“He killed Mayweather,” Emma said. “I know it.”
“Maybe not.”
Gunfire erupted in the yard. Mr. Frank screamed.
A moment later footsteps pounded the hallway.
“What have you done?” Desmond’s rage-filled voice demanded.
Burnett’s vision clouded. The pain between his ears surging, he sought to make sense of something, anything. Who could guarantee that if he risked a step forward the floor would not give way?
Hurling his doubts aside, he ripped the lamp from the desk and flung it against the wall. The room plunged into darkness. He grabbed Emma’s trembling hand—or was it his hand that trembled?—and dragged her to the window. He tore the curtains from the wall, then hoisted the window.
Behind him, the office door shuddered as Desmond struggled to unlock it.
“Hurry,” Burnett said. He helped her through the window.
Desmond kicked open the door. Light spilled into the office. He leveled the Beretta.
Emma tumbled into a low shrub. She jumped to her feet just outside the window.
A ceiling light flickered on. Desmond aimed the Beretta at her. “Stop!”
Burnett leaned in front of the window frame to shield her. A deafening gunshot echoed in his ears. The force of the bullet thrust him against the window sill. His world shifted into slow-motion.
Emma screamed and reached through the window.
“Run,” he said. His legs, now rubber, failed him.
“What about you?”
“Just run.”
Pain rivaling his worst migraine flooded his lower back. Fire ripped through his gut. He reached back and covered the entrance wound. Warm liquid soaked his hand.
“Hang in there,” she yelled. “I’ll get help.”
Emma vanished from view.
He shut his eyes and braced for the inevitable. Hopefully he would not be judged too harshly for his failure. I just could not kill a human being, he would declare, even to save the lives of millions.
It surprised him how straightforward the answer turned out to be. In a moment of lucidity, it occurred to him that the actual question had been, ‘Would you kill one innocent person to save a million?’ He’d been unable to kill one guilty person, a man responsible for at least two deaths. If that made him weak, so be it. At this point, little could be done to change that perception.
The physical pain eased, and for that he felt grateful. An excruciating longing soon replaced gratitude. Never would he have the opportunity to tell Emma his true feelings.
His thoughts began to drift. Since he no longer possessed the strength to direct them, he didn’t bother to try. The longing faded and a blissful peace enveloped him. It felt so beautiful he hoped it would last forever.
CHAPTER 49
Burnett awoke to someone shaking him. A face stared at him from above. At first he couldn’t determine who it was, but soon Desmond’s features sharpened.
Burnett’s clouded gaze toured the ranch’s foyer. The professor supported his body, and they waited beside the front door.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Desmond said. “Your final act will be to get me out of here.”
Burnett felt himself float in and out of consciousness. It took little time to conclude floating out felt better. Desmond shook him and he came to.
“The police are here,” the professor said.
Burnett’s head pounded. His eyes rebelled against the brightness of the foyer. A full-blown migraine blurred his senses.
Down the hall he spotted Mayweather’s lifeless body splayed across the floor. The nausea returned. He tried to vomit but couldn’t muster the strength.
A cop outside shouted through a bullhorn, demanding everyone exit the house immediately with their hands on top of their heads.
“You have to let them know you’re still alive,” Desmond said. He nudged the front door open.
Half-a-dozen cops had taken up position in the yard, two in the driveway, one on the side of the house, three on the lawn. The two in the driveway retreated behind cruisers. The three on the lawn withdrew behind trees.
Desmond dragged Burnett onto the porch.
“Lower your weapon,” a voice called out from beside a tree.
“I want every man to place his gun on the ground and kick it away,” Desmond said. He maneuvered Burnett down the porch steps. The entire time he kept the Beretta dug into his student’s temple.
From behind the protection of his cruiser, Farrow said, “Time to end this. We know about you. We know about your connection to Ryder.”
Desmond’s eyes flicked from one police cruiser to another. The engine of the second-nearest cruiser hummed. He dragged Burnett toward it. Halfway there, he paused to shore up his grip on his hostage. “I said I want everyone to drop their weapons.”
Several cops made an exaggerated show of placing their guns on the ground.
“I want a clear path to LaGuardia,” Desmond said. “Not another police car in sight.” He pressed on to the unoccupied cruiser ten feet away.
“Where can you go?” Farrow asked. “Your name and picture will be everywhere tomorrow.”
They were three steps from the cruiser. Burnett understood that if he got into the vehicle, he would die. Worse, Desmond might get away and discover a means to re-create the equation. His failure would cost the entire world.
He tried to reach for the Beretta, but couldn’t summon the strength. His muscles and organs had begun to shut down.
A cop appeared at the side of the house. Desmond spun Burnett around, then spun back to face Farrow.
“Everyone move back,” Desmond said. “And I want these police cars out of the driveway.”
“And what will you do for us?” Farrow asked.
“Now!” Desmond smacked the Beretta against the side of Burnett’s forehead. The two of them stopped alongside the cruiser. A thump behind them made Desmond jump. He twisted his head.
Two cops inched closer. Desmond jerked Burnett to his left to better shield himself.
