Innocent Bystander

by Glenn Richards

  “Something?” Emma said, emphasizing each word. “You’re starting to scare me.”

  “This is no ordinary dream,” he said. The person to talk to was Desmond. Burnett needed to know whether he’d had the same reaction to the paper and the equation.

  “Talk to me,” Emma said. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “Sometimes I’m not even sure I’m really here.” He hadn’t intended to say it; it simply slipped past his defenses.

  “What?”

  “How do I know this isn’t the dream? Maybe I survived the nuclear holocaust I caused, and now I’m dreaming about the past.”

  “How?” Emma said with an oddly flat tone. “I’ll show you how.” She kissed him on the mouth; not a long kiss, maybe three or four seconds.

  After she pulled away, he licked his lips and tasted her strawberry lip gloss. The exquisite sensations of those three or four seconds returned. He clenched the moment like a drowning swimmer clenches a life raft.

  The most beautiful woman he’d ever met had just kissed him. For two years he’d watched Henri treat her poorly more than he treated her well—disappearing into the city, not showing up for dates, not being there when she’d needed him. Burnett had kept his envy stuffed down deep for a long time.

  Then, like a demon vomited up from his unconscious, came the question: Did she kiss me just to make a point? Emma, the woman he’d pretended to have no interest in beyond friendship, had just kissed him, and he couldn’t determine if she’d been motivated by passion or something more dispassionate.

  The moment was over. The fate of the world once again forced its way center stage. A heaviness filled his body, heavier and darker than before.

  CHAPTER 40

  The ICBM arced overhead and entranced Desmond, as it did every night. He twisted his head and watched the missile descend upon Central Park. A brilliant flash engulfed the city.

  That was the trigger he had created to awaken inside his dream. As the mushroom cloud surged skyward, and the torrent of debris swept outward, he realized he was dreaming. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, he raised his hands and the effects of the blast curved away from the financial district. A moment later the cloud vanished.

  All became still. He floated a thousand feet above the remains of central Manhattan, and wondered what in God’s name was going on. Every night the ICBM, the mushroom cloud, the devastation, and every night the disembodied voices blaming him for the horror. How could a paper on time travel cause such destruction?

  Perhaps he felt a hint of guilt about placing his name on Henri’s paper; maybe a smidge more guilt about the young man’s unfortunate decision to jump from his balcony. He understood. His unconscious had taken on the dream because he had a conscience.

  “Why the exact same dream every night, though?” He posed the question as if speaking to another person. A moment later he regretted asking when the familiar chorus chimed in, “Why have you done this to us?”

  “I’ve done nothing,” he said. Despite his protests, the refrain, as always, grew louder and more animated. Soon it reached a level he could not tolerate. He had arrived at the moment in the dream where he would normally awaken. He clenched his teeth and waited. This time he did not awaken.

  He slid past the point where he felt his skull would burst. His objections only intensified the pain. The accusations echoed like cracks of thunder inside his head. Unable to endure the agony one second longer, he screamed, “Stop!”

  Silence ensued.

  “What is going on? I have never heard of dreams like this, not even lucid dreams. I don’t know what this is, but it would be nice if I could get something a little more useful from it. Could I find out how well my paper will be received?”

  He turned and realized he now stood before a podium. A brilliant spotlight forced him to squint. Hundreds of people crowded the hall. He searched their faces and recognized many of his fellow instructors from the university seated in the first few rows.

  It could only mean one thing. His paper had impressed the right people, and he had received a prestigious award. He glanced down to check the notes for his acceptance speech.

  The final page of the time travel paper rested on the podium beneath the microphone. At the bottom of the page, the mysterious equation, highlighted in bold type, called to him.

  He looked up and noticed the crowd’s attention not on him, but on a spot high above his head. Behind him, an enormous screen displayed the equation two hundred feet across.

  When his gaze fell back to the podium, he realized the other four pages of the paper were missing. He searched the floor around him and beneath the podium, but they were nowhere to be found.

  “Why have you done this to us?” three hundred people boomed in unison. “Why have you done this to us?” The words reverberated through the hall.

  “I did nothing,” he replied out of habit. He shut his eyes. When he opened them, the audience had swelled to thousands.

  “Why have you done this to us?” the crowd bellowed.

  “Stop!” Desmond demanded, and the audience fell silent. “How about someone telling me where Burnett is hiding.”

  No one spoke. As he formulated a follow-up question, Dr. Stone, who had been seated in the second row, stood and cleared his throat.

  “Why?” Stone asked.

  Desmond waited for more, but his colleague remained silent.

  “Do you know where Burnett is?” Desmond asked.

  “Why?” Stone repeated.

  Desmond stared at him, plagued by uncertainty. Why was Stone the only one standing? Why was he the only one who had spoken?

  He knows. More than that, he is hiding Burnett.

  Before he could question Stone further, he awoke. This time there was no need to survey the room to orient himself. He knew where he was and, despite his lack of sleep, felt sharp. Beside him rested an empty pillow. How he wished he could share his excitement with someone.

