembered seeing the itinerary as the state cops were briefing Stringer. Everything was mapped down to the minute, even the press questions. The politicians wanted to get the hell out of there, and academia had little interest in more pomp and circumstance.
Though at Rutgers, at least, they rang the bell. What would they do here? Release white smoke? Fly a kite in a lightning storm?
He switched to whistling “Long Cool Woman” and paced on the roof. In the other direction, Martin could see the setup for the press conference. The stage was set up in front of Clyde Hall, the administration building right next to the student union. He could see a few people milling around before the tour. Some men in overalls were working on the metal stage and bleachers, not unlike something seen at a high school graduation. Speakers were being set up at each end of the stage. Easy and simple. The work would be done in an hour.
Martin knelt down at the edge of the roof, feeling gravel dig into his knee. He closed his right eye and lined up the shot. He gathered it was about six hundred yards, just at the edge of his range. He’d hit eight of ten shots at that distance when he was practicing. The owner of the range—one of the biggest in the state—was impressed, but was smart enough not to ask what the practice was for. Martin had paid him too much money. He hoped tomorrow wouldn’t be as breezy as today. The shot would be that much more difficult.
But that wouldn’t matter. By the end of the day tomorrow, Martin would probably be heading to prison. He wasn’t going to need much money, he’d settle for the public defender. As long as Jeanne and William were safe, he could live out the rest of his days in East Jersey State Prison. He had nothing else at this point.
Still, it bothered him. Why haven’t they been tracking Jeanne? She was important enough to tie up and use to get Donne, but now they couldn’t find her. It took him three weeks; it should have taken a state senator less than that.
Unless.
Martin felt a knot in his stomach. Maybe they weren’t tracking her because they already found her. Martin did keep an eye on the motel parking lot when he was there, but how detailed a job did he really do? It was a quick sweep, because—at first
—he was sure he beat out the senator. He didn’t see the flaws in his logic until he was actually speaking with Jeanne. Maybe he missed something.
He shook his head. It was likely he did miss something. They knew where Jeanne was. They had to. Henry Stern was too powerful, had too many connections. Someone doesn’t get to that high a position without them.
Basically, they were waiting. They just wanted to make sure the merger went through before anything happened to Jeanne. Martin was wrong. Jeanne’s information could still hurt the senator, but the merger was his sole focus right now. It had to go through swimmingly; he could pay no attention to anything else. If Jeanne turned up dead, and someone connected to Stern was caught for it, it would throw everything into flux.
If that happened after the merger, maybe they could do a better job minimizing it.
Tomorrow had to happen for Stern. The endgame also had to happen for Martin, but he was going to stay with Jeanne tonight, gun out, making sure she got through the night safely. Too many people had been taken from him. Too many things. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to her.
He left the roof, tasting bile in his mouth again.
DONNE PARKED his car a block away from the Amaker Motel. He didn’t want anyone to mark down his license plate when he left. And if Jeanne was there, he didn’t want anyone to see him getting into the car to flee the crime scene.
His heart was jackhammering as he walked the parking lot scanning the cars. There weren’t many, but none jumped out at him screaming Jeanne! Knocking on each door would certainly attract attention, and with Jeanne in hiding, she wouldn’t answer the door unless she knew who it was. There had to be an easier way.
Donne sank back into the roughage opposite the parking lot. He crouched down and watched the doors of the motel rooms, waiting for her to make her exit. They had to eat, didn’t they? He checked his watch. Nearly 6:30. Hopefully, she hadn’t already left.
Food. That was it.
Donne pulled his cell phone and dialed the front desk. The phone was answered by a man on the third ring.
“I’m here to deliver a pizza for Jeanne Baker, but she didn’t leave a room number,” he said.
“Nobody told me they ordered a pizza.”
“Are they required to?”
“She usually calls down and tells me when food is coming.”
A wave ran over Donne.
“Guess she forgot, but this pizza is getting cold.”
The man sighed and he heard the clicking of computer keys. “Two-fourteen,” the man said.
Donne said thanks and hung up. She was using her own name. Either she’d gotten lazy, or she felt sure she wasn’t being followed or tracked. It didn’t matter. He had his answer. It was time for payback.
Crossing the parking lot felt like crossing the Sahara. Every step was an eternity, and by the time he reached the spot where the concrete met the asphalt, he was doused in sweat. His fingers itched, and the gun in his pocket felt like it weighed three tons.
The steps were just as difficult, and he had to catch his breath at the landing. His shoulder and chest ached. It felt as if his body were trying to stop him from going forward. Donne gripped the railing and breathed deep, wiping his brow. At the top of the stairwell, he got his bearings and made the left toward room 214. As he did, he pulled the gun from his pocket, hefted it, and checked the safety.
The room was only two doors away from the staircase. Donne stopped in front of it and knocked. A shadow crossed over the peephole. Donne raised the revolver and aimed. There was a muffled voice. He heard locks clicking.
The door swung open and Jeanne Baker faced the barrel of the gun. Donne flinched when he saw her.
“Jesus Christ, Jackson,” she said. Her eyes were wide, and her breath came in small gasps.
“Let me in,” he said. His shirt was soaked through.
“Okay, okay. Relax.”
