Innocent Bystander

by Glenn Richards

  “I have only one question,” Desmond said.

  “I just want to hear you admit you’re the cause of all this,” Burnett said.

  Desmond shook his head, clearly mystified. “I don’t understand. You should be terrified right now, begging me not to kill you. This confidence. Where did it come from?” He turned to Emma.

  “Don’t look at me,” she said. “Just answer his question.”

  Burnett’s eyes danced about the room in search of something to get them safely out of the house. Nothing caught his attention.

  A perplexed look spreading across his face, Desmond said, “Okay, if this is how you want it.” He nodded to the gunman.

  “One thing you might want to know,” Burnett said. “There’s a police car at the end of the street. You fire that gun and they’ll be here in seconds.”

  The gunman snickered. He dug a silencer from his pocket and fastened it onto the barrel of the Beretta. “How can you be so naïve?”

  Perspiration soaked Burnett’s palms. Not only had they pierced his bravado, but he and Emma were about to be killed. He scanned the room again. This time he noticed the home security system’s control panel on a wall adjacent to the front door. If he tripped the alarm, the cops would arrive in a hurry. He would be caught, but it was a small price compared to the alternative.

  “Before this gentleman does what he does so very well,” Desmond said, “I should like to know what you’ve told the police. You see, the reason they have a car sitting at the end of the block is they know you have been doing research on me, and they correctly surmised you might pay me a visit. So if you tell me what they know about me I will, oh, how is it they say it in the movies? I will have him kill you in such a way that you will die quickly.”

  “We told them you have Henri’s computer,” Emma said. “They told us to prove it. If we suddenly disappear, it’ll look very suspicious.”

  “It is fortunate you have the face of a model,” Desmond said, “because you would never make it as an actress.”

  Burnett studied the security panel. Little detail could be discerned from fifteen feet. Only a red button in the upper left corner stood out. He prayed it would trigger the alarm.

  He’d have to knock the gunman to the floor to have any chance of reaching the alarm. The man was nearly his height, but far more solidly built. It would require all his strength to shove him down and not take a bullet in the process. He rubbed his shoes on the Indian throw rug beneath him. It didn’t provide the traction he would have liked.

  He hoped Emma would continue to distract them so he could catch the gunman by surprise. It was as if she read his mind when she spoke again.

  “Henri Laroche was the most beautiful and brilliant man I’ve ever known.”

  Desmond rolled his eyes. “Kindly tell me what I need to know so we can get on with this.”

  On the word “this,” Burnett drove the gunman to the throw rug with a southbound elbow to the solar plexus, then lunged for the security panel.

  The gunman scrambled to his feet, and trained his Beretta on the moving target. Emma screamed. Burnett jammed his index finger against the red button. An alarm blared and the house lights flashed.

  Burnett dove to the floor. “Hide.”

  “Shoot,” Desmond yelled.

  Emma dropped to the floor and crawled into the kitchen.

  “Why don’t you shoot them?” Desmond asked.

  The gunman was halfway to the front door. “Because, you stupid fuck, I don’t want to leave a mess for the cops to find.”

  “Where are you going?”

  The gunman flung open the door. “They can’t know I was here.”

  Desmond seized the phone. Two-thirds of the way through his 911 the phone rang in his hand. He touched it to his ear. “It’s him.”

  Police sirens mingled with the house alarm.

  Hunched over, Burnett shuffled to the edge of the living room window. He popped up in time to see two cruisers careen into the driveway. One stopped on the lawn, the second beside the mailbox.

  Burnett motioned for Emma to join him.

  She snatched a set of keys dangling beneath a hook on the fridge. A Mercedes Benz symbol adorned the keychain. She shoved them into her pocket.

  A bang at the front door shook the house. “This is the police,” a voice yelled. “Everybody outside. Hands on your heads.”

  The policeman repeated his warning, louder this time. Emma joined Burnett next to the window. Behind them the front door burst open.

