Not Even Past (31 page)

“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 Martin 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.

D
ONNE 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.

H
E 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.

S
OMEWHERE 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.

T
HE 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 people 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?

Martin watched the man wade deeper into the ocean and dive under a breaking wave. He waited for the guy to reappear, brush the water out of his face, and do it again. He counted off the seconds. Counted to thirty, and still saw no one. A sharp edge of the rock inside him dug into his guts. He grunted. No one emerged from the water.

And it was too soon for the lifeguards to be on duty. Martin sat forward. A few feet left of where he was staring, the man popped out again. Then dove under one more time. Martin sat down on the gravel and watched him do his laps. An hour passed, and more people appeared on the beach, the sand polka-dotted by different umbrella shades.

He looked back toward the campus. People were starting to mill around, closer to the stage. A few people had taken their seats in the audience. They were typing on computers, probably press.

Martin went about the process of checking his rifle. Each part was oiled, clean, and ready to go. He checked the baseball bag to make sure he brought everything, checking each item off a mental checklist.

Everything was there. The plan only relied on one more thing. Jackson Donne had to put all the pieces together. He probably would. He always seemed to. And Jeanne was great on the phone the night before, putting just the right amount of panic and fear into her voice.

In his wildest dreams, this wasn’t the path he expected his life to take. The moment he found Jeanne and shot Donne was supposed to be the beginning of a happy ending. Now he was left with nothing. He smiled, though. Jeanne and William would be free to start over.

And Bill Martin would be the catalyst.