She moved out of the way. It was a suite, and the first was a living room. A dive like this actually had suites. There were papers and books strewn about on the couch and living room and coffee in the maker. But the sights didn’t register with Donne, as fog clouded his vision.
His dead fiancée was standing in front of him.
Again.
This time Bill Martin was nowhere to be found.
“Talk to me, Jackson,” she said.
“Why should I?” Donne’s voice shook. So did the gun.
“Put the gun down. You’re not right.”
Donne took a step forward and grabbed her by the arm. He pulled her in tight and jammed the barrel into her chin. Jeanne didn’t scream, but chirped when the metal touched skin.
“You lied to me. You’ve always lied to me. About Bill. About your death.” He spat the word. “And then you let him shoot me, you just let him.”
Jeanne tried to pull away, but Donne held her tight.
“I spent the last six years thinking about you. When Bill told me the truth … it took me until now to get over it. To get right.” He breathed deep. “And then you come back. You can’t do this to me any longer. You won’t.”
Donne tensed his finger. Jeanne closed her eyes. The trigger felt the pressure and started to move.
His nightmare was about to end.
“Mom?”
A small voice from the bedroom. Donne loosened his grip.
“Mom, are you okay?”
Jeanne opened her eyes. A tear dripped from her right.
“Stay in the bedroom!” she shouted.
Donne looked over her toward the bedroom door. A small boy stood there. He was in bathing trunks and T-shirt. A tremor ran through Donne’s body. His gun hand fell to his side.
“William,” Jeanne said. “Stay away.” Her eyes went to Donne. “You will not touch him.”
Donne blinked. Once. Twice. Air caught in the back of his throat.
“Who is that?” he asked.
Jeanne said, “My son.”
William ran to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. Jeanne put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him tight. Donne stumbled backwards.
“How old is he?”
“Don’t hurt my mom!”
“He won’t,” Jeanne said. “Don’t worry, baby. He’s not going to hurt anyone.”
“How old?”
It all swirled into focus. The books strewn on the couch were comic books. There were action figures off to the right, Iron Man and Doctor Doom. The room smelt like coffee and chlorine.
“Six,” Jeanne said.
Suddenly aware of the gun in his hand, Donne jammed it back in his pocket. Quick math. Quick math.
“Is he …” Donne trailed off.
Jeanne gave a short shake of her head. Ice formed in Donne’s throat.
“Bill?” Donne asked. His voice was a whisper.
Jeanne looked at the orange carpet. The feeling went from Donne’s legs, and he dropped to his knees.
Jeanne whispered something to the boy.
“No,” he said. “He’s going to hurt you.”
She shook her head. “No, he won’t. I promise. We have to talk.”
“Who is he?”
“An old friend.”
“Friends don’t hurt other friends.”
Donne said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m not. I won’t.”
Ohmygodohymygodohmygod.
“We’re playing a game,” Jeanne said.
William let go of his mother and stared at Donne. His mouth curved into a frown and his hands balled into fists. He held the pose for a few seconds, then turned and went back into the bedroom. But not before he retrieved his action figures.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Donne asked. “Why did you just leave me like this?”
Jeanne exhaled. “Now you know why I came back.”
“I’VE MISSED everything, Jackson. His first word. His first step. His first haircut. I missed his first day of school. Me. His mother. I missed it all. So I came back.”
Donne said, “But you got ki
dnapped.”
Jeanne walked over to the couch and sat down. After looking toward the bedroom door to make sure it was closed, she exhaled. Donne got off his knees and sat on the floor. It felt like his chest was empty, the only remnants of his insides the constant throb of his wound.
“I was tired of hiding, tired of missing William grow up, and I made a mistake.”
Donne didn’t miss her words. The image of the boy walking in here, seeing his mother with a gun to her throat, ran laps around his brain.
“What would you do to see your own child, Jackson?”
The throb had its own rhythm now. It sambaed against his pectoral muscle. “He’s not mine.”
“Would you lie, cheat, and steal?”
Donne slammed his fist into his open left hand. “Does Bill know?”
“He’s known a long time. Since before—”
Donne tapped his pocket.
“I was happy, Jeanne. Finally.”
“How dare you? It was my son.” Jeanne shoved her hands in her pockets. “My dad is dying. My mom can’t do it on her own.”
They let that sit in the air. Donne put his arms straight out behind him and leaned back. His back cracked and his shoulder whined. His eyes felt heavy, and they burned. Sleep called him as the last bits of adrenaline escaped his body.
Donne shook his head. “You should have stayed away.”
“And what would have happened to William? He’d roam the streets like Oliver Twist?”
Donne laughed. “Ever the English teacher.”
Jeanne didn’t return the chuckle.
“That was our problem, Jackson. It wasn’t the drinking. Not the coke. That was a part of it, but not the whole thing. But you didn’t know me. You never knew me. English? I was working in the education department. And you never even knew that.”
Donne pulled his knees in and leaned forward, hugging them. His back cracked some more.
“You cheated on me,” he said. “Then you told me you wanted me back. Two weeks later you died. Or ran.”
“And you cheated on me, remember?”
Vaguely.
“You weren’t a good person back then, Jackson.” She rubbed her chin where the barrel of the gun had been. “And it doesn’t seem like you’ve gotten any better.”