Innocent Bystander

by Glenn Richards

  CHAPTER 3

  Twenty-five minutes later, Burnett entered Charlie’s Place. Somewhat atypical for a college hangout, it featured a respectable amount of class and style. Clean, well-polished wood booths were arranged in rows, with autographed headshots of movie stars from the golden age and music icons from the sixties and seventies neatly arranged on every wall. The food was also quite good, but, in keeping with the college location, the alcohol flowed freely.

  The Who’s “Slip Kid” thundered from bass-heavy speakers. He spied Henri seated alone at a small, circular table near the bar. He crossed the floor and sat opposite him. This was likely the quietest part of the room.

  Before Burnett could utter a word the waiter arrived with a mug of beer. He set it down beside an empty mug in front of Henri.

  “Bring one for him,” Henri said as the waiter scooted off.

  “Looks like I got some catching up to do,” Burnett said.

  Henri hoisted his new mug and drained half of it, enough time for the waiter to fetch a beer for Burnett. “So get drinking.”

  With the back of his wrist, Burnett slid the mug aside. In a soft, deliberate tone he said, “I thought you told me you were going to limit yourself to one beer, you know, with the medications.”

  “No need to lower your voice,” Henri said. “This is a college hangout.” With each syllable his volume rose. “I’ll bet you a thousand bucks three-quarters of the people in this room are seeing a psychiatrist. And more than half are on meds.”

  Three students at the next table glared at him.

  “You guys take meds, right?” Henri asked. “Besides Viagra.”

  “Screw you,” one of them mumbled and all three turned away.

  Burnett slumped in his chair and wished he could hide.

  “Don’t be shy,” Henri said. He stood and spun to greet another group of students at a booth behind him. “That’s why we’re all so happy, right? Nothing to be ashamed of. I myself have taken three different antidepressants. Count ’em, three.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and added in a loud whisper, “And two antipsychotics. But don’t tell anyone.”

  A young man from the booth scrambled to his feet. He towered more than six inches above Henri. Burnett recognized him: Bobby Warfield, an offensive lineman for the school’s football team. Henri had a genuine gift for annoying the wrong people.

  The song ended and an unnatural quiet filled the bar.

  “Listen,” Bobby said. “Nobody gives a shit about you or your problems.” He seized Henri by the shirt collar.

  Burnett hesitated, then stood up beside the young offensive lineman. “You don’t really want to get kicked out of here this early, do you?”

  “Hey,” Bobby said, “why don’t you go join AARP, like my old man, and let us kiddies handle this.”

  Burnett twisted his mouth and with great effort suppressed the embarrassment Bobby’s comment elicited. He faced the bar and waited for the bartender to meet his gaze. When she did, he nodded to Bobby.

  Two seconds later a small mountain of a man rumbled into the room. Dressed all in black, he stopped behind Burnett.

  “Problem here?” the mountain asked.

  Bobby loosened his grip. “Minor disagreement.”

  Henri wiggled free and collapsed into his chair.

  “Forget about it, then,” the mountain said. “And enjoy your drinks.”

  Burnett braced himself, confident the lineman intended to take a swing at someone. Instead, Bobby leaned back and shoved his drink to the center of the table. Half the liquid splashed into a basket of nachos.

  “Drinks here are watered down anyway,” Bobby said and stormed out the door.

  The mountain lingered a moment, then rumbled off.

  Burnett returned to his seat and waited for his adrenaline to ebb. He needed to know whether the nightmare still plagued Henri. Based upon his condition, Burnett assumed the answer was yes. But he’d pushed too hard earlier. “What did Desmond say?”

  “Desmond’s an ass,” Henri said. “I’m telling you, the man’s not qualified to teach junior high. You read those e-mails yet? I gave you his password.”

  Burnett shook his head. Henri had long questioned Desmond’s competence. Not that he accused the man of being a complete fraud. But he suspected Desmond had friends in high places who’d provided the occasional and much-needed stimulus to his career. Three months ago, to prove his point, he’d stolen the password to their professor’s personal account.

