Not Even Past

by Dave White

  Luca looked Donne up and down, slowing his gaze at the bloodstains. He stepped in, nose-to-nose.

  “What the hell happened?”

  Donne opened and closed his mouth, trying to find words. They wouldn’t come.

  “You did this,” Luca said. “You waited for Bill to come here? You told me he was already dead.”

  Donne looked at his hands and saw the blood that covered them. He wiped them on his shirt. Sounds were echoes, and everything was far away. The waves from the beach were loud, however, like someone messed with the balance in his ears. Too much bass, not enough treble.

  Luca’s voice faded into static. His lips were moving, but Donne couldn’t understand him over the rush of the waves. Pressure was pushing on his temples. He opened and closed his sticky hands.

  A hand was in Donne’s face. Luca was reaching for him. Donne’s heart went into overdrive.

  Donne ran. Luca whirled as Donne passed him, and Donne’s hearing came back.

  “Hey! Wait!”

  Donne didn’t stop. He hit the stairs and skittered down them, leaping to reach each landing. His knees jarred with each landing, but he kept pushing downward. The taste of copper returned to his mouth.

  He hit the front door and busted out into the sunlight. The sirens were all-encompassing now, along with the screech of brakes and footsteps. People were shouting, others were crying, someone was still screaming. Donne ran through the quad, heading back toward the staging area. He could see people taking pictures and two news stations trying to set up live feeds.

  The cops hadn’t set up a perimeter yet. They were still assessing the situation. Some rushed the stage. Toward the student union, a group of cops huddled next to an ambulance with whirling lights.

  Donne hung a hard right and headed toward the parking lot. The metal detectors were knocked over. Some of the crowd must have fled in a panic. Donne hopped the blockade and sprinted out on to asphalt. He pulled his keys and started to press the unlock button.

  He looked over his shoulder midsprint and saw Luca following him. Luca wasn’t running hard, but was instead jogging and signaling toward the cops. Air caught in Donne’s throat, but he pushed forward. He kept pressing the unlock button.

  Donne found his car and used the hood to stop his momentum. Vibration from the impact drove up through his wrists like he’d just hit a fastball on the inside part of a bat. He pulled open the door and got in. Through the windshield, he saw Luca picking up speed. Two cops were sprinting in his direction as well.

  After starting the car, he put it in gear and peeled out of the parking lot. His brakes squealed as he turned on to the main road, aiming away from the beach. Behind him, two squad cars tore out of the lot as well. Their sirens were blaring.

  Donne needed to make it to the Parkway before they closed the entrance down. If he could hit the highway, he’d have a little more freedom to breathe.

  Unless they unleashed a helicopter.

  It was only then he realized the folly of his choices. By running, he played right into Bill Martin’s hands. He looked guilty, even if he wasn’t. Even though he tried to stop Martin. Donne’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it.

  One of the cop cars turned into the lane of oncoming traffic and accelerated. Before Donne could floor it, the car was next to him. Cops cars really had good pickup nowadays.

  “Pull over!” The speaker on the cop car was loud.

  Donne floored it and pulled away from the cruiser. It wheeled back into his lane, nearly clipping Donne’s fender.

  “Come on, come on,” Donne said. He was doing eighty-five down a Jersey Shore town side street. The traffic light he headed toward turned red.

  Donne gripped the steering wheel tight, but didn’t brake. He cut through the intersection, and one of the cops behind him made it too. But the second cruiser slammed into a crossing car. The crunch of metal and smash of glass was almost inaudible over the hum of his engine.

  At the next intersection, Donne turned right. He thought he was going to lose traction, as the car almost hit two wheels. The turn must have surprised the cop behind him, who kept going straight through the intersection.

  Donne exhaled. He could see the Parkway up ahead. The relief wasn’t enough for him to let up on the accelerator, though.

  Again, his cell phone buzzed. Had his name made the news already?

