Not Even Past

  The Jackson Donne series

  When One Man Dies

  The Evil That Men Do

  Witness To Death

  For

  Erin and Ben

  “The past is not dead. It’s not even past.”

  —William Faulkner

  WHEN JACKSON Donne saw the eight-year-old picture of himself, he thought the email was the weirdest form of spam he’d ever gotten.

  It was taken on graduation day at the police academy, and Donne was in his dress blues, smiling in front of an American flag. His hat was tilted down, leaving two fingers of room between the brim and his nose, exactly as they’d been taught. Jeanne had taken it. They had only been dating three months, and he remembered how happy she was that he’d completed training. Now, they would have some extra time to spend together. Donne was smiling more about that than he was from actually graduating from the academy.

  He hadn’t seen the picture in years. It had been boxed up somewhere with the rest of Jeanne’s things. Had her parents taken that stuff after she died? He didn’t remember. Donne scrolled down some more and saw the email’s text. The muscles in his shoulders tightened as if someone had grabbed him. Written in bold italics was Click and watch. Her life depends on it. Next to that was a link, but not to a website Donne recognized.

  Don’t click on it, he thought. Probably some virus, something that would eat up all the files on his computer. He couldn’t afford that, not now, with exams looming. Of course, the only reason he logged on in the first place was to procrastinate.

  But this email tickled his brain. The picture. Who had found and sent him that picture? He looked at the email address again, a string of numbers and a domain that just read “di.com.” Nothing familiar jumped out at him.

  Donne quickly forwarded the email from his school account to his personal one. Then he closed it, without deleting it. Scrolled through the rest of his email. Nothing from his professors. No study guides, no cheat sheets, no rubrics. No help at all. His time at college had been tedious, full of syllabi, message boards, readings, and essays. But this was his life now.

  No gunfire. No one dies.

  Life was what it should be. Boring. Work on what you have to, have pizza and a beer on Friday night. Watch some movies. Tweet.

  And now that he was so close to the end, closing out his degree, he wanted it to be even easier. Kate said he had senioritis. He didn’t disagree.

  Which was why this email bothered him. Donne clicked on it again and looked at the time stamp. It’d been sent at six this morning. Now, according to his iPhone, it was 10 AM. Four hours that email had sat there waiting for him. The Microsoft Outlook email system Rutgers used didn’t jibe with his phone, otherwise he might have gotten it earlier.

  But no, that picture had sat there while Donne had gotten up and gone for coffee and a bagel. Surfed through some New Jersey websites looking at the news and procrastinated overall instead of studying.

  The mouse arrow hovered over the link, turning from arrow to finger. His own finger hovered over the button.

  A bead of sweat formed at his hairline.

  He clicked the link. And his gut gurgled when he got the pinwheel cursor. His computer had frozen, and for an instant he worried about every one of his files disappearing into some abyss of zeros and ones. About spending the next twelve hours waiting in line at the Genius Bar at the Menlo Park Mall.

  The pinwheel stopped and his browser opened up. Donne stared at the screen. A black square, then a play button in the middle. He clicked on the triangle and waited. It must be buffering, he thought, because nothing else was happening.

  There was a loud swoosh from his speakers and the screen went bright white, like sun reflecting off snow. Donne flinched and squinted as the camera adjusted to the light. The picture came into focus. A nearly empty room. Gray walls, gray floor. The camera was positioned behind two spotlights. Donne could see the tripods and big round head fixed on top of them. Beyond that was a chair. In the chair was a woman.

  Donne leaned closer to the screen. He couldn’t tell who it was.

  The camera zoomed in slowly. The spotlights were out of view. The woman wore blue sweatpants and a white tank top. She was slumped over. Her wrists were tied to the arms of the chair. Her brown hair had fallen in front of her face.

  The camera pulled in tight on the torso of the woman. She was shaking and her arms appeared bruised. The bruises had occurred some time ago, however, because they had yellowed on the outside. The woman lifted her head and the hair fell away from her face. Her mouth was covered in duct tape. Her nose was runny. And her eyes looked directly into the camera.

  Donne’s throat closed.

  Jeanne Baker stared back at him, eyes wide at the camera, a tear trickling down the left side of her face. He could hear muffled screaming through the duct tape.

  He said her name. He said it twice.

  The screen went blank.

  “No!” Donne shouted and grabbed the monitor. He shook it, as if that was going to help.

  He clicked on the mouse, hoping the triangle play button would reappear. It didn’t. Donne didn’t know long he sat there clicking. It felt like only seconds. He didn’t stop until he heard the door open behind him.

  He turned and saw Kate, two boxes in her hands.

  “Hey,” she said. “I thought you might want to take a break from studying and help me with the invitations.”

  “WHAT’S WRONG?” Kate put the box of invitations on the coffee table.

  Donne blinked. “I didn’t expect to see you this morning.”

  She smiled. It was the same smile she gave him the first time he opened a car door for her. The time he brought her roses at work. Each time, she’d smile the smile she was giving now and call him “the gentleman.” And then remind him it was the twenty-first century.

  “Well.” She tilted her head. “I’m here. Let’s get stuffing.”