“Stop,” Desmond said. He fumbled with the door handle. At last he yanked open the door. He poured Burnett into the cruiser’s passenger seat.
With the Beretta aimed at Burnett’s forehead, he shut the door. He shuffled around the front of the cruiser, the barrel’s aim never leaving Burnett’s hairline.
“You can end this now,” Farrow said.
Desmond arrived at the driver’s door without responding. He stepped in and shifted the cruiser into reverse with his left hand.
He backed the cruiser across his lawn and into the driveway. Again he used his left hand to shove the gearshift into drive.
The cruiser tore into the street. Desmond rested the Beretta between his legs and clenched the wheel with both hands.
Burnett made one final attempt to muster the strength to fight back. His body continued to shut down, and he knew he would soon be powerless. From deep inside he marshaled forces he didn’t know he had, forces that may not have existed forty-eight hours ago. Somehow, through the pain and fog, he willed himself to raise his arms. He fell to his left and gripped the steering wheel.
On the verge of unconsciousness, he tugged on the wheel as Desmond fought to remove his hands. The cruiser skidded off the road and slammed into a hundred-year-old oak tree.
Burnett, who’d been thrown against the windshield, lay in a heap on the seat. The peace near-unconsciousness had brought was now replaced with a new pain between his ears, a pain that surpassed the worst migraine. A warm, familiar liquid seeped into his eyes and trickled into his mouth.
Desmond lifted his head. He massaged his chest and groaned. Scooping the Beretta off the floor, he yanked on the door handle. The door was jammed shut. He crawled through the open window.
Burnett vaguely sensed Desmond wrench open the passenger door, then his body rose. There was a moment of silence and stillness.
The last thing he heard was a gunshot.
* * *
Squatting behin
d a shrub at the edge of Desmond’s property, Emma watched the professor tumble on top of Burnett. She screamed, uncertain who’d fired their weapon and who’d been struck. Two cops pounced on Desmond and dragged him off Burnett. They dropped him to the ground. Neither man moved.
She charged toward them. Rage and fear shook her body. Never had she felt anything like it before. Desmond had already taken so much from her.
Farrow arrived and turned to a cop who’d knelt beside Burnett. “How is he?”
“He’s still alive,” the man said. “Barely.”
Emma bowed her head and fought back the tears. “Will he make it?”
Farrow took her palm and guided it over to Burnett’s. “Hold his hand.”
Her fingers now interlaced with his, she squeezed as tightly as she could. She had hoped to hold off until she was alone to cry, but the flood overwhelmed her defenses.
Farrow stood. He jogged across the street. A uniformed cop raced over and intercepted him. Emma turned to them. The cop’s grim expression struck her. She knew what it meant.
“Mayweather?” Farrow asked.
“I’m sorry,” the cop said, his eyes downcast.
“You sure?”
The cop nodded and accompanied Farrow down the street.
Desmond lay motionless on the ground less than ten feet from her. Uncertain whether he was dead or alive, she half-hoped he was alive so she could kill him herself. Her martial arts training had taught her half-a-dozen ways to kill a man. She recited the list and envisioned which would be the slowest and most painful.
He’d killed Henri. He’d killed Detective Mayweather. And now Burnett was barely hanging on. As she glared at Desmond, his leg twitched. It required every ounce of self-restraint she possessed not to storm over and make sure he died in the yard. To acknowledge she was capable of such a thing horrified her. She turned back to Burnett and squeezed his hand again.
An ambulance arrived, and two EMTs exited the back with a stretcher. One EMT covered Burnett’s wounds while the other connected him to an IV. They gingerly lifted him onto a stretcher and rolled him into the back of the ambulance. She still clasped his hand as the doors closed.
CHAPTER 50
A muted light illuminated Burnett’s hospital room. Machines flashed and beeped as they monitored his bodily functions. Eighteen hours earlier, doctors had successfully removed a bullet and two fragments that had lodged near his stomach wall. Despite a great deal of lost blood and his critical condition when he’d arrived, Burnett had made what one doctor called an astonishing recovery. He’d further added, unnecessarily she thought, that he would have died had the ambulance arrived five minutes later.
His body shuddered from time to time, and she assumed he was having the dream. She didn’t know if his dream was a vision of the future or simply a nightmare. She didn’t know whether Henri had written a paper that would one day enable mankind to travel through time, but at that moment she wished very much she could turn back the clock.
She wished she could undo the scene on the street when she’d spoken so harshly to her father. Too many sentiments had been voiced in the heat of the moment—sentiments one would like to take back, but can’t.
She wished she could undo the moment in Mr. Frank’s office when she’d injured him to obtain the phone number where Burnett was hiding. He had double-crossed her, but it had been drilled into her head from day one that her martial arts skills were only to be used defensively.
Most of all she wished she could go back and prevent Henri from leaping off his balcony. He had a rare gift, and his death was a tragedy—not just for her, but for all humanity.
At that moment her mind posed a question so frightening she refused to answer. The question surfaced again and she tried, unsuccessfully, to force it from her head. The question demanded a reply.
