Innocent Bystander

by Glenn Richards

  “He,” Stone said, with a nod to Ryder, “said he was here to kill Mr. Burnett and Ms. Blankenship. When we told him they weren’t here, he threatened us.”

  “But they were here,” Farrow said.

  “I didn’t know at first.”

  Farrow’s skeptical stare had become a permanent facial feature.

  “I admit I allowed them to stay the other night. But I insisted they not come back.”

  “And you,” Farrow said to Ryder. “Who are you and how did you know Burnett was here?”

  “He doesn’t have anything on him,” a uniformed cop said. “No ID, no wallet, nothing.”

  “Why were you trying to kill them?” Farrow asked.

  “I don’t know what any of you are talking about,” Ryder said. “I was out for a walk. I have a touch of Alzheimer’s, you know. I was looking for my house. I needed help. Their front door was unlocked.”

  Stone shook his head.

  “I thought I’d ask if they could help me,” Ryder said. “They freaked out and hit me and bound me with tape.”

  “And how did the boy get hurt?” Mayweather asked.

  “I had to defend myself,” Ryder said.

  “Thirteen-year-olds are pretty tough, huh?” Mayweather said.

  “Look,” Farrow said, a fresh coat of incredulity on his face, “you got no ID, you’re not cooperating, and you’re being accused of attempted murder. You want to try again? Since you got no identification, let’s start with your name.”

  Ryder, who’d lowered his head, lifted it and spat in Farrow’s face.

  “Charming.” Farrow dug a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the saliva dripping from his nose and collar. He deposited the handkerchief in the nearest trash can. “You know Burnett? Someone put you up to this? Audrey Lansing was your daughter? What?”

  “Look, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about or who any of these people are,” Ryder said. “I don’t even own a gun. Don’t think I’d know how to fire one if I did.”

  “He has one,” Stone said. “It went off, nicked Burnett’s shoulder. Shattered that window behind you, too.”

  Farrow glanced at the window, then at the two cops flanking Ryder. Both shook their heads, indicating no weapon had been found.

  Mayweather, meanwhile, was busy overthinking answers to his own question: Where would Burnett head? He and Emma likely had no safe place to go. Burnett probably knew they were on to him, yet risked capture, even death, to aid Stone’s family. Truly he was the man of high moral character Mayweather had hoped. He knew he’d put Stone’s family in danger and wouldn’t repeat that mistake.

  They might stay at a motel if they had enough cash, but if not, he’d be forced to make a difficult decision—leave town or go back and try for the computer again. An injury, depending on the severity, could further motivate him to take immediate action.

  The more he considered it, the more convinced he became Burnett would return for the computer. Time was not his ally and, if he left town, it would only increase the likelihood of getting caught. Plus, with Desmond’s hit man now out of the equation, he’d believe he stood a greater chance of success.

  CHAPTER 45

  Burnett jogged at a moderate, steady pace. The breeze, combined with a cool mist wafting up from the pavement, soothed him. Though he’d traveled three quarters of a mile from Dr. Stone’s house, he didn’t feel tired, nor did he sense any soreness in his legs. The pain in his shoulder and the ache from his elbow had vanished. In fact, he had little awareness of his body.

  Countless thoughts sought to possess his mind, and he strove to keep the nonessential ones at bay.

  He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know who to turn to. At that moment, the echoing thump of his footfalls the only external stimulus, he felt like a puppet, a slave at the mercy of a higher force that had none.

  This is a dream. It had to be a dream. And he would find a way to wake up; no matter what it took, he would find a way to wake up.

  A glance over his right shoulder revealed Emma keeping pace ten feet back. He stopped along the side of the road. She caught up and came to a rest beside him.

  “What are we waiting for?” she asked.

  “I need a break,” he said.

  “We don’t have time. They’ll find us.”

  He massaged his wounded shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I forgot. How is it?”

  “Aches a bit.”

  She placed her hand above his, and helped him rub the shoulder. The sensation of her fingers on the back of his hand triggered myriad emotions, many of them contradictory.

  “I need you to do something for me,” he said. “I need you to get Henri’s memory stick.”

  “Are you joking?”

  He grabbed her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. The conflicting emotions sought to overwhelm him. He had no choice but to shove them down. “You need to listen carefully. And don’t ask any questions. Can you do that?”

  She said nothing.

  “I need you to get the memory stick, and I need you to destroy it.”

  “What?”

  “Crush it. Burn it. Make sure there’s nothing left.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you not to ask any questions.”

  “Well, this makes no sense.”

  “I need you to do it anyway.”

  “I won’t leave you.”

  “You were right. You don’t know me.”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “I’m telling you to go. I don’t want your help. Truth is, you’re holding me back.”

  Emma hung her head. “You hear what I said under Dr. Stone’s deck?”

  “As you said, we don’t have time.”

  She lifted her chin. “Did you hear what I said?”

  He knew she couldn’t let it go, and braced himself for the biggest lie he’d ever voiced. “I’m flattered. Honestly. But I’m not interested in that kind of relationship.” He clenched his body to keep from exploding. “Go.”

