Not Even Past Page 21

  Jeanne got off the couch and went over to the counter. The mug clattered against the Formica top, and she picked it up. After emptying a sugar packet and adding cream, she poured a cup of coffee. Judging by the smell, she must have just made it. Jeanne didn’t offer, but Donne didn’t want any.

  “What did you know? Why did you hide?”

  Jeanne shook her head. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Her words fell flat. There were too many holes, too much damage done for it not to matter. Donne looked around the room for signs of anyone but Jeanne and William. Nothing.

  “Where’s Bill?” he asked.

  Jeanne shrugged, and gulped some coffee. The mug was steaming, but the heat didn’t seem to bother her.

  “Come on, Jeanne. What’s the point of lying now?”

  She turned to face him and leaned against the counter. Took another sip of coffee.

  “Have you ever heard of a scorched earth policy?”

  Donne didn’t say anything.

  “I want to start over with William. I don’t want to hide anymore. I want to be able to spend time with my parents. I want to be more than what I was. No more lying. No more fear.”

  Donne patted his pocket.

  “So you’re going to run again?”

  “I don’t want to. Have to be near my dad. But Stern …”

  William knocked something over in the other room. He called out an apology.

  “You’re in with him, aren’t you?” Jeanne asked. Her voice was steady. She rolled her shoulders and then took another small sip of coffee.

  He didn’t answer. The woman he’d loved and then mourned for so long was standing in front of him, unharmed. She was drinking coffee, talking, hitting him with sarcastic barbs, and wanting to start her life over. For Donne, the room should have been spinning. Instead, the waters were calm.

  “How else could you have survived getting shot like that? It was Henry’s building. He had to help you.” Jeanne shook her head.

  The words weren’t coming.

  “So, then what? As payback, he wanted you to kill me?”

  “No. Yes.” Donne said. “It felt like it was all me.”

  Jeanne nodded. “He pushed you to it. That’s what he did in the army.”

  Donne thought back to his time with Stern. Thought about Luca telling him to lay low. Bigger things were ahead.

  He adjusted his jaw and felt the joint pop like a knuckle. Tension eased in his neck for an instant.

  Donne thought about Jeanne’s words, let them settle in his brain. Scorched earth stood out.

  “Where is Bill?”

  “I don’t care,” Jeanne said. “I only care about my family.”

  Donne opened his mouth, then froze.

  “You’re not the woman I knew,” Donne said.

  Jeanne tilted her head back and finished off the coffee. She put the mug down and let it rattle on the Formica again. It tilted, but held its edge and settled back into place.

  “You’ve never been the man I thought you were.” Jeanne walked toward the bedroom. “I am going to play with my son.”

  Donne sat on the carpet until she closed the bedroom door. He exhaled, and pushed himself to his feet. His body ached, and he felt hollow. Donne went to the door and unhooked the clasp. He turned the handle.

  All of the air left in him went out of him. He reached down to his pocket.

  Bill Martin stood on the other side of the threshold.

  BILL MARTIN was faster. He was always faster. Always able to think on his feet.

  His fist connected with Donne’s jaw, snapping his head back and sending him stumbling back into the hotel room. The pistol in Donne’s pocket landed on the floor with a thunk. Donne rolled to reach for it, but Martin—again—was faster.

  “You’re dead,” Martin said. He stepped over Donne, fists clenched. He was between Donne and the revolver. “I killed you.”

  “That rumor is gaining steam.”

  Donne stood up and brought his right arm up to ward off any blows. His left arm hung limp at his side. It was screaming at his brain, however. He must have landed on it funny and destroyed whatever healing had been going on.

  Martin reached into his jacket, but Donne had seen that move before. He turned on his heel and ran out on to the hallway leading toward the stairs. Martin shouted something—a phrase—but it came down the hallway garbled, and Donne didn’t understand. The acoustics of the motel weren’t made for public arguing, apparently. Privacy was a selling point.