  He took her hand and led her through the family room. They scurried into the garage. The Mercedes waited. She tossed him the keys and bolted to the passenger side. He hopped in behind the wheel.

  “You ready?” he asked as she jumped in.

  She nodded and latched her seatbelt. Burnett cranked the ignition. He shoved the car into reverse and slammed the accelerator. The Mercedes rocketed backward and crashed through the garage door. Splinters rained across the side yard.

  By the time he had the car stopped, he caught sight of three police cruisers in the driveway. He rammed the gearshift into drive and floored the pedal. The Mercedes side-swiped a cruiser, clipped a garbage can, and sped into the street. Another cruiser roared off in pursuit.

  The Mercedes screamed down the suburban road at sixty miles per hour. A dark-colored sedan barreled toward them in the distance. It skidded sideways across the street and blocked both directions. Burnett hit the brake and tore up a beautifully manicured lawn avoiding it.

  Detective Farrow leapt from the sedan. Mayweather exited as Farrow drew his revolver.

  Burnett saw the weapon in the rearview mirror and punched the gas. A second check of the mirror revealed two police cruisers closing. He braked, made a sharp left, and accelerated down the winding street.

  A red traffic light greeted them ahead. He glanced at Emma. He was willing to risk his own life, but not hers; at least not without her permission. She nodded and he blew through the intersection at sixty.

  The two cruisers barreled through the light. Burnett hit the brakes and skidded onto a side street. The cruisers hung close.

  A gunshot rang out, followed by a loud pop. The Mercedes shuddered. Shreds of tire tread whipped off into the night.

  The car fought his efforts to steer. At the next intersection he struggled to make a right. He blazed south on a busy Route 1. Two police cruisers became four. He weaved the sports coupe around two SUVs, but couldn’t shake the cruisers.

  Another gunshot and another blown tire left the Mercedes nearly uncontrollable. He maneuvered it into a strip mall parking lot. As it rolled to a stop, he and Emma jumped out.

  They sprinted behind the mall. Near total darkness met them. A dozen yards back of the plaza he scaled a six-foot fence. Emma followed him over.

  The howl of police sirens filled the night.

  “Stone’s house is less than a mile,” he said. “If we can make it, maybe—”

  “We’ll never make it. Besides, he said not to come back.”

  “To protect his family,” he said, uncertain whether he was trying to convince her or himself.

  They sprinted through a field behind an abandoned warehouse. Streetlamps and well-lit homes cast enough light to distinguish shapes in the distance. They encountered a second, taller fence. Burnett stopped and helped her over.

  Once she’d landed, he scaled the fence and jumped down. The rapid thud of footfalls froze them. Both squinted into the darkness. The woods ahead started twenty-five feet away. A flashlight bobbed in the blackness. Seconds later Detective Mayweather rattled the fence, his revolver aimed at Burnett.

  “Don’t make this more difficult,” Mayweather said.

  “He’s got the computer,” Burnett said. “I held it in my hands.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t Desmond’s?”

  “A Grateful Dead decal. It’s Henri’s.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “We were lucky to get out alive.”

  “Yo
u had your shot.” Mayweather directed his flashlight into Burnett’s face.

  He shielded his eyes and took a single step back. “You gave me that chance because you know I’m innocent.”

  “Don’t move,” the detective said.

  Burnett took half a step back. “He hired someone to kill us.”

  Mayweather angled his head. “He was in the house?”

  “Waiting for us.” Burnett retreated another step. He nodded to the right hoping she would head that way. She didn’t.

  Mayweather kept his revolver pointed at Burnett’s chest. “I need to bring you in. I will find this missing computer no matter how long it takes. But I need you to surrender now.”

  “You know I can’t.” He took another step back.

  “Get down on the ground,” Mayweather said.

  A gentle thumping in the distance grew louder. Burnett tilted his head back. A chopper knifed through the star-filled sky.

  Burnett bowed. My God. “I don’t believe you’ll shoot me.”

  “Don’t fool yourself. I’ll do what’s necessary to bring you in.”

  A uniformed cop clanged into the fence. The man drew his weapon.