  She stood a foot from him, expressionless. He waited for a reaction, but she would not oblige.

  “I need you to do what I asked,” he said. “So we can both stay out of jail.”

  Emma didn’t speak, nor did she move. The blank look on her face remained unchanged.

  The wail of a police siren, which his mind had begun to filter out as background noise, startled him. “I have to go.” Yet he couldn’t leave without some response from her. “At least tell me what you’re thinking.”

  She stood silent and motionless, a mannequin in the dark.

  He backed away.

  She did not follow.

  His hand drifted over the piece of cold steel stuffed into the back of his pants. If this was indeed a dream, his unconscious had arranged a way for him to eliminate Desmond. If this was real, whatever force wouldn’t permit him to leave without helping Stone had arranged it.

  Dream or reality, once Desmond was dead he would use the Beretta to end this unending nightmare.

  CHAPTER 46

  Standing in the master bedroom of Dr. Stone’s home, Mayweather leaned toward the hallway. Farrow ceased his questions and faced him.

  “Burnett’s headed back to Desmond’s house,” Mayweather said.

  “He’s avoided getting caught by being smart,” Farrow said. “And lucky.”

  “He’s convinced Desmond has his friend’s computer.”

  “And you believe it, too.”

  Farrow’s remark, more a statement than a question, convinced him the time had come to tell his partner the truth. “Burnett told me Desmond had hired someone to eliminate him and Ms. Blankenship.” He motioned to Ryder.

  “Anything else you haven’t told me?”

  Mayweather considered his next words. “Burnett could have run. He stayed to help.”

  Now it was Farrow who remained silent. He glanced at Ryder, then stared at one of the uniformed cops. “Get what you can from him. I’ll—�
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  “Let me go alone,” Mayweather said. “He trusts me.”

  Farrow’s wrinkled brow shouted his displeasure. “Turner and McGinley are down the street. Tell them to get inside that house. I’ll get what I can out of him.”

  “That might spook him. Let me take care of it.”

  Farrow dipped his head into the palms of his hands. His fingers covered his eyes. “Go.” He lifted his head. “Until I know what happened here, and who this clown is, Burnett still tops the list.”

  * * *

  Desmond stood at the end of the hallway, a bottle of bleach clamped in his left hand, and surveyed the living room. He had wrapped Greta’s body in the throw rug, slid all the furniture against the walls, and scrubbed the floor with bleach. Now he had to dispose of the corpse.

  It struck him what a daunting task laid ahead. Not only would he have to dump the body somewhere it would never be found, he had to make certain no one saw him in the process.

  There were additional concerns—did she really have more compromising pictures of him, who had them, and who else knew about them?

  With Audrey, he knew she had run away from home years ago so no family members were likely to come looking for her. Greta, conversely, was a complete unknown. For all he knew, she could have been a high school cheerleader who turned tricks for spending cash.

  Still no word from Ryder. No doubt the dream had been just that, a dream; nothing supernatural about it. My need to locate Burnett led me to imagine an answer, and I was foolish enough to mistake it for the truth.

  Now, if Ryder was true to his word, he would come after him. At least my wife can afford to pay.

  He marveled at the bizarre thoughts his unconscious occasionally coughed up.

  Relax and be objective. Maybe it’s not as bad as I think. All these are unknowns right now.

  Detective Mayweather could prove a serious problem. He had expected to find Henri’s computer in the safe. It was obvious he had been in contact with Burnett.

  The bottle of bleach slipped from his hand and splashed on the floor beside him. He did not notice.

  I will never be able to publish the paper.

  He recognized that the moment Mayweather had demanded access to the safe, his place in history had vanished. He had simply chosen not to see it. Einstein, Newton, and Copernicus would remain unaccompanied at the table of immortals, the chosen few who had peeled back the blanket of mystery shrouding the physical world.

  Desmond crumpled to the floor. Everything that had given his life meaning had been wiped out in an instant. He cursed fate. He cursed Henri. He cursed Audrey. He cursed Burnett.

  Then, with no one left to blame, he cursed himself. Rage had interfered with his vision. Rage had prevented him from doing the sensible thing, the most conservative thing, the right thing. Rather than instructing Ryder to kill Henri and dispose of the body, he had needed to make his young student suffer. Henri had humiliated him, and his fury would not permit that to go unpunished.

  All that matters now is not going to prison, a little voice from the depths of his unconscious reminded him.

  No simple task, he responded.

  He would have to erase all of Henri’s work from the computer. A trace of vomit climbed his throat and settled in the back of his mouth. He shut his eyes and swallowed it. The hint of half-digested swordfish lingered on his tongue.

  He eased his pain by re-committing to print several of Henri’s unfinished works. Most were nothing more than a jumble of ideas on a page or two. None had the potential to alter mankind’s view of the universe, but they did have the potential to make him look good in the eyes of his colleagues.

  He accepted that he’d have to maintain a low profile for some time, far longer than he would prefer, but the possibility of emerging from this virtually unscathed still existed. No longer would he permit himself to be ruled by his passions.

  Greta’s bloodied mop of hair, protruding from the throw rug, reminded him of the task’s impossibility. Too many pieces had to fall into place. The challenge was too great.

