The 13th Hour

CHAPTER 11

8:12 P.M.

THE SIXTY-INCH TV SCREEN was filled with black scorched earth, the open field dotted with white debris, which upon closer viewing was revealed to be bedsheets covering the burned and shattered remains of 212 passengers. The AS 300 had left Westchester Airport at 11:50 A.M. and fallen out of the clear blue morning sky two minutes later, burying itself in a wide-open sports field in the upscale town of Byram Hills.

Aerial footage showed a quarter-mile debris field, as if the devil had reached out and scratched the earth. But for the intact white tail section sitting upright, the small pieces bore no resemblance to the modern aircraft that had been heading for Boston.

“No survivors,” the overly blond newswoman said, her ebony eyes tinged with sorrow for having to condense such a tragic event into sound bites. “The National Transportation Safety Board has been on the scene for several hours and has recovered the badly damaged black box of North East Air Flight 502. A news conference is scheduled for 9:00 P.M.”

Images from earlier in the day began to cycle: hundreds of firefighters battling to control the intense flames that danced among the wreckage, shots of the continuing rescue effort, of luggage strewn about the ground, of weary firefighters with bowed heads and soot-covered faces. Heartbreaking video personalized the tragedy: laptops and iPods scattering the ground, a Yankees hat in perfect condition resting in a patch of undamaged grass; a child’s shoe, backpacks, and briefcases, all devastating reminders of the fragility of life.

The flat-panel TV sat within the mahogany shelves of an Old World library. Books on everything from Shakespeare to auto repair, Dumas to antiques filled the bookcases. There was a majestic painting of a lion by Jean-Leon Gerome above the mantel. On the wall above the couch were two Norman Rockwells of soldiers arriving home from World War II to the embrace of their families. Large leather club chairs sat before an unlit fireplace, while the Persian rug with its blue-flecked earthen hues completed the effect of a 1940s gentleman’s den.

Nick stood in the center of the room, his thoughts incoherent, his legs wobbly. A low, dull thumping whine echoed in his ears. He caught the arm of the button tuck sofa as he fell backward, directing himself into the maroon leather cushions.

He felt as if he had awakened from a nightmare. An odd taste filled his mouth, bitter and metallic. His lips were dry from panting as he tried to catch his breath. There was a golden hue to the moment, as if a bright light’s echo had been burned into his eyes, a memento of some forgotten sun glare. As he looked about the room, desperately trying to get his bearings, he unconsciously flexed his hands as if pumping an unseen bellows. His mind overwhelmed with sensory overload, he had lost the moment, his bearings, but most of all, his track of time.

He looked again about the room, its appearance finally becoming familiar, slipping in from the periphery of his mind. He recognized the dull whine as the sound of a generator, which filled the house with electricity in this town without power.

And then the name leaped out at him: Marcus Bennett… his best friend, his neighbor. This was his house, his library. Nick had been here an hour earlier, Marcus providing comfort, sympathy…

And then reality fell upon him like a two-ton stone.

Julia was dead.

As Nick closed his eyes, he saw her, her pure lips, her flawless skin, her natural beauty. Her voice was as clear in his ear as if she were speaking to him, the subtle odor of lavender fresh on her skin, fresh in his mind as it finally pulled him over the edge. The grief took him, carrying him into a darkness he had never known existed. It wrapped around his heart, squeezing it in its deadly grasp.

Nick finally looked up at the TV, at the wreckage of the jet, at the remains of the passengers strewn about like discarded keepsakes. He was surrounded by death. Life had gone from bliss to hell for many that day, but as tragic as the events before him were, he could only be greedy in his grief, selfish in his own tragedy and mourning.

He picked up the TV clicker. His thumb finding the off button, he took a final glance at the images of burning wreckage and caught sight of the ticker running along the bottom, pulling the eye with its crawling headline updates, sliding off the edge of the television only to start anew moments later. He stared at the opaque station logo in the bottom corner and finally saw the one sight that sent his mind into panic.

