Innocent Bystander (26 page)

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 desk 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.

“You never know what a desperate man might do.”

“Want me to take another walk?”

Mayweather reached down and rubbed his right calf. “I need to work this cramp out of my leg.”

“Let me take a walk,” Turner said with added emphasis. He reached for the door handle.

Mayweather gave him an extended stare and shook his head.

Propelled by the barrel of the Beretta, Burnett stepped onto one of three patios behind the ranch. Desmond slipped Greta’s pistol between his belt and slacks.

“I don’t know why you think she’s here,” Burnett said. He stared into the darkness, confident Emma was miles away—terrified, confused, and sobbing, but safe.

“She risked everything to help you earlier. She would not leave you now.” He stood beside Burnett. “Show yourself, Ms. Blankenship.”

No one emerged from the woods.

“I will kill him,” Desmond yelled. “Do not doubt that for a second.”

Burnett grinned.
Keep shouting.

They waited. Burnett trusted Desmond would soon realize the futility of his efforts. His heart plummeted as Emma materialized from the darkness and slogged up the patio’s three concrete steps.

“Why?” Burnett asked, unable to keep the question only a thought.

“You need me,” she whispered in his ear. “You don’t know it, but you do.”

Desmond shoved them into the kitchen and trailed a step behind. The Beretta wedged in Burnett’s back, he forced them into the living room.

“The two of you have complicated my life more than you can imagine,” Desmond said. “And now you are going to help me restore everything.”

He ushered them into the living room. A sickening odor hit Burnett, a smell of death. It shook him, and he instinctively leaned toward the hallway.

To his left he spotted the magnificent Indian rug rolled up in the corner. A mop of bloodied hair protruded from the far end. Light-headed and fighting to maintain his balance, he clutched the doorway molding for support. “How many people do you plan to kill?”

Desmond tilted the Beretta, pointing it at Emma. “I want the two of you to pick up that rug and follow me into the garage.”

Neither moved.

Desmond stormed over to Emma and smacked her across the cheek with the butt of the Beretta.

She cried out and cupped her cheek.

Desmond aimed the Beretta back toward Burnett before he could move. “Now, I want the two of you to pick up that rug and follow me into the garage.”

Blood dribbled down her cheek. She dabbed at the cut.

Burnett marched to the corner, averted his teacher’s gaze, and grabbed the less desirable end of the throw rug. The bloodied, tangled mop of hair fell across his wrists. Emma slid her fingers beneath the opposite end.

Burnett heaved the rug up. The throb in his temple advanced across his forehead. A full-blown migraine couldn’t be far off.

Emma hoisted her end, and Desmond directed them into the garage. A Honda Odyssey sat where Desmond’s Mercedes had been parked earlier. A bright blue tarp covered the opening to the garage.

“You can imagine my displeasure at having to borrow my neighbor’s minivan,” Desmond said. He slipped the keychain from his pocket and tapped a button. The hatch rose. A four-foot by six-foot drop-cloth protected the carpeted floor.

“Are we next?” Emma asked.

“That depends on you. Put her in.”

Burnett rested his end inside the vehicle. She mirrored his action.

“Back into the house,” Desmond said.

Burnett led them into the living room.

“This way,” Desmond said, motioning with the Beretta.

The trio filed into the office, where Henri’s computer waited on the desk. Keeping the Beretta level, Desmond lifted the computer, and slid it inside his safe. He opened a cabinet behind his desk and removed another laptop.

“You will help me re-create Mr. Laroche’s equation,” he said. “Or Ms. Blankenship will join the young woman in the trunk.” He fired up the laptop.

“I only read it once,” Burnett replied. “How can you expect me to re-create it? I didn’t even understand the damn thing.”

“You have seen it in the dreams, just as I have. You saw it on the screen minutes ago. And you would be amazed how good a person’s memory becomes when properly motivated.”

“Why’d you really erase it?” Burnett asked.

“Don’t stall.”

“You know what the dreams are telling you. What they’re telling us.”

“How do we know,” Emma said, “you won’t kill us after he helps you?”

“Sit at the desk,” Desmond said through clenched teeth, “and write out the equation the best you can.”

Burnett took a single step closer to the desk.

Desmond stared at him. “I want you to listen to me, and I want you to listen carefully. You have no idea of the full potential of what your friend has done. His equation truly was a portal to the future.” He paused. “You asked how I knew you were at Stone’s house.”

A ripple of nausea swept through Burnett’s stomach. The pain in his head intensified.

“I dreamt it,” Desmond said. “The equation doesn’t just show the future. My consciousness was able to interact with it.”

“You actually believe that?”

“I don’t know what your friend did or how, but I asked where you were and I got the answer. Do you understand the implications?”

“I understand you killed three people,” Emma said. “I understand you killed Henri so you could publish his paper as your own.”

Desmond swiveled his head, his frustration clearly mounting. He faced Burnett. “Tell me you understand. This equation is far beyond what either of us realized.”

“There has to be another explanation,” Burnett said. “A mathematical equation can’t do that.”

“Just because it has never happened before does not mean it can’t now.”

“That’s no answer. There has to be a rational explanation.”

“Rational?” Desmond said. “How do you explain the fact I knew where you were?”

“I can’t.” Nor could he explain the remarkable power the equation had had over him. Viewing it on the computer screen minutes ago, and reliving affecting moments from his past, had filled him with astonishment.

He’d almost been unable to erase the thing. Had he not been trained in science, he would’ve been tempted to declare the equation supernatural.

“Rational is accepting the facts,” Desmond said. “You were right. Neither of us has ever seen an equation like that before, because there has never been one.”

