Innocent Bystander

by Glenn Richards

  There must be another way.

  There wasn’t. Desmond had to die, and he had to be the one to do it. It was the only way to ensure the equation would never find its way into print or onto a computer screen.

  I could hire someone to kill him.

  But what if the guy didn’t follow through, or tried to kill Desmond but only winged him? What if he turned out to be an undercover cop? Too much uncertainty accompanied hiring someone to do the job.

  The rage bubbling beneath the numbness mushroomed like that goddamn cloud in that goddamn nightmare. Though in truth, rage didn’t even begin to convey what he felt. He searched for the perfect word to describe what lurked below the numbness, but nothing did it justice.

  Whatever churned deep inside him could not be allowed to surface. Should it breach the mental barrier he’d erected, it would surely consume him, and he would cease to exist, at least as the person he now knew.

  His S6 vibrated. Reflex had conditioned him to reach for it, but neither his mind nor body cooperated. His brain, navigating a minefield of madness no psychic could have predicted, had locked. On the fourth vibration he jerked his arm down. He checked the number; Detective Mayweather’s cell phone. Not Henri’s computer, please.

  “Mayweather,” he mumbled to Emma.

  “Maybe he found it,” she said, the hope and expectation in her voice a welcome, though now misguided, replacement to the doom.

  He lifted the phone to his ear. “Yes.”

  “Mr. Burnett, this is Detective Mayweather.”

  The detective sounded all business. “What is it, Detective?” Burnett asked.

  “I’m calling to urge you to turn yourself in.”

  Mayweather’s unemotional delivery concerned him. Though he’d voiced the same request last night, his flat tone transformed the words into something far more menacing.

  Burnett closed his eyes and bit his lip. “You didn’t find Henri’s computer?” The question felt odd and jostled his suppressed rage.

  “Professor Desmond is not in possession of Mr. Laroche’s computer,” Mayweather said.

  Thank God.

  “Nor is he a person of interest in this case,” Mayweather added.

  Something was wrong. While Mayweather had done everything possible to arrest him earlier, Burnett hadn’t expected a call unless he’d recovered the computer.

  “I urge you again to turn yourself in,” Mayweather said.

  What the hell’s he doing?

  “If not for your sake,” the detective continued, “for Ms. Blankenship’s. She’s the innocent one here. Don’t drag her down any further.”

  Suddenly the clues converged, and it felt like someone whacked him in the gut with a lead pipe. He clicked off the smartphone.

  “What happened?” Emma asked. “Did they search the whole house?”

  “That’s not the problem.”

  “What is?”

  He stared into the glow of his phone. The bombshells were exploding too fast. He had no time to respond to one before the next one fell. “I think they found a way to trace the call.”

  * * *

  Mayweather paced across the cramped computer room. Crowhurst sat at the terminal, Farrow slanted over his shoulder.

  Mayweather refused to give in to guilt. He’d given Burnett a chance, risked his career to aid him. It didn’t help. The man would be caught if he didn’t leave town immediately.

  “What have you got?” Farrow demanded.

  “I gotta meet this guy,” Crowhurst said. “Whatever he did to the phone is damned impressive.” His fingers danced across the computer keyboard like a concert pianist. Half-a-dozen rings glinted in the bright room. “But not as impressive as me,” he added, almost as though talking to Burnett.

  “Well?” Farrow asked.

  Crowhurst rubbed his hands together and bounced in his seat, a thirty-five-year-old kid unable to keep still. He fingered his beard, then tapped a key. His bounce rate slowed. After his head dropped he turned sheepishly to Mayweather. “I don’t suppose you could call him back.”

  “Where is he?” Farrow demanded.

  Crowhurst directed their attention to a map on the forty-six-inch computer monitor. “Got it down to about three square miles.” He motioned to the map.

  “Best you can do?”

  “I don’t know what the hell he did to that phone,” Crowhurst said, “but I had trouble just getting a tower.”

  Farrow squinted at the screen, making no attempt to mask his frustration. “I want the names of everyone who lives in that area. And I want to know any relationship they might have to Mr. Burnett or Ms. Blankenship.”