  Burnett backed farther away. Mayweather holstered his revolver and scaled the fence. The cop struggled to follow the detective over.

  Burnett and Emma charged into the dark woods. Light from Mayweather’s flashlight flickered about them like tiny flashes of lightning. The helicopter thundered overhead. Its spotlight stalked the ground.

  “We have to split up,” Burnett shouted above the deafening pulse of the chopper’s blades.

  “No,” Emma yelled, and ducked to avoid a tree branch.

  “We have to. You know where to meet me.”

  Mayweather’s flashlight lit up the side of her face for an instant. Her expression told him she was still reluctant to separate.

  He tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Go.”

  After two more steps she peeled off at a right angle and vanished, swallowed by the night.

  Burnett slowed his pace, barely able to see anything in the dark woods. The chopper, which had drifted off, circled back toward him.

  He peered over his shoulder. Three flashlights jerked side to side twenty yards back. As he faced forward he tripped over a bush and crashed to the dirt. His left elbow smacked a jagged rock. He cried out, then covered his mouth.

  One flashlight became still. “Give it up, Mr. Burnett,” Mayweather said.

  Burnett cradled his elbow in his right hand. He grimaced and crawled behind the bush. “I will not go to jail for a crime I didn’t commit.”

  “I’ll dedicate my career to proving your innocence.”

  Burnett believed him. “The computer’s at his house.”

  The helicopter’s metrical thump intensified.

  “You have to get it now,” Burnett yelled. “Before he gets rid of it.”

  “First you need to surrender,” Mayweather shouted back. “Come out now. Hands on your head.”

  Burnett winced in pain. He heard the detective holler into his vest mic. The helicopter swooped in low. Its spotlight rocked back and forth.

  Mayweather’s flashlight probed the area. Two cops fanned out left and right. Burnett hoped Emma had made it safely out of the woods. Should he be caught she would help Mayweather prove Desmond’s guilt.

  As the helicopter closed in, he realized its rhythmic swoosh would drown out his movements. He struggled to his feet.

  The chopper’s spotlight approached in front of him, Mayweather’s flashlight from behind. Burnett spun left and ran. Before he’d taken three steps, a beam of light slashed his back.

  Burnett zigzagged and dropped behind a tree. The haphazard movement of the lights suggested he’d confused them.

  The helicopter hovered directly above. A canopy of trees offered cover from its spotlight. Wind from the rotors kicked up dirt, pebbles, and scrub brush. His bloody left arm shielded his face.

  Burnett backed away. His hand, extended behind him, brushed a tree trunk. He felt his way around it and continued backwards.

  The chopper ascended. Mayweather’s flashlight still bounced erratically. Burnett lowered his left hand and looked behind him. Through the trees he glimpsed a streetlamp.

  He raced toward it. As he neared the edge of the woods, a police cruiser screeched to a stop in the street. Its headlights pointed into the woods. Two cops jumped out. They shined their flashlights down the street in opposite directions.

  He retreated twenty yards into the woods and ran parallel to the street. A hundred yards down he spotted a bend in the road. He exited the woods at that point.

  To his left he saw only darkness. To his right another cruiser stopped, its headlights also directed into the woods. The cops exited the vehicle. Burnett crossed the road and raced down a side street.

  I just might make it, he dared think. Exhaustion overcame him, and he slowed to a steady jog. He lowered his head. When he raised it, a police cruiser careened around the corner ahead.

  He dropped to the street and rolled to the curb. Uncertain whether or not they had seen him, he scrunched into the fetal position. Ahead of him sat a minivan. He crawled forward. The cruiser raced down the street. It passed him at the same moment he reached the minivan’s front bumper. He slammed his eyes shut and waited.

  When he opened them, the cruiser was gone. After thirty seconds he rolled out from beneath the minivan.

  With the helicopter’s rotors punctuating the perpetual wail of police sirens, Burnett clambered to his feet and trotted away from the woods.