  Kate waited for him just for a moment, as if she expected him to take the initiative. He didn’t move. It felt like he was stuck to his computer chair, as if the seat had iced over and caught his body with it. When he didn’t move, she pulled the first envelope.

  “Got to do my mother first, right? She’d probably be offended otherwise.” She took an invitation, glanced over it, and then slid it into the pink envelope.

  If this had been a normal moment, Donne would have laughed and asked why her mother even needed an invite. She was paying for most of the damn thing. They would have laughed, and Kate would have reminded him about tradition.

  Not today.

  “Kate, I—” He turned and looked at his computer. The web browser was still open to the blank video. He clicked it closed. “I have to study. I haven’t even started yet.”

  She licked the glue of the envelope and sealed it. Put it on the coffee table next to the box. Donne leaned back in his chair and watched her stand up and walk toward him. Slowly, like the first night they made love. The smile changed now. No longer confused. Confident.

  She put her hands on the arms of his chair and leaned in close. Her hair smelled like apple shampoo.

  “You said you were going to get up early and work.”

  “When did I say that?”

  “When don’t you say that?”

  She leaned in closer and her lips parted slightly. “You work too hard.”

  “If I don’t, I won’t be finished with this.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  Before their lips could meet, Donne flashed on to Jeanne. Tied up in that chair. Her eyes wide. Screaming behind duct tape.

  He tilted his head out of the way of Kate and stood up. She stepped back and brushed hair in front of her face, as if she was trying to hide it.

  “What is wrong with you?
” Her voice was the edge of glass.

  “I told you, I have to study.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not it.”

  He stood up, feeling ice form in his chest. Someone must have turned the thermostat down when Donne wasn’t looking.

  Jeanne—no, Kate—had her arms folded in front of her. Donne stepped in close to her, put his hands on her elbows. Squeezed gently.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m stressed. There’s a lot to be done. Finals. The wedding. We have a lot to do. You surprised me.”

  “But you …” Kate shook her head. “You’ve been doing this a lot lately.”

  Donne closed his eyes and took in a long breath. He kissed her on the cheek. “I don’t mean to.”

  He wanted to explain, tell her about Jeanne. Tell her about the video. Tell her about the blood on his hands. All the blood. He should have done that a year ago. But it never felt like the right time. It still didn’t.

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “Did you take today off?” he asked.

  “I have a meeting later this afternoon. Last-minute preparation for court. Took the morning off, thought we could stuff some envelopes and then get lunch.”

  That sounded good. It sounded like exactly what he needed. But the walls felt like they were closing in on him. His mouth was dry and his throat was tight. He needed to go do something, anything, to try to find out what that video was about.

  “I really need to study. Get this over with. What time is your meeting over?”

  Kate pursed her lips. “I’m done at four.”

  “In that case, I’ll be done at four,” he said. “I’ll pick you up and we can go to Silvio’s and get a real meal. Then I’m good for some beer and all the envelope stuffing you want to do.”

  The glint returned to her eyes. She didn’t smile. Didn’t unfold her arms.

  “Okay.”

  Donne dropped his hands to his sides. “I really need to study. Why don’t you stay here? I’ll go down to the library and get some work done. Hard to procrastinate there.”

  “If you end up at the Olde Towne—”

  Donne laughed. “That’s the last place I’ll be.”

  “I was just going to say ‘call me.’”

  They didn’t say anything for a moment. The silence hung in the air like gnats on a summer night. They stared at each other, Donne waiting for Kate to move first. Either toward the couch or the door.

  She didn’t.

  He gave in. After kissing her on the cheek again, he went toward the door. Pulled it open and stepped out into the hall. The door swung shut behind him. The hall smelled of wet pizza boxes. He took two steps but stopped when Kate opened his door again.

  “Jackson,” she said.

  He turned and waited. The ice in his chest got colder.

  “You forgot your books.”

  The knot in his stomach eased, and he went back to gather his things. There wasn’t much. Two textbooks, a binder, and a pen. He shoved them into his bag, zipped it closed, and headed back toward the door.

  “I love you,” he heard Kate say.

  He pulled the door shut and kept going.

  DONNE SAT in the Olde Towne Tavern staring at his phone. Seemed to be what everyone else was doing as well. The days of pub arguments that went unsettled were long gone. Pub arguments turned into quick Google searches and Wikipedia answers.

  That wasn’t Donne’s concern at the moment. No, he’d clicked on the link in the email and opened up Safari on his iPhone trying to get another glimpse of Jeanne. Or whoever it was in the video.

  Couldn’t be Jeanne. She was dead. Car crash. Dead.

  Each time Donne tried clicking on the link, the browser would open and just show a blank white page. Nothing would load. The activity bar at the top of the screen didn’t appear, so he knew nothing else would load on the page. He shook the phone, as if that would help. When it didn’t, he slapped the phone on to the bar. And then cursed himself for almost breaking it. He couldn’t afford another one.

  Artie appeared across the bar, eyed the phone, then eyed Donne.

  “Cutting class?” he asked.

  Donne shook his head. “Jameson. And a Kane Head High.”