  He took the stairs two at a time, but could hear footsteps on the concrete behind him. Donne leapt the last three stairs and landed on asphalt. He rolled to his right, into a bush. Now both his shoulder and his chest were screaming at him.

  At the very least, if Donne were shot here, there would be witnesses. The motel manager would have to call the police. Martin would be screwed. Donne’s former partner barreled down the last flight of stairs, his focus on the parking lot. When he hit the last step, Donne leapt out and tackled him, wrapping his right arm around Martin’s waist. They both went down in a heap.

  Donne’s chin dug into the asphalt and his teeth clattered together. He could taste copper in his mouth. Meanwhile, Martin moaned as he rolled on to his back. Donne pushed himself to his feet and pushed Martin’s gun away with his right foot. Then he walked over and kicked Martin in the ribs. Martin grunted and grabbed at them.

  Donne said, “Leave me alone.”

  Through gritted teeth, Martin asked, “What did she tell you?”

  “That you were living your life.”

  “In that case, tomorrow I’m going to get these ribs checked out.” Martin rolled toward Donne. Donne kicked him again. Martin curled into the fetal position.

  “You’re getting off easy,” Donne said. With his right wrist, he wiped blood away from his nose. The screaming pain had turned to white noise. There was so much, his body barely noticed it. His nerves had been overworked, and now they were just giving up.

  Or maybe he was going into shock again. Either way, he didn’t care.

  “The hell you know?” Martin asked. “Don’t know anything.”

  He started to uncurl himself, but Donne took a quick step forward. As if he were going to be kicked again, Martin curled himself up. The grass rustled beneath him.

  “Jesus.”

  Martin spat on the ground. Donne couldn’t be sure, but the shade looked red. Maybe he’d cracked a rib or two. Donne bit his lip to keep from chuckling. This was a long time coming.

  The front desk manager—cell phone in his hand—had made his way out on to the front walk and was staring at the two of them. He yelled that the two of them needed to knock that shit off or he would call the cops. The accent made it seem like there had been a time when he’d bluffed. Donne waved at him as if to say No worries. Then he turned his attention back to Martin.

  “Stay the hell away from Stern. Just help her.” Donne tried to rolled his shoulder and loosen it, but it wouldn’t move. He was going to have to drive one-handed.

  “Will you be there tomorrow?”

  Donne didn’t answer. There was nothing to say, no reason to give anything away. Just listening to an old man spin his bullshit and go home. Martin was toast.

  “Because I sure as hell don’t want to see your face again.”

  Donne didn’t bother anymore. He started to walk through the parking lot. The gravel dug into his heels with each step. He’d counted ten steps when he heard Martin’s voice call his name.

  Turning around, Donne expected to see Martin aiming at him. Instead, Bill was sitting up, hugging himself. His face was red. He grimaced.

  “Jackson,” he said. His voice was hoarse and dry. “I just want you to remember one thing …”

  Donne kicked at the ground without looking, like a bull preparing to charge.

  “Just remember, I won.” Martin grinned.

  Grunting, Martin got up, and walked toward the stairs. Donne watched him climb them all. Each step Mar
tin took seemed to take an immense amount of effort, like his legs weighed tons. When he reached the top, he looked over the railing to give Donne another glare. The breeze blew his hair askew.

  Donne waited.

  Martin walked the two doors down to 214, Jeanne’s room. He pushed the ajar door all the way open, stepped inside, and closed it.

  Donne stood there and waited for her to kick him out. He counted three hundred seconds in his head. Over the hotel roof, the sun had set casting a long shadow across the parking lot. The air grew cooler, and the breeze was stronger.

  Jeanne’s door remained closed.

  Donne gave it another minute, then turned and walked to his car. As he did, he dialed Luca.

  “It’s done,” he said.

  “That means, after tomorrow, all loose ends will be tied up.”

  Donne took a breath. “Like hell.”

  He hung up.

  DONNE RANG Kate’s buzzer. He saw her look out through her venetian blinds to check who it was. Just like she always did. For a moment, he thought she wasn’t going to answer.