It was an image he had never once paid attention to. With the coverage of unthinkable death and destruction, with the too-much-information ticker crawl, with all of the confusion in his own mind, it had escaped him. It was displayed in the lower right-hand corner, in a highlighted white font, an impossible piece of information that sent his mind spinning. The clock was illuminated against its background, and he looked at it twice more as if his eyes were playing tricks on him, as if someone at the TV station had made a mistake. He read it again: 8:15 P.M.

Nick’s eye snapped to his wrist, only to be greeted by pale skin where his watch was usually bound. And he remembered…

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter. The envelope was cream-colored, with a satin finish; in the left-hand corner was an elaborate blue crest, a lion’s head above a slain dragon, its throat pierced by an ornate sword. Nick wasn’t sure if it stood for a club, a prep school, or the crest of the stranger who’d given it to him.

He reached back into his pocket for the watch the European man had handed him, withdrew it, and flipped it open like some Victorian dandy. The inside of the case was mirror-polished silver with a cursive Latin phrase engraved in the precious metal: Fugit inreparabile tempus.

Nick finally cast his eye at the watch face. The roman numerals were of an old English style and read exactly 8:15, a sight that released another wave of confusion.

His interrogation had started at 9:20; he distinctly remembered the clock on the wall of the police room as it marched toward 10:00, listening to the detectives’ questions, looking at the ornate Colt pistol, the tension in the air growing, culminating in his stealing Dance’s nine-millimeter and the entire moment hanging on the cusp of death.

And he remembered sitting in this room with Marcus for almost an hour, sipping scotch with the dull agony of Julia’s loss tearing apart his heart. They’d sat in confusion and mourning. He remembered it all like a slow-winding film. Marcus had been sitting across from him, telling him everything would be all right, when the dark library door slowly swung open, and the two detectives stood in the doorway, grim looks on their faces, Shannon ’s hand resting atop his holstered pistol.

This was the room he had been arrested in, taken from in handcuffs at 9:00.

His memory seemed upside down, events falling in and out of order. Last he recalled, he was in the interrogation room. He remembered seeing the pictures of Julia, the ones Detective Shannon had shoved in his face, the ones that had brought him to the edge of sanity. He remembered grabbing the detective’s gun, the Mexican standoff.

But he couldn’t remember anything beyond the point of watching Shannon pull the trigger.

Nick shook his head as he closed the timepiece and tucked it back into his pocket.

He looked again at the envelope, praying that it would solve the multitude of questions running about in his mind. He tore it open, pulled out two sheets of off-white paper, and began to read.

Dear Nick,

I hope the fog is lifting from your mind though I’m sure it is

now being replaced by an even greater confusion as to what is

going on…

NICK READ THE two-page letter through three times. He folded it up and tucked it into his breast pocket, unsure what to make of it. He thought himself foolish for entertaining the idea, for allowing impossible hope to arise in his heart.

Somehow his mind was playing tricks on him.

The pictures of Julia’s dead body that Detective Shannon had shoved in his face were so real, his mind and soul so wounded, Nick thought he was now surely succumbing to the loss of his sanity, to some fantasy, to wishful thinking. He felt trapped in a dream and willed himself to awaken.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the watch that the letter spoke of, that the European man had given him in the interrogation room. Flipping it open, he stared at the Roman numerals.

Despite the doubt that coursed through his mind, despite the impossibility of it all, there was no question about where he stood at this moment, no question about the time on the watch face.

Nick had sat in this very room already, sipping scotch with Marcus, mourning Julia’s death. It wasn’t some figment of his imagination, some daydream. His tears were real, the pain in his heart was real, Marcus’s comforting words still rang in his ears.

And the interrogation room at the Byram Hills Police Station, sitting there enduring Dance’s questioning, staring at the weapon that stole Julia away from him; the photos, the harsh reality shoved before his eyes by detective Robert Shannon at 9:58 P.M., it was all real. And there was no doubt about the time, the wire-caged clock on the wall having been his main focus for the nine minutes leading up to 10:00.

Yet here he stood, staring at the small black hands of the watch, a timepiece that looked to be over one hundred years old, that appeared in perfect working order, that read 8:15.

