Innocent Bystander

by Glenn Richards

  Emma centered her balance and tightened her midriff. She shifted her weight to her left foot and swung her right leg at the woman’s head. Her opponent, whom she knew only by her first name, Ning, which loosely translates into English as “tranquility,” easily deflected the kick with her forearm. In a flash Emma spun three-hundred-and-sixty-degrees. The tornado kick found Ning’s right temple, depositing her on the mat.

  Emma reached down and helped her to her feet. The two women faced each other, bowed mindfully, then, shoulder to shoulder, descended a staircase and silently entered a tiny room. Ning lowered herself to the floor and assumed the lotus position. Emma fell back into a wicker chair opposite her.

  At that moment Emma needed to speak, but her brain couldn’t formulate a coherent sentence. The dimly lit room felt ten degrees too cold. She shifted from side to side in her chair, but a comfortable position always remained one shift away.

  “You put something extra into that kick,” Ning said.

  “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

  Ning gently shook her head. As calm and centered as a gray-bearded Zen master, she leaned closer. “Why did you come this evening?”

  “Why did you let me win just now?”

  “I’ve heard that in your country it’s not polite to answer a question with a question.”

  “I never claimed to be polite.”

  Ning smiled, sat motionless. “My question remains.”

  “I guess I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “You have a family that cares about you. Many friends.”

  “None of them have been through what I have.”

  “Ah, you believe that because my husband was killed back in China when we were both young that I understand your pain?”

  “I don’t know what I believe right now,” Emma said. “I’m so confused, so …”

  “Conflicted?”

  Emma nodded.

  “Your conflict is well represented by your body.”

  Emma’s hands quivered in perpetual motion. Her left leg trembled. She shifted her weight once again in her seat. Each time she became conscious of a tremor and stifled it, a fresh one surfaced elsewhere.

  “I wish you had joined us for meditation classes as I suggested,” Ning said. “They would have served you well.”

  For Emma, neither an apology nor an excuse felt appropriate.

  A borderless photograph of a Buddhist monastery on the wall behind Ning looked so peaceful. The building had been perfectly centered, and the trees and shrubbery framing the structure granted the image a pleasant symmetry.

  The black-and-white print, with its overcast skies and washed-out stone masonry, also depressed her.

  “There’s far more going on,” Ning said, “than poor Henri’s death.”

  “Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself.”

  “I can tell when a person is deeply troubled. And you, my dear, have every sign.”

  “So much has happened that doesn’t make any sense,” Emma said.

  “Tell me as much or as little as you like.”

  “You have a couple days?” Emma forced a smile through the confusion and pain.

  “For you, my dear, I have all the time in the world.”

  Unable to latch onto any specific emotion, Emma slid forward off the chair and wrapped her arms around Ning.

  CHAPTER 11

  Burnett stumbled into his house at 9:30 p.m. He unlaced his shoes and flung them against the wall. They caromed off his By the Water Renoir print, cracking the glass, and settled on the living room carpet.

  Half-an-hour in a police interrogation room was thirty minutes he would not choose to repeat in this lifetime. He could not fathom who or what had convinced Farrow that he’d pushed Henri to his death, but the man had become incontrovertibly convinced. Surely Emma had told them the same story. She was Henri’s goddamn girlfriend. She wouldn’t lie to protect a man who’d just tossed her boyfriend off his balcony.

  Of course Burnett understood why the police didn’t buy Audrey’s story, but he couldn’t figure out why Farrow refused to even consider she exists. At least Mayweather believed the witness who’d spotted someone inside Henri’s apartment. If he hadn’t, Burnett suspected he’d still have a seat in the interrogation room, if not a holding cell.

  He sighed and stepped into the living room. Once inside, he observed what anyone else in the house would have noticed immediately—his shoes were the only things out of place.

