Innocent Bystander (8 page)

Once out of the park, Burnett stopped and noted which way the teenagers headed. He strolled in the opposite direction. The wail of a police siren pierced the silence. The teenagers now out of sight, he darted between a cape and a colonial. He crouched behind a chimney as two police cruisers rocketed by.

Night had fallen. He straightened his body, stood motionless in the dark, and questioned whether he’d made the wise choice. It had been necessary, yes, but that didn’t make it prudent.

Another cruiser approached, slowly this time. A spotlight, operated from the passenger side, lit up the colonial next door. The beam swept toward him. He leaned back, shielded by the base of the chimney.

The cruiser vanished down the street. A minivan turned into the driveway of the colonial. The driver exited and faced Burnett. A moment later he slammed the minivan’s door and lumbered toward him.

“Hey,” the man called. “What are you doing there?”

Burnett shuffled back several steps.

“Hey, Bill,” the man yelled, now staring into the cape’s lighted kitchen. “Bill, there’s some guy outside your house.”

The front door squeaked open. Burnett raced across the back yard, navigated a maze of hedges, patios, and low fences, and emerged into a dark alley.

He felt his way along the six-foot-high, cement-block wall. When he reached the end, a police cruiser materialized down the street. He reversed into the alley and stumbled over a trash can. His back pressed against a cold, concrete wall, he waited for the cruiser to disappear.

Nothing made sense, and the madness continued to escalate.

A shrill noise silenced his racing mind. The grating sound became familiar as it strengthened.
My God, they’ve got tracking dogs
.

A station wagon rattled down the street. He leapt to the middle of the road. The driver laid into the horn, but he held his ground. The rusty relic careened to a halt. Burnett sprang to the driver’s side window and yanked on the locked door handle. Reaching through the half-open window, he wrenched the wheel to the left.

“Stop,” the sixty-year-old woman driver yelled.

Burnett unlocked the door as the rising window threatened his elbow. “I’m sorry. It’s an emergency.”

He ripped open the door and grabbed her left arm. Her fingers clenched the padded steering wheel.

“No,” she yelled. Her curly, gray bangs swept across her brow with each swing of her head.

He dragged her, forearms flailing, from the vehicle.

These were not the actions of Michael Burnett. He felt possessed by a desperate, angry man who would do anything to escape.

Yet the old Burnett hadn’t completely vanished. “I’ll find some way to get it back to you.”

A pick-up truck approached from behind. He jumped into the station wagon and dropped the pedal.

Many people have claimed that Paris in the springtime must be as close to heaven as one can get while still on earth. Michael Burnett found himself in complete agreement. For much of his adult life he’d longed to visit the City of Light. Now, as he strolled down Rue du Rivoli, the scent of freshly baked croissants mingled with cut flowers. The view atop the Eiffel Tower had been everything he’d dreamed and more, and the boat ride along the Seine a buffet for his senses.

He ambled toward the glass pyramid in the Louvre courtyard. The magnificent structure rose before him. He could scarcely imagine what the architects of ancient Egypt would have thought of a see-through pyramid.

The temperature hovered in the mid-seventies. Several ivory-cream clouds coasted across the sky, perfect clouds on loan from a Monet painting.

A second pyramid, two-thirds the size of the original, stood less than fifteen meters away. He was unaware the French had constructed a second one. To the best of his recollection, no mention of it had been made in any guidebook.

He strolled over to the new, smaller pyramid and stopped half a meter away to gaze at his reflection. The glass reflected nothing. Refocusing his eyes, he unsuccessfully attempted to peer inside.

He leaned in, tilted his head left, then right, but still the glass pane revealed nothing. He wheeled around and discovered he stood alone in the courtyard. How could no one be visiting the Louvre on a perfect spring afternoon? The uneasy feeling that crept into his stomach progressed to nausea.

The sky darkened though no clouds eclipsed the sun. A chill suffused his body. Not a sound emanated from the courtyard. The musty smell that mugged his sinuses gagged him. A burning desire to flee overcame him, but he could not settle on a direction.

At last he chose to head north. After three steps he staggered and collapsed. With Herculean effort he dragged himself to his feet.

A high-pitched whistle pained his ears. His head swung from left to right but he saw nothing. He leaned back. An object streaked overhead, a plume of smoke in its wake. It arced toward the city. His brain rebelled, but he knew what he saw—an Intercontinental Ballistic Missile.

It passed directly above him. The noise became intolerable. The missile detonated high above the downtown skyline. A rush of destruction hurtled through the city and snuffed out the lives of millions in seconds.