Nick picked up the remote from the antique captain’s desk and pointed it at the TV, where the images of more death and devastation flashed up like a horror movie.

There was no question about the magnitude of the tragedy before his eyes, tragedy that all could relate to, a story that would transfix the country for days to come. And while he realized that much of the world was crying for the passengers of North East Air Flight 502, only he was crying for Julia.

So in a moment of illogical reasoning, entertaining the possibility of what the letter said, he thought, What if? He had nothing to lose and everything to gain. If he accepted the words of the letter as truth, if he accepted the time as being 8:15, then maybe…

No matter how impossible it all had sounded, no matter how insane his mind had gone, he realized that if there was truth to the letter, truth to the watch, he just might be able to save her.

THE DOOR SUDDENLY opened. Marcus Bennett’s large frame filled the doorway. Wearing gray pin-striped pants, a blue Hermès tie, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, he was the epitome of style worn upon a tough, lumberjack-thick build. He held a crystal glass in each of his large, pawlike hands as he walked into the room.

Neighbors for six years, he and Nick were more than the usual drive-by-and-wave friends. Sharing a love of hockey, they had become each other’s excuse for catching 90 percent of the Rangers’ home games. They were passionate in their fandom, both having played in high school but neither rising to the level their overconfident self-image thought they deserved. To compensate for their unrealized aspirations, to prolong the dream, to extend the revelry of youth, they played in a men’s league every Wednesday night; Nick was goalie, Marcus his ever-present defenseman.

At thirty-nine, Marcus was seven years Nick’s senior. An attorney by schooling, he had bypassed the law for the field of mergers and acquisitions. Highly successful, he had amassed a fortune by the age of thirty-two but had since seen it dwindle as the result of multiple divorces and never-ending alimony payments, though he still was one of the wealthiest men in town. His expert vision for vulnerable firms to be taken over and exploited was not matched by his selection of female companions. Nick wasn’t sure if Marcus was blinded by lust or beauty, but there was no doubt that Marcus’s insight into woman paled next to his business acumen: three marriages, three divorces, six years.

With each failure, Marcus buried himself in work, swearing off women, even drunkenly threatening to become a priest as his momentary hatred of the female sex blinded him to all logic. But blind hatred would inevitably dissolve and be replaced by a new blind love.

As a result of his failures of the heart, he was close not only to Nick but also to Julia. She was the voice of reason, of comfort. She was the sister that Marcus never had, helping him through his emotional journey. She watched as he rode the roller-coaster of emotions from sorrow, to anger, to utter confusion. With Marcus, the love he thought eternal always flamed out more quickly than his latest Bentley lease.

Currently, Marcus was on to his latest conquest. Sheila was a former spokesmodel, though no one could figure out who she spoke for or if she ever actually had a real modeling credit to her name. Stunningly beautiful, with thick black hair and deep chestnut eyes, she was the physical antithesis to redheaded Blythe, his third wife, the pale beauty who hung on to the brass ring for all of eighteen months and walked away a ten-million-dollar prize winner.

His premature gray hair having receded to nothingness, his off-kilter nose broken three times on the ice, Marcus was far from handsome. He had never been known for his looks, possessing one of those faces that was lost in a crowd, forgotten by most. But his wallet and warm sincere smile always led his charge into the battles of love, attracting many and helping him to overcome any insecurity caused by his prior nuptial failures.

Marcus remained silent as he handed Nick a glass. There were no words exchanged, the moment hanging heavy with grief as Marcus’s brown eyes filled with anguish.

Nick stared silently at the glass, his mind briefly lost in the tawny color and smell of the scotch.

“I know you’re not a drinker.” Marcus’s voice was deep and commanding. “But all rules are lost now.”

Nick lifted the glass and took a long sip.

Marcus thrust his hand forward, opening his palm to reveal two Xanax. “They’re Sheila’s. She’s got three bottles of them. If you prefer Valium, she has that, too.”

Nick shook his head, avoiding the thought of taking an entire bottle to end this nightmare.

“The coroner’s over there with two detectives. They’re checking out everything. They said the whole place needs to be printed, evaluated, and photographed before they…” Marcus had trouble continuing. “Before they take her away.”