  But she did.

  She was standing at the open door waiting for him. Donne stopped and waited for her to speak.

  When she didn’t, he said, “I screwed up. Bad.”

  Then he fell into her arms. She pulled him into her apartment and shut the door.

  HE TOLD her everything. Stern’s way with words. How he stalked Jeanne and Bill. Kate listened, red-eyed and silent. No questions were asked. And if she judged him, he couldn’t tell.

  When he was done, she pulled him in for another hug.

  “You could have messed up,” she said. “But you didn’t.”

  “For once,” he said, holding her as tight as he could.

  And then she laid it all on him. Everything she found. Everything about the mob. The merger.

  Donne’s gut twisted at the words, realizing how close he’d been to helping it along.

  “No one has to die,” she said. “We can stop this. Tomorrow. We’ll go to the police.”

  Donne nodded.

  “Will you stay tonight?” she asked.

  “I want to,” he said. “But they might find me. I can’t let them get to you.”

  He kissed her deeply and left.

  SOMEWHERE AROUND midnight, Donne’s cell phone rang. The sleepy haze around him faded for a moment, and first he reached for his alarm clock. Then he snatched up his phone and answered, his eye catching too late a phone number he didn’t recognize.

  “’’lo?”

  “Jackson.” The voice was weepy but familiar. “Jackson? Bill just left.”

  It wasn’t Kate. It was Jeanne. The sleep induced haze was still clearing, and kept him from asking how she got the number.

  “I miss you,” he said. The words came slowly and seemed to stick together on his tongue.

  “Jesus. Are you with it?”

  He could hear William saying he was trying to sleep. The shot of adrenaline in Donne’s stomach cleared his vision.

  “I’m fine,” he said. The words weren’t Velcroed to his tongue this time, but there was no guarantee he’d be able to keep speaking clearly.

  A muted baseball game flickered on the TV. It was one Donne didn’t care about. A National League game, and the pitchers had to bat. Took half the fun out of the game. Before Jeanne spoke again, the Cardinals’ pitcher grounded out. Big surprise.

  “I’m in trouble, Jackson,” Jeanne said.

  “You’re always in trouble.”

  “No, not what I meant. I mean Bill left, and I tried to stop him but he wouldn’t listen.”

  A local car dealership commercial was on TV. It looked like the owner was screaming, but with the TV muted Donne couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t read lips either. Another beer would have made it really funny.

  “Why are you calling me, Jeanne?”

  “Because I screwed up again.”

  Donne turned away from the TV. “How?”

  “He’s going to shoot Henry Stern tomorrow. At the press conference.”

  Like Pavlov’s dog, Donne’s body reacted to Jeanne’s words. His heart began to pound and his palms got slick.

  “No,” Donne said. “He doesn’t have to.”

  He tried to sound cool, but he was sure his voice was shaking. Scorched earth, Jeanne had said. Bill took it literally. Donne would be without a college degree, without a fiancée, and without a lifeline job from the man who saved his life.

  “He wants to save me.” She paused. Donne heard movement. “Stern was always going to be in my life. With him dead, I would have a shot at a fresh start.”

  “I have evidence,” Donne said. “You’ll get your start. I promise.”

  Another pause. Donne looked for meaning in the pauses but could find none. It was as sad as looking at the bottom of his pint glass.

  “You have to stop him, Jackson.” Jeanne spit the words out.

  The baseball game came back on TV. A real hitter was up for the Brewers, the first baseman. He swung and missed at the first pitch. Donne unmuted the TV but lowered the volume. The hum of the crowd was soothing.

  “This is not how I want William to learn about me and his father. I don’t want his father to be a murderer. I can’t teach my son that lesson. That can’t be one of the first things he learns.”

  Donne tried to hold the words back, but couldn’t. “What do you think your son will feel about you faking your death?”

  Strike two. The first basemen muttered something at the umpire.

  “Help me, Jackson.”

