Not Even Past (20 page)

T
HE DRIVE
back to New Brunswick was gridlocked with slow traffic, which did nothing for Martin’s trembling hands. But he got to the station eventually, even hitting several green lights in a row on Route 18 in East Brunswick.

He needed a break in this case. He needed to find Jeanne. There wasn’t time for a meeting at the station, but he couldn’t come up with a good reason to skip it. He missed the office anyway, the bustle, the jokes—hell, the coffee. He needed to stop in and check his mail, check his files. Maybe see Russell Stringer, especially after the Ebola text.

He could explain his absences.

As he hit the button on the elevator, he took a deep breath. After this was over, he was going to a doctor. Time to get the shakes checked out. It had to be nothing, just too much caffeine for a guy his age. He wasn’t sleeping well at night either.

That was it.

The elevator doors opened and two of the younger cops stepped out. They nodded his way.

One said, “Hey, look who it is.”

Martin nodded back, but didn’t retort. Thirty seconds later, he was walking down the hall toward Stringer’s office. His hands were in his pockets, and he felt like a kid on the way to the principal’s office.

Stringer saw him coming and got out of his chair. He stepped around his desk and went to the door.

“Get in here,” he barked, though the volume was low.

Martin obeyed.

“You’re late,” Stringer said after he closed the door.

“I didn’t know I was expected at a certain time.”

“As soon as possible.”

Martin debated bringing up the traffic, but decided it wouldn’t help. Even with his hands in his pockets, he was sure Stringer could see the shakes. Probably looked awkward. He went to the chair across from the desk.

Stringer said, “Don’t bother. This will be quick.”

Martin sat anyway. The sounds of the office, a TV playing, phones ringing, and some chatter were muffled by the shut door. He was on the outside of it all.

“We’re cutting our budget. Dead weight,” Stringer said. “We’re letting you go.”

“You can’t do that,” Martin said. “The union—”

Stringer shook his head. “You can talk to the union, but they’re not going to help.”

“I—” Martin wished his hands weren’t shaking so hard. He wished his cheeks weren’t burning.

“The union really stuck their neck out for you back when Donne turned everyone in. You were the only one who
kept
a job. Not this time.”

“I worked in parking and transportation.”

Stringer leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “It was a job. But now it’s time to move on.”

“I’m not ready.” Martin’s heart could run a mile in four minutes. “I’m two weeks away from a pension.”

“You’ve been out a week. No doctor’s note. You don’t even look sick. You’ve just been out.” Stringer crossed his legs at his ankles. “If this job is so important to you, why aren’t you here?”

“You don’t understand.”

“No,” Stringer said, shaking his head. “I don’t.” He walked over to his desk. After leaning behind it, he came up with a cardboard box.

“Layoffs?” Martin asked. “Who else?”

Stringer slid the box across his desk. He didn’t say anything.

“Who else?” Martin asked again. “I want to know so we can all go to the same bar and talk trash about you.”

“None of your business.”

Then the pieces started to click together. Stern said something about him not being a real cop. The receptionist kept telling Martin that Stern was on an important phone call. The incoming text from Stringer just seconds later. Too coincidental.

“It’s just me, isn’t it?”

Stringer’s eyes darted toward his phone and then back to Martin. “Listen, Bill, there’s nothing we can do.”

“Were you ordered to do this?”

“You need to get your stuff and leave. I’ll have Cantrell escort you.”

“God damn it, Russell. Be straight with me. Henry Stern put you up to this, didn’t he?”

Stringer shifted his jaw back and forth. His gaze met Martin’s. As he stood, he opened and closed his hands.

“You have an hour.”

“Jesus Christ, Russell. Don’t you understand? That guy is a piece of garbage. I’m working on something big.”

Stringer’s eyes went wide. “Working on what? Henry Stern is not in your jurisdiction. That’s a fireable offense.”

“Damn it.”

Martin wanted scream and shout. He wanted to cause a scene. Instead, he reached out and grabbed the cardboard box and pulled it into his lap.

“Severance?” he mumbled.

“HR has it set up for you.”

“Already? I’m just finding out about this now.”

“You’ve been out for five days.”

Stringer hit the intercom buzzer on his desk. Behind them his door opened. Martin turned to see Officer Cantrell waiting. When he met Martin’s eyes, he shrugged.

We do what we gotta do.

“It’s fair, Bill. You’ll get by with it.” Stringer’s voice was soft. “And go see a doctor. Christ, Bill. You have to take care of yourself.”

“Fuck you,” Martin said.

He got up and went out the door. Without waiting for Cantrell, he walked to his office. Two people said hi to him, but Martin ignored them. If he felt like he was on the outside while sitting in Stringer’s office, he felt like he was miles away now. The chatter—the din of the office—was an echo.

The feeling was familiar. When the Donne trial was going on and the New Brunswick PD was shutting down the NARC department, Martin thought he’d thrown his career away for sure. At the time, he didn’t know Donne was trying to save Martin’s job, keeping him out of the case. And he had thought the union didn’t give two shits about him.

Turns out they had, and were able to keep him a part of this thing.

Now, though, it was over.

And he didn’t have Jackson Donne to blame.

No, Donne was dead.

Now Martin had to turn his hate toward Henry Stern.

L
UCA WAS
asleep.

At least, as far as Donne could tell, he was out. The TV had been turned off, and he’d called his girlfriend one last time to get her to go over the conversation again. Donne didn’t pick up much more. The church was dark. Some moonlight sprinkled through the stained glass windows, but that was it.