  His childhood home, he had the entire four-bedroom colonial to himself. Six months ago he’d returned, nine-and-a-half years after his mother’s death and one week after his father’s car accident. He kept the house immaculate. In truth, it didn’t require much effort. Aside from the bathroom, he used only one bedroom, the kitchen, and the living room where his computer and an entertainment system sat.

  He collapsed onto the sofa, snatched a remote from the coffee table, and punched a series of buttons. Moments later a hanging guitar note and Ringo’s vibrant drumming introduced “Tomorrow Never Knows.” The music altered his state of mind faster and more effectively than any pill or drink.

  As the song progressed, he could feel the tension drain from his muscles and the stress flow from his body. Normally he would never listen to a CD out of sequence, especially the Beatles. Tonight, an exception needed to be made.

  After John Lennon’s creation faded into the void from which it had emerged, the CD player thoughtfully played “Taxman.” Curious, he thought, that the greatest album of all time, the very pinnacle of rock music, should have been reached half a century ago. Most experts believed that that summit had been reached the following year. They gushed over Sgt. Pepper like a parent gushes over their child’s first piano recital. It was a masterpiece, Burnett agreed, but a flawed one. Revolver, on the other hand, was a masterpiece without flaw.

  As his train of thought slowed, he understood what he was doing—or more precisely, not doing. Audrey needed to be found. Instead, his mind replayed unimportant thoughts he’d had dozens of times.

  He wanted to phone Emma and hear her voice. More than that, he needed to hear her. This surprised him. It had been years since he’d needed someone. He dated occasionally, but wasn’t looking for a long-term commitment. Problem was, most women his age were husband-hunting. He wasn’t thinking about marriage, not yet.

  At that moment, so much uncertainty clouded his mind he wasn’t certain he could trust his own thoughts. Maybe Audrey had spoken the truth. Maybe she had come back from the future. As ridiculous as it sounded, it was the one explanation that jibed with the facts.

  He shook his head as if trying to shake the idea from his brain. His mind seemed determined to journey down that path at every opportunity.

  He needed Emma to bring some sanity to his life. Since she hadn’t returned his calls nor replied to his e-mails, he assumed she wanted to grieve in private. Until he heard from her, he wouldn’t try to contact her again. Just in case, he checked his Galaxy S6 to see if she’d called or e-mailed in the last ten minutes. She hadn’t, and he set the device on the cushion beside him.

  Midway through “Eleanor Rigby” the doorbell chimed. He pressed his fingertips to his forehead. The cops again, he assumed. Maybe they decided to take me back to the station.

  The bell rang a second time. He clicked off the music center and dragged himself from the couch. With each step his trepidation grew. He refused to indulge his secret hope that Audrey waited on his front porch.

  He arrived at the door and pressed his eye to the peephole. Emma stood beneath the porch light. She threw a glance over her shoulder. He whipped the door open. A rain shower had developed and soaked her clothes.

  “Come in,” Burnett said.

  She did, and he eased the door halfway shut. A dark sedan parked diagonally across the street lured his attention. There was nothing remarkable about the vehicle; he’d just never noticed it before. I bet the police are watching me.

  That wouldn’t neces
sarily be a bad thing. If he located Audrey, he could lead them right to her.

  “You’re soaked.” He disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with a dish towel. Emma massaged the towel through her hair.

  “Can I get you some dry clothes?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry.”

  “How are you?”

  She halted the towel mid-stroke. “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

  “Sit down,” he said and guided her into the living room.

  “No,” she replied. She stared at him with an intensity that unnerved him. “I do know how I am. Scared.”

  He waited for her to elaborate.

  “They think you killed Henri,” she said. “At least that guy Farrow does. What are we going to do?”

  “You’re not going to worry about it because they don’t suspect you.”

  “But if they believe I’m making up a story to protect you,” she said, not needing to complete the sentence.

  “If you want to change your story, I won’t blame you.”

  “Change it to what? I saw her. I talked to her. I touched her scrawny little arm.” Her gaze descended to the floor. “We need to find her ourselves.”

