Innocent Bystander (2 page)

Few fields of study
, Burnett had noted, as he’d sat in the last row of a SUNY lecture hall two days earlier
, have the potential to change the course of history the way physics does. Politicians start wars, but physicists split the atom. Astronomers gaze at the moon, but physicists guided men to its surface
.

The true purpose of his observation, an attempt to distract himself, failed miserably. A glance at his watch revealed class would end in twenty minutes. His fingers drummed the fold-down table’s faux wood.

Henri Laroche, his good friend, had not yet arrived. An eccentric genius by most definitions, Henri had missed three of the past four classes.

The semester nearly over, his friend needed to ace the test today or would likely fail the course. His only other chance involved an extra credit assignment the instructor had offered the class. All the students were required to do was write a paper on what they believed would be the next great breakthrough in physics.

Half the students in Advanced Physics 301 were on the verge of failing. Burnett maintained a solid B average, his average in all the classes he attended, so the thought of additional work held little interest for him.

The wall clock’s relentless second hand beckoned his attention. Seventeen minutes remained until the end of class. Few people besides Henri could finish the test in such a brief period of time.

The completed exam in hand, Burnett settled back into his chair with a sigh. He shifted in his seat, unable to find a comfortable position. He’d reached his present height of six-two his junior year of high school, and since then, he’d reached the conclusion that the modern world had been designed by people under six feet.

Gazing about the lecture hall only fueled his discomfort. It reminded him that at thirty-two he was at least ten years older than everyone else in the class. Several people insisted he looked a good five years younger than his age, even ten years when he dressed the part. And while it was true many people returned to school later in life, much later than thirty-two in fact, it was just bad luck that there wasn’t another student in the room over the age of twenty-two.

Ten minutes before the end of class, Henri Laroche stumbled into the lecture hall. The instructor did not notice his arrival. Henri trudged up the stairs on the left side of the hall and flopped into the seat beside him.

What Burnett saw stunned him.

He hadn’t seen Henri for several days. The young man’s pale, drawn face gazed blankly forward. Scarlet lines surrounded his hazel eyes. His shoulder-length, auburn hair probably hadn’t been washed nor combed in a week and his clothes didn’t match. Burnett’s anxiety surged when he noticed his friend, who hadn’t even acknowledged him, was shaking.

“You all right?” Burnett asked.

“Don’t ask,” Henri said.

“You missed the test.”

“Christ, was that today?”

Burnett nodded and eyed him. This was far worse than Henri ever looked after a weekend in Manhattan. One Friday a month his friend would ride the Metro-North to Grand Central Station. Henri would visit the East Village and not return until late Monday morning. He seldom spoke about what he did in the city, but from what Burnett could gather, he would spend much of the weekend at an eccentric cafe with other people whose IQs sat comfortably north of one-ninety.

No, he suspected the reason behind Henri’s appearance was far more disquieting. And it unnerved him because he’d witnessed similar changes in himself.

The number of questions Burnett needed to ask doubled, then tripled. Seated in the lecture hall was not the ideal time to ask them. But as his anxiety level multiplied, so did his need for answers.

“Get any sleep last night?” Burnett asked.

“Not now.”

“Just nod or shake your head.”

Henri offered a sharp nod.

“What about the nightmare?” Burnett asked.

“Later,” Henri said through pursed lips. He stood and raised his hand.

Professor Connor Desmond, seated at his polished metal desk, spotted Henri at the rear of the auditorium.

“Mr. Laroche,” Desmond said. He rose and stepped to the side of his desk. He stood ramrod straight, then bent over to smooth out the lone wrinkle in his pants.

Desmond marched up three steps. With his thumb and index finger he gave his neatly trimmed beard an arrogant stroke. He placed his hands on the back of an unoccupied seat and stared at Henri with deep-set brown eyes. “May I ask why you even bothered showing up today? This class is over in five minutes. Even you can’t finish the test in such a short period of time.”