  Henri raised his mug and clanged it against Burnett’s. “Here’s to pleasant dreams and a good night’s sleep. That’s what you wanted to know, right?”

  “Still having the dream, huh.”

  “The nightmare, yes,” Henri replied. He downed the rest of his beer and, after he smacked the mug on the table, his hand shuddered.

  “Which city was it last night?”

  “London. And every dead soul asking me why I’d done it. Blaming me as if I’d pressed the goddamn button myself.” His hand trembled violently, and he released the mug just long enough to use his other hand to quash the trembling. “You know, there’s really nothing quite like the sound of an ICBM whizzing over your head.”

  On any other occasion Burnett would have responded in a calm voice and reminded him that it was simply a dream and would soon pass. He’d done just that less than a week ago when Henri first mentioned the nightmare. His friend revealed it had been troubling him for several weeks, since he’d finished the first draft of his extra-credit paper for Desmond’s class.

  At the time, Burnett hadn’t thought much about it. He knew how concerned Henri was about failing the class. He also suspected the young man had embellished his account of the dream. Henri had been known to amend details for the sake of drama.

  What had seemed strange at the time was his refusal to allow Burnett to read the paper. Never before had Henri denied his request to preview something he’d written. In fact, he often insisted Burnett review an early draft. You’re the detail guy, he would say. Make this read better.

  But in this case, his refusal was absolute. He instructed Burnett not to read the paper under any circumstances. Naturally, he snuck into Henri’s apartment the next day and read it.

  A theory on how to construct a workable time machine, the paper had pushed Burnett’s knowledge of theoretical physics to its limits, and beyond, on a number of occasions. Despite this, he felt confident he’d grasped the essence of what Henri had tried to communicate.

  He recalled the goose bumps that had raced up his arms as his eyes had worked their way down the final page. A mind-bogglingly complex equation closed the paper. Several of the symbols were unlike anything he’d seen before. He didn’t pretend to understand it, nor could he imagine how Henri had conceived it. But when he’d finished, he’d felt a jolt of energy surge through his body. He’d felt charged and alert, as if he’d just downed three Grande Cappuccinos.

  That night, and every night since, he’d suffered through the same nightmare Henri described. For some reason his unconscious had taken on the dream. Once and he’d have deemed it a coincidence, twice and he’d have called it peculiar, but three consecutive nights was nothing short of eerie.

  Burnett leaned in. “Have you spoken to him about it?”

  “Dr. Rosenstein? The psych? Truth is, I haven’t seen him for a while.”

  Another thing for him to worry about—Henri was off his medications. Not merely capricious when off his medications, he could also be dangerous, though only to himself.

  “The meds, they mess with my head,” Henri said.

  “Still, maybe it’s time to pay him another visit.”

  “You know how my father feels about psychiatrists. ‘Man up and face your problem,’” he said, imitating his father’s gruff voice.

  “You need to get some sleep.”

  “I’m afraid to sleep. Last night I didn’t nod off ’til four-thirty. Half an hour later I woke up covered in sweat.”

  “Maybe it’s t
ime to see Dr. Rosenstein again.” Burnett could see Henri had zero interest in this idea. “Remember that psychology teacher we had last year, Dr. Hofstetter? Talk to him. Maybe he can give you some insight into the dream.”

  “I’m thinking about not turning in the paper.”

  Shocked, Burnett opened his mouth to speak.

  “Don’t worry,” Henri said, cutting him off, “I’ve got a couple other ideas I could do something with.”

  “In a week?”

  “Sure.”

  Burnett knew he’d lied, not about having another topic he could develop, but about his ability to have it ready in seven days. Henri was a genius with a computer full of half-finished projects, but organized he was not.

  “I’m thinking about talking to Dr. Hofstetter myself,” Burnett said. “Been having some bad dreams, too.”

  Henri sat up rigid. “The same?”

  “Completely different.”