Burnett visualized the equation again, and this time was able to see more. Many of its components were unlike anything he’d seen before. In fact, several of them appeared rather nonsensical, almost to the point where it seemed Henri hadn’t constructed a mathematical equation, but a diagram.

In a burst of insight, Burnett’s mind proposed an idea so startling in its implications he couldn’t accept it, yet his brain refused to let it go.

He heard Desmond make a threat, but his mind was too focused to respond.

Could the equation be so advanced that the numbers, letters, and symbols themselves were in fact a form of technology, one we don’t recognize today? Maybe the specific order or combination was the secret.

Impossible
. That Henri had uncovered a secret before its time was likely; it had been done before. That he had created a new form of technology would take more convincing.

Henri had set out to write a paper on time travel. He had created something far more.

“He stumbled upon something extraordinary,” Desmond said. “I need it back.”

“I told you I only read it once,” Burnett said.

“Do what you can.”

“Who was Audrey Lansing?” Emma asked.

“No more stalling.”

“How’d you get her in and out of the building without being seen?” she asked.

“Bribed someone in maintenance,” he said fast. He positioned the Beretta twelve inches from Burnett’s forehead. “I have long considered myself a patient man, but you have now exhausted every ounce of patience I had. Sit down and rewrite the equation.”

The final flicker of hope that his professor might return to his senses and do the right thing had been doused. Burnett sat at the desk. His palms hovered above the keyboard; the Beretta hovered less than six inches from his pounding forehead.

He glanced at Emma, then followed it with a cursory peek at Desmond. Without hesitation he reached out and lowered the screen. He waited for Desmond to explode, but the professor just stood still.

Then he thrust the Beretta against Burnett’s forehead. “If that’s how you feel.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Burnett said. “You’re not the teacher I knew three days ago.”

“And the student I knew, the one who sat in the back of my lecture hall and rarely participated, would never stare so defiantly down the barrel of a loaded gun.”

“I can’t believe you’d kill me in cold blood.”

“Then you do not yet realize what is at stake here.”

“What do we do?”

“Nothing has changed. You rewrite the paper.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Then your belief in me is misguided.” He squeezed the trigger an eighth of an inch.

“No,” Emma shouted.

Desmond did not acknowledge her.

“There’s another copy of the paper,” she said.

“Don’t,” Burnett said.

Desmond twitched. “Where?”

“Don’t tell him,” Burnett said.

Emma lowered her head. “A memory stick. At my parents’ house.”

The professor’s gaze flitted between his hostages. “Where do they live?”

“Darien.”

“Connecticut,” Desmond said. “Almost an hour from here.”

His eyes locked on the Beretta, Burnett waited in silence for Desmond’s response.

* * *

Detective Mayweather spotted Desmond’s ranch ahead. Lights glowed in several rooms.

Across the street he spied a red, vintage VW Beetle. A trace of exhaust escaped its tailpipe. The driver’s side door flew open and a man with a gray, hooded sweatshirt and blue jeans leapt out. A crude sling supported his right arm.

Head down, the man marched toward Mayweather. He stopped five feet in front of him and raised his head.

“Why am I not surprised?” Mayweather said.

“Man’s got to make a living,” Mr. Frank said, lowering the hood of his zippered sweatshirt.

“You could have told me you were working for Joe Blankenship.”

“Since I’m no longer employed by the police department, I didn’t feel the need.”

“It took me a little while to put two and two together,” Mayweather said. “That he was a senior VP at JRC Construction ten years ago. The fact that he runs his own construction company now should have tipped me off.” He paused a moment. “I didn’t know you two were so close.”

“He’s given me some work over the years. Cash has been hard to come by since you cost me my job.”

Mayweather could only snicker in disappointment.

“That guy was guilty,” Mr. Frank said.

“As sin?”

“A lack of evidence does not make a man innocent.”

“Planting evidence doesn’t make him guilty.”

“You’re such a goddamn Boy Scout,” Mr. Frank said.

“Because I follow rules?”

“That punk offed himself. He knew he was guilty.”

“No. That young man killed himself because he couldn’t live with the stigma of having been convicted and put away for a crime he didn’t commit.”

“You actually convinced yourself of that? He confessed. Before I could read him his Miranda rights.”

“I was there. Remember? His English wasn’t good. He didn’t realize what he’d said.”

“Then that hotshot lawyer shows up, tells him to keep his yap shut.”

“I’d love to stand around all night and reminisce about the good old days,” Mayweather said, “but I got a job to do.”

Mr. Frank turned his gaze skyward as if looking to the heavens for guidance. “Let me get the girl out first.”

“Nobody blames her for what’s happened.”

“Burnett’s guilty. She’s an accomplice.”

Mayweather couldn’t stifle a sarcastic laugh.

“I handed him to you on a platter,” Mr. Frank said. “You could have ended this.”

“Where’d you get your ideas of guilt and innocence? A video game?”

“It’s obvious he’s behind this.”

“I need to go,” Mayweather said. He took a step toward Desmond’s ranch.

“You telling me he’s not?”

Mayweather noted the perplexed look that ripened on Mr. Frank’s face.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mr. Frank said. “Whatever goes down in that house, his daughter can’t be a part of it.”

“He’s paid you that much?”

Only the crickets spoiled the silence.

“Sorry.” Mayweather took another step in the direction of Desmond’s home.

Mr. Frank reached his left hand into the pocket of his sweatshirt. What appeared to be a gun barrel strove to poke through the front of the pocket. “Three minutes. That’s all I ask.”

“That’s how you ask?”

“This is how I beg. I know what you think of me, but we were partners once. That’s got to count for something.”