  CHAPTER 43

  A chilly wind freshened as Burnett clasped Emma’s hand and pulled her up beside Dr. Stone’s deck. After he’d massaged cramps from both his legs—his body felt like it had been jammed beneath that deck for a week—he steered her around the side of Stone’s colonial. A light from the front corner bedroom surprised him. It was nearly midnight, and to his knowledge Stone had never been a night owl.

  Voices emanated from the room. He couldn’t determine who’d spoken or what they’d said, but the tone, angry and argumentative, at least on one side of the exchange, stopped him. Attempting to see more, he retreated two steps. Shadows flitting across the ceiling were all he could glimpse.

  A muffled thud, as though someone or something had crashed to the floor, followed by a scream, drove Emma closer to him. The discussion inside turned heated.

  Torn between his new mission and his desire to help the man who’d given them shelter, he leaned away from the house.

  “They need our help,” Emma said.

  “I … can’t.”

  She stared at him, her features falling in the dim light. “Maybe I was wrong about you.”

  Before he could fabricate a reply, she raced across the lawn. Like a man moving in slow motion he reached for her, but by the time his palms met she’d stopped on the front porch. She flung open the door and disappeared inside.

  All that matters now is the suicide mission. Not a literal suicide, perhaps, but the death of any meaningful future that might have awaited him.

  A woman’s agonized cry burst through the front corner window. Emma? Stone’s wife?

  He turned to the street, but some invisible force—not indecision, he’d swear to that—barred his first step.

  Countless people will die if you don’t kill Desmond.

  Burnett ignored his mind’s warning and plodded to the front door.

  Millions of innocent people.

  The heavy wooden door groaned in the breeze. With his left hand he silenced it.

  It would be an incalculable mistake to enter the house, he knew that, yet he could not stop himself. He also knew what was going on inside. How Desmond had discovered their location, however, he couldn’t fathom. That question required an answer.

  Besides, Emma and Dr. Stone’s family dying at the hands of this killer was not a part of his new plan. He reasoned that whatever force had not permitted him to leave knew something he didn’t. Perhaps Stone or Emma had a vital role to play in the future.

  All this rationalization only served to shroud the obvious truth—it was an unconscious response to her revelation.

  He peered inside, but saw no one in the dark foyer. “Emma?” he whispered. No reply. He entered the house. A creak at the top of the stairs froze him. Emma? Desmond’s hit man?

  When he saw no movement at the crest of the staircase, he placed his shoe on the first step and began a slow, upward creep. His trepidation rose with each step.

  Without a sound he arrived at the top. His left hand clenching the bannister, he leaned forward and spotted Stone’s wife and daughter balled up and shaking on the corner of the master bed.

  “Let me call an ambulance,” Stone said from inside the room.

  Burnett firmed his grip on the handrail and stretched farther around the corner. Stone’s son kneeled beside the master bed. Blood streamed from his mouth, a
nd it appeared his jaw had been dislocated. Emma was nowhere in sight.

  “Tell me where,” Ryder said.

  No reply came.

  Burnett strained to distinguish anything in the dark hallway. He twisted left, but saw only blackness. When he turned back to the master bedroom, the cold steel of a Beretta greeted his forehead.

  “Get in here,” Ryder said. “Where is she?”

  “We got separated.” He stepped into the bedroom.

  “You’re not a good liar, are you?”

  Burnett didn’t reply. He was busy attempting the impossible—to assess the magnitude of his blunder.

  “You’re gonna make this more difficult than it needs to be, aren’t you?” Ryder aimed the Beretta at Burnett’s chest. He faced Stone. “You and your family stay here ’til I come for you.” He nodded, as if indicating he wanted Stone to respond in kind.

  “What about an ambulance for my son?” Stone asked.

  “When he gets the jaw set, he’ll be fine,” Ryder said. “He might talk funny for a while.”

  A soft creak from the attic elevated six chins. An edgy silence rolled through the room.

  “Separated?” Ryder said.

  Burnett couldn’t gauge how much the sound had distracted him. The hit man glanced up at the ceiling twice, but kept his gun level.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing up there?” Ryder asked, momentarily raising the Beretta.