  His body slackened after Burnett’s lie.

  “Tomorrow?” Burnett asked.

  “Maybe.”

  “We’ll both go.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t you want to know what they mean? Maybe they’re trying to tell you something.”

  “I just want them to stop. I don’t care what they mean.”

  “Why?”

  Henri lifted his arms and twisted both palms upward. “I don’t know why.” He remained silent while his hands dropped to the table. “I guess I’m afraid of what they might mean.”

  “What do you think they mean?”

  “Want me to lie on a sofa first?”

  The waiter appeared with another mug and set it down in front of Henri. Burnett curled his fingers around it and slid the beer to his side of the table. He knew his friend shouldn’t be drinking, whether he’d stopped his medications or not. He also knew Henri wasn’t telling him the whole story. Far more was going on with him, but now was not the time to press.

  Henri fidgeted in his seat. He folded his hands on the table, then jammed them into his pockets. A moment later he slapped them back onto the table. He snatched a napkin and crumpled it with his left hand. “When did it all go wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The whole damn thing.”

  Burnett suspected he knew where Henri was headed but chose not to lead him. “I don’t know.”

  “I remember when everything was right.”

  Now he knew. “April twenty-third?”

  “Technically it was the twenty-fourth. Very early on the twenty-fourth.”

  Burnett offered up a sad chuckle.

  Henri sniffled. “Everything seemed possible then.”

  “I know.”

  Henri stopped squirming. As though in a trance, he stared at the tiny ball that had once been a flat napkin. “Where did it go wrong?”

  That warm April night two years ago they’d vowed one of them would write a paper that would change the world. One of them, or perhaps both, would be remembered for steering the course of history down a new path. In their crazed enthusiasm and drunken stupor, they’d even sliced their thumbs with a broken Dos Equis bottle and sealed the vow with blood.

  Though it had been Henri’s idea, Burnett still felt foolish every time he recalled the episode. He found it difficult to believe that at thirty he’d so readily agreed to something many would consider childish.

  Time had tempered the fervor of that night, at least for Burnett. Henri maintained his passion.

  Now it appeared he may have succeeded. His paper had the potential to change everyone’s thinking on a controversial subject. And although neither understood the reason, the price tag might prove too high.

  “Why don’t I drive you home?” Burnett said.

  Henri withdrew his hands from his pockets. “Quit acting like my father. I’m having a good time here.” He stretched across the table, grabbed his mug, and downed a third of it. “Just ’cause you’re damn near as old as him doesn’t mean you have to act like him.”

  Burnett clenched his teeth and bowed his head.

  Henri shoved the mug aside. “You’re right. When I start talking like Mr. Football, it’s past time to go.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Burnett ushered Henri out of the elevator and down the gray hallway of the fourth-floor, off-campus apartment building. On his ninth step, Henri stumbled and crashed to the carpet in front of apartment 405. As Burnett yanked him to his feet, the door swung open. A young woman poked her head out.

  “Hey, Em,” Henri said, a noticeable slur in his words.

  “You okay?” Emma asked.

  “One too many Coronas at Charlie’s Place,” Burnett said. Everything about Emma said money, and lots of it: her Prada leather sandals and Alexander McQueen cotton tank top, her perfect manicure and expensive perfume. Plus the fact—at least he believed it was a fact—that she had somehow managed to procure the apartment two doors down from Henri. Rumor had it she’d paid a small fortune to have the previous residents “relocated.”

  The problem was he had trouble admitting to himself how much he envied Henri. Emma’s eyes were the perfect shade of blue, a hue nestled between indigo and sapphire. And the way her shoulder-length light brown hair set off her eyes made it hard to look away when she spoke.

  Even in flats she had Henri by an inch.

  He wasn’t sure what she saw in him. Whatever it was, it had kept them together for two years, not counting a pair of short breakups.

  Emma closed the door behind her. “Let me give you a hand.”

