Innocent Bystander (22 page)

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, but 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.

“Lots of it.”

“I don’t have that much. Honestly, I don’t earn a large salary.”

Her gaze slid across the room, taking in the quality furniture and artwork. “Looks like you’re doing all right.”

“The furniture was a gift. The artwork, reproductions.”

“You’re playing games again,” she said. “You think I’m stupid just because I sleep with men for money? I know your wife’s worth a fortune.”

How the hell could she know that?

“Audrey told me a lot of things. It seems you’re rather chatty after you’ve—oh, how would you old guys put it—had your fun.”

“I need you to leave right now.”

She slid out a pistol from beneath her shirt. “I don’t think your wife would be too thrilled to find out what you really do when you tell her you’re at a university dinner or late staff meeting.”

“You have no proof of any of this.”

From her pocket she produced a photograph and passed it to him. The picture, taken through a window, showed him and Audrey, both almost naked, lounging in a motel room bed. He appeared intoxicated, which he knew he probably had been.

“It’s a fake. I could make this on my computer.”

“And oh, how I’d
love
to be a fly on the wall when you try to sell that to your wife. Besides, this is only one. Some of the others are really interesting. I’m sure she’d recognize that cute little mole you have just to the left of your—”

“How much?” Desmond asked.

“What?”

“How much money do you want?” He noted the way she held the pistol: limply, the exact opposite of how Ryder grasped it. She probably had no idea how to accurately fire the weapon.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Whatever the amount, will you give me all the pictures once I pay?”

“Of course.”

“Can you give me some idea of how much you want?” he asked.

“How much do you think a young girl’s life is worth?”

“Why do you keep insisting I killed her? I loved her. I would have left my wife for her.”

“You used her! You promised her exactly what she wanted. Told her all about your contacts in the big city. You were going to start her on a path to stardom. Commercials, TV, then movies. You knew exactly where she was vulnerable. All she had to do was perform one role, then she’d be on her way.”

Desmond opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

“Don’t deny it.” She wiped her eyes before a tear could drop. “For a college professor, you ain’t too smart, are ya?”

This was not about money; this was about revenge. “For what it’s worth,” he said, making an effort to sound sincere, “I really do have contacts in the city. Ask anyone.”

“I know.”

“And I didn’t kill her.”

“Liar.”

“Follow me to the living room.”

“Why?”

“So I can prove to you I didn’t kill her.”

She eyed him warily, but followed him into the living room without a word. He stood before a wooden cabinet, reached out, and slid open the center drawer.

“Stop right there,” she said.

“No, look,” he said. He removed a bible with his left hand, held it in front of her to examine, as if it were a precious gem, and placed his right hand on the cover. “I swear I did not kill her.”

“Ha,” she snapped. “You’re a married man who sleeps with underage girls, and I’m supposed to believe you ’cause you swear on a bible?”

“I did not kill her,” he said and inched closer. He concluded it would be wiser to gradually approach her and continue to proclaim his innocence than try to escape. She could not pull the trigger, he suspected, unless she was certain he had killed Audrey. If anyone could nurture doubt in her mind, it was him.

“Maybe you didn’t kill her yourself,” she said, “but you arranged it.”

“Why would you think that? I admit I asked her to play that silly role of the girl from the future. It was kind of a joke on someone. A prank.”

“A prank that got her killed.”

He took a full step toward her; she backed away half a step.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” she said, firming up her grip on the pistol.

After another measured step, he stopped. He held the bible beneath her chin, his right hand glued to the cover. “I swear to you, I swear with God as my witness, I did not kill her nor did I arrange it.”

“So it was just a coincidence they pulled her body from the car of one of your students?” she said. “At the university where you work.”

He cringed. Those tidbits needed to be spun to his advantage. “Somebody wanted to set me up.” The assertion came out a little too fast.

“You think I’m just a dumb slut.”

He considered his next words carefully. “Why do you think the police are searching for someone else? Obviously you’ve seen the news. They know the student killed her. He was going to put her body in my car, but they found her before he could.”

