The Evil That Men Do. Dave White

consulting her notes.

      “She normally sleeps after she takes it, yes.”

      “You can’t give it to her now. I need to talk with her some more.”

      “Sir, I’m sorry, but this is the scheduled time. We can’t mess up the schedule. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

      She stepped past him and put his mother’s hand back on the bed. “Hi, Isabelle. How are we doing today?” she asked with a saccharine voice.

      As he left the room, his mother’s words echoed in his head.

      This is all your fault, Daddy.

      ***

      Donne’s sister’s home was on Upper Mountain Road, a sprawling brick home with a long driveway hidden behind a gate and two large bushes. He parked on the street and walked across the front lawn, hurrying to avoid as much rain as possible.

      Susan answered in pajama pants and a Montclair State University T-shirt. Her hair was out of place, there were dark circles under her eyes, and her cheeks were ruddy. He could tell she’d been crying. “Oh, Jackson,” she said, and wrapped him up in her arms. They stood on the porch in the rain, hugging. Donne couldn’t remember the last time he had hugged his sister. For a moment, the past melted away and they were just two people in mourning.

      When Susan broke the embrace, the dampness of her tears streaked down both their faces.

      “Come inside,” she said.

      Donne followed her into the living room, which had two leather couches, a black leather easy chair, a glass table, wall-to-wall shag carpet, and what had to be a fifty-inch flat-screen TV. The TV was turned to the news.

      “The restaurant business has treated you guys well, I see,” he said.

      “We do okay.” Susan didn’t make eye contact.

      He sat on the couch and ran his hand through his wet hair to push it out of his eyes. Outside, thunder crashed.

      “They just said on the news the explosion wasn’t terrorism, but it was a bomb,” Susan said.

      “What did Franklin say?”

      “I haven’t talked to him. He came home after I fell asleep last night and just kissed me on the cheek. Didn’t say anything. He left before I woke up.”

      “Where was he going?”

      “I don’t know,” Susan said. “Oh my God, Jackson. Between this and Faye and George . . . and Mom. How are we going to deal with this?”

      He didn’t answer right away. The old grudge still throbbed inside him.

      “We?”

      “The family. You, me, Franklin? Maybe we should try and get in touch with Faye and George’s son.”

      “Their son? Susan, that was a long time ago. An adoption. You know it didn’t work out.”

      “Still, he should know.”

      “Do you know what happened to him?”

      “No.”

      “Well, I don’t have time now. I’m going to find out what’s going on. I need to talk to Franklin. And soon.”

      “Call him.”

      “You’re going to have to give me his number.” She did. Donne saved it to his contacts list. “What about the Montclair restaurant?” he asked. “What do you mean?”

      “Are the police concerned about it?”

      “I don’t know,” she said. “Like I said, I haven’t gotten the chance to talk to Franklin. All the information I’ve gotten came from the news reports. And they’re all focused on New York. I know they opened the bridges and tunnels late last night. That’s it.”

      She paced the living room with balled fists. It was as if she was attempting to puncture holes in her palms with her nails.

      “You have to sit,” he said. “Pacing like that isn’t going to help. You need to try to go about life, and relax. If you keep worrying, it’s just going to make time go slower. And the worry is going to build up until you burst.”

      “How did you deal with it? When Jeanne died? When you shot that guy in New Brunswick?” she said. “You sank into the bottle, that’s how. I’m sorry, Jackson, that’s not going to be me.”

      It was only then he realized how much he wanted a drink. How he would rather be sitting in the Olde Towne Tavern talking to Artie about the Yankees or Mets. Pint glass after pint glass.

      “You know it’s true,” she said. He stood up.

      “I’ll call you later,” he said. “I have work to do.”

      As if she regretted her outburst, Susan said, “Be careful.”

      “I will.”

      He stepped out into the thunderstorm. It looked like this weather wouldn’t ever let up.

      ***

      Franklin Carter took an early break from Carter’s on Church Street. The waitresses were setting up for lunch, the finances were in order, and his hostess kept asking annoying questions about the bombing. So, instead of politely not answering her questions, he decided to ignore her totally and go for coffee.

      He ordered a coffee and sat facing the street. As far as he could tell, no one from the FBI was staked out near Carter’s. He exhaled and took a sip of coffee as the door swung open and a burly man entered.

      The man, ruddy faced, with freckles and red hair, sat across from him.

      “What the hell are you doing here?” Carter asked. Hackett laughed. “I have a message for you.”

      Franklin leaned across the table and his chest tapped his coffee cup. He caught it before it spilled everywhere, but some of the brown liquid splashed onto the tabletop. There went any shot of being intimidating.

      “You look nervous, Franklin. Stressed. Is everything okay?” Carter said nothing.

      “Oh, that’s right, I’ve been watching the news. The bombing.”

      Hackett leaned back. He had a pale smooth face, clean shaven. “That’s gotta suck.”

      “It was you.”

      “Pay up. I asked you for money months ago. You didn’t listen. Next time, the restaurant might not be empty.”

      Hackett stood up, straightened the collar of his polo shirt, and exited back into the rain. Carter put his head in his hands and tried to breathe deeply.

      There was no way he was going to pay.

      ***

      “They’re dead?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Good. Maybe now you should find out what happened to the witness. What did he look like?”

      Delshawn described him. Jackson Donne, a bit earlier than expected.

      “You want him out of the picture?” Hackett let the question linger a moment.

      “No. It’s not time for that yet.” Hackett chose his words carefully. “Just slow him down a bit.”

      “A’ight.”

      Hackett snapped his cell phone shut.

Chapter 9

      Donne’s next stop was only a mile away. He took Upper Mountain Road to Bloomfield, where you had to pay a meter. He parked, paid, and walked around the corner.

      Along Church and Bloomfield, Montclair was an integration of all three parts of the