Without a word she patted his shoulder. She repositioned her outstretched hand before him, but he didn’t take it.
“You okay?” she asked.
He offered a frustrated nod. She clasped his hand and pulled him up.
“Over here,” she said, and they walked to the edge of the deck. Horizontal two-by-eights welcomed them at eye-level. Beneath the deck only blackness awaited them.
A damp, earthy odor filled her nostrils. Her clothes, now soaked, clung to her body.
They both ducked and reached underneath. Emma felt nothing, so she edged forward. Her outstretched hand met a soggy mound of what she hoped was dirt. She twisted her body and leaned against it. A moment later she sensed him do the same.
Cold raindrops trickled between the slatted wood floor above her. She and Burnett huddled close together.
* * *
Detective Mayweather stormed into Professor Desmond’s home, a uniformed cop in tow. “You check the entire house?” Mayweather asked.
“Yeah. He’s got a safe under his desk, but won’t let us peek inside.”
Mayweather stopped outside Desmond’s office. “Forensics finish getting prints?”
“Almost.”
“Tell Carlson to put a rush on it. I need to know who’s been in this house.”
Mayweather strode into Desmond’s office. The professor waited behind his desk.
“You have no right to search my home,” Desmond said.
“This house is a crime scene, Professor. That gives us the right to search wherever we need to find evidence.”
“That does not include looking in my safe.”
“You said Mr. Burnett entered your house through that window,” Mayweather said, motioning to the torn screen.
“So?”
“We have reason to believe he may have come here for more than just chit-chat.” He debated how much to reveal about Burnett’s interest in Henri Laroche’s computer. Too much and Desmond might become overly cautious; too little and he might not get as nervous as Mayweather would like.
“We feel Mr. Burnett is after something. Mr. Laroche’s computer disappeared from his residence the night of his death. It’s possible he believes you have it.”
“You mean it’s possible he planted it here. He told me his suspicions. How could I have the computer? I was in the city that night. Took the Metro-North right after my last class. I have half-a-dozen witnesses who will testify to that.”
“Half-a-dozen?” Mayweather said with mock surprise. “Wealthy guy like you rides the train?”
Desmond shrugged off the remark.
“There was a girl in Mr. Laroche’s apartment that night,” Mayweather said.
“The one you think Burnett killed.”
“The one who was found dead in his trunk.”
“What about her?”
“She could have taken it. Given it to someone.”
“Are you implying she gave it to me?”
“No.”
“Then why bring it up?”
Mayweather hadn’t gotten a rise out of him. He decided to change the course of their conversation. “How about you open the safe. If it’s not there, we can go on as if all of this never happened.”
“As I said, how do you know he didn’t plant it there? To incriminate me?”
Desmond sounded worried.
“If we find Mr. Burnett’s fingerprints on it,” Mayweather said, “but not yours, then that would all but prove he planted it.”
Desmond nodded hesitantly, then stopped. “He could have easily found the combination. I have another safe at the university. I have both combinations written down—hidden of course—in my office there.”
Now Desmond sounded uncomfortable. Mayweather felt confident he would find the computer inside. Exactly what he would do afterwards, he felt less certain about.
Desmond knelt in front of the safe. He dialed in the combination, grabbed the handle, and opened the door. Mayweather peered inside. His heart sank when he discovered it contained only a half-dozen files and what appeared to be a safe deposit key.
Burnett lied. Desmond could have hidden the computer elsewhere, of course. At that moment it didn’t seem as likely as it would have earlier.
Mayweather tried to regroup. “Were you here alone when Burnett showed up?”
“No apology?”
“Not for doing my job.”
“Yes, I was alone.”
“Your wife?”
“At her sister’s across town. Call her or ask her when she gets home.”
Mayweather shut the safe. “That won’t be necessary. I appreciate your cooperation.” He had a final question for Desmond.
“Was there something else?” Desmond asked.
The professor’s tone, confident, bordering on cocky, provoked Mayweather’s desire to punch the man’s lights out. “Dr. De Stefano is still missing. His wife’s extremely upset. She’s convinced something’s happened. What do you think?”
“I hope not. He had some rather sizable gambling debts. Please don’t tell his wife. She doesn’t know.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“Two reasons. It’s not something he’s proud of, not something I want people, especially his wife, to find out about. And I don’t know if it has anything to do with why he’s missing.”
“I thought you only had a ‘professional, courteous relationship.’ How do you know things his wife and other people don’t?”
“I overheard him tell Dean Marshall. He’d asked for a raise to help cover some of his debt.”
At a loss as to how to proceed, Mayweather fell against the desk. Desmond had an answer for every question, and his faith in Burnett ebbed with each reply.
Farrow entered the office. “Carlson’s done in the living room.” He faced Desmond. “We’ll be out of your hair in just a few minutes.”
“I appreciate that, Detective. But I do not appreciate being treated like a suspect.”
Farrow returned Desmond’s glare with a puzzled expression.
