Innocent Bystander

by Glenn Richards

  Something about the doorbell sounded peculiar. As he rushed into the hallway, he realized it was the back doorbell that had rung. Burnett. He had still heard nothing from Ryder, and nothing from the police about Burnett being captured.

  Desmond arrived at the rear door and peeled back the flower-painted curtain. There, in the dim moonlight, stood Michael Burnett. His student had returned sooner than expected.

  Greta’s gun, he noted, sat in the bottom left drawer of his desk, the perfect instrument with which to orchestrate a timely murder-suicide.

  He snapped the lock and pulled the door open. Burnett stood in the doorway, a determined look on his face. The young man took a single, silent step inside.

  Desmond poked his head outside, spotted no one else in the dark yard, and leaned back in. “And Miss Blankenship? Waiting somewhere with instructions to contact the police if you don’t return with Mr. Laroche’s computer? My fingerprints all over it. I must admit you’ve impressed me with your persistence.”

  Burnett said nothing.

  Desmond shut the door. “What makes you think I still have it? Even if I did, what makes you think I would happily hand it over to you?”

  “It’s time to end this,” he finally said. “Where’s the computer?”

  Before Desmond could manufacture a lie, the solution to several problems dawned on him: Give it to him. No one else knows I was ever in possession of it.

  Any DNA on the device would be easy to justify. Henri had brought the computer to his office and requested he preview an early draft. Greta would still have to disappear, much like De Stefano. The pictures she’d spoken of continued to breed anxiety. If they existed, it would no doubt cost him his marriage, but he could still claim Burnett had tried to frame him. It was far-fetched, but with luck it would not come to that.

  When he emerged from his thoughts, he saw Burnett leveling a Berretta.

  “Where is it?” Burnett said.

  “There’s no need for violence.”

  “Then get it.”

  Desmond guided him into his office.

  “There it is,” Desmond said, a finger directed at his desk.

  Burnett jogged to the side of the desk. He spun the computer around and appeared surprised to discover it turned on. The Beretta pointed at Desmond, his attention ping-ponged from the screen to the professor and back again.

  As Burnett pushed buttons on the keyboard, Desmond wondered what his reaction would be when he discovered the memory had been erased.

  He did not have to wonder long. Burnett’s gun-hand fell, and the Beretta’s handle banged the desk.

  “Why?” Burnett asked.

  “Why did I delete everything?” He did not feel compelled to reveal why he had emptied the computer’s memory. Burnett would soon be dead or in the hands of the police. Likely unaware of Henri’s incomplete works, even from a prison cell he would not be a bother, not like he could have been had Desmond published the time travel paper.

  “No,” Burnett said, and spun the computer so Desmond could view the screen. “Why did you delete everything except this?”

  The peculiar arrangement of numbers, letters, and symbols that formed the final equation of Henri Laroche’s time travel paper glowed on the screen.

  Desmond was certain he had deleted the entire paper; at least he was fairly certain. His success at lucid dreaming had offered him a glimpse of the equation’s significance. Perhaps he unconsciously could not bring himself to delete it.

  Staring at the equation, without the rest of the paper, granted it an other-worldly aura. The pixels that lit up the lines, curves, and angles shimmered and danced against the milky white background.

  “No,” Desmond said. He knew Burnett intended to delete it.

  “You know it’s the key,” Burnett said.

  “I didn’t.”

  Alone, the equation’s influence proved far more dramatic. Electricity charged the room. Desmond’s heart leaped. His sweat and salivary glands pumped with abandon.

  This changes everything. “Look at it. By itself. It has an almost hypnotic effect, don’t you think?”

  Burnett faced the screen.

  “A certain elegance.” He needed to convince his student not to delete it. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  “No one has. No one will.”

  “This is mathematical poetry.” He thought about leaping at him, but the young man turned to him. “You don’t have to grasp the full meaning of a poem to appreciate the poet’s genius. Sometimes only the author truly understands.”

  “Well, this author’s dead.”

  Or someone as brilliant. Regrettably, he knew no one of comparable genius.

  As he allowed the poetry of mathematics to work its magic on him, he understood: The rest of the paper merely suppressed the power of the equation. “Extraordinary.”

  “We’re not ready for this,” Burnett said, clearly affected as well.

  “If you mean the human race, I disagree.”

  “The dream.”

  “A warning. Nothing more. The future is not set. Now that we know, we can take steps to change it.”

  “It’s not worth the risk.”

  Burnett wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

  Desmond followed suit. “Who left you in charge of deciding what mankind is or is not ready for?” As he lowered his arm it momentarily blocked his view of the screen. For that half-second his elbow blocked the equation, its effect was negated.

  Now, as he gazed once again at the computer, his heart rate climbed and his glands kicked back into high gear. What the hell had Henri discovered?

  He felt flushed and lightheaded. He tried to look away, but could not. Like a hypnotist’s pocket watch, the equation dragged his attention in deeper and deeper.

  Moments from his life paraded before his mind’s eye:

  The time Henri had asked him to preview his paper. He caressed the first page between thumb and index finger, sensed the infinitesimal weight of the other four pages in his lap. He felt the thunderous awe of discovery … heard the buzz of overhead lights … savored the acidity of the orange juice he had been sipping.

