“I bet the cops got a rise out of that,” Mr. Frank said. He rolled his chair back, then forward.
“That’s why we came to you,” she said. She estimated the man to be between fifty and fifty-five years old. Judging by the paint chips strewn across the floor and the water-damaged ceiling, she also guessed a couple extra bucks would be a priority.
“You believe us?” Burnett asked.
“I believe a girl showed up at his apartment and told you that story.”
“That’s more than the cops believe,” Burnett said.
Curiosity spread across Mr. Frank’s face.
“Nobody saw her but us,” Burnett said.
The PI jacked up a suspicious eyebrow. Without warning, the stack of books on the corner of his desk exploded toward Emma and Burnett. She leapt from her chair and leaned into Burnett, who’d covered his face to protect it from a flying travel guide.
As her pounding heart slowed, she watched a Siamese cat arch its back near the desk’s leading edge. It meowed and scratched the side of its neck with a flurry of strokes.
“No, Iris,” Mr. Frank said as he scooped up the cat with his right hand.
At her feet lay half-a-dozen books, two pens, a six-inch silver letter opener, and an assortment of paper clips. With several annoyed swipes of her sandal, she raked them beneath the desk.
Mr. Frank placed the animal in his lap, but she immediately crawled back onto the desk. “I hope she didn’t startle you.”
‘Startle’ doesn’t begin to describe it, she thought. “It’s okay. Can you help us?”
“I can’t promise anything,” Mr. Frank said. “You haven’t given me much to work with.”
“We’ll double your usual fee if you can find her in twenty-four hours,” she said. The office felt much too warm. All she wanted was to get the meeting over with.
Mr. Frank chuckled. He scratched the four-day old stubble on his chin, ran his fingers through salt-and-pepper hair, then rolled up the sleeves on his checkered flannel shirt. “You have as much patience as your father.”
“This is important,” she said, knowing she’d stated the obvious.
“I know. I’m sorry for your loss. Both your losses.” He snatched the cat from his desk a second time and stood with it. “I’ll do everything I can. Twenty-four hours is next to impossible, but I’ll see if I can find something about who she is. Fair?”
“Yes,” Emma said. She sensed the feline watching her and faced away. On her list of favorite pets, cats occupied a spot between snakes and tarantulas.
It unnerved her as she and Burnett rose in unison. She deliberately inched closer to him.
The nearer she physically got to him, the safer she felt. Had he not been with her earlier, she wouldn’t have jumped from her car and confronted the cops. Something about him, something ineffable, buoyed her confidence. With all that had happened over the past twenty-four hours, she needed someone she could trust, someone she could depend on. More than that, she needed somebody who encouraged her to feel good about herself.
Michael Burnett was that person. She didn’t understand why, and at that moment it didn’t matter.
CHAPTER 13
The following morning Burnett stood hunched over his father’s hospital bed. A helmet covering the older man’s head, and numerous tubes and wires running to and from his body, sent a shiver through him.
The doctors had informed him that the bleeding had been stopped, and pressure inside his skull relieved. They also advised him to prepare himself for a lengthy recovery. What the physicians had neglected to prepare him for was the shock of seeing his father pulsing with more tubes and wires than the vintage radios the old man collected.
He hadn’t seen his father in more than a week. In that time he appeared to have aged considerably. The lines creasing his brow and surrounding his eyes had deepened. The wisps of gray hair that snuck out from beneath the helmet had turned grayer.
His father was no doubt asleep, and for that he offered a silent thank you. It would make the conversation far less stressful. A nurse would tell him later that his son had stopped by.
He sat on the edge of the bed. “Since you’re asleep, and I don’t have much time, I’ll be brief. Henri’s dead, and he shouldn’t be. I need to find out why.”
“What happened?” his father asked, his voice a low grumble. His eyes fluttered open.
“You’re awake.”
“You knew. Otherwise you wouldn’t have stayed.”
Burnett clenched the soft railing at the head of the bed. “Jumped from his balcony.”
“Good God,” his father said and coughed. “And you need to find out why? Cops can’t handle it?”
“He was my friend.”
“He was barely out of his teens, Michael. Couldn’t you have found someone closer to your own age?”
Burnett wandered to the window. “Thanks for the understanding.”
“I’m sorry,” his father muttered. “But he always struck me as a bit immature. Not to mention unstable.”
Burnett leaned toward his Camry in the parking lot five floors below. “I quit my job this morning.”
“Okay.”
Two syllables conveyed a measure of disappointment Burnett could not stomach at that moment.
“Got any more news to cheer me up with this morning?” His father coughed again. “Why’d you need to go back to school? You’re not twenty-one anymore. Stop acting like it. You had a good, secure job. Couldn’t you be happy with that?”
“I want more.”
“We all want to change the world, Mikey, trust me. But most of us are satisfied just doing our part to keep it spinning. You think ’cause the two of you got good grades in science you were somehow special?”
“It’s about doing what I love.”
His father snorted his disapproval.
“I got a lot to do today,” Burnett said.
“Then why’d you stop by?”
“I don’t know.”