“Actually, it’s over in seven minutes.”

Desmond took a moment to note Henri’s condition. “Perhaps if you spent a little less time at the local pub you might be able to get here on time. And since this is an afternoon class, you should be able to sleep it off by now.”

Despite the fact that he loved to occasionally embarrass students in front of the class, Burnett did not think Desmond was an evil man. He just had a strict set of rules he demanded all his students obey. He would have made a good teacher at a private elementary school, Burnett often mused.

At least Desmond taught the class the way it was supposed to be taught. It seemed too many teachers these days wanted to be the stars of the classroom. Rather than simply teach, they made the class about themselves, touting their latest accomplishments or publications.

“Okay,” Desmond said to the class, “if you think this chapter was hard, wait until you read the next one. We will be studying the work of one of the most brilliant theoretical physicists of the past half century, Stephen Hawking. But as we will discover, even the most gifted physicists can make glaring mistakes.”

Henri yawned and lurched to his feet. He faced his friend. “Meet me at Charlie’s Place in ten minutes.”

Burnett nodded, though he knew the last thing Henri needed was a drink.

“Mr. Laroche,” Desmond said in his usual even tone. “May I see you a minute?”

“Better make that half-an-hour,” Henri said to Burnett. “Or get a head start if you want.”

In thirty minutes it would be 6:45. As much as he and Henri had to discuss, he hoped their conversation would be brief. He needed to get to the hospital and see his father before visiting hours ended at 8:00
.

Twenty-five minutes later, Burnett entered Charlie’s Place. Somewhat atypical for a college hangout, it featured a respectable amount of class and style. Clean, well-polished wood booths were arranged in rows, with autographed headshots of movie stars from the golden age and music icons from the sixties and seventies neatly arranged on every wall. The food was also quite good, but, in keeping with the college location, the alcohol flowed freely.

The Who’s “Slip Kid” thundered from bass-heavy speakers. He spied Henri seated alone at a small, circular table near the bar. He crossed the floor and sat opposite him. This was likely the quietest part of the room.

Before Burnett could utter a word the waiter arrived with a mug of beer. He set it down beside an empty mug in front of Henri.

“Bring one for him,” Henri said as the waiter scooted off.

“Looks like I got some catching up to do,” Burnett said.

Henri hoisted his new mug and drained half of it, enough time for the waiter to fetch a beer for Burnett. “So get drinking.”

With the back of his wrist, Burnett slid the mug aside. In a soft, deliberate tone he said, “I thought you told me you were going to limit yourself to one beer, you know, with the medications.”

“No need to lower your voice,” Henri said. “This is a college hangout.” With each syllable his volume rose. “I’ll bet you a thousand bucks three-quarters of the people in this room are seeing a psychiatrist. And more than half are on meds.”

Three students at the next table glared at him.

“You guys take meds, right?” Henri asked. “Besides Viagra.”

“Screw you,” one of them mumbled and all three turned away.

Burnett slumped in his chair and wished he could hide.

“Don’t be shy,” Henri said. He stood and spun to greet another group of students at a booth behind him. “That’s why we’re all so happy, right? Nothing to be ashamed of. I myself have taken three different antidepressants. Count ’em, three.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and added in a loud whisper, “And two antipsychotics. But don’t tell anyone.”

A young man from the booth scrambled to his feet. He towered more than six inches above Henri. Burnett recognized him: Bobby Warfield, an offensive lineman for the school’s football team. Henri had a genuine gift for annoying the wrong people.

The song ended and an unnatural quiet filled the bar.

“Listen,” Bobby said. “Nobody gives a shit about you or your problems.” He seized Henri by the shirt collar.

Burnett hesitated, then stood up beside the young offensive lineman. “You don’t really want to get kicked out of here this early, do you?”

“Hey,” Bobby said, “why don’t you go join AARP, like my old man, and let us kiddies handle this.”