  The cop who’d been following him must have known a shortcut. Three blocks down the road and about two blocks in front of the Parkway, the cruiser pulled out at the intersection and blocked the road. Instinct made Donne release the accelerator. The engine RPMs wound down, but he still fired ahead at nearly seventy miles per hour.

  His car could not withstand a straight-up ramming through the police stop. Hell, he’d probably go through the windshield.

  And if anyone was in the passenger seat of the cruiser, they were screwed too.

  Didn’t matter though.

  Jackson Donne put the metal to the floor. He could feel gravity press him back into the seat just slightly. His skin tightened over his knuckles and he held the wheel tighter.

  “STOP THE CAR.” The speakers of the cruiser roared.

  Donne gritted his teeth.

  One block.

  “STOP THE CAR NOW!”

  Two blocks.

  Donne screamed.

  Three blocks.

  Donne swerved left onto the parking lot. A trashcan slammed into his hood and then rolled over the roof. A coffee cup splashed against the glass. The cop car was unharmed. His car had made it around. He drove another block on the sidewalk.

  Two civilians had to dive out of the way.

  The Parkway entrance was up ahead. He checked the rearview mirror and could see the cop car backing up and straightening out on the road to continue pursuit. Donne imagined they were radioing ahead to state troopers as well. But if Donne played it right, he only had to make it ten miles on the highway.

  The whup whup of helicopter blades could be heard overhead. Donne peeked through his sunroof and could see the state trooper chopper following him. Of course.

  Donne picked Parkway north and kept the pedal on the ground. He was pushing 120 mph, and two cars had to swerve out of the way of his merge. An overpass loomed up ahead, and Donne thought it could work to his advantage. The state cops hadn’t caught up yet. Procedure meant the locals had to stop at the entrance to the highway. His only worry was the chopper.

  As he neared the overpass, Donne weaved on to the shoulder. The rumble strip pounded against his ears. He slammed on the brakes and came to a stop just under the pass. Donne counted to twenty as the chopper passed above him. He just needed them to get far enough away that it was hard for them to turn around.

  The whup whup faded and Donne accelerated. He merged in at the speed limit, mixing in with traffic. Ahead he could see the tail of the chopper as it slowed in the air. The next exit was less than half a mile away. With a helicopter in the air, he’d never make it the ten miles he’d planned. He’d have to be more creative.

  He was pulling off the exit before the chopper had made its way back in his direction.

  ANOTHER SHORE town. He didn’t even know the name of this one. Ocean Grove? Ocean Town? Something along those lines.

  Donne dumped his car as soon as he got off the Parkway, leaving it in a supermarket lot. He jogged across the lot and made his way toward the street that led to the beach. He undid his tie as he walked and dropped it and his jacket into a dumpster. Across the street was a beach shop. Donne ducked inside and, with the only cash he had, picked up a bathing suit, a beach-themed T-shirt, and sandals. He got changed into the dressing room, leaving the rest of his clothes behind.

  Before he left the shop, he checked his cell phone. Kate had called twice. Donne turned the GPS locator off and walked down to the beach. He called her back. The phone rang while he found a spot on the sand.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Can’t tell you,” he said. She could pr
obably hear the water crashing.

  “You didn’t do this. I know you better than that.”

  The knot in his stomach eased. He’d expected a question, not a statement. He squinted in the sun looking out over the beach. It was moderately crowded, full of people on their day off sitting in plastic chairs. He and Kate rarely came to the beach, and when they did, they never sat in the sand. They went somewhere like Point Pleasant and had beers on the boardwalk. They played Skee-Ball and redeemed tickets for T-shirts with stupid sayings.

  They had hoped to support the Sandy rebuild this summer by spending a ton of cash there. He never gave them the chance.

  “I didn’t,” he said.

  “They think you did. You have to run.”

  “You—your dad. You can help me.”

  “I don’t think I can,” she said.

  She was right.

  “Where will you go?”

  “Some place with good craft beer, Kate. You know me.”

  A situation popped up in his mind. One he hadn’t even considered. Bill Martin had talked about being sick and not being able to steady his hands. Not an easy condition for a sniper to have. It was possible Stern survived the wound. Maybe it didn’t hit any vital organs. Maybe the bullet dug itself into his shoulder.