She knew, without hesitation, that given the opportunity, she would return and save him. But what if she went back without the awareness she had gained since? Would she be willing to spend her life married to the wrong person?
Despite her best mental defenses, an answer wormed its way into her brain. It made her feel selfish, mean, and unworthy. She chose not to believe it. It didn’t matter anyway. She couldn’t go back, she couldn’t change the past, and time would proceed forward from this point.
Burnett’s body spasmed again. She gazed at him and hoped what she felt was genuine, and not merely a product of the adventure they’d shared.
It was tragic that Henri had to die for her to realize she’d been in the wrong relationship. Would she have married him if he hadn’t jumped? Probably. Would she have been unhappy the rest of her life? Possibly.
Since that scenario no longer existed, she allowed the thought to drift from her brain. The guilt floated away with it. The past couldn’t be changed; the present and the future could. Henri Laroche would always hold a special place in her heart, but Michael Burnett now held a more important spot.
As she struggled to grasp the significance of it all, the door to the room opened. Her father stood inside the door frame.
Neither of them moved.
There were a million things she wanted to say, a million things she needed to say, a million things she didn’t know how to say.
Her father rushed into the room and enclosed her in a bear hug. Knowing him to be a man of contradictions, she waited for him to step back and slap her face. He didn’t, and instead continued to hold her in silence.
* * *
Burnett awoke from his medicinally assisted sleep about midday and took in his surroundings. From his slightly inclined position, he could see only a small portion of the room. The TV high up on the wall was off, yet he heard voices.
He tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.
“Here, try this,” said a beautiful, familiar voice. A moment later Emma’s face slid into view in front of the TV.
She placed a device that felt like a remote control into his right hand, then she guided his index finger to the correct button. Gradually the bed inclined to a forty-five degree angle.
His father, seated in a wheelchair, the helmet still covering much of his head, rolled up to the bedrail. Dr. Stone stood at the foot of the bed.
His father leaned in close. “How do you feel?”
“About as bad as you look.”
His father smiled and leaned closer. He spoke in a whisper. “Upon further review, I’ve decided I may have been a little premature in my criticism of you and Mr. Laroche.”
Burnett briefly closed his eyes. He knew his father’s formal tone and word choice concealed disappointment, this time in himself.
To his right a hospital computer had been unfolded from the wall. He lifted his eyes and saw, to his horror, the final page of Henri’s paper on the screen. “Why?”
“Please don’t be upset,” Emma said. “I just wanted another opinion on the paper.”
“How many people have seen it?”
“Just the three of us,” she said.
“It’s beyond description,” Dr. Stone said. “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t experienced it myself. Like some bizarre electric current passing through my body. At first I thought it was just my reaction. Then Miss Blankenship and your father had the same response.”
“How could a mathematical equation cause such a thing?” she asked. “I didn’t even understand it.”
“It can’t,” Stone said. “At least I’ve never heard of it happening before.” He paused. “I’d like to get Dr. Hofstetter’s thoughts on it.”
Burnett had been only half-listening to the exchange. Her betrayal had been both inexcusable and unforgivable. At the very least she should have waited until he’d awoken before revealing it to anyone.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“No one else is going to see it,” Burnett said with a touch more anger than he’d intended. “Erase it now.”
“It’s just an equation,” Stone said. “An extraordinary one, but still
just an equation.”
“So was the formula for the atomic bomb,” Burnett said.
“There’s no need to get so upset,” she said. “This’ll be Henri’s legacy. He deserves it.”
“His legacy will be mankind’s self-destruction,” Burnett said. “I thought you wanted to save the world, not end it.”
“You’re overreacting,” she said.
“Erase the damn thing or I will.” He labored to lift himself from the bed. Dr. Stone restrained him. He thrashed about trying to free himself. At the same time he heard Emma yell for a nurse.
“Settle down, Michael,” his father said.
Moments later a sharp prick stung his shoulder. A powerful need to sleep overcame him.
* * *
That same evening he awoke, alone in his hospital room.
An hour later he was informed about the tragic death of Detective Mayweather, and the less than tragic loss of Professor Desmond. Mr. Frank had survived his gunshot wound.
Burnett felt partly responsible for the detective’s death. Following his discharge, he would sit down with Mayweather’s son. The boy deserved to know what had happened, from someone who’d been there, and why his father had been killed.
He wondered if he had in fact overreacted earlier. Of course Emma wanted to publish Henri’s paper. A work for which he’d be remembered for centuries to come—if the human race survived that long—it would stand as the perfect monument to his genius.
A food tray of Jell-O and water rested on the table alongside his bed. Next to the phone sat the silver and black memory stick.
He picked it up and stroked it between his thumb and index finger. Could the survival or self-destruction of the human race really be decided by this tiny piece of metal and plastic?
He wasn’t a hundred percent certain deleting the equation would even stop the dreams, let alone determine the course of history. He just didn’t know what else to do.
With an unsteady hand he set the memory stick back on the table and stared at it. We think we’ve learned so much. Truth is, we’re still waiting to get into grade school.
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