Innocent Bystander Read Free Page A

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.