Nick knew all of this, he knew exactly how the hour was about to unfold. He knew the black body bag would be wheeled out atop the gurney in five minutes, the white-haired coroner leading the way, he knew the detectives’ names: Shannon and Dance, who would be coming through the door soon. And he knew all about Mitch Shuloff.

“You remember Mitch?” Marcus asked, as if reading Nick’s mind. “He came with us last year to watch the Red Wings crush the Rangers.”

Nick remembered. He was the obnoxious one who never shut up, obsessed with always being right, and even worse, he usually was.

“He’s the best. Plus I was about to call him anyway; he lost a thousand to me last night betting against the Yankees. Don’t hold it against him, but he’s a BoSox fan.”

That was exactly what Marcus had said before, exactly how Nick remembered it.

“Despite all that, he’s the best criminal attorney in New York,” Marcus continued. “You need a personality like his to cut through the bullshit and beat back unfounded accusations.”

Nick also remembered that Mitch hadn’t shown up at the police station.

“His problem, though, I will tell you, he’s not the most punctual. Let me get him over here, not that there’s going to be an issue, but you should never talk to a bunch of cops whose education was a marginal GED and whose view of the world doesn’t extend beyond Miller time and American Idol.”

Marcus walked to his large leather-topped desk and picked up the phone.

As Nick watched him dial, he debated what to say, wondering if he should let Marcus in on his little nervous breakdown.

“Before you make that call,” Nick interrupted.

Marcus stopped, slowly putting down the phone.

“I don’t know how to say this…” Nick paused, seeming to send a moment of unease through Marcus. “But I need to find out who did this.”

Marcus walked around his desk and leaned back against it. “They will. And the bastard will be held accountable.”

“No. I need to… I need to stop him.”

“Stop him from what?” Marcus said, confusion surfacing.

“I’ve got to find him.”

Marcus just stared, listening, pausing, searching for what to say. “Let the cops do that. Whoever did this is as dangerous as they come.”

“She’s not dead,” Nick blurted out.

Marcus exhaled, gathering himself. “Words can’t even express my sorrow for you. She was… perfection. Truly, if ever that word had a meaning, it was Julia.”

Nick put the glass of scotch on the end table and ran his hands slowly down his face, trying to focus, trying to determine if he was about to step off into a psychotic abyss.

“I can save her,” Nick said, jumping off into the illogical.

Marcus sat there patiently listening, watching as his best friend’s mind fell in on itself.

“I can’t explain it. I don’t know how, but I can save her.”

Marcus’s eyes remained fixed on Nick, not angry, not condemning. His eyes were pain-filled, heartbroken. Though he tried, he couldn’t imagine the depth of Nick and Julia’s love for each other, and he knew that with love so deep, the pain must be even greater.

“What if I said I could tell you the future?”

“Like if the Yankees will win the Series this year?” Marcus asked, lost to where Nick was going.

Nick stared at the fireplace, thinking how to proceed.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus said. “I… didn’t mean to-”

“No, it’s okay.” Nick turned back and looked deeply at his friend. “This sounds crazy. But hear me out. In a little while, they’ll arrest me, bring me in, try to get me to confess to something I didn’t do, show me a gun I’ve never seen before.”

Marcus’s eyes grew nervous.

“I didn’t kill her, Marcus. I love her more than life, she’s the air that fills my lungs when I wake, she’s the warmth I feel when I’m happy. I would give anything to trade places with her right now, to give my life for hers, to bring her back.”

“I know you didn’t do it,” Marcus said with true compassion. “You’re confused right now, it’s all right.”

The two sat there quietly.

Marcus finally turned around and picked up the phone. “I’m going to call Mitch, I think you should talk to him.”

“He won’t get here in time.”

“Time for what?”

“They’re going to arrest me in-” Nick reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold watch, flipping it open.

“Where did you get-”

“In thirteen minutes.” Nick closed the watch and tucked it away.

“What? That makes no sense,” Marcus said as he shook his head in doubt. “They’re not going to arrest you.”