  Bill Martin had missed Donne at close range. What could he hit at three hundred yards?

  “Did Henry Stern live, Kate?”

  “No. They said he got shot in the head. Oh my god, you were there?” She sniffled, a sound Donne had become all too used to recently. “The car chase on the news. Was that even you? Jesus, tell me they’re lying to me, please.”

  “Who have you talked to?”

  Please say the cops.

  “Someone from Henry Stern’s protection committee.”

  Donne’s ribs constricted, trying to crush his lungs. “Guy named Luca?”

  Donne didn’t mind using names. It was unlikely the cops were tracking his calls already. Even if Luca gave them his number, it was too fast to set that up. They should have still been scrambling with crime scene evidence.

  “They think you did it. All of them.” Kate paused. “Luca—he’s so angry.”

  “Is he still there?”

  Donne dropped his head and looked at the sand. A cigarette butt stuck out of a mound of it. He kicked it over with his foot. Particles of sand stuck to his foot. They itched. He slapped some of it off, but it didn’t relieve the sensation.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “He’s going to hurt you, Kate,” he said. He jumped to his feet and started to run back to the street. “I’m coming.”

  “No. You have to go. Get out of here.”

  “He’s going to kill you!”

  “I’m coming to get you right now.”

  “You can’t. They’ll find you.”

  “Who?”

  A long pause. Donne listened to the waves and the mumbled, happy conversations of other beachgoers.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. Her voice caught for a second. “I have my beer goggles on. They’re very focused.”

  Donne stopped running. His muscles eased.

  A kid on a waveboard wiped out. Out of the corner of his eye, Donne noticed the lifeguard stiffen. The kid popped back up, laughing. The lifeguard relaxed.

  “Good luck, Jackson.”

  Donne hung the phone up, opened the settings, and turned the GPS back on. He got up and walked down to the edge of the water. Out in front of him was a vast blue nothing. At the edge of the horizon was a fishing boat. Beyond that, nothing else. Swimmers were more toward the south. The kid on the waveboard paddled out to find more.

  Donne threw his phone as far as he could. It landed in the water with a small splash.

  “Beer goggles,” he said to himself.

  Twenty minutes later, Donne was in a stolen car cruising north. He planned on driving more than ten miles this time.

  There were no cops to be found. He made a stop just before the New York border to take all the money he could out of an ATM. He dropped his card at the bank. It was a drive-up ATM, so he had to ditch the stolen car just over the border.

  After boosting a 1980 Cadillac, he didn’t stop driving for nearly four hours.

  KATE PUT the phone down and turned toward Luca. The barrel of the gun obscured his face.

  “I don’t like loose ends,” he said. “Where is he going?”

  She rubbed her hands together. He wrists were cold, but the rest of her was warm. It was an odd place to be cold.

  “He didn’t say.”

  Luca leaned in close. The gun touched her temple. Kate fought back tears. Just make him talk a little while more.

  “I know he said. I’m going to find him. If you tell me, maybe I’ll go get him instead.”

  Kate swallowed. She strained her ears, but didn’t hear anything. If only she’d listened to her father and not plastered her address all over the place. He’d always told her that if she wanted to be a lawyer, her home would have to be unlisted. The metal of the gun dug into her forehead. It felt as cold as her wrists.

  “He did not say. I wish I knew.”

  The emails she sent, the phone call she made when she saw him walking toward the door had to have registered by now. She gritted her teeth together and prayed, begged.

  “If you don’t tell me—“ Luca pressed the gun against her even harder. His voice was as sharp as diamonds.

  “I really don’t know.” Her entire body shivered as she spoke.

  Then she heard it. The sirens. More than one. 911 had come through. As soon as she saw the guy, just like Jackson described him, walking up the front step, she grabbed her phone and her computer and sent off an email with the files attached. One to her dad and one to the town police chief. It wasn’t enough to convict, but it was a start.