“Course you do. You came to hear me tell you that you’ll solve the mystery of why your friend took his life and everything’ll be okay.”
“Maybe.”
“But I can’t. And you know why?”
“Yeah. But you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“Because you’ve never followed through on one goddamn thing your whole life. Only reason you got a diploma is ’cause I nagged your ass. Only reason you’ve done anything is ’cause someone nagged your ass.” He coughed uncontrollably.
A tall nurse with jet-black hair and a crisp white uniform plowed into the room. She stood beside the bed as his coughing subsided.
“He needs to rest,” the nurse said. “Any sudden movements could start him bleeding again.”
“I’ll go.” He was three steps from the door, three steps from freedom, when his father beckoned him to return. At that moment he could have pretended he didn’t hear the request. In no time he’d be in his car and on his way out of the lot. He debated for a good ten seconds before returning to the side of the bed.
His father feebly grasped his hand.
“What I said,” his father whispered, “about you never finishing anything.”
“I know you didn’t mean it.”
“Course I did,” his father said, barely audible. He coughed twice and gripped his son’s hand just a bit tighter. “Prove me wrong.”
* * *
That evening Burnett descended the stairs of a lecture hall. Dr. Thaddeus Stone, his calculus professor, met him at the bottom step.
“What’s going on?” Stone asked. “The police have asked me about you twice in the past twenty-four hours.”
Burnett waited until the last two students, both in their fifties, exited the classroom. “They believe I killed Henri.”
Stone’s eyes widened. “I heard it was an accident.”
“Several people saw us struggling on the balcony. I was trying to stop him from jumping. They think we were fighting and I pushed him.” He shook his
head, still in disbelief.
Stone shook his head in rhythm with his student. “You mean he jumped?”
Burnett’s head, still shaking side to side, transitioned to up and down.
“Need a lawyer?” Stone asked. “I know several good ones.”
“I hope not.”
Stone grabbed a pencil and paper from his desk. He jotted down a number. With his muscular, six-foot frame, weathered good-looks, and quiet self-confidence, he came across more like an aging movie star than a college professor.
Stone slipped him the paper. “Should you need one, heaven forbid, call me.”
Burnett pocketed it. Dr. Stone inspired trust, and God knew he needed allies. “Thanks,” he said, and left the room.
Remorse over his failure to prevent his friend’s suicide, combined with Farrow’s belief that he’d killed Henri, weighed on him. His mind lacked its usual sharpness, and he needed to be sharp.
It had been nearly twenty-one hours since he and Emma had spoken to Mr. Frank. So far they’d heard nothing from him.
Without Emma he realized he’d be lost. What impressed him most were her actions with the driver of the black sedan. She’d been impulsive and could have landed him in more trouble, but it was an action he envied. He berated himself for having remained by the car, and for not being more proactive in the hunt for Audrey. It was not Emma’s responsibility to take charge of the search.
His Galaxy S6 rang. He pressed it to his ear.
“Listen,” Emma said. “I just got a call from Mr. Frank. He might have something for us.”
“I hope so,” he said.
“Of course he might be jerking us around so we’ll double his pay. Let’s keep our fingers crossed. He wants us to meet him at seven-thirty. Can you give me a ride? Courtney needs my car.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll meet you in the parking lot in five minutes.”
Common sense, not to mention caution, dictated he temper his optimism. He found that difficult to do. With Audrey the key, he wanted nothing more than to grab her by the throat and demand some answers.
He exited the building and strode into the parking lot. A commotion on the far side of the lot snared his attention. An ambulance, its lights flashing, sat near the entrance.
From thirty yards away he watched the emergency medical technician lift Audrey’s body from the trunk of his silver Toyota Camry.
CHAPTER 14
Once out of the park, Burnett stopped and noted which way the teenagers headed. He strolled in the opposite direction. The wail of a police siren pierced the silence. The teenagers now out of sight, he darted between a cape and a colonial. He crouched behind a chimney as two police cruisers rocketed by.
Night had fallen. He straightened his body, stood motionless in the dark, and questioned whether he’d made the wise choice. It had been necessary, yes, but that didn’t make it prudent.
Another cruiser approached, slowly this time. A spotlight, operated from the passenger side, lit up the colonial next door. The beam swept toward him. He leaned back, shielded by the base of the chimney.
The cruiser vanished down the street. A minivan turned into the driveway of the colonial. The driver exited and faced Burnett. A moment later he slammed the minivan’s door and lumbered toward him.
“Hey,” the man called. “What are you doing there?”
Burnett shuffled back several steps.
“Hey, Bill,” the man yelled, now staring into the cape’s lighted kitchen. “Bill, there’s some guy outside your house.”
The front door squeaked open. Burnett raced across the back yard, navigated a maze of hedges, patios, and low fences, and emerged into a dark alley.
He felt his way along the six-foot-high, cement-block wall. When he reached the end, a police cruiser materialized down the street. He reversed into the alley and stumbled over a trash can. His back pressed against a cold, concrete wall, he waited for the cruiser to disappear.
Nothing made sense, and the madness continued to escalate.