Burnett twisted his mouth and with great effort suppressed the embarrassment Bobby’s comment elicited. He faced the bar and waited for the bartender to meet his gaze. When she did, he nodded to Bobby.

Two seconds later a small mountain of a man rumbled into the room. Dressed all in black, he stopped behind Burnett.

“Problem here?” the mountain asked.

Bobby loosened his grip. “Minor disagreement.”

Henri wiggled free and collapsed into his chair.

“Forget about it, then,” the mountain said. “And enjoy your drinks.”

Burnett braced himself, confident the lineman intended to take a swing at someone. Instead, Bobby leaned back and shoved his drink to the center of the table. Half the liquid splashed into a basket of nachos.

“Drinks here are watered down anyway,” Bobby said and stormed out the door.

The mountain lingered a moment, then rumbled off.

Burnett returned to his seat and waited for his adrenaline to ebb. He needed to know whether the nightmare still plagued Henri. Based upon his condition, Burnett assumed the answer was yes. But he’d pushed too hard earlier. “What did Desmond say?”

“Desmond’s an ass,” Henri said. “I’m telling you, the man’s not qualified to teach junior high. You read those e-mails yet? I gave you his password.”

Burnett shook his head. Henri had long questioned Desmond’s competence. Not that he accused the man of being a complete fraud. But he suspected Desmond had friends in high places who’d provided the occasional and much-needed stimulus to his career. Three months ago, to prove his point, he’d stolen the password to their professor’s personal account.

Henri raised his mug and clanged it against Burnett’s. “Here’s to pleasant dreams and a good night’s sleep. That’s what you wanted to know, right?”

“Still having the dream, huh.”

“The nightmare, yes,” Henri replied. He downed the rest of his beer and, after he smacked the mug on the table, his hand shuddered.

“Which city was it last night?”

“London. And every dead soul asking me why I’d done it. Blaming me as if I’d pressed the goddamn button myself.” His hand trembled violently, and he released the mug just long enough to use his other hand to quash the trembling. “You know, there’s really nothing quite like the sound of an ICBM whizzing over your head.”

On any other occasion Burnett would have responded in a calm voice and reminded him that it was simply a dream and would soon pass. He’d done just that less than a week ago when Henri first mentioned the nightmare. His friend revealed it had been troubling him for several weeks, since he’d finished the first draft of his extra-credit paper for Desmond’s class.

At the time, Burnett hadn’t thought much about it. He knew how concerned Henri was about failing the class. He also suspected the young man had embellished his account of the dream. Henri had been known to amend details for the sake of drama.

What had seemed strange at the time was his refusal to allow Burnett to read the paper. Never before had Henri denied his request to preview something he’d written. In fact, he often insisted Burnett review an early draft.
You’re the detail guy
, he would say.
Make this read better
.

But in this case, his refusal was absolute. He instructed Burnett not to read the paper under any circumstances. Naturally, he snuck into Henri’s apartment the next day and read it.

A theory on how to construct a workable time machine, the paper had pushed Burnett’s knowledge of theoretical physics to its limits, and beyond, on a number of occasions. Despite this, he felt confident he’d grasped the essence of what Henri had tried to communicate.

He recalled the goose bumps that had raced up his arms as his eyes had worked their way down the final page. A mind-bogglingly complex equation closed the paper. Several of the symbols were unlike anything he’d seen before. He didn’t pretend to understand it, nor could he imagine how Henri had conceived it. But when he’d finished, he’d felt a jolt of energy surge through his body. He’d felt charged and alert, as if he’d just downed three Grande Cappuccinos.

That night, and every night since, he’d suffered through the same nightmare Henri described. For some reason his unconscious had taken on the dream. Once and he’d have deemed it a coincidence, twice and he’d have called it peculiar, but three consecutive nights was nothing short of eerie.

Burnett leaned in. “Have you spoken to him about it?”

“Dr. Rosenstein? The psych? Truth is, I haven’t seen him for a while.”