  “How is he going to do it? I need details.”

  Adrenaline and heat now pumped through Donne’s veins. The jolt was better than any cup of coffee.

  “He’s going to shoot Stern. That’s all I know.”

  “You’re sure.” Donne rubbed his face. “Call him. He doesn’t have to do this!”

  She shouted, “I’ve tried. He’s not picking up his phone. Help!”

  Donne hung up.

  THE DOOR to the building was unlocked, even at 7 AM. A stroke of luck, maybe, but Martin would take it. He adjusted the baseball equipment bag on his shoulder and entered the Robert F. Jenkins building. The halls smelled of newly laid wax, though the stairwell still had a Lysol scent hanging in the air. The lemon-lime smell gave him a slight headache.

  He was falling apart.

  Martin’s hands shook and had been shaking since that morning. The weight of the baseball bag tugged at his shoulder and kept him from taking the stairs at a quicker pace. At each landing, he stopped to catch his breath. He also listened for custodians, faculty, students, or anyone else who could have been milling around. He heard no one. In a way, he was disappointed. Lee Harvey Oswald got to brag about curtain rods. Martin amused himself by trying to come up with reasons he’d be carrying a baseball bag in a science building.

  No believable excuses came to mind, though. For the best.

  He pushed the door to the roof open and stepped out into the warmth. The breeze was light and steamy with humidity grabbing the air. The smell of seawater helped ease the Lysol out of Martin’s nostrils.

  Looking out over the campus, Martin could see the stage. No one was working on it now. The speakers had been set up properly, and some red, white, and blue bunting had been hung. Two New Jersey state flags stood on the stage, one at each staircase. There was only one American flag. Martin guessed the bunting made up for it.

  He unzipped the baseball bag and pulled out his rifle. It was unloaded, which was what he wanted. No accidents. He was only going to load the weapon when he needed it. He laid the rifle on the ground. There was no hurry; he had a few hours. Next he pulled a bottle of water from the bag, opened it, and took a small sip. The forecast today would drain the fluid from your body. He needed to stay hydrated.

  At the same time, leaving the roof to use the bathroom would be embarrassing.

  Martin looked out across the parking lot, past his lone car. He could see the beach, and a few pe
ople starting to set up camp. Two umbrellas were popped open and someone else was standing at the shoreline, letting the water rush over their ankles.

  If only, Martin thought.

  He dialed Jeanne. The phone rang three times, and Martin’s gut tightened. Then she answered.

  His muscles relaxed. “I’m here.”

  “Don’t do this.” She sounded far away. Speakerphone or Bluetooth, probably.

  “Keep your eye on the news.”

  Kent State, Virginia Tech, University of Texas. They’d all gone down in infamy. Martin was about to cross the same line.

  “You can’t do this.”

  Martin closed his eyes and realization sank over him. “Where will you be?”

  “If Stern dies, I’m not going to tell you. You won’t find me.”

  “Do you have William with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m doing this for him.” Martin closed his eyes and waited out the pause. He knew what the answer would be before she said it.

  “No.”

  His hands shook even harder now, and it was difficult to keep the phone to his ear. A rock formed somewhere in his abdomen.

  “Have a good life,” he said.

  Martin took the phone away from his ear and was about to push the button to end the call. He stopped when he heard Jeanne’s voice. One last time.

  “Bill,” she said. Then a sigh.

  “Yes? I’m here.”

  Martin clutched the phone as tight as he could. Just give me something, he thought. Some words of encouragement. A “Be careful.” Something to make it all worthwhile. He tapped his pocket with his free hand.

  “Think this through,” she said. The words were flat and even. “There is another way.”

  “I have.” Martin bit his lip. “There isn’t another way.”

  “Jackson—”

  Martin put the phone down and stared back out at the ocean. He couldn’t turn back now. In a few hours, Jeanne would have what she wanted. A new life, no fear. Henry Stern would be gone. Jackson Donne would be a memory.

  And himself?