Burnett shut his eyes, clenched his body, and awaited the end. The wave of debris swept past him. When he opened his eyes he was astounded to find himself untouched by it, as if encased in a protective bubble.

He arched his back and gaped at the mushroom cloud that climbed in the distance. The column of smoke ascended into the infinite sky.

The once glorious city now lay in ruins at his feet. Such inconceivable loss of life was far too much for any sane person to bear. Nor could he comprehend how and why he alone had survived. It was impossible; he knew that. Yet here he stood, gazing out at ashes, ashes that minutes ago had fashioned the most striking city to ever grace the planet.

Near the horizon another ICBM began its plunge through the atmosphere.

The putrid scent that now assaulted his nostrils was not the death of a person or even a city; it was the death of a species. He stood witness to mankind’s gift to the universe—self-annihilation.

A distant whisper stunned him. Somehow others had survived. He spun, but saw no one. More voices spoke.

He strained to comprehend the words. From the muddle he identified a solitary word: “
Why?”
The question, directed toward him, chilled his spine. Soon he determined his accusers’ full complaint: “
Why have you done this to us?”

“I didn’t do it,” he asserted. “I didn’t do anything.” The more he protested, the louder and more insistent they became.

Pressure inside his skull intensified. He covered his ears to no effect. The volume soared, each word a jackhammer on his brain. Just when he thought he could no longer tolerate it, a thunderous bang silenced his accusers.

He sat up and a second bang echoed in his ears. A garbage truck had slammed through a pothole. He took in his surroundings, and discovered he’d fallen asleep in a dirt ditch beneath an overpass. Last night he’d abandoned the station wagon ten miles outside of town.

For the fifth consecutive night he’d suffered through Henri’s dream. As the fog between his ears dissipated, he tried once again to make sense of it, but nothing in his knowledge or experience explained the peculiar nightmare. And Dr. Rosenstein had been understandably skeptical of its precise repetition.

Another truck thumped over the pothole and jarred him back to the present. His legs and waist were stung by a damp cold. A stream by his feet had soaked his pants during the few hours he’d slept. Then the memory of last night’s events crept into his mind. With Audrey dead, all hope of an explanation had died with her.

Depression tried to settle in. Before it could take hold, he recalled how Emma had taken a stand against the cops. He remembered her determination to locate Audrey and uncover the truth.

He rose and brushed a patch of dirt from his sleeve. On his first step his cold, wet pants clung to his leg. He needed dry clothes. More important, he needed a place to stay.

He ran through a list of relatives and close friends. Only a few of them lived in the area. The police, however, would likely have them under surveillance. He felt reluctant to drag anyone else down into the hellhole that had become his life.

His thoughts returned to Emma. Of course the police would be watching her as well. He then considered some of the students at the university. He had several acquaintances, people he socialized with, but no one he felt comfortable asking for such a favor.

Then the perfect place to hole up came to him. He recalled a young woman from his English Literature class last year boasting to friends that she would be spending this semester in Barcelona. If she hadn’t rented out her apartment, it would be the ideal place to stay.

He stepped from beneath the overpass and squinted into the morning sun. A delivery truck bounced over the pothole. Another truck crossed the bridge, followed by a sedan. He felt exposed, convinced each driver recognized him. With great reluctance, he retreated to the safety of the overpass and resolved to move about only after dark.

It wouldn’t be easy. A pang of hunger reminded him that his last meal had been more than twelve hours ago.

“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Captain Amanda Rush said. She ushered Mayweather and Farrow into her spacious office.

Mayweather took a seat and allowed himself a moment, as he often did, to admire her ability to merge authority with femininity. She looked cool and in charge with her striped skirt-suit. The confident look that perpetually graced her thirty-five-year-old face and her self-assured stride left no doubt with whom a final decision lay.

Yet the honey-shaded bow that secured her ponytail and the gentle aroma of Elizabeth Arden perfume suggested a softness that both attracted him and left him ill at ease.

Rush alternated her stare between the two detectives. Clearly unhappy, she leaned forward and slammed her right palm on her desk. “Two murders in three days. You know how long it’s been since we’ve had something like that here?”

Mayweather assumed the question was rhetorical since the captain barely paused.

“Why didn’t you book Burnett when you had the chance?”

“Because this case stinks,” Farrow said.

“Twenty-six years’ experience tell you that?”

“I spoke to the witness again,” Farrow said. “He’s certain there was a girl in Henri Laroche’s apartment.”

“Now she’s dead.”

Mayweather considered jumping in, but decided against it. Farrow hadn’t mentioned his belief in the witness. He chose to wait and find out what else his partner hadn’t mentioned.