Another thing for him to worry about—Henri
was
off his medications. Not merely capricious when off his medications, he could also be dangerous, though only to himself.

“The meds, they mess with my head,” Henri said.

“Still, maybe it’s time to pay him another visit.”

“You know how my father feels about psychiatrists. ‘Man up and face your problem,’” he said, imitating his father’s gruff voice.

“You need to get some sleep.”

“I’m afraid to sleep. Last night I didn’t nod off ’til four-thirty. Half an hour later I woke up covered in sweat.”

“Maybe it’s time to see Dr. Rosenstein again.” Burnett could see Henri had zero interest in this idea. “Remember that psychology teacher we had last year, Dr. Hofstetter? Talk to him. Maybe he can give you some insight into the dream.”

“I’m thinking about not turning in the paper.”

Shocked, Burnett opened his mouth to speak.

“Don’t worry,” Henri said, cutting him off, “I’ve got a couple other ideas I could do something with.”

“In a week?”

“Sure.”

Burnett knew he’d lied, not about having another topic he could develop, but about his ability to have it ready in seven days. Henri was a genius with a computer full of half-finished projects, but organized he was not.

“I’m thinking about talking to Dr. Hofstetter myself,” Burnett said. “Been having some bad dreams, too.”

Henri sat up rigid. “The same?”

“Completely different.”

His body slackened after Burnett’s lie.

“Tomorrow?” Burnett asked.

“Maybe.”

“We’ll both go.”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t you want to know what they mean? Maybe they’re trying to tell you something.”

“I just want them to stop. I don’t care what they mean.”

“Why?”

Henri lifted his arms and twisted both palms upward. “I don’t know why.” He remained silent while his hands dropped to the table. “I guess I’m afraid of what they might mean.”

“What do you think they mean?”

“Want me to lie on a sofa first?”

The waiter appeared with another mug and set it down in front of Henri. Burnett curled his fingers around it and slid the beer to his side of the table. He knew his friend shouldn’t be drinking, whether he’d stopped his medications or not. He also knew Henri wasn’t telling him the whole story. Far more was going on with him, but now was not the time to press.

Henri fidgeted in his seat. He folded his hands on the table, then jammed them into his pockets. A moment later he slapped them back onto the table. He snatched a napkin and crumpled it with his left hand. “When did it all go wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“The whole damn thing.”

Burnett suspected he knew where Henri was headed but chose not to lead him. “I don’t know.”

“I remember when everything was right.”

Now he knew. “April twenty-third?”

“Technically it was the twenty-fourth. Very early on the twenty-fourth.”

Burnett offered up a sad chuckle.

Henri sniffled. “Everything seemed possible then.”

“I know.”

Henri stopped squirming. As though in a trance, he stared at the tiny ball that had once been a flat napkin. “Where did it go wrong?”

That warm April night two years ago they’d vowed one of them would write a paper that would change the world. One of them, or perhaps both, would be remembered for steering the course of history down a new path. In their crazed enthusiasm and drunken stupor, they’d even sliced their thumbs with a broken Dos Equis bottle and sealed the vow with blood.

Though it had been Henri’s idea, Burnett still felt foolish every time he recalled the episode. He found it difficult to believe that at thirty he’d so readily agreed to something many would consider childish.

Time had tempered the fervor of that night, at least for Burnett. Henri maintained his passion.

Now it appeared he may have succeeded. His paper had the potential to change everyone’s thinking on a controversial subject. And although neither understood the reason, the price tag might prove too high.

“Why don’t I drive you home?” Burnett said.

Henri withdrew his hands from his pockets. “Quit acting like my father. I’m having a good time here.” He stretched across the table, grabbed his mug, and downed a third of it. “Just ’cause you’re damn near as old as him doesn’t mean you have to act like him.”

Burnett clenched his teeth and bowed his head.

Henri shoved the mug aside. “You’re right. When I start talking like Mr. Football, it’s past time to go.”