It was now or never.

He guessed it was after midnight, but time had long changed from actual numbers to “night” and “day,” his inner clock lost to sleep and haze.

Donne pushed himself up, and was excited to feel no pain. Stiffness he could deal with—it would slow but not stop him. The pain would halt him in his tracks. He got to his feet and looked around to regain his equilibrium. He found his center, and then eyed up the basketball net. The exit was on the complete opposite side of the room.

After turning, his chest and shoulder whined at him. Clearly, they wanted him to stay in bed. One foot in front of the other. Walking across the church wasn’t going to be easy. He’d gotten used to leaning on the bed or Luca for help. This time it was all on his own.

As he stepped, dust kicked up around him. His nose itched and he wiped at it to keep from sneezing. That would be the worst way to get caught, a sneeze. Yesterday, some dust got to him, and after the sneeze, he thought he chest wound would tear back open.

His foot landed awkwardly, and he tightened his muscles to keep from falling. Suddenly, amid the cloud of kicked up dust, his chest was on fire. His shoulder tightened when he tried to reach up and rub his chest wound, and he felt paralyzed.

Donne regained his balance, gritted his teeth, and tried to think the pain away. The more he moved, he thought, the more it would fade.

Another step.

The large wooden double doors had to be close to 100 yards away. At the pace he was moving, he’d get there by dawn. By that time, Luca would be up and Donne would be dragged back to bed.

Maybe it was better to stay. Heal.

No.

Could not stay here any longer.

Luca was going to kill Kate before he could get better.

The doctor hadn’t shown up in days. They were just going to let him rot here. Senator Stern said they needed him, but never told him why. They kept Donne alive though, so there had to be a reason.

Just not one that was important enough to stay here and figure out.

Donne kept walking. He was starting to find his rhythm. Maybe it was like running. The way sweat seeped from his pores, they seemed to have a lot in common. Find a rhythm and even someone injured could get moving.

The doors looked real now, thick wooded frames with big iron handles. The dust cleared, and it was like someone changed the channel to HD. They were closer. Donne reached out with his good arm, but still couldn’t touch them.

Keep moving, keep pressing.

His body was soaked, and he realized he was still shirtless and shoeless. His feet were dry and crusty, covered in dust. The way this place hadn’t been cleaned, it’d been sheer luck he fought off that infection.

The light at the end of the tunnel. The doors were so close, he almost allowed himself to believe he was going to make it. How long had he been walking? The glimmer of the moon had certainly moved, illuminating different areas of the church floor.

His chest throbbed, a bass drum beat of a marching band tune. Donne tried not to groan or grunt, but he was sure some sounds slipped out. Every time he made a noise, he paused, waiting to hear Luca’s panicked footsteps headed his way. They never came.

Reaching out, his fingers grazed the metal handle. One more step, that’s all that was left. His breathing was ragged. He took that step and wrapped his right hand around the handle.

And for the first time, he realized the door might be locked. This effort was for naught. He pulled. The door gave way. A salty summer breeze wafted into his face. He stepped out on to the stairs and eased the door shut behind him. It clicked closed, didn’t slam.

Fighting to catch his breath, Donne looked around.

The pain was background noise now. He was free. In front of him, across an empty street, were large beach houses. If he looked down the road, he could see sand dunes. He was two blocks from the ocean.

Leaning on the handrail, he took the concrete stairs. One. Catch his breath. Two. Catch his breath. Three. He was huffing and puffing by the time he reached the sidewalk.

The hint of sunshine came up over the ocean. Morning was here.

He took more steps, trying to get to the street corner, trying to see the street sign. Figure out where he was and how he could get home.

The corner wasn’t far, and he stumbled to it. He caught himself on the street sign and looked up.

Baltimore Avenue.

He ran the street through his head, trying to figure out why it was so familiar. A childhood vacation with his sister and mother. Sunset Beach.

Cape May.

Untouched by Hurricane Sandy.

And about as far from northern Jersey you could get without leaving the state.

He leaned on the street sign, trying to hold himself up. His muscles were tight and sore, and he was soaked. Breathing was hard. His wounds played a rock song. Tears stung his eyes.

A car screeched to a halt in front of him. Donne looked up, hoping to see a police car or a friendly face.

But when the door opened, he saw neither.

Instead, he faced Henry Stern.

He smiled at Donne.

“Little early to be out for a walk, Mr. Donne?”

Donne let go of the street sign and dropped to the grass at his feet.

G
RAVEL SHARDS
dug into his stomach as Luca pushed him forward. Warm red liquid mixed with sweat and ran down his chest. Needling pain pierced up and down his skin. The breeze cooled his back until Luca gave him another slap, the hand burning him on impact.

The morning sun peaked, illuminating the grass and sidewalk. Lawn sprinklers sputtered in the distance. No one was on the road this time or morning, no dog walkers, bikers, or joggers. Or, if there were, Luca and Stern didn’t seem to care.

Donne was pushed back into the church. The smell of sea salt gave way to soaked wood.

His body was on fire. Nerve endings screamed for relief. He tried to catch his breath and will his body to relax, but he couldn’t. As soon as he hit the church floor, he curled up into the fetal position. Someone kicked him in the ribs, and he screamed out. His eyes went wide, and he caught an image of Jesus reaching out from the stained glass window. The imagery and timing would have made him laugh if it didn’t hurt so much.