“Looking inside my safe? Burnett never touched it. He was in this room less than a minute. I was here when he came in. There was no need to look inside. I have private, highly personal information there. And looking for some computer that I could be hiding. I was not informed that was part of your investigation.”
Mayweather recognized instantly that he’d been granted access to the safe only so Desmond could whine about it afterward. If the professor was indeed the architect of this crime, gathering evidence against him would now be next to impossible.
There was no need for him to glance over his shoulder. He could feel Farrow’s eyes drill into the side of his head. There would be no way to justify his actions. His faith in Burnett, which had absorbed multiple hits this evening, had now landed him in trouble.
“I understand your need to search my home for clues, and I believe I have been more than accommodating. But if I am a suspect in this investigation, please let me know so I may contact my lawyer. If not, I would appreciate my privacy respected.”
“That is not part of our investigation,” Farrow said. “Nor are you a person of interest. And on behalf of the department, I apologize for this unwarranted intrusion into your privacy.”
Farrow stepped into the hallway. When Mayweather didn’t immediately follow, he shot him an angry look. Mayweather, still concocting a defense, caught his partner’s glare and hustled out.
CHAPTER 39
“Why have you done this to us?” The chorus of voices, bitter and malevolent, demanded an answer.
“I didn’t do anything,” Burnett protested.
His denial further infuriated the souls behind the query. “Why? Why have you done this to us?” The question grew deafening in his ears.
The charred remains of Los Angeles spread out to the horizon in every direction. The people, the cars, the buildings, and the endless rows of palm trees had vanished in seconds.
In the distance, the giganti
c mushroom cloud billowed toward the heavens. A peculiarity in the light and dark shadows caught his attention. Within the churning caldron he witnessed the shadows morph into the shape of Henri’s final, mysterious equation. The clouds swirled and roiled, but the equation remained stationary.
He gaped at it, spellbound by its awe-inspiring power. Still, its meaning eluded him. Nothing existed with which to compare it. To Burnett, it bordered on nonsensical.
However, its influence was undeniable. The unique, bizarre combination of numbers, letters, and shapes pulsed as if alive. It almost felt as if the thing was calling to him.
“Why?” The voices shouted from behind.
He barely heard. The equation commanded his full attention.
“Why?” The chorus refused to be ignored.
Hypnotized by the equation, he could neither speak nor move.
The disembodied voices surrounding him cried out in unison, determined to be heard. Soon the volume became unbearable. Pressure inside his head expanded, like some terrible beast clawing its way through his skull.
Just when he thought he could no longer stand it, his body shook. The scorched rubble of the City of Angels faded. Blackness enveloped him while an unbearable fear, compounded by extreme cold, engulfed him.
I failed. I couldn’t stop the world’s destruction. As the cold suffused his being and fear swelled to terror, his strict Catholic upbringing advised him there was only one thing left to do—pray.
His mind scoured its depths for the perfect prayer. Before he could locate one, or create one for the moment, he felt his body being shaken.
“You okay?” a soothing female voice asked.
Inside the blackness he noticed a diffuse light. With every ounce of energy he could summon, he concentrated on it. When it came into focus he recognized it as a porch light. Someone grabbed his arm and shook him again.
“Hey, you still with me?” the female voice asked. This time he recognized it as Emma’s.
In an instant it all came back to him. They were hiding from the police behind Dr. Stone’s house. “Yeah,” he said, with no conviction.
“Thank God.”
Her voice sounded distant, his responsibility for humanity’s fate near.
The rain had stopped, but his damp shirt stung in the chilly wind that had whipped up. His legs, now numb, begged to regain some feeling.
Although he now knew where he was, the horror of the nightmare lingered. He feared he might be losing touch with reality. What if the “dream” was real and the crisis with Desmond a dream? What if I’m already responsible for the deaths of countless millions?
Something inside insisted his dream hadn’t happened, yet he remained unsure how certain he could be. His knowledge of physics reminded him that time and reality were ninety-nine percent subjective.
The astonishing sight of Henri’s equation, stationary within the mushroom cloud’s swirling shadows, appeared in his mind. Though he’d endured the nightmare numerous times, he’d never noticed this. Had the dream changed, or had he simply missed it before?
“Bad dream?” Emma asked.
Burnett nodded without thinking. Then he realized she probably couldn’t see his nod in the dark.
The time had come. He needed to tell her about the dream. It no longer mattered if she thought he was crazy or losing his mind. If he continued to keep it to himself, he would lose his mind. “You know how Henri had been having that dream, and Audrey claimed to know all about it because she was from the future,” he said, not as a question but a statement.
“Of course. Why was he so reluctant to tell me about it?”
“Probably for the same reason I’ve been. For the past six nights I’ve had the same dream. Nightmare would be a more appropriate word.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I wish I could. Henri refused to let me read his paper. Wouldn’t even tell me the subject. But once he told me about his nightmare, I had to read it. When I got to the bottom of the last page I felt a jolt of energy surge through me. Like I’d stuck my finger in a light socket. I can’t explain it. But that night I had the same dream. And every night since.”