  “To be honest, I’m not sure where to start. I spoke to half the people in your building today. Nobody saw her go in or out. One witness who saw me struggling with Henri noticed someone in his apartment. Farrow believes it was just your reflection.”

  “He’s already convinced we’re lying.”

  Burnett nodded his agreement.

  “My father knows this guy,” she said. “He’s a private detective. My father hired him once to spy on my mother.”

  He chuckled inside.

  “He might know how to find her.” She stared intently at him for nearly a minute.

  His body temperature climbed. All his old worries began their unwelcome chatter. Did I say something wrong? Did I look at her the wrong way?

  “I lost so much the other night,” she said. “I won’t lose anymore.”

  Did she consider him more than just a friend, or had he read too much into it? More likely she was concerned about one or both of them landing in jail. On any other day his brain would have loved to delve into it. At that moment too much else occupied his mind.

  Emma slipped an iPhone from her Fendi handbag. While she made a call, he drew the curtain aside. The sedan still sat there, midway between two streetlamps. Am I becoming as paranoid as Henri was?

  Burnett heard her ask her father for the PI’s phone number. She hung up and dialed another number.

  Emma spoke briefly with the person who answered. She mentioned who she was and how she and a friend needed to locate someone ASAP. She added that money was not an issue.

  Burnett, his attention still directed out the window, noticed no other cars parked anywhere on the street. It occurred to him that parking wasn’t permitted on that side of the road. People occasionally parked there, but only if they wanted a ticket.

  “We got an appointment,” Emma said as she slipped her iPhone back into her handbag. “Ready?”

  He bent his arm to check his watch. “At ten o’clock?”

  “These guys don’t work nine to five.” She fished out her keychain and dangled it beneath his nose. “Let’s take my car.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Emma handled her Nissan Leaf with the precision of a Formula One driver. She drove fast, but not fast enough to attract attention.

  Burnett fretted over how the Leaf stood out. If the cops were trailing them, it would be easy to follow. He admired her commitment to the Green Movement, or whatever she called it. Right now, though, he wished they’d taken his car. If ever a car had been designed to blend in, it was the Toyota Camry.

  He kept his eyes riveted on the side-view mirror. He’d asked her to adjust the mirror on his side so he could monitor the traffic behind them. A pair of headlights insisted on lurking a hundred feet back.

  She turned right onto a busy, two-lane road. The vehicle behind them made a right and merged into traffic. Burnett kept his focus on the headlights. They kept pace with the Leaf.

  Is it the sedan that had been parked across the street?

  It astonished him how paranoid his thinking had become over the past twenty-four hours. Since Audrey had shown up at Henri’s apartment he hadn’t known what to believe, his mind questioning everything that had happened. This near constant state of uncertainty had begun to take a toll on him. He wasn’t sure who he could trust, except Emma. She remained the one constant in his life right now. Thank God she’d come by tonight.

  “Can you speed up a little?” he asked.

  Without asking why, she pressed the accelerator.

  The headlights behind them maintained their distance.

  Burnett squinted and tried to read the name of the upcoming side street. He recognized it. “Can you make a right here?”

  “It’s not the way,” she said.

  “Three more rights will bring us back.”

  “You think we’re being followed?”

  He nodded.

  Emma tapped the brake and made a cautious right onto the street. The headlights that had trailed them slowed, but continued along the main avenue.

  He twisted his body and stared out the back window. He clenched his teeth and prayed no other car would appear. The Leaf approached a stop sign. Behind them he saw only darkness.

  “They’re gone,” she said. She watched him. His curved body sat rigid, and he remained fixated on the street. She touched him on the shoulder. He turned and faced her. “I really think they’re gone.”

  She brought the Leaf to a stop at the intersection.

  “Stay on this street a little longer,” he said when he realized she intended to make the right.

  “Sure,” she said, her voice tinged with doubt.

  He knew her primary concern was getting to the PI’s office as soon as possible.