  She took his arm and the two of them guided Henri down the corridor and stopped at his apartment. She searched Henri’s front pocket for his keys, dug out his keychain, and selected the correct key.

  Once inside, Henri plopped on his ripped-up sofa. What little furniture he owned was worn and faded. Even the laptop computer, which sat on a third-hand desk, had to be more than five years old. Half-a-dozen small piles of unwashed clothes littered the floor. Burnett wondered how Emma could allow herself to set foot in the place.

  She walked over to the balcony door and slid it open to allow a breeze in on the warm May evening.

  “Want to grab me a beer from the fridge?” Henri called to whoever would listen. “Merci.” No trace of accent remained in his speech.

  Burnett and Emma exchanged a glance, but neither moved. He switched on a table lamp, then stood beside her.

  “He drank a lot, but not a ridiculous amount,” Burnett said. “He’ll probably just pass out in a little while.” He hugged her and strode toward the front door. As always, he fretted over the likelihood that he’d held her too long or too tight. It’s a curious quirk of fate, he reminded himself for the thousandth time, when your closest friend happens to be dating the most beautiful woman you’ve ever met.

  The uneasiness lingered as he reached for the doorknob. Before he could twist it, a muted creak inside the apartment froze his hand. Emma’s expression suggested she’d heard the sound as well.

  “Is someone else here?” Emma asked in a tone jealous women have perfected over the centuries.

  “It’s them,” Henri said and catapulted up from the sofa. “I told you they’ve been following me.”

  Emma hushed him with a wave of her hand.

  “I see this black sedan behind me sometimes,” he said. “It disappears. Then reappears.”

  Henri had long suspected that a few of his more radical scientific notions had aroused the government’s curiosity. It mattered little whether he was on or off his medications, he fervently defended this belief. In recent weeks, however, his paranoia had snowballed.

  A moment of silence followed while Burnett listened for any further sounds. “Probably nothing. The wind.”

  “Would you mind taking a look?” Emma asked.

  He wanted to leave them alone. More than that, 7:30 had come and gone and the good folks at the hospital were adamant about not allowing visitors after 8:00. His father, learning to walk again after a near-fatal car accident
six months earlier, had fallen and fractured his skull, necessitating two additional surgeries. Today was the first day his doctors had permitted visitors.

  After a hasty nod he zigzagged past two piles of clothes and arrived in the hallway. He entered the bathroom and peeked behind the shower curtain—no one hiding there. The medicine cabinet called to him. He faced himself in the mirror and debated whether or not to open it.

  The decision was interrupted by the man who returned his gaze. He shut his eyes. It was too late. His reflection lingered crystal clear in his mind’s eye. His hair, usually neatly combed, was not. More than a few gray hairs had begun to intrude upon the black ones. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, and that alone made him appear older. The hint of bags beneath his eyes offered an unwelcome reminder of his true age. No longer could he pass for one of the twenty-one- or twenty-two-year-olds who shared many of his classes.

  He opened his eyes and dipped his head. With a heavy sigh he tugged the medicine cabinet’s handle—empty inside save a bottle of Tums slanted against the mirrored wall. A glance in the garbage can revealed several used tissues and an empty pack of Marlboro Lights. So he’s smoking again. Odd I hadn’t noticed.

  Burnett crossed the hallway and arrived in the bedroom. Compared to the living room, it looked immaculate. A pair of pants and several worn shirts lay strewn across the bed. His gaze slid across the room. No one here either.

  The closet door shook. He waited, curious whether it would shudder again. It didn’t, and he wondered if he’d imagined it. Far too many curious events had occurred the past few days. These, coupled with his vivid dreams, sought to further blur the already hazy line between reality and imagination.

  He strode to the closet door and nudged it open. Three shirts draped over a plastic hanger hung in the corner. All his remaining clothes, and there were quite a few, had been fashioned into a teepee on the carpeted floor.

  He lifted a jacket from the summit of the teepee, revealing the crown of a girl’s head. She sprang to her feet, and Henri’s clothes tumbled to the floor.