Not Even Past. Dave White
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ten feet away and heading toward the warehouse.
KATE DELETED the text message without hitting Send.
Outside the sun was starting to set, reflecting off the glass of the building across the street. The sun always made the apartment warmer in the late afternoon. She got up and turned on Donne’s air-conditioner and then found an unopened bottle of pinot in the fridge. She took it out, removed the cork, and poured herself a glass.
After taking half the glass in one sip, she topped herself off again. The cool liquid spread thread her body, and she felt her muscles ease. Playing the scene in her head again, she tried to place the voice on the other end of the intercom. Nothing registered.
Another sip of wine. She tried not to think about going into the office tomorrow; fighting through a hangover to catch up on the case she was working on.
Her phone rang. It was a number she didn’t recognize. She answered.
“Kate? Your father asked me to call.” It was a voice from a million TV commercials over the past year. Senator Henry Stern.
“I’m in trouble, senator.”
“Your father filled me in. Jeanne Baker’s been dead for years, Kate.” He took a breath. “This can’t be real.”
“So you haven’t heard anything? You two were close when you were at Rutgers.”
“She’s dead.”
“Jackson doesn’t seem to think so.”
“Why do you need me?”
The question rolled through her mind. “I didn’t know where else to turn. Jackson’s run off with someone.”
“Jeanne?”
She exhaled. “No. A man. They were on to something. They must have been looking for her.”
“Who, then?”
She finished the second glass of pinot. The alcohol was rushing through her veins now, a good buzz going on. Sitting back, Kate closed her eyes and ran through her memories as if they were a Rolodex, trying to figure out who was in the picture. It had to be someone Jackson knew, maybe someone he’d introduced to to at a party?
Jackson had said a name before he rushed out. Bill. Kate got up and went and poured the rest of the bottle of wine into her glass. Then she went into Jackson’s office, cell phone at her ear. The room was a cluttered mess: old textbooks strewn across the floor, paperbacks dumped on the table, and four old shoe boxes pushed off in the corner.
“She said his name was Bill.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
It was the shoeboxes she was looking for. Jackson kept them out in the open, but never went through them. She asked him about them once, and he just shrugged. Old pictures, he said. Time to throw them out. When she asked if she could look through them, he just shrugged and asked if they could do it another night.
They were of his old life. Mementos of his dead fiancée that he never talked about. Times he tried not to remember.
Hell, he always said he couldn’t remember a lot of them.
She didn’t bother him about it again. But now she wanted to find a picture of him in his old uniform. See if there were pictures of this Bill person. Maybe if she could see what he looked like, it would jar an old memory loose.
“Is there anything else, Kate?”
“If you hear anything, please help.”
“I’ll look into it.” He paused. Then, “Listen, Kate. Do you love him?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve been divorced. Twice.”
She knew. Everyone knew. Anyone who ran against him brought that up.
“And here’s what I’ve learned.” His voice was soft, like a kind uncle. “Find him. Don’t let him go. Call him. Text him. Facebook him. Talk to him. Hold on to him as well as you can.”
Her eyes burned. “Goodbye,” she said.
She pulled the first box and started scanning through the pictures. It felt funny looking at developed film. She’d become so adjusted to seeing pictures on Facebook or a phone. The real thing felt odd; smooth, but sticky at the same time.
The first few pictures were of Jackson at a bar, eyes slightly closed, crooked smile, toasting the camera or pretending to throw a dart. They were silly, drunken nights of his early twenties.
Kate flipped through them quickly, not allowing herself the smile she would have if he’d been sitting next to her. Arm around her, pulling her close. She would smell his aftershave and tell him how cute he was in those pictures, and then give him a kiss on the cheek.
The next picture was what stopped her short. Jackson was still in the bar. It must have been the Old Towne Tavern—where else could it have been? Must have been early in the night too. His eyes were clear and the smile was wide. He had his arm around another woman. The woman from the website.
Kate’s heart was slamming against her rib cage, and the buzz had gone from her system. She picked up the wineglass and took another slug. Then she flipped the picture over. It was dated nearly eight years ago. Beneath that it said “Jackson and Jeanne” with a smiley face drawn next to it.
She wondered if Jackson would do the same with a picture of the two of them. Her phone suddenly vibrated, and she snatched it up. It was a message from her father.
Does Jackson have an iPhone?
MARTIN SLAMMED his fist on the front door of the warehouse. It was metal and clanged against its hinges. The music of the banging made Donne’s ears ring. He jammed his hands in his pockets and looked out toward the water. He tried to focus on the sloshing of it against the docks, rather than the churning in his stomach or Martin’s slamming.
The image of the two military men busting out of the door, guns blazing, tearing the two of them to shreds wouldn’t escape Donne’s mind. As Martin knocked, Donne felt naked without his own gun.
Martin stopped banging and said, “Someone’s coming.”
Taking a step back, Martin rested his hands on his hips. Donne couldn’t tell standing behind him, but he assumed Martin’s hands were as close to his weapon as possible. The lock in the door turned and Donne tensed. He was ready to run, dive, jump, duck, or whatever the hell else he had to do to save his own skin.
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