Not Even Past (28 page)

“Why? What did he confront her about?” Donne’s chest felt like it was vibrating.

Leonard shook his head. “And when I started getting the messages, they told me not to go to the police. And Bill—she loved Bill. If I had forwarded the video to him, he might have died. I couldn’t do that to him.”

Despite the cold, beads of sweat formed on the back of his neck.

“So, I—”

“I knew computers, it was my job,” Leonard said. “I knew how to make it look live to you. I knew how to patch you in. And I knew you were at Rutgers. I always kept an eye on you. It wasn’t hard to find your email address. I knew you would act. And—” Another cough took hold of Leonard. Sarah flinched at the sound.

As Leonard tried to settle himself down, Sarah said, “The senator is dangerous.”

Donne shook his head.
No. He’s the one who helped me.

“And you were expendable. We could risk you. We needed Bill, in case …” She trailed off.

It fit. Just like Stern had said. He didn’t give them any more time to answer. He left the house and went back to his car.

And his gun.

The senator was right. They were all against him.

T
HE FRONT
door was wide open. That was never a good sign.

“Eileen?” Martin called out.

No answer. The only sound was the creak of the porch boards beneath his feet. The breeze blew at his back, and the door shuddered.

He called out Eileen’s name again. Still no response. Instinctively, Martin reached for his holster, only to be reminded it was no longer there. No gun. No protection.

Calling out probably wasn’t his smartest idea.

He stepped into the house. It was bare. The furniture was there, but it was all in place. The coffee table wasn’t askew. The couch cushions had been flipped. The stain of cranberry juice wasn’t visible anymore.

And the bookcases were completely empty.

But what bothered Martin the most was the silence. The hum of the servers was gone, replaced by the occasional distant car horn or bird chirping. He dashed across the living room into the computer room.

They were gone. All of them. The room was completely barren. The desk had even been dusted. Only a tissue box remained. The room smelled like dish soap. Martin grabbed a tissue and used it to open each drawer of the desk. They were all empty.

Every piece of information Eileen had ever tracked was gone. Everything she’d saved, backed up, and written down had been taken. Whoever did this would have needed time and a moving van. And since the door was still open, Martin suspected he’d just missed the culprit.

God knows what Eileen knew, and thusly what her assailants would soon know. National secrets. Suspected terrorist attacks. Barack Obama’s cell phone number. It was all gone.

Martin’s hands began to tremble, and his mouth went dry. He tracked through the entire house—spotless. Even the dishes had been washed in the kitchen. The bed had been made. It was exactly the opposite of how Eileen would have left it.

And there was no sign of her.

He thought about calling the Union Beach cops, but didn’t know what to say.
Hi, my friend is missing, and her house has been cleaned. I suspect foul play.
It didn’t have the right ring to it.

Martin didn’t want to contaminate the area with his fingerprints, fibers from his clothes, or stray DNA so he walked back to the porch. Before he crossed the threshold, however, something caught his eye on the carpet. It looked like the cranberry juice stain that used to be on her couch. Martin knelt down and saw a dash of thick red liquid. Blood coagulating and stiffening the carpet strands. Not much, though. But it seemed he was right, at the very end of the cleaning project, the assailant had been rushed. He missed the last little bit.

Cool air hit Martin’s face once out on the porch. Overhead, dark clouds had begun to roll in—a midsummer thunderstorm. The sky rumbled as if it were clearing its throat. Getting ready for a big announcement. The air was heavy with moisture, so humid he felt like he was swimming.

Of course, maybe that was just the thoughts running through his head.

There was too much cleanliness—military-level. Too much order and organization. Martin’s stomach turned. He ran down the porch steps and across the street to a gutter drain. The contents of his lunch: Coffee and two pieces of buttered toast came back up. He then dry-heaved, tasting bitter phlegm.

He caught his breath and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Another piece of his life gone.

The timing was too big a coincidence. This had Henry Stern written all over it.

Before Martin could get into his car, the sky opened up. Thick drops of rain shattered off the asphalt like glass. His shirt soaked through as he fished for his keys. Martin looked up and opened his mouth, filling it with rain. He swallowed, and shook his head.

Once he was back in his car, he made a phone call to the private shooting range he’d use on weekends. Scheduled an appointment and told them he would pay extra if they could block off an hour for just him.

When he told the manager how much he would pay, the manager quickly agreed. Martin had to focus and couldn’t afford many distractions. There wasn’t much time for practice.

But there was enough.

Plus, it’d be better for him if fewer people saw him practicing long-range rifle use. He didn’t need any witnesses.

He got back in his car and drove off, setting a course for home. His rifle needed cleaning.

“I
SCREWED
up,” Donne said into the phone.

There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment. Donne looked around his apartment. The garbage bags of clothes were still scattered around the living room. The TV had been unplugged. All the clocks blinked 12:00.

“What did you do?” Luca asked, finally.

“I can’t find her.”

“Yeah, and …”

In the hallway outside the apartment, Donne heard conversation. The tone was calm, unexcited. However, he felt his pulse begin to race.

“I went to her parents. To get them to tell me. They didn’t know.”

