Innocent Bystander (27 page)

“How do you even know she’s here?”

Mr. Frank said nothing, but his line-of-sight drifted sheepishly to the street.

Mayweather understood. His former partner still had contacts inside the department. “Turner. No wonder he was so excited to take another walk.”

“I won’t leave without her.”

“Then you should have gotten here sooner.”

“You can turn your back for three minutes.”

“You couldn’t get her out that fast.”

“Give me that chance.”

Mayweather wanted to; not because the man had a gun pointed at him, but because he’d been a good cop for fifteen years before the incident when Mayweather was a rookie forced him to resign in disgrace.

But Emma had acted of her own free will, and even though she and Burnett were not guilty, there were still rules to follow. He’d already bent the rules too far by giving Burnett a shot at the computer.

“Give me the gun,” Mayweather said in a soft but firm tone.

“I got a family to support,” Mr. Frank said, making no attempt to hide the desperation in his voice.

“We all do.”

“Damn you, Jack,” Mr. Frank shouted. “Bend the rules. Once. He’s paying me fifty grand to bring her back.”

Mayweather decided he wouldn’t waste one more second. He had no idea what was going on inside Desmond’s house. “I am going to bend the rules.”

Mr. Frank’s eyes lit up, but Mayweather knew his next sentence would extinguish that light.

“Get back in your car and drive home. I’ll pretend you were never here.”

“Not enough.”

“I’ve got no more time to waste,” Mayweather said, his control over his temper slipping. “I need to get in that house. She and Burnett aren’t responsible.”

“He’ll still pay me for getting her out.”

“Desmond is. And if they’re in there, no telling what he might do.”

For the first time he saw uncertainty in his former partner’s face.

“Let me handle this,” Mayweather said.

“I’m coming with you.”

“That’s not an option.”

“If Desmond’s behind this, as you say, you need backup.”

“And when did you become a southpaw?”

“Give me your gun,” Mr. Frank said.

“You out of your mind?”

“Give it to me.”

Mayweather unsnapped his holster. “This is going to end badly. You know that.” The detective gripped the handle and eased his revolver from its holster.

“Handle first,” Mr. Frank said.

* * *

Burnett wasn’t surprised when the professor aimed the Beretta once again between his eyes.

“Don’t,” Emma said.

“There is no way Henri would have double-crossed me,” Desmond said.

“Maybe he knew he couldn’t trust you,” she said.

“My apologies,” Desmond said. He swung the gun and pointed it at Emma. “I am new at this. Why don’t we go back to the prior motivation?” He lifted the computer screen.

The laptop required several seconds to awaken from its slumber. In that time Burnett observed Desmond’s gaze shift to a crack between the curtains.

“Impossible,” Desmond said. “Impossible.”

Through the slit Burnett spotted two men on the walkway. The first, Mayweather, neared the front door. The man ten feet behind appeared to be Mr. Frank.

Desmond crossed to the door, then spun to face them. From his pocket he dug a remote. “This controls the alarm. You make a sound or trip the alarm, I will kill them. Then I will shoot both of you and you can watch each other bleed to death.” He shut the door.

A metallic click sounded from the doorknob. Emma sprang to the door with Burnett in her wake. She twisted the knob, but it wouldn’t turn.

“He locked it from the outside,” she said.

Burnett attempted to twist the knob, without success.

She eased her ear to the door. “You need to hear this.”

He placed his ear against the door, and caught the tail-end of an exasperated denial from Desmond.

“I’m certain Mr. Burnett will show,” Mayweather said from the doorway.

“It’s Mayweather,” she said, shaking the door.

“Unless you have a warrant, you have no right to enter my home,” Desmond said from the foyer. “Where’s the other man?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Where is he?” Desmond demanded.

Footfalls thumped in the foyer. A pair of angry voices overlapped, each striving to out-decibel the other. Two gunshots reverberated through the room. A single thud shook the floor outside.

“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.

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 behind 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.