  Was it just a dream? His recurring nightmare had proved anything but ordinary. Since reading the time travel paper, it felt like something had taken ahold of his mind while he slept and dragged it through the same horrible episode every night. Could that same ‘something’ have bestowed Burnett’s location upon him?

  He recognized the absurdity of the question. While he suspected the human mind was capable of far more than most realized, he did not subscribe to any of that psychic drivel like remote viewing or clairvoyance. Awake or asleep, it made no difference—some things were simply not possible.

  Yet he could not escape the gnawing suspicion that he had been provided valuable information. In two ways it made sense. Burnett was in one of Stone’s classes. And Stone was the kind of bleeding heart who would offer help, even if it meant placing his family at risk.

  Burnett remained the primary obstacle to his aspirations. Although Ryder would probably kill him just for disturbing him again, never mind what he would do if Burnett was not there, he decided to take a gamble.

  He snatched the phone from its cradle on the nightstand and punched in Ryder’s number. The man answered on the first ring. Caught off guard, Desmond could think of nothing to say.

  “Better be calling to apologize for that fiasco you put me through last night,” Ryder said.

  Technically it is still the same night. “I know where Burnett and the girl are hiding. Less than two miles from here. A professor from the school.”

  “How the hell do you know this?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Ryder spouted a string of profanities and hung up.

  Desmond stared at the phone, then lowered it to the bed. An astounding, if bizarre, opportunity had presented itself, and if Burnett really was there, he didn’t want to pass it up. The phone rang. He raised it to his ear.

  “What’s the address?” Ryder asked.

  “33 Ardsley Place. Right here in—”

  “If he ain’t there, I’ll kill you instead. And charge your wife for the hit.”


  Before he could reply, a dial tone buzzed in the handset. He staggered into the bathroom, turned on the cold water, and splashed some across his face. Then he gazed at his reflection: What have you done?

  * * *

  At 11:45 p.m. Detective Mayweather stepped from the black sedan. Farrow exited the driver’s side and slammed the door. The police station parking lot was well-lit but quiet at this hour.

  Mayweather had informed his partner of his conversations with Burnett, but had chosen to reveal few details. He’d emphasized repeatedly how he’d encouraged Burnett to turn himself in. Much to his regret, he’d also mentioned how Henri Laroche had tinkered with Burnett’s phone, enabling him to use it with anonymity.

  Farrow had barely spoken during the ride from Desmond’s home. A couple of questions, uttered with annoyance and frustration, were all he’d asked. Mayweather had gotten the impression his partner was more disappointed in him than angry, like a father scolding his son when he knew the child should have known better.

  From the route they’d followed, Mayweather knew their destination long before they arrived. He also knew the reason for their return to the station at this hour.

  Farrow strode around the sedan and stood beside him.

  “You’re going to call him back, and we’re going to find out where he’s hiding,” Farrow said. “Or at least as close as we can get.”

  He despised Farrow’s condescending tone. Since there was little he could do about it, he swallowed his anger.

  “We’ll see to it your name shows up on his caller ID,” his partner added. “That’ll encourage him to answer.”

  A silver Prius lurched into the parking lot and stopped alongside them. The acoustic guitar of Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song” carried through the closed windows.

  Benton Crowhurst exited the vehicle. He stifled a yawn and, elbows resting on the roof, gazed at Farrow.

  “Sorry to drag you out of bed,” Farrow said.

  “Eh, sleep is overrated anyway,” Crowhurst said. He scratched his scraggly salt-and-pepper beard and walked toward the station. Mayweather and Farrow jogged a couple of steps and caught up with him.

  “Some new information’s come to our attention,” Farrow said. “Burnett’s still using his phone, but he’s done something to make himself invisible. How close can you get to his location if we make a connection?”

  “Depends on a bunch a factors,” Crowhurst replied. “First and foremost is what he’s done to the thing. If he’s invisible, he must have disabled the GPS system. At the very least I can tell you what tower’s being used.”

  “How much time will you need, once a connection’s established?”

  “Again, depends. Since I don’t know what he’s done, I can’t tell you much ’til you engage the call. If you want more than a tower, I may need a minute.”

  Farrow turned to his partner. “Can you keep him talking that long?”

  He’d given Burnett his chance. He’d risked getting suspended, or worse, on more than one occasion. The time had come for Burnett to take care of himself. “Yes.”

  * * *

  Knees drawn up to her chest, and fingers interlaced above her ankles, Emma pushed against the mound of soggy dirt. Burnett fidgeted beside her. Her mind, a pinball in the dark, bounced between his dream revelation, her kiss, and their dire situation.

  From seemingly nowhere, an extraordinary thought jumped into her head: Henri’s paper is the key, and I might have a copy.

  Ten days ago he’d handed her a flash drive and insisted, almost demanded, she take good care of it. He’d claimed it contained music and videos, which it did, but there were more files, none of which she’d opened.

  Now she realized he’d probably placed a copy of his paper on it for safekeeping. Perhaps he’d hoped she would read it. Perhaps he feared something might happen to him, and he wanted her to have a copy.