  Burnett’s eyes scanned the room.

  “Looking for an alarm to hit?” Ryder said. “Not this time, son.” He waved Burnett over. “C’mere.”

  Burnett hesitated, then strode over. Ryder shoved the Beretta into his back.

  “Get down here or I kill him right now,” Ryder said pleasantly, his head tilted back. “Then I shoot these nice people in front of their children. And it’ll be on your conscience.”

  Ryder rammed the Beretta hard into Burnett’s spine.

  “Tell her to get her ass down here,” Ryder said.

  Burnett said nothing.

  Ryder’s gaze bounced from Stone to Stone’s wife to their daughter.

  “No,” Stone’s wife screamed.

  Not a sound came from the attic.

  “If you’re up there,” Ryder said with a quick glance upward, “you are one crazy bitch. I’ll be back for you.”

  Stone’s son climbed onto the master bed, cupped his ear with his left hand, and whimpered.

  “I only take out targets I’m paid to,” Ryder said. He appeared to be addressing Stone’s wife. “But you say one word about me or what happened here tonight, I’ll find you. Understand?”

  Ryder didn’t wait for a reply. He thrust the Beretta into Burnett’s back again, harder this time. “My car’s outside.”

  The attic floorboards creaked a second time.

  Stone’s son fell off the bed, struck the floor with a thud, and thrashed about.

  The Beretta retracted from Burnett’s back. He spun and grabbed Ryder’s gun-hand. The weapon discharged as he shoved it away. The window behind him shattered. A sharp pain stung his left shoulder.

  Stone scrambled across the bed and tackled Ryder.

  Burnett reached for the Beretta, tried to tear it from Ryder’s hand. A searing pain shot down his arm. He released the weapon and clutched his shoulder. Blood trickled through his fingers.

  “Get out of here,” Stone yelled to his wife and kids. “Call the police. Get an ambulance.”

  Mrs. Stone wrapped an arm around her son and hurried him into the hallway. Her daughter followed on her heels.

  Burnett removed his hand. Blood oozed through the tiny hole in his shirt.

  Stone wrestled Ryder to the floor. Burnett yanked the Beretta from the hit man’s grip with his right hand. It spun across the carpet and disappeared into the hallway.

  Burnett raced into the hall and retrieved the weapon. When he returned, Ryder had risen to his feet with Stone in a headlock.

  “Toss it over or I snap his neck,” Ryder said.

  Burnett applied pressure to his shoulder and grimaced. Emma materialized beside him.

  “Where were you?” he asked.

  “Just went to call an ambulance.”

  He answered her matter-of-fact look with a quizzical one.

  “You’re hurt,” she said, and touched his shoulder.

  “Just nicked it. I’ll be all right.”

  She caressed the area around his wound. His forehead wrinkled as her fingers found a tender spot.

  “Uh, the gun,” Ryder said.

  “I’ll bring it over,” Emma said.

  “What?” Burnett asked.

  “I’ll take the gun to him.” She lifted the Beretta from his open palm and took two steps toward Ryder.

  “Stop,” Ryder said.

  Emma complied. She offered the weapon in her outstretched hands.

  “Just slide it over,” Ryder said.

  “Or?” she asked.

  “I told you, I’ll break his neck.”

  She studied the hold Ryder had on Stone, then tossed the Beretta back to Burnett.

  “You crazy?” Ryder asked.

  “You can’t break someone’s neck with that hold,” she said.

  Ryder stared at her like she’d lost her mind.

  “You could probably cause unconsciousness,” she said, “but that’s it.” Less than six feet separated them.

  Ryder shook his head with near comic disbelief. “You really are one crazy bitch.”

  “Who was the girl who showed up at Henri Laroche’s apartment?” Emma asked.

  “No idea,” Ryder said.

  “Did you put her up to it or Professor Desmond?”

  “No idea.”

  “You killed her and put her in the trunk of his car?”

  He replied by shoving Stone at her. Caught off guard, she crashed to the floor.