  Emma straightened out the wheel and the Leaf leapt forward. The road snaked through a suburban neighborhood. Mini-mansions with oversized yards lined the street.

  His attention returned to the side-view mirror. Only darkness, broken by an occasional streetlamp, filled the mirror.

  Then he thought he saw a vehicle behind them, its headlights out. Perhaps he’d imagined it. His paranoia seemed to grow by the minute.

  He twisted his body again and locked an arm around the headrest. After an interminable wait, a dark sedan coasted beneath a streetlight.

  “They’re still back there,” he said.

  She checked the rearview mirror. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “Keep watching.”

  She watched darkness behind them in the mirror. She must have seen it because she jammed the accelerator to the floor. The Leaf tore down the street. It screeched to a halt at a stop sign. She spun the wheel to the right and the Leaf raced down a windy street. Burnett, awestruck by how quickly the all-electric car accelerated and took turns, clutched the armrest.

  Two more rights deposited them back on the main road. He studied the numbers on the center console, the top one indicating how many miles the Leaf could travel before needing a recharge.

  “You think we lost them?” she asked.

  Burnett bit his lip and shook his head with uncertainty. Cars crowded the street. She accelerated the Leaf and passed an SUV. He watched and waited, hoping none of the vehicles behind them would follow suit. Ten seconds later another car duplicated their maneuver. The headlights fell in line behind them.

  “Why are they following us?” she asked and smacked her palm against the wheel. “Why aren’t they looking for that scrawny little bitch?”

  “You know why. They don’t believe she exists.”

  “How can she not be on any security videos? How can no one have seen her?”

  A familiar answer tried to sneak into his mind.

  “It’s not fair, goddammit,” she said. “You tried to help him. You tried to save him.”

  She stared straight a
head while the Leaf traveled slower and slower. He prepared to ask if she was okay when without warning she stomped on the brake. An instant later she jerked the wheel to the left. The Leaf skidded to a stop across the street and blocked both lanes. She shoved open the door.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  She didn’t reply. She jumped out and marched up to the black sedan idling thirty feet behind them. The sedan lurched backward. A box truck thwarted its retreat.

  Burnett exited the Leaf but remained by the open door.

  “Leave us alone, goddammit!” she screamed at the sedan’s windshield. “Go find that little bitch. She did this. You hear me in there? You find her.”

  Burnett stood, frozen. He needed to race over and drag her back before she further complicated matters, but he couldn’t will himself forward.

  “Come out here and talk to me face to face, you little weasels,” she yelled.

  No one exited the sedan.

  Car horns honked. Drivers and passengers cursed at her.

  She didn’t seem to notice. “You find that little skank. You find her and you ask her why she killed Henri.”

  Cars had stopped in both directions. She pivoted her head and appeared to realize she’d become the center of attention for dozens of people.

  Head lowered, she backed away several steps. “You find her.” She glanced up. “And you get some answers from her.”

  She returned to the Leaf. Burnett fell into his seat. She entered without a word, thrust the Leaf into gear, and drove off in silence.

  The sedan did not follow.

  * * *

  Emma and Burnett sat across from Mr. Frank’s desk. The office was a room attached to the side of his house. She noted the homemade bookshelves, bursting with everything from mysteries to travel guides to self-help books, that filled three of the four walls. A flat Staples calendar covered a third of the desk, and a wobbly stack of books teetered on a corner.

  Doesn’t this guy own a computer? she wondered.

  Mr. Frank, the PI, glanced at the note he’d just scribbled. “She actually told you she was from the future?” he said and chuckled.

  A prickle of fear flashed through Emma’s chest. What would she do if he actually tracked Audrey down? At that moment, seated beside Burnett in the office, she believed she might kill her. Why turn her over to the police? No doubt she’d be tried as a juvenile and slapped on the wrist. She didn’t push Henri off the balcony, but she might as well have, considering his state of mind after her story.