  Luca flinched at the sound.

  “They’re coming for you,” she said. “It’s over.”

  His face went red, and the gun moved away from her head. Getting up, he ran to the window, peering through the venetian blinds.

  “No,” he screamed. “I’m not done!”

  “Your girlfriend Marie really helped me out,” Kate said. “You should have called her back. I have evidence about everything. The board of trustees. Your link to Tony Verderese. All of Henry Stern’s plans. And I emailed them right to the cops.”

  As tough as she tried to sound, her voice still shook. The sirens were deafening now. Brakes squealed in front of her house.

  Luca whirled back toward her. “No! This isn’t how it happens. It doesn’t end this way.”

  Doors slammed. Voices volleyed outside. Just a few seconds more.

  Kate looked at Luca. His face scrunched, his eyes squinted, his cheeks burning. He lifted the gun.

  “I will not go out this way.”

  And too late, Kate realized, the cops weren’t going to get there in time. She closed her eyes.

  I love you, Ja—

  BETHEL, VERMONT, was the perfect small town.

  In fact, it could barely be labeled that. Which meant it was perfect for Jackson Donne. Located forty-five minutes from Killington and nestled against a quarry, it felt remote. Far away. There were a few blocks of houses and just enough bed-and-breakfasts for tourists. When Donne pulled into town at nearly nine in the evening, he was able to rent a motel room in cash. No one asked any questions.

  No one even seemed to recognize him.

  The next week moved at a relaxed pace. Donne found a job doing fixer-up jobs at all the bed-and-breakfasts. He mowed lawns, fixed broken shelves, and attempted plumbing. And all of the owners felt it was easier to pay cash. Meanwhile, he started to grow a beard. After a week, he had enough money to sublet out a small house on the edge of town. The owner was moving to Colorado for the winter for some “real” skiing. He was willing to rent out the house monthly, for cheap. It was another fixer-upper.

  Perhaps this was a haven for ex-cons and fugitives on the run. Cash was acceptable, paperwork wa
s scarce, and everyone minded their own business. At the same time, people smiled and waved at him. They made small talk, but never probed.

  Donne didn’t care. The house had hot water, heat, a kitchen and a bedroom. He didn’t have the Internet and didn’t have a cell phone. That was fine, most people couldn’t get reception in town anyway. Two Mondays a month—his day off—he would make the hour drive to Waterbury for groceries and beer. The case of beer he got from the Alchemist—Heady Topper—was a double IPA someone had designated the best beer in the world. Donne tended to agree. Soon the employees there started to recognize him.

  One of them must have thought he was cute, even with the scruffy lumberjack beard. Once a month, he’d find an extra four-pack thrown his way.

  The beer kept his stomach saggy, but the housework kept the rest of him tight. The work did wonders on his wounded shoulder. He almost had complete movement back. By October, he was splitting wood at all four bed-and-breakfasts. At first he’d wake up sore, but within a week the soreness faded. He enjoyed the rhythm of work.

  He wondered if name was mentioned on the news. He never checked. Didn’t want to know. Somewhere between New Jersey and Vermont, he decided his name was Joe Tennant. That was good enough, and the beard and the beer gut changed his appearance enough if no one looked too close.

  No one did.

  He missed Kate. And he wondered about Jeanne. Thoughts of both of them tickled the back of his brain daily. He thought about them as he worked. He thought about them when he ate. The thoughts only faded after his second or third Heady Topper.

  Curiosity got the better of him the day before the first snowfall. He had finished shopping and picking up his case of Heady. He considered asking the woman at the cash register out, but that broke his rules. The idea of starting a new relationship brought Kate to the forefront of his mind. Memories of her flooded his thoughts—the way she chewed the corner of her hair, how she threw her head back—eyes closed, mouth open—during sex. His hands shook, and he finally gave in.

  Pulling into a local coffee shop, he asked if he could use their computer. He bought a latte and logged into the Internet. A Google search brought up a few news stories that mentioned Kate. And Luca.