  Ryder leapt at Burnett. He knocked the Beretta from Burnett’s hand. Both men hit the floor. The gun kicked off the wall and tumbled down the stairs. As they clambered to their feet, Emma rushed up behind Ryder. She wrapped her right arm around his neck.

  “This is how you hold someone if you want to snap their neck,” she said.

  Ryder struggled in vain to free himself. Each time he reached back to grab her, she tightened her grip and his body went limp.

  Burnett raced down the stairs and returned, Beretta in hand. “Now what?”

  “Before the police arrive,” she said, “he’ll tell us exactly what’s going on.”

  When Ryder scoffed at the suggestion, Emma tightened her grip.

  * * *

  Mayweather squirmed in the passenger seat as Farrow guided the sedan down a winding but well-lit street. Five minutes earlier they’d left the parking lot and now patrolled the area highlighted by the computer.

  Mayweather had changed his tone and altered his speech in hope Burnett would realize their attempt to trace the call. If he had not gotten the message, his run would soon end.

  A female voice crackled through the sedan’s radio. Mayweather grabbed the microphone. “Go ahead.”

  “Got a 911 from—”

  “Give it to someone else,” Farrow barked.

  “Thirty-three Ardsley,” the woman continued. “Shots fired. A Dr. Thaddeus Stone lives there. According to Crowhurst, he’s a professor at SUNY.”

  Farrow’s eyes sparkled.

  “An ambulance is responding as well,” the woman said.

  “Tell them lights, no sirens,” Farrow said.

  Shots fired? Perhaps Dr. Stone had no interest in Burnett’s company.

  Mayweather glanced at the map on the screen. They were six blocks away. Soon he would have answers.

  * * *

  Ryder sat on the edge of Dr. Stone’s bed, his ankles and wrists bound with packing tape.

  “He’s not gonna tell us anything,” Burnett said. He knew the police couldn’t be far.

  Emma kneeled beside Ryder and wrapped her arm strategically around his neck. “Last chance t
o clear your conscience.”

  The man didn’t speak.

  “The ambulance will be here soon,” Burnett said. “The cops sooner.”

  Emma tightened her grip and Ryder slumped to the floor. Burnett draped his good arm over her shoulder, led her across the room and to the staircase. Before they could take a step, the front door flung open. They scurried back into Stone’s bedroom.

  Burnett steered her to the nearest window. He noted the fifteen- to twenty-foot drop. The next window, beside the bed, opened to the garage roof. He raised the screen, stepped through, then guided Emma out.

  The roof’s thirty-degree slope tested their balance. He clutched her hand, and they stutter-stepped to the edge. A ten-foot plunge to the lawn awaited them.

  He kneeled and, fingers clenched around a metal gutter, heaved his body over the side. His momentum ripped the gutter from the house. He let go and smacked the lawn, driving his left elbow into the grass. With a muffled, agonized yell, he vaulted to his feet.

  For an instant he considered leaving her, but he had a task for her, one he might not be able to accomplish himself.

  She squatted at the edge of the roof. After a brief hesitation she leapt off. She landed in Burnett’s arms. He grimaced as they slammed into the ground.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I think so,” she said as they both popped up. She wiped a patch of dirt from her sleeve.

  A black sedan sat in front of Stone’s house. He took her hand and they charged across the street.

  CHAPTER 44

  Detective Mayweather led Dr. Stone into the master bedroom. Farrow stood over Ryder, who was seated once again on the bed.

  “He claims,” Mayweather said, motioning to Dr. Stone, “Burnett left ten minutes ago.”

  “That right?” Farrow asked. He glanced at the open window beside the bed.

  Mayweather shared his partner’s doubt. He’d noticed movement at the top of the stairs when the two of them entered the house.

  A pair of uniformed cops marched into the room. Ryder stood, and the cops clasped his arms, one on each side. Handcuffs now replaced the packing tape, and the hired killer gave them a defiant jiggle.

  Farrow removed his cell phone. “We just missed him,” he said into the phone. “Tell all units to start within a block of the house and spiral outward.” He looked at Dr. Stone and clicked off the phone. “What happened here?”