She remained silent beside him. He assumed she had no clue how to respond. That was okay since he had nothing further to add.
At least he’d told her, and that alone provided enormous relief. One of the heavier weights trying to drown him had been cast off.
His thoughts returned to Henri’s paper, the final equation in particular, and he tried to imagine what his friend had uncovered. Burnett suspected it was during or after one of his visits to the East Village that he’d written the paper, and more important, conceived the equation. In such a fertile environment there was no telling what kinds of ideas might have been bandied about. He needed to know more about what went on when Henri spent a weekend in Manhattan.
He pressed his memory in an attempt to recall whether Henri had ever mentioned anything specific about his visits to the city; something that might explain the strange nightmare or the stranger shock he felt. The harder he tried to force his memory to cooperate, the more it rebelled. The only response his brain offered was the onset of a retaliatory migraine.
Perhaps Henri had told Emma.
“I wish I knew what you were thinking,” Burnett said.
“I don’t know what to think.”
“I don’t know what to either. But I need to find out what the hell’s going on. One more reason I have to get a hold of Henri’s laptop. Somehow there’s a connection between the paper he was working on and the dreams.”
“How is that possible?” she asked.
“I have no idea. But I need to ask you something. What do you know about the trips Henri took to the East Village?”
Emma responded with a long, frustrated sigh. “He became obsessed with that. He told me he was only going once a month, but I know he went more often. Especially the last few weekends.”
“I know he met with some people. Do you know what they talked about? Who he met with?”
She waited a long time before answering. “He wanted to join this group, some super-exclusive, high IQ group. I think they’re called the Meta Society or Mega Society. Something like that. They literally accept only one person in a million. One of the guys he met with was a member. I think Henri took the test and just missed getting in. You know how he was with tests.”
Burnett arched a knowing eyebrow.
“Anyway, he was devastated at not getting in. He was determined to prove them wrong. I think that was a driving force behind his paper as much as passing the class. I also thought it was the reason he didn’t want anyone to read it.”
“So he wanted to blow everyone’s mind,” he said.
“Sounds like maybe he did.”
“I know they discussed some pretty exotic stuff.”
“Weird stuff,” she said. Once again she paused before continuing. “He told me once they spent an entire weekend figuring out the odds of the earth being swallowed by a black hole. Crazy things like that.”
“How many of them were there?”
“Four in all. One was a Nobel Prize nominee. I think he went to Yale. Another was a professor from Brown. I can’t remember the third one.”
Burnett’s mind raced. The Nobel Prize nominee was probably Lawrence Eggelson. He’d been nominated for his work in astrophysics when he was the department chairman at Columbia.
Henri had applied to Columbia, but aside from math and physics, his grades were mediocre.
Last Burnett had heard, Eggelson was living in the Upper East Side, though it was rumored he was now a recluse. Perhaps Henri had convinced him to catch the 6 train down to the village once a month.
Burnett couldn’t imagine who the professor from Brown was, but knew of his friend’s long-standing fascination with Ivy League schools.
He leaned forward. “With that kind of brainpower helping him, it’s no surprise he came up with something extraordinary.” He leaned back, disappo
inted. “Still doesn’t explain the reactions he and I had.”
“What would?” she asked.
He tried to assemble the pieces, but too many were missing. Henri and his colleagues had discussed exotic subjects like black holes. No doubt they debated a topic like time travel as well. Four geniuses seated around a table, at least one as eccentric as Henri. There was probably no fear of ridicule; all four freely spoke their minds. It was his private think tank in the middle of the East Village.
The first hint of awareness twitched across the base of his brain. It rose higher and higher. Intuitively he understood, yet at that instant he couldn’t verbalize it.
His pulse hastened. Had Henri done it? If so, he hadn’t been the first.
Years ago Burnett had been leafing through a dog-eared copy of Nature. In an interview, Edward Whitten, the distinguished theoretical physicist at the Institute for Advanced Study, a man who’d been awarded every honor the field has to offer except the Nobel prize, expressed his belief that string theory was twenty-first-century physics uncovered in the twentieth.
Like many radical new ideas, it encountered considerable resistance early in its life. Only after decades of scrutiny had it been granted a degree of mainstream acceptance.
Had Henri done the same thing? What if, as a result of one of his East Village meetings, he stumbled upon something not meant to be discovered for decades or more; something the rest of the world had not yet even imagined; a twenty-second-century concept uncovered in the twenty-first?
“What would explain it?” Emma asked for what was probably the fourth time. She touched him on the shoulder.
Burnett decided he’d shocked her enough for one night. Besides, he wasn’t a hundred percent sold on his theory. At that moment his previous suspicion seemed more likely, that his “dream” was real and his crisis with Desmond a dream. “I don’t know.”
“I thought I’d lost you there again.”
Burnett responded with an ironic chuckle.
“So how do we find out what’s going on?” Emma asked.
“I honestly don’t know,” he said, uncertain how else to respond. Then he spoke the next thought that entered his mind. “But it sure seems like someone or something is trying to tell me something.”
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