  His first night with Audrey, her youthful flesh the antidote to the poison of mediocrity. The flavor of her lips—tangerine; the scent of her neck—wild strawberries. Her uneven breasts, magically firm yet soft beneath his fingertips. Her cackle, so grating it made nails on a chalkboard sound like Mozart.

  The publication of his first paper. A positive remark lifting his soul into heaven, a negative one hammering it down to hell.

  These were no mere memories. He was there, all five senses engaged and alive.

  Only Burnett’s leaning close to the computer drew him from his trance. He tried to speak, but no words came.

  With two quick jabs at the keyboard, his student obliterated the future.

  The electricity in the room now unplugged, his heart rate slowed. The furious pump of his glands subsided.

  What just happened?

  Rather than get upset, he sought to rationalize it. Perhaps it was for the best. He tried to conjure up the jail cell image. This time, however, it proved ineffective. The three papers he had printed from Henri’s computer sat meaningless beside the grandeur of the equation.

  He would get it back. No matter what it took, he would find a way to retrieve the equation.

  Burnett slammed down the computer screen, startling him.

  After a brief silence Desmond said, “I know you felt it. You cannot tell me you’ve ever experienced anything like that before.”

  Burnett shook off the statement. “I need to know something. If you had to re-create it, could you?”

  “What? Why?”

  “I need to know,” Burnett yelled, the Beretta trembling in his hand.

  “I don’t think so.” Portions of it remained clear in his mind, but even having viewed it again, there was no chance he could reproduce every element on paper.

  Burnett leaned into the side of the d
esk. “I should kill you right now, you lying son-of-a-bitch.”

  Desmond tried to read Burnett’s face. Sweat pooled and dripped down his cheek. He looked like a man on the verge of a breakdown. Was the equation still affecting him, or was it something else? Either way, it appeared possible his student intended to shoot him. “There’s no need for that.”

  “I just have one more question,” Burnett said. With the back of his gun hand, he wiped several beads of perspiration from his neck. He bit at his lower lip and winced. “How did you know where we were?”

  “What?”

  “How’d you know we were at Stone’s?”

  “What did you say?”

  “Who told you?”

  The dream was true. The dream was true. Henri’s paper had created more than a glimpse of the future, though he had no idea exactly what.

  And the equation is gone!

  “Tell me you have a copy hidden somewhere,” Desmond said.

  “I’m guessing you told Henri not to show it to anyone or make any copies. I’d never seen him so secretive about a paper.”

  No. No. No. With the equation gone, his access to the future had vanished with it. The next time he slept he could have seen what the future had in store and adjusted the present when he woke.

  His mind raced. He gradually brought it under control. Impulsive, emotional thinking—and actions—had contributed to his present crisis. Only careful, deliberate reasoning could rescue him.

  A great deal needed to be done. The most important item on the list was to locate someone who could restore the memory in Henri’s computer, if possible. He would then use the next dream to find out what the future held.

  Greta’s pistol waited in the bottom desk drawer less than five feet from where he stood.

  What if Emma discovered Burnett with Greta and killed them both in a jealous rage, then turned the gun on herself? The condition of the body would make that a tough sell. He could arrange the specifics once he knew the future. Everything could be corrected once he knew the mysteries of tomorrow.

  The biggest question mark was, was it really possible to restore the computer’s memory? If he could track down a computer-geek version of Henri Laroche, that person could resurrect the equation from the hard drive. If not, he would rewrite it the best he could from memory.

  Burnett had read the paper. He had seen it again moments ago. He would be uniquely qualified to help re-create it.

  His student hunched over the side of the desk. All color had drained from his face.

  Greta’s pistol was so close he could almost feel it in his hand. He shuffled six inches toward the desk. “Before you pull that trigger, let me ask you something.”

  “I’m not interested in answering any questions,” Burnett said. “All I want to know is what happened to you.”

  “You’re having the dream.”

  “Where’s the man who inspired my career path? The man I considered a father figure.”

  “You read the paper, the equation. You experienced what I just did.” He stepped closer to the back of the desk.

  “Screw the goddamn equation!” The Beretta shook violently. “Who are you? Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m still the same man you’ve known all along.”

  Burnett let out an agonized groan. “I couldn’t have been that wrong.”

  “Don’t misinterpret the dream.” He needed to get Burnett back on the topic of his choice.

  “Stop moving.” Burnett gnawed on his lower lip. “Yes, I’ve been having the damn dream.”

  Desmond smiled. He and his student now stood on opposite sides of the desk.

  “Henri wouldn’t show me the paper,” Burnett said. “First time he ever refused to let me read something he’d written.”

  “That is the future. But only one possible future.”

  Burnett did not react.

  “You knew that already,” Desmond said. “I don’t know how he did it, but our young friend created a portal to the future. Not by stepping through a doorway but simply by falling asleep. I would not have believed it if I had not experienced it. Just like I would not have believed what you and I just experienced.”

  “Why’d you erase it then? Most of it.”