“ Shannon and Dance.”

“What?”

“Detectives Shannon and Dance. The two detectives in my house right now will make the arrest.”

Marcus had greeted the two detectives when they drove in the driveway, introducing himself, leading them to Julia’s body. They told Marcus it would be best if he stayed over at his house until they were done. They asked about Nick and said they’d need to talk to him when they completed their preliminary investigation. They finally gave their names as Marcus headed out the front door: Detectives Shannon and Dance.

“You know them?” Marcus asked in confusion.

“I’ve never seen, or should I say, saw them, until they come over here to cuff me.”

Marcus stared. “You’re telling me you know what’s going to happen?”

Nick nodded.

“Okay.” Marcus fell silent. He put down the phone and took a seat in the leather wingback chair next to Nick. The sympathy in his eyes grew tenfold. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what they’re wearing?”

“Dance is in a blue, cheap blazer.” Nick didn’t miss a beat as he rattled off their attire. “White shirt, wrinkled tan pants. Shannon ’s an asshole with steroid arms bursting a girl-sized, too-small, black polo shirt and faded jeans.”

Marcus tilted his head, taking a deep breath as he digested what Nick had said. He got up from the chair, walked to the window, and looked through the slatted wood shutters toward Nick’s house. He could see the vehicles, a perfect, clear view of Nick’s driveway where the cops had emerged from their cars. Nick could easily have been watching their arrival, but Marcus didn’t want to challenge his friend in his current state of mind.

“Listen to me,” Nick said, his words growing impassioned. “I’m not crazy. The Yankees-”

“Why are we talking about the Yankees?” Marcus grew concerned.

“The game going on right now, they win in the bottom of the ninth, off…” Nick’s voice trailed off as he realized how silly he sounded, his head bowing in defeat.

The two friends sat silently for a moment, frustrated.

But then Nick looked up in revelation. “His ring finger… Dance’s ring finger on his right hand, it’s missing below the second knuckle.”

Marcus remained silent.

“You know there’s no way I could see that from your window,” Nick said, alluding to Marcus’s doubt. “And ask him about the fun he had at the Jersey Shore.”

MARCUS WALKED OUT the side door of his house into the late summer sun of the day. His heart was broken for his friends. Julia had been as close to him as anyone in his life. She knew his heart and had helped him heal time and time again; she knew his mind and how prone it was to jump to conclusions; she knew his mistakes and misgivings, his weaknesses and suffering, and had never once turned away.

Julia and Nick shared a bond, a love that he could only dream of. They were the touchstone which he judged each of his marriages, making him realize even before he said “I do” that the promise of love till death do us part would never come close to what they shared. They were like one, it was always Julia and Nick, Nick and Julia; rarely were they referred to in the singular. They spent their free time together and each always put the other first.

Seeing her dead on the floor, so heinously robbed of life, so violated, was an assault on all reason. Who could commit such an act, who could rob an innocent of life, who could rob a husband of his reason for living?

And while Julia was dead, it was as if the bullet had also struck Nick. His mind had collapsed, falling into denial, fantasizing about changing the past, about saving Julia. It was the fantasy of a wounded heart, of an insane mind.

Marcus had been in his garage looking through a file box in the trunk of his car when he’d heard the gunshot. It sent a chill down his spine, as it came from the Quinns’ house. He ran as fast as he could, cutting through their open garage door, through the open mudroom door, to see Julia lying askew around the rear stairs. Half her face was gone, and it took every ounce of his energy to hold his stomach together as he became overwhelmed with grief and shock. And when he finally stepped over her body, he saw Nick sitting on the floor beside her, stroking her leg like a child uncomprehending of the reality of death.

Marcus crossed his expansive side lawn, approaching Nick’s house, but this time there was no reason to run; nothing was going to bring Julia back.