  He ran through a list of countries that had no extradition treaty with the United States. He tried to recall whether he knew anyone from those countries. Surely his wife did. She had family or friends in almost every civilized nation on the planet.

  That would be admitting guilt, chimed in a rational voice. There is no need for that. Plan out each job the way you would present a difficult chapter to your students, one step at a time.

  Humbled by the lucidity of his inner counsel, he conceived such a plan:

  First, dispose of both the computer and the body.

  Second, convince Ryder not to follow through on his threat. No easy chore, but there had to be a way.

  Then, eliminate Burnett and Emma, and make it appear a murder-suicide, as Ryder had recommended. They would surely return for the computer. He and Burnett knew it was the only piece of evidence that could link him to the paper.

  All these were feasible; none would be simple.

  The pictures Greta had attempted to blackmail him with remained a concern. All he could do was pray she had been bluffing.

  To emerge unscathed would be impossible, he accepted that, but emerge he would.

  CHAPTER 47

  Having encountered the same unmarked police car at the end of Hamilton Road, Burnett had once again circled the block and approached Desmond’s house from the south.

  He paused at a bend in the road. On the far side of that bend, just beyond a slight rise, lay the sprawling ranch. With Emma nowhere in sight, he lifted his shirt, reached back, and slipped the Beretta from his pants. Moving forward again, he gripped it in his right hand. He was struck by its weight. In his palm he clutched a formidable weapon.

  He reached the top of the rise and neared the driveway. A dark Ford sedan sat diagonally across the street. He stopped between a pair of streetlamps.

  A chilly wind at his back, he darted between two houses and into the woods behind Desmond’s home. He found it difficult to believe he’d been here just hours before. In a subtle, yet still profound way, the grounds seemed different. In reality, it was the circumstances that had changed. He refused to leave the house until both Desmond and the equation no longer existed.

  He still didn’t know if he could execute the professor in cold blood. He recalled how he’d long considered the man a father figure. Had Desmond’s support been an illusion?

  His right temple throbbed. Not now, he pleaded. The last thing he needed was a migraine.

  He stopped at the edge of the woods behind the ranch. Lights glowed in several rooms. The cold wind rustled the leaves. His shirt, still damp, clung to his arms.

  I wonder how Emma’s doing.

  The last thing he needed was a distraction, but his brain refused to cooperate. Her confession had resonated with his feelings; his lie had sparked dissonance.

  If he told her the truth, he doubted she would believe him. If he knew the truth, he doubted he would believe it.

  It didn’t matter. In a short time, both he and Desmond would be in body bags.

  Michael Burnett thrust his mind into neutral. He knew what had to be done. No further debate was necessary, and no further deliberation was needed. He stuffed the Beretta into his pants and took the first step of a hike across the spacious yard.

  * * *

  Professor Desmond stood behind his desk. Three of Henri’s unfinished works sat in the printer tray. He scooped them up and deposited them in the safe beside the desk.

  He had deleted everything from the computer’s memory except the time travel paper. Although he planned to smash the computer into pieces, and dispose of each piece in a separate location, he thought it prudent to erase every file in the event someone managed to locate all the parts.

  Would that be sufficient? Specialists existed, he suspected, with the skill to restore a computer’s memory even after all the information had been deleted and the hardware damaged. Scattering the pieces in Long Island Sound wo
uld have been his first choice. Regrettably, numerous episodes of seasickness had convinced him to sell his boat.

  Each time he extended his index finger to erase the paper, the same set of muscles retracted it. Once he tapped the button, once he purged it from the Recycle Bin, he knew of no sure way to recover it. There was no possibility he could re-create the paper. Certain portions he could reproduce, but not the entire five pages.

  To erase it would be a crime against science. As a life-long man of science, it proved more difficult than he had anticipated to strike the delete key.

  He shut his eyes, covered his face with his left hand, and located the delete button with his right index finger. Still, he could not bring himself to press it. He could not, fully sober, erase the greatest scientific paper he had ever read, arguably the greatest piece written in the last century.

  An image of himself seated in a prison cell appeared in his mind’s eye. To spend the remainder of his life behind bars, in addition to not publishing the paper, was a pain more excruciating than he could bear. He focused on the image and all the anguish it produced.

  He tapped the delete key. When he opened his eyes, his brilliant young student’s discovery had vanished from the screen. His place in history had vanished as well. To his surprise, a tremendous weight lifted from his shoulders.

  Beyond that, it had a clarifying effect on his thinking. He recognized that from the moment he had slammed De Stefano’s face against the glove compartment, he no longer had any possibility of publishing the paper. He had been blinded by obsession and undone by rage. An acute lack of sleep had clouded his judgment as well.

  The first step had been taken toward disentangling himself from the mess that had been created. If only Audrey had listened to my instructions. If only she had followed the simplest of directions.

  He had no desire to trudge down that mental path again. The situation existed, and he had to extricate himself from it. The next two steps involved disposing of Greta’s body and the computer.

  The doorbell rang. He jumped back. The police? The body still lay in the living room wrapped in a throw rug.