  CHAPTER 38

  Emma stood at the edge of Dr. Stone’s driveway. Adrenaline surged through her nervous system. Her body trembled from the exhilaration of her narrow escapes from Desmond’s hit man and the police. Their narrow escapes. Surely Burnett had made it out of the woods and would soon rejoin her.

  One foot in the street and one on the driveway, she swiveled her head. The distant throb of the helicopter sought to convert exhilaration into dread. Each police siren triggered a skipped heartbeat. She cursed herself for leaving him, yet refused to believe he’d been caught. Too much was at stake. He would have found a way out.

  He could have been shot. No, don’t think that way.

  Burnett emerged from the darkness and trudged up to her. His chest heaved.

  Relief, mixed with exhaustion, nearly dropped her to the asphalt. Blood seeped from his elbow. His clothes were speckled with dirt and broken leaves. Several scratches marked his face. It didn’t matter. She threw her arms around him. “I was so afraid they’d caught you.”

  “Almost,” he said. “Almost.”

  They stood for a long minute holding each other, then she and Burnett started up the driveway. As they walked in silence, shoulder to shoulder, she tuned back into the adrenaline that still pulsated through her body. She was ashamed to admit how much she enjoyed the thrill of the chase; how alive she’d felt narrowly escaping capture; the indescribable relief she’d experienced when he’d arrived safely moments ago.

  She recalled his confidence in Desmond’s living room and how he’d orchestrated their escape from the house. She wondered if he’d had the plan all along or fashioned it spur of the moment. Either way, she accepted the fact that after two years, she didn’t really know him.

  A loud clank jolted her from her thoughts. He had unsuccessfully tried to raise the garage door. They exchanged a concerned glance. He made a second attempt to lift it, but it was locked. He took her hand, and led her to the side of the garage. Clasping his hand bumped her adrenaline up another rung. She’d never felt that way about him before. She’d never felt that way about anyone before. Was it the situation that magnified every emotion, or was there something about him she hadn’t previously noticed?

  At the back of the garage a door came into view in the dim light. Burnett tentatively reached out and grabbed the knob, but it didn’t turn. Disappointment elbowed in on her adrenaline. Stone didn’t want them here, and
he meant it.

  Burnett examined the lock. He tried the knob again, but of course it didn’t turn. After a brief pause he removed his wallet and plucked out a credit card.

  “Can’t use it for anything else,” he said.

  Sadness laced her smile as she watched him slide the credit card between the door and the garage wall. He brought it down over the spring latch and angled it behind. He drew the credit card forward. His first attempt failed.

  On his second try he lost his grip, and the card disappeared inside the garage. An intense desire to giggle overcame her. She clamped her hand over her mouth and managed to rein it in.

  What’s wrong with me? She knew if she stopped and thought about their situation, she’d be scared and depressed. She knew if she thought about the way she’d cried for hours the night Henri died she’d feel the same way. Instead, her hand was cupped over her lips stifling a giggle.

  Here she stood, twenty-two years old, the man she thought she would marry dead, her future in jeopardy, trying not to giggle like a thirteen-year-old. Just when she thought life couldn’t get any stranger, a solitary chuckle escaped her lips.

  “If we can’t get in, and the cops find that card,” Burnett said. He removed another credit card.

  “I know.”

  As he made one attempt after another to open the door with his second card, she tried to coax her mind into focusing on what they would do if they couldn’t get in. Of course her brain didn’t cooperate, and she fretted over the consequences should they be captured. She knew he would spend the rest of his life in jail. The thought frightened her so much her body shivered.

  When the shivering persisted, she realized a cold mist was the culprit. The temperature had dropped, and the water droplets chilled her as they dampened her clothes.

  After a dozen attempts with the second card, Burnett quit and hung his head. He fell against the shingles, and slid into a crouched position. She didn’t need to see his face to grasp his disappointment. There was little doubt he expected Dr. Stone to help them, despite his language.

  The mist graduated to a moderate drizzle. Emma scanned the dark back yard. The only structure visible, a small deck, jutted out from the kitchen.