  “I think I have a copy of Henri’s paper,” she said.

  “What?”

  After she recounted the story of how Henri had given her the flash drive, he agreed it probably contained his paper.

  “Where is it now?” he asked.

  “My parents’ house.”

  “We’ll need to get it later. It’ll help prove Henri was the author of the paper.”

  Burnett shifted his position and they huddled together, struggling to keep warm. She recalled again the moment she’d chosen to risk everything to find the truth; the very instant she’d decided to hire Mr. Frank to locate him. At that time her primary concern had been what had driven Henri to take his life.

  The time she’d spent on the run, though, had been nothing like she’d expected. And should that run end badly, both of them would go to jail for a long time. Her dreams of saving the planet would be over. Her hopes for a career and family finished.

  As her teeth chattered from the damp chill, a troubling thought tugged her in yet another direction. Detective Mayweather hadn’t contacted them. He should have found the computer by now.

  Desmond had no doubt gotten rid of it, just as she’d suspected. There would probably be no way to trace it back to him even if it was found.

  Her body grew heavy. She could sense her face drop.

  Beneath her gloom waited a startling discovery. The adrenaline she’d felt earlier still pulsed through her system; not anywhere near the level from before, but undeniably there. And it was tied to the man who sat beside her in the dark.

  With Henri, she’d never experienced the degree of exhilaration she’d felt earlier. Granted, they’d never been dropped into a situation like this, but their relationship had never known a genuine spark.

  Had things become too predictable? Too familiar? Whatever it was, she recognized that the relationship had gone stale and she’d been oblivious to it.

  The man you planned to marry just took his life, and you dismiss him like that? The “little” voice inside her head had long been hard on her, often reminding her that she was ugly and that men flocked to her only because she came from money. It often insisted she was too dumb to ever graduate from college. She readied a rational, convincing argument—as she had done countless times before—but stopped short of unleashing it. From experience she’d learned not to get drawn into an unwinnable fight.

  She knew her feelings for Burnett were irrational. That knowledge changed nothing. He’d filled the void left by Henri’s death. With him, she’d shared an adventure unlike any she could have envisioned. In twenty-four hours she’d discovered a part of herself she never dreamed existed, laughed when she believed she would never again, giggled like a child when all hope appeared gone, and come to realize a man she’d known for years was nothing like she’d imagined.

  They had little time. They had no future. She held him tighter. The instant of relief this action granted was soon replaced by a feeling of depression so dark, so deep, so vast, she felt powerless to resist it.

  CHAPTER 41

  Desmond rushed down the dark hallway, a phone clenched in his right hand. He punched in the first three digits of Ryder’s cell phone, hesitated, then deleted them. Ryder was a professional who would do the job, he knew that, but only if they were there.

  Too soon, he reminded himself. Too soon. The man had, no doubt, not even arrived yet.

  The doorbell chimed. Perhaps a cop had stopped by to make certain Burnett had not returned. He strode to the front door, each step filling his soul with more dread. The situation had spiraled beyond his control. Should he be unable to regain control, his dream of greatness would remain just that.

  He arrived at the door, leaned in, and peered through the peephole. A young girl stood there. Fourteen, maybe fifteen, she bore a striking resemblance to Audrey. He realized she must be the girl he had glimpsed in his yard the previous night.

  Desmond flicked the porch light on, then stood motionless. The obvious questions—who, what, and why—kept his hand from the doorknob. After thirty seconds, all three questions remained not only unanswered, b
ut beyond an educated guess.

  At last he opened the door. “What can I do for you? It’s rather late.”

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  The last thing he needed was for someone to find him with a teenage girl in his house at this hour. “Can I ask why?”

  “I need to talk to you. Just for a minute.”

  “You can’t do that right here?”

  She shook her head.

  Desmond stood behind the open door. She glanced side to side, then stepped in. He eased the door closed.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Greta,” she said. She sauntered into the kitchen.

  He followed her.

  “It’s not my real name, though,” she added.

  “I see.”

  She stood with her back to him, then wheeled around. “I was thinking of changing it. What name do you like?”

  He was about to end their conversation and usher her out, when she opened her mouth.

  “I like the name Audrey.”

  Must be a friend of Audrey’s. Probably another hooker. But how could she know about him? He never told her his real name; never revealed where he lived. “That’s a lovely name, too.”

  “Don’t play games. I know all about you.” She shuffled forward, and stroked his zipper with her right index finger. “All about you.”

  Every muscle in his body tightened. He stepped back. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  She laughed. “I know everything you like, everything you don’t.” She smiled mischievously. “You see, Audrey was my best friend.”

  “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Why?” She approached him, stood on her toes, and rubbed her chest against his.

  He retreated a step. “What is it you want?”

  “What makes this big ol’ world go round, Professor?” she asked, emphasizing the word “professor” with a disdain not unlike Henri had done in his office.

  “You tell me?”

  “Money.”

  “Money?” he repeated, incredulously.