“More loose ends?” Luca’s voice was strained.

The conversation moved on, and the hallway fell silent again. Donne waited for his pulse to slow.

“He’s dying. Jeanne’s dad,” he said. “And he still wouldn’t tell me.”

Luca laughed.

Donne eyed the gun on his coffee table. It was still unloaded from after he cleaned it. He reached down and spun it “spin the bottle” style. The metal scratched at the wood table. When it stopped the barrel pointed directly at him.

Luca said, “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

He leaned over and looked into the barrel without picking up the gun. The light that had been reflecting off the inside metal of the barrel faded as he leaned in. He could smell the oil and the cleaning fluid. It looked brand-new, just off the rack. Jesus had used this gun before, Donne was sure of it. But after an hour of wiping and oiling, it was good as new.

Spotless.

Untraceable.

For the next couple of hours—days?—he had to believe that.

“They sent me to you. Expected me to die.”

There was a crackle on the line. Luca didn’t speak.

“How long have you known me? Three, four weeks? And it feels like Stern knows me better than anyone else. Even Kate.”

Luca said, “Research. Bill Martin, all your old cases. Everything that was in the news. We know. He cares about you.”

Donne thought about his time in the church, how Stern was able to pull bits and pieces of his life into context. Use it in conversation. It didn’t register then.

Donne said through gritted teeth. “He told me I’d get back at them.”

“But you can’t if you can’t find her.”

“They shot me.”

Donne didn’t realize how tightly he had been holding the phone. The plastic dug into his fingers, and when he loosened his grip, his skin stuck to it. He switched the receiver to his other hand and flexed to allow blood to return to his fingertips.

Donne shook his head. Not that Luca could see it. “Too many years of letting her get to me. Too many years of thinking about her, only to almost die because of her. And Bill Martin. No more of this. You know where they are.”

“How?”

Donne thought about it. “The woman. The hacker. Her equipment.”

“Good thinking,” Luca said. “I’ll look.”

“Today.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Donne stared at the barrel of the gun.

“Today or not at all.”

“I’ll call you back.”

Donne hung up without saying good-bye. He put the phone down next to the gun and leaned back into his couch. The cushions seemed tougher than they were before he left. Stiff with dust and a lack of use.

Exhaustion rolled over him.

He just wanted all this to be over with.

A
N HOUR
later, Luca called again. Donne picked up, but was barely able to get a greeting in.

“Downstairs. Now.” A beat. “Please.”

The line disconnected. Donne looked at the pistol still resting on the desk. He reached down and instead picked up the glass of water he poured and gulped it down. Leaving the gun, he went downstairs.

Parked on the corner was a black Volvo with tinted rear windows. Luca stood near the driver’s side door, arms folded. His biceps bulged as he flexed them once. Then he reached up and straightened his oversized sunglasses.

Luca approached Donne and asked him to raise his arms. Donne did the best he could with his left hand. Luca frisked him, checking even the most sensitive of body parts.

“Get in,” he said when he was finished.

“You never did that before.”

“I told you this afternoon, a few days on your own, you never know what you might think. Chicken out.”

“I’m all in,” Donne said.

Donne went for the front passenger door, but Luca shook his head and pointed toward the backseat. Donne obliged.

Henry Stern sat on the opposite side of the car. He had an iPad open, but once Donne got settled, he closed the sheath it was in. He shook his head at Donne, which caused a tremor to shudder down Donne’s spine.

The car pulled away from the curb and headed toward College Avenue.

“How are you feeling?” Stern said.

“I still can’t lift my left arm over my shoulder.”

Stern waved at him. “It’ll come.”

“I told Luca, this has nothing to do with you or him. This is on me,” Donne said.

Stern smiled, then, after a pause, laughed. “This has everything to do with me. I’m sure Luca has explained that.”

“I won’t be caught,” Donne said.

“For your sake, I hope not.” Stern tapped the iPad again. “But you and I aren’t connected. There’s no proof we know each other.”

Donne wiped at a bead of sweat that had formed over his eyebrow. “For six years—longer—they have been a part of my life. Dragging me down to hell. And every time I think I’m over it—every time I’m past it—they come back. Something brings me back to her. Back to him. I’m finished with them, and for the past three weeks, this is all I can think about.”

Stern didn’t respond.

“And don’t bullshit me,” Donne said. “You’re the one who put me here. All that talk those last three weeks about how I shouldn’t trust them. This was
your doing.
”

Stern rubbed his chin. “So you’re doing this for me.”

Donne took a deep breath. Outside his window, he saw Winants Hall. He thought about the days leading up to the Rutgers merger, the excitement on campus, the buzz in the media. The merger had put Rutgers onto the national academic stage more than a football or basketball win ever would.

And now they were going to try it again. UNJ or Benjamin Franklin or whatever they were going to call it would become the next big private university. New Jersey would have two of the best in the country, as the ranking would move the school into Princeton territory.

Or so the scholars said.

Taxpayers would be happy. Henry Stern would be happy. And he would even profit.

But then, stuck in his head, was the image of Jeanne trying to ruin things by coming forward with whatever she had on Stern. The picture of Bill Martin firing the gun kept him up at night.