  Artie exhaled and leaned over for the glasses.

  “Sorry for making you do your job,” Donne said.

  Artie poured the shot. “I was wondering when this Jackson would show up again. Been a while.”

  Donne took the shot in a quick gulp. Felt the slow burn up his throat. His chest and stomach warmed. He welcomed the feeling.

  “Exams are coming up,” he said.

  Artie put the IPA on a coaster. “That’s why this place is empty.” He made a show of looking around. “Well, that, and the fact that it’s not even noon yet.”

  “I should be studying.” Sweat slid down the side of the pint glass.

  “Instead you’re doing shots.”

  “One shot.”

  Artie shrugged. “Don’t want to talk about it?”

  Donne picked up the beer and drank. The taste of whiskey washed from his mouth, replaced by bitter hops. The nerve endings that been jangling for the past hour settled into a rhythmic throb.

  Artie turned and went to the other end of the bar. Donne pressed the home button on his phone and stared at the picture Kate on his lock screen. He took another sip of beer. Kate looked over her shoulder, a wisp of hair cutting across her brow. The corner of her lip was curled up in a smile. Behind her was the sunset over Garret Mountain.

  Jeanne, meanwhile, was tied to a chair.

  Thirty seconds of footage, something that could have been faked by anyone.

  He looked at his lock screen again. He grabbed his beer and froze.

  “You shouldn’t drink that,” Kate had said the night they first met, last year.

  Donne was sitting in nearly the exact same spot he was right now and had just finished his first winter exams. Artie was hosting a benefit for State Senator Henry Stern, who’d worked with Jeanne years earlier.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  Kate was wearing tight jeans and a turtleneck sweater. Her hair was pulled back in a loosely tied bun. As far as he could tell, she was alone.

  “Because if you drink that now, you’ll be drinking by yourself. But if you wait and buy me one, you’ll have someone to talk to. And that’s less weird.”

  It was the kind of line that usually made Donne cringe, but she’d said it with such a wide, goofy smile.

  He signaled Artie, and she ordered a vodka tonic.

  “Really?” she asked. “You couldn’t even try to say something funny?”

  “No matter what it was, it would have bombed.”

  She tilted her head to the left and some of her hair fell out of the bun. “That’s the point.”

  “You know the senator?” he asked, nodding toward the back where Stern was holding court.

  She shrugged. “Old family friend. You?”

  “A lifetime ago.”

  “So we’re both here for the free food and booze, then?” She touched his arm.

  And that was the start. Now, a year and a half later, he was engaged and actually supposed to be filling envelopes. They were getting married in two months. Middle of July.

  He put his phone down and drank some more beer. Kate deserved to know. He picked the phone back up.

  She picked up on the second ring.

  “Hey,” she said. Her voice was soft and she spoke slowly. “You okay?”

  “I’m going to be back soon. We’ll talk.” He stared at his half drank-beer. He could leave it. “And I’ll help fill some envelopes too.”

  Kate exhaled. “Don’t you need to study?”

  “I will. I am.”

  “All right, get back here. You’ve got some licking to do.”

  Donne started to speak. Stopped.

  “Envelopes,” she said. “What were you thinking? Envelopes, Jackson.”

  He laughed. “Anything I could have sa
id would have bombed.”

  “That’s the point. See you soon. I love you.”

  This time she hung up before he could respond. He looked at the beer again. Times had changed. He didn’t need it anymore. He couldn’t believe he even came here. Like muscle memory.

  He waved to Artie and got up. Just as he was putting his phone in his pocket, it vibrated a text message. Kate needed something from the store, maybe?

  He looked at it. The recipient was marked unknown. But the message read:

  She needs you. What are you waiting for?

  TWO—NO—THREE YEARS ago, Donne would have known what to do next. But his investigative skills had faded, and technology had passed him by. He didn’t have much access to anyone who could track IP addresses and wasn’t a skilled hacker himself. If the person who’d sent him the email had put any sort of security on the website at all, Donne wouldn’t be able to track him down. Hell, Donne wouldn’t have been able during his PI days either.

  At the same time, his phone company contacts had dried up, either moving elsewhere or retiring. Investigating certainly wasn’t like riding a bike. Instincts sag, and intellectual focus is put elsewhere.

  He couldn’t go to the cops. Talking to them meant talking to Bill Martin. He wasn’t ready for that.

  Donne stepped out of the tavern into the noon sunlight. It reflected off the glass of the store across the street directly into his eyes. He blinked and wiped at his watery eyes. The temperature had crested somewhere into the high seventies, as businesses let out for lunch and some students who hadn’t gone home after finishing exams loitered.

  What he should be doing.

  Instead, he opened his text message and tried firing off a quick text to the blocked number. Who are you? It didn’t go through.

  Donne took a deep breath and leaned against the wall of the Olde Towne Tavern. He needed to go talk to Kate and tell her what was going on, but he wasn’t ready to do that yet. At the very least, he had to try to get a step closer to figuring out what was going on.

  His mind flashed on the video again. Jeanne’s eyes wide open. She was screaming through duct tape.