“We’ve gone over every frame of video from that building,” Farrow said. “No girl fitting her description entered or left.”

“How the hell’d she get in, then?” Rush asked.

“No clue. But we thought he’d lead us to her.”

“He led you right to her.”

“He’s got no motive,” Mayweather said, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

“If she witnessed Burnett push Henri Laroche off his balcony,” she said, “I’d call that a pretty good motive.”

“We don’t know that,” Mayweather said. “It’s likely he was trying to stop him, as he claimed.”

“Toxicology confirmed Mr. Laroche’s blood-alcohol level was 0.12,” Farrow said.

“And he was about to flunk out of school,” Mayweather added. “Just like Burnett said.”

Rush tapped her fingernails on a folder, then slid it across the desk. “Your report says you believe Burnett killed him.”

Farrow picked up the folder and averted the captain’s stare. “I thought it was a love triangle. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Why?”

“Just doesn’t add up. But I do believe he killed this Audrey Lansing.”

“What makes you so sure now? Same woman’s intuition?” When Farrow didn’t respond, Rush turned her stare toward Mayweather. “You’re so concerned about motive. Why’d he kill her?”

Mayweather never believed Burnett had killed Henri Laroche. Now he wasn’t sure whether he’d killed the girl.

“She knew something,” Farrow said.

“Knew what?” Rush asked.

“She had something on Laroche,” Farrow said. “He jumped. Burnett found her. Killed her in a rage.”

Rush shook her head, obviously bewildered. The way her ponytail flipped from side to side reminded Mayweather of his wife. She’d only been gone eighteen months, and too many things evoked memories of her. Captain Rush reminded him of her more than anyone; not because she looked like her or dressed like her or even behaved like her in any way.

No, what reminded him of Julie Ann Mayweather, and what resulted in his uneasiness in the captain’s presence, was the perfume. His wife had worn the same one for years. And nothing coupled him with a memory more than a scent. Pictures and videos were always painful, recordings of her voice always slapped a tender nerve, but nothing could pry anguish to the surface like a scent. It had an immediate, almost visceral effect. And Mayweather could do nothing but close his eyes and wait for the feeling to dissipate.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Rush said. “Who’s the dead girl? This Audrey Lansing?”

“We don’t know yet,” Farrow said.

“Her relationship to Laroche? Or Burnett?”

“Don’t know that either,” Mayweather said. He gritted his teeth, stood, and strode to the opposite side of the room. Tearing up in the boss’s office would likely not impress her; nor would stepping out in the middle of discussing an important case. He could claim to be in the midst of a severe stomach ailment or lightheaded from a lack of food or sleep, but he’d exhausted those excuses months ago.

Rush thumbed through a stack of notes on her desk. “Yet Burnett killed her, so we believe, then stuffed her in the trunk of his car. Not too swift for a college guy.”

“My guess is he planned to dump her somewhere after class,” Farrow said. “He knew if he missed class it’d look suspicious.”

“And you have no idea who she is?” Rush asked.

Farrow shook his head.

“Nobody’s reported any missing girls recently who fit her description,” Mayweather said.

“Probably a runaway,” Farrow said.

The captain appeared to ponder this.

Mayweather strove to focus on the case. He had to admit this was the strangest one he’d encountered in nine years of law enforcement. One class at the academy in kinesics by no means made him an expert, but he sensed from the start that Burnett and Emma had been honest. At least they believed their story. He also sensed neither was capable of murder. Whoever killed Audrey Lansing, or whatever her real name was, might just get away with it.

“One more question,” Rush said. She leaned far over her desk and snatched the folder out of Farrow’s hands. “Can you explain this to me?” She read from the report, “‘Burnett says she claimed to be from the future.’”

“That’s what he said,” Farrow replied.

“The young lady,” Mayweather added, “Miss Blankenship, independently made the same statement.”

Rush waited, but neither detective elaborated. “Strike either of you as a bit odd?”

“Maybe the girl was playing some sort of prank,” Mayweather said.

“Or Burnett and Miss Blankenship are in this together,” Farrow said, “trying to confuse us with this ridiculous story.”

Rush’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the report. She released the folder and it floated to her desk. “I want to know who this girl was. And I want Burnett in custody. Any idea where he is?”

“He dumped the car in a parking lot about ten miles from here,” Mayweather said.

“We think he’s going to try and get in touch with Miss Blankenship,” Farrow said. “I got somebody on her.”

“Like you had somebody on her before?” Rush fell back into her chair. “We both know subtlety isn’t my long suit, so I won’t waste my time or yours. Don’t screw up again.”