A shrill noise silenced his racing mind. The grating sound became familiar as it strengthened. My God, they’ve got tracking dogs.
A station wagon rattled down the street. He leapt to the middle of the road. The driver laid into the horn, but he held his ground. The rusty relic careened to a halt. Burnett sprang to the driver’s side window and yanked on the locked door handle. Reaching through the half-open window, he wrenched the wheel to the left.
“Stop,” the sixty-year-old woman driver yelled.
Burnett unlocked the door as the rising window threatened his elbow. “I’m sorry. It’s an emergency.”
He ripped open the door and grabbed her left arm. Her fingers clenched the padded steering wheel.
“No,” she yelled. Her curly, gray bangs swept across her brow with each swing of her head.
He dragged her, forearms flailing, from the vehicle.
These were not the actions of Michael Burnett. He felt possessed by a desperate, angry man who would do anything to escape.
Yet the old Burnett hadn’t completely vanished. “I’ll find some way to get it back to you.”
A pick-up truck approached from behind. He jumped into the station wagon and dropped the pedal.
CHAPTER 15
Many people have claimed that Paris in the springtime must be as close to heaven as one can get while still on earth. Michael Burnett found himself in complete agreement. For much of his adult life he’d longed to visit the City of Light. Now, as he strolled down Rue du Rivoli, the scent of freshly baked croissants mingled with cut flowers. The view atop the Eiffel Tower had been everything he’d dreamed and more, and the boat ride along the Seine a buffet for his senses.
He ambled toward the glass pyramid in the Louvre courtyard. The magnificent structure rose before him. He could scarcely imagine what the architects of ancient Egypt would have thought of a see-through pyramid.
The temperature hovered in the mid-seventies. Several ivory-cream clouds coasted across the sky, perfect clouds on loan from a Monet painting.
A second pyramid, two-thirds the size of the original, stood less than fifteen meters away. He was unaware the French had constructed a second one. To the best of his recollection, no mention of it had been made in any guidebook.
He strolled over to the new, smaller pyramid and stopped half a meter away to gaze at his reflection. The glass reflected nothing. Refocusing his eyes, he unsuccessfully attempted to peer inside.
He leaned in, tilted his head left, then right, but still the glass pane revealed nothing. He wheeled around and discovered he stood alone in the courtyard. How could no one be visiting the Louvre on a perfect spring afternoon? The uneasy feeling that crept into his stomach progressed to nausea.
The sky darkened though no clouds eclipsed the sun. A chill suffused his body. Not a sound emanated from the courtyard. The musty smell that mugged his sinuses gagged him. A burning desire to flee overcame him, but he could not settle on a direction.
At last he chose to head north. After three steps he staggered and collapsed. With Herculean effort he dragged himself to his feet.
A high-pitched whistle pained his ears. His head swung from left to right but he saw nothing. He leaned back. An object streaked overhead, a plume of smoke in its wake. It arced toward the city. His brain rebelled, but he knew what he saw—an Intercontinental Ballistic Missile.
It passed directly above him. The noise became intolerable. The missile detonated high above the downtown skyline. A rush of destruction hurtled through the city and snuffed out the lives of millions in seconds.
Burnett shut his eyes, clenched his body, and awaited the end. The wave of debris swept past him. When he opened his eyes he was astounded to find himself untouched by it, as if encased in a protective bubble.
He arched his back and gaped at the mushroom cloud that climbed in the distance. The column of smoke ascended into the infinite sky.
The once glorious city now lay in ruins at his f
eet. Such inconceivable loss of life was far too much for any sane person to bear. Nor could he comprehend how and why he alone had survived. It was impossible; he knew that. Yet here he stood, gazing out at ashes, ashes that minutes ago had fashioned the most striking city to ever grace the planet.
Near the horizon another ICBM began its plunge through the atmosphere.
The putrid scent that now assaulted his nostrils was not the death of a person or even a city; it was the death of a species. He stood witness to mankind’s gift to the universe—self-annihilation.
A distant whisper stunned him. Somehow others had survived. He spun, but saw no one. More voices spoke.
He strained to comprehend the words. From the muddle he identified a solitary word: “Why?” The question, directed toward him, chilled his spine. Soon he determined his accusers’ full complaint: “Why have you done this to us?”
“I didn’t do it,” he asserted. “I didn’t do anything.” The more he protested, the louder and more insistent they became.
Pressure inside his skull intensified. He covered his ears to no effect. The volume soared, each word a jackhammer on his brain. Just when he thought he could no longer tolerate it, a thunderous bang silenced his accusers.
He sat up and a second bang echoed in his ears. A garbage truck had slammed through a pothole. He took in his surroundings, and discovered he’d fallen asleep in a dirt ditch beneath an overpass. Last night he’d abandoned the station wagon ten miles outside of town.
For the fifth consecutive night he’d suffered through Henri’s dream. As the fog between his ears dissipated, he tried once again to make sense of it, but nothing in his knowledge or experience explained the peculiar nightmare. And Dr. Rosenstein had been understandably skeptical of its precise repetition.
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