“No.”

“It is the truth. The cops believe it. And I know it’s true.”

He unglued his hand from the bible and placed it atop the gun’s barrel. “I know you don’t want to shoot an innocent man.”

When she did not react, he applied a minute force to the pistol. She offered little resistance. The barrel descended, and soon pointed at the floor.

A moment later she lost control and sobbed openly. “Why? She was a good kid. She wanted out of this business.”

I’ll tell you why. Because she screwed up.

He had given her the simplest of instructions, but she had chosen not to follow them. If she had, everything would have been different.

“Why?” she repeated over and over again.

Her repetition of that word chafed his nerves. She was looking for sympathy, but he had none to offer.

“I’ll tell you why,” he said, his patience depleted. He ripped the pistol from her hand. “I gave her instructions a five year-old could follow, and she did not listen.”

He aimed the weapon at her. The warm grip felt satisfying against his palm. “I told her not to talk to Henri if there was anyone else in the room. Twelve simple words. Is that so difficult to understand? Had she done what I said she would still be here, and I would not be in this mess.”

He waved the pistol beneath her nose. “That is why
she is not here. And why I am.” He waited for a response, but she simply stood there, silent, still. “Nothing to say?”

“You’re going to jail for a long time.” She tried to stride past him.

He side-stepped and blocked her path.

“What are you going to do, kill me, too?” she asked.

His mouth had landed him in trouble again.

Greta tried to bull her way past him. He grasped her shirt collar and shoved her backwards. She tripped over the sofa’s arm, thumped against the coffee table, and collapsed to the floor.

He needed to get rid of her quietly. A call to Ryder, his first choice, was immediately ruled out. Each subsequent idea generated less enthusiasm.

Groaning noises escaped her lips as she writhed on the floor. She grabbed the front of the sofa, and heaved herself up. She stumbled several steps toward the front door. Once again he blocked her path.

Too many people had lined up to stand in his way—Burnett, Emma, De Stefano, and now some damn whore. Doubt over whether he would be able to publish the paper snuck into his mind for the first time. There was no question he would have to delay its publication for months, perhaps years, but this loss of certainty was an unwelcome intruder.

Doubt, however, only redoubled his determination. He had killed De Stefano with his bare hands. Surely Greta would be easier to eliminate. Unless she was a local schoolgirl, few people, if any, would miss her. If Ryder was successful at eliminating Burnett and Emma, and making it look like a murder-suicide, then he would be considered merely an innocent bystander in this whole wretched affair.

Greta’s gaze skipped about the room, clearly in search of another exit. None existed. She lunged at him and reached for the pistol. Both her hands clasped the barrel, but he wrested it from her.

She swiped at the pistol again. Desmond seized her throat, forced her backwards, and slammed her head against the wooden end table. Following the nauseating crack, she crumpled to the floor.

Several seconds later she let out a moan. Her right arm twitched. Somehow she reached out for the coffee table, wrapped her fingers around the edge, and struggled to her knees.

She attempted to lift her body. He gripped her hair and smashed her forehead against the coffee table. Wood splintered as her head rebounded off it.

He whacked her head against the table a second time. Recalling what he’d done with De Stefano, he bashed it a third time. Over and over he slammed her head against the coffee table.

Each time her head struck the wooden surface, it further energized him. Most people, he understood, refused to go the extra mile to succeed. They were unwilling to do whatever it took, to make whatever sacrifice needed to be made, to push themselves beyond their past limits to attain their goal. As a result, they remained mired in mediocrity. No longer would he accept anything less than immortality.

Yes, those motivational programs were finally starting to pay dividends.

When she offered no further resistance, he offered no further abuse. Her condition left him both shocked and awed. Her skull had nearly split in two. Some of its contents littered his living room floor along with fragments of wood and bone. Perhaps he had gone too far. A major cleanup would be required before morning.

He released her, and her corpse thumped to the floor. Should Ryder choose not to take on one final job, he would have no choice but to clean up the mess and dispose of the body himself. The challenge excited him.