Not Even Past (21 page)

“You goddamn prick,” Luca spat. “I knew you were trouble.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Stern said.

Luca kicked Donne again. Air left his body in a rush. His vision blurred and he tasted copper in his mouth. The dust that had slowed his escape earlier, now spread along his right side.

“I said let me talk to him.” Stern pushed Luca out of the way.

The senator crouched down in front of Donne. His ankles were tanned, but when the hem of his pants lifted, it revealed pale skin.

“Is this worth it?”

Donne tried to nod and say yes. Instead he blinked and coughed.

“Should I give you a minute?”

Rolling on to his back, Donne stared at the Tudor ceiling. Wooden braces held it together. They were decorated with twisting golden designs. Donne wondered if they were supposed to represent the crown of thorns, but more regal. Still, he tried to will the pain away.

“I apologize for Luca acting a bit rash,” Stern said. “He’s overreacting.” Luca grunted something, but Stern held up a hand. He rolled his hand at his wrist while he searched for words. “He’s a go-getter. This is a big opportunity for him. You don’t find that much in the younger generation anymore. They feel too entitled. Luca wants it.”

Air came a bit easier to Donne now. It felt like the muscles in his chest were being untied. He reached for the wound in his chest and put pressure on it. The pain spread away from the wound like ants after their hill had been kicked over.

“Feeling better?” Stern scratched at the mole on his right cheek. “Let’s talk.”

“About?”

“Why you don’t trust us. I saved your life.” Stern words were conversational, as if they were at a Sunday afternoon barbecue.

The ants now crawled under his skin, skittering up and down. Donne tried to picture the last time he spoke to Jeanne before she “died.” It was a moment he tried to bury deep within himself, push away into the dark recesses of his mind. Alcohol helped that mission.

“What about Kate?”

Stern rolled his eyes. “You dumbass romantic. I promised you she’s not in trouble.”

Luca replied, “You’re making a mistake.”

Donne was too busy fighting the pain through his body off to ask what he was talking about.

Stern turned toward Luca. “What are you talking about?”

Luca adjusted his jaw before speaking. “His girlfriend is asking around about me. You let her go free.”

Stern shook his head. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t you worry.”

Donne coughed. Changed the subject. “If I can help you, why is he beating the crap out of me?”

“You tried to escape,” Stern said. “Cost of doing business.”

“Listen,” Donne said.

“Get back into bed.” Stern tapped Donne’s head with his forefinger. “I’m sure you’re going to see my side of things.”

Donne exhaled and tried to sort out what the hell he was talking about. The sound in his ears was funny, sometimes fast, sometimes slow, like someone was fiddling with the fast-forward button in his skull.

“Then again,” Stern said, “you have been through a traumatic event. You need to rest.” He grabbed Luca by the arm and dragged him away. “Don’t talk about this sort of thing in front of him.”

But Luca looked over his shoulder at Donne and yelled, “She should be dead. I won’t let you make this mistake. The other girl too.”

“Come with me,” Stern growled.

Their conversation faded. Donne lay on his back, trying to catch his breath, willing the pain to go away.

It took a long time.

M
ARTIN DIDN’T
have a headache from drinking. He stopped in Tumulty’s for one tumbler of scotch and then went home and went to bed. The headache he woke up with was different. It wasn’t pounding at his temples, instead stretching up the back of his neck to the top of his head.

After showering and dressing, he popped four Advil, poured coffee into his travel mug, and hit the road. By the time he reached Union Beach, the headache still hadn’t passed. It felt like someone at the small of his back was tugging on a string attached to his skull. He rubbed his eyes and got out of the car.

Eileen was waiting for him at the front door.

“You should have called me about this days ago,” she said. She exhaled. “You should just call me.”

Martin scratched his chin. “I’ve been preoccupied.”

He didn’t want to admit it had slipped his mind. Maybe Stringer was right and something was wrong with him. The world was fuzzy around him; everything felt a hair off. The only thing in focus to him was Jeanne, but he was making too many mistakes, not following trails correctly.

Making too many mistakes.

Stress was leading to distraction, and that brought him too many mental errors.

They went into Eileen’s computer room. She took a seat behind the desk; he leaned against the wall. The room smelled like burnt toast.

“I started checking out the Bakers’ phone numbers and Internet reports. I went all the way back to the beginning of the week.” Eileen shook her head. “Nothing jumped out at me. They get a ton of telemarketer calls and spam email. A cousin from Texas emailed them.”

Martin stepped away from the wall. “I didn’t know they had a cousin from Texas.”

Eileen clicked the keys, and an image of a man Sarah’s age popped up on the screen. “This is him. I searched the IP already.”

“Could it have been Jeanne writing the email?”

Eileen clicked a few more keys and brought up the email. “They don’t do a good job protecting their account.”

The email was vague and filled with Texas references. The barbecue he’d eaten the night before sounded good. If it was Jeanne, she had disguised an update with banality. For an instant, he thought about searching Travelocity for plane tickets. Dismissed the idea after thinking about the risk. A trip to Texas takes time, and if Jeanne wasn’t there, that time would be spent while she was getting farther away.

Less than a week since she disappeared. But still, in that time, they could be anywhere.

“Did you check airports?”

Eileen nodded. “Do you think I’m incompetent?”

“For the money I’m going to be paying you, you better not be.”

“This was what I was able to track down after two hours last night. Give me some time and I’ll come up with something.”

Martin patted Eileen on the shoulder. He left the room and went into the kitchen. The string attached to the back of his head kept pulling tighter. Finding a bottle of water in the fridge, he unscrewed the cap and took a long sip.

“Why is she so important to you?” Eileen was standing behind him.

“Because she’s supposed to be dead.” Martin finished the water. “And she’s not. And for a few hours, I had her in my arms. Things were different. The future looked different. And now she’s gone again.”

Martin could picture William playing with Jeanne at the kitchen table. But it wasn’t her parents’ table. It was his. They were both laughing so hard, Jeanne had to wipe a tear from her eye.

He had this scene playing through his head for days. He dreamt about it. He needed it.

“I’m sorry, Bill. But there’s time. We’ll find her.”

He threw the bottle at her recycling bin. It rattled around the rim and fell off to the side.

“Leave it,” she said.

“You should take care of this place.”

Eileen shrugged. “I’d rather earn my money.”

They hugged, then Martin wrote out a check. She reminded him not to make it out to Eileen Schaeffer, instead using her fake company’s title: Toadstool Cooking. It sounded disgusting, but he did it.

She took the check and looked at it.

“I burnt toast this morning,” she laughed. “Toast. But hell, people like to believe an old lady like me can cook. You know, I used to do this for you for free. Back when—”

“They probably think you can barely use an iPhone.”

Eileen nodded. “I will be in touch. Promise.”

Martin walked to the front door, and pressed the button on his key chain to unlock the door.

“You’re a good cop, Bill,” Eileen said. “Chasing this girl is a mistake.”

He smiled. “Are you jealous?”

Eileen shook her head. “It’s not that.”

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.

T
HREE 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

K
ATE 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.