  “Truth? I thought it would make the nightmares stop.” His right knee, now less than a foot from the pistol, brushed the side of the desk. It would take about three seconds, he estimated, to bend down, open the drawer, and remove the weapon. “I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks. From the look of you, I imagine you haven’t either.”

  “Yet you saved the key to the whole paper,” Burnett said, appearing distracted.

  “By accident.”

  Burnett had allowed the Beretta to drop. He appeared more conflicted about his next move than Desmond’s actions.

  “You killed him,” Burnett said. “You killed him for his paper.”

  “I only wanted to scare him. You know what he said to me?” He suppressed a powerful urge to pound his fist on the desk. “He called me a hack. Said I was not capable of grading his work.”

  “So he told you the truth.”

  He stuffed his emotions down. He hooked his left foot around the desk leg and placed it on top of the drawer handle. “There is another option. I didn’t see it before.”

  He paused to see if Burnett would react. His student did not.

  Desmond eased the bottom drawer open six inches with his foot. The pistol waited atop a stack of papers. “It’s not my fault Henri jumped. You have to believe that. As I said, I wanted to scare him. I wanted to upset him. I wanted to get back at him for what he had said.”

  “Very adult of you.”

  “I know you won’t believe it, but what if I told you there is still a way for both of us to get out of this without going to jail?”

  It surprised him when this failed to secure Burnett’s attention. His student seemed unconcerned about jail.

  Desmond chose his words carefully. “Hear me out. Together, we reconstruct Mr. Laroche’s paper the best we can.”

  A cynical laugh burst from Burnett’s lips.

  “We leave out the final equation. The paper is still impressive without it. Then we publish it in Henri’s name. He gets the credit he deserves.”

  “The equation is the paper. We both know that now. That’s why I can’t let you leave this room alive.”

  Desmond’s legs quivered. “You don’t mean that.”

  Burnett did not respond.

  “That’s not necessary,” Desmond said. “The most important thing right now is for all of us to come out of this with as little damage as possible.”

  “Including Henri?”

  “His death is a tragedy. Nothing can change that. Killing me and spending the rest of your life in prison will not bring him back.”

  Burnett’s expression remained unchanged. Desmond still hoped he had reached him.

  “There’s no need to kill me. Turn me over to the police. The paper is gone. The equation is gone. There’s no way I could rewrite it myself.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Burnett said, barely above a whisper.

  Desmond’s stomach muscles spasmed. “I can tell you and Ms. Blankenship have grown closer. You turn me over to the police, and the two of you can live happily ever after. There’s nothing I can do from a prison cell.”

  “We both know as long as you’re alive, you’re a threat to publish it.”

  Desmond glanced at the desk drawer again.

  “Get away from the desk,” Burnett said.

  “You’ll spend the rest of your life in jail.”

  “Back away from the desk.”

  “She’ll be with another man.”

  “Now!”

  Desmond dropped to the floor, the desk momentarily shielding him from Burnett. He dug Greta’s pistol from the drawer. As he withdrew his hand, Burnett kicked the drawer shut on his knuckles. He screamed and released the pistol. It teetered on top of the drawer, then fell, landing beside the des
k leg.

  Desmond reached for it with his free hand. Burnett booted the pistol across the room. It angled off a bookcase and slid into the closet.

  Burnett aimed the Beretta at the professor’s chest.

  What’s going on? This was not the Michael Burnett he had known for three years—prepared to shoot him, unconcerned about jail, and seemingly unconcerned about Miss Blankenship being with another man. There could be but one explanation. He had decided to sacrifice his own life, maybe even take his life, once he had finished his business here.

  Still wobbly, Burnett appeared more conflicted than ever. Perhaps he could not go through with it. Perhaps, but no guarantee.

  Desmond waited as Burnett again leaned against the desk. His student’s head dipped twice, as if his neck strained to support its weight. On the third dip, Desmond swung his arm and knocked the weapon from his grip. Burnett crashed against the desktop. The Beretta ricocheted off the wall and landed on the hardwood.

  Desmond sprang to his feet. Blood trickled down the back of his hand. He reached for the Beretta, but Burnett shouldered him to the floor.

  Burnett leapt for the gun. Desmond dragged him down by his ankles. His student landed ahead of him with a thud. Desmond crawled forward, but Burnett grabbed his shoulder. Both stretched for the gun. It lay inches beyond each one’s fingertips.

  Desmond clawed Burnett’s face. With a tremendous heave of his body, the professor lunged forward and snatched the Beretta.

  * * *

  Detective Mayweather steered his black sedan to the curb and parked behind an identical car near the street corner. He exited the vehicle and walked ahead. The driver of the second sedan lowered his window.

  “Hey, Jack,” the man in the driver’s seat said.

  Mayweather recognized him. Eldon Turner had been with the department for over twenty years.

  “Anyone pass by?” Mayweather asked.

  Turner shook his head. “I just took a walk ten minutes ago. Couple lights on. Saw him moving about.”

  “Farrow tell you to do that?”

  Turner didn’t reply, but his expression confirmed Mayweather’s assumption.

  “You think Burnett’s dumb enough to come back the same night?” Turner asked.