The coroner’s truck and two unmarked cop cars, a Taurus and a Mustang, sat in the driveway. Normally a murder in a town that hadn’t seen a murder in twenty-five years would result in an overwhelming response by half the force, but the rest of the department, every policeman, desk clerk, secretary, and receptionist, was at the crash site. Every fireman, EMT, councilman, and doctor from the town had responded. There had never been a plane crash in Byram Hills, or the county, for that matter, but the well-off community responded as if it specialized in disasters. Every able body was out at the field working with the NTSB in whatever capacity they could. Whether it was helping the families of the deceased, searching for wreckage and body parts, or handling administrative details, the entire town of Byram Hills was out in force at the scene of the tragedy just three miles away. As a result, there were only two cops available to deal with Julia’s death.

NICK AND JULIA’S house sat on three acres, one of the few properties that hadn’t been subdivided. Their house dated back to the 1890s, with additions in 1927, 1997, and 2007. The former main house of what was once expansive farmland was five thousand square feet and could truly be called a home. Every room was filled with pictures and mementos speaking to the character of their owners. Far from a museum showcase, as so many large houses had become, it was a home designed for family, a house that Marcus knew one day would be filled with children. But now, as he slipped under the yellow crime tape that wrapped the walk, as he opened the side kitchen door and stepped into the large white kitchen, Marcus knew not only would children’s voices never be echoing the walls but Nick would probably never come home again.

As Marcus cut through the dining room, he could hear the detectives’ voices in the front hall and stopped. He took a moment to backtrack, feeling himself pulled by some unseen force. And though he couldn’t bear to look at Julia’s body again, he craned his neck toward the mudroom where her body lay.

The white-haired coroner leaned over the black body bag, zip-ping it up, pulling out a dark marker and writing on the bag’s label, an action as devoid of emotion as if he was filling out a grocery list. The man’s black eyebrows stood in sharp contrast to his white hair, his hunched frame and weathered skin putting him no younger than seventy-five. Marcus imagined more than a few doctors, medical examiners, and coroners had been pulled from retirement today to deal with all of the death in Byram Hills.

Marcus could make out Julia’s form under the black vinyl and morbidly wondered if there was any chance of a mortician’s reconstruction to honor her, to allow her husband to look upon her one last time, to say his final good-byes.

The floor was still pooled with blood, the rear wall covered in fragments of flesh and bone, several tufts of hair drifting on an unseen breeze. With everything going on down at the crash site, no one would arrive up here to clean this tragic reminder of violence against the innocent for days to come. That wouldn’t do. He would get on the phone and get someone up from the city, and while he was at it, he would begin the daunting task of arranging the funeral that Nick’s fragile mind was incapable of planning.

“Hey!” The voice startled Marcus, shocking him back to the moment.

“What the hell are you doing?” Shannon said. “We told you to stay next door with her husband until we’re done.”

“I thought-” Marcus looked around. “I thought you were done.”

“This is a crime scene, and it’s just the two of us. We’ve got to do all the printing and investigation on our own. We’re done when I say were done.”

“I’m sorry.” Marcus headed back to the kitchen door. “I’ll be next door.”

“Where’s Quinn? I thought you were going to stay with him. Shit.” Shannon paused, suddenly nervous. “Is he the type to run?”

“Run? Run from what? His wife is dead. He can barely stand.”

“You know what?” the cop said, holding up his finger. “You’re here. Let’s have a conversation.”

The cop turned and walked toward the living room as if he owned the place, indicating for Marcus to follow. “This won’t take long.”

Marcus nodded. “Whatever it takes to catch whoever did this.” Marcus could feel the other cop come in behind him but chose not to turn around.

“You said previously that you were very close to both the deceased and her husband. How close would that be?”

“Best friends. Equally close to them both,” Marcus said.

“Were either of them having an affair?”

“You’re crossing the line.” Marcus wanted to choke the cop for bringing up such a stupid question.

“We just need to ask,” Dance said from behind him. “Where were you when Mrs. Quinn was shot?”

“I told you before, next door in my garage, about to head out to dinner. I heard the shot and came running.”

“Anyone with you?”

“No, but I was on the phone with my girlfriend, who’s in California for the weekend, which you can verify.”

“What kind of relationship did Nicholas Quinn have with the deceased?” Shannon asked.

“Her name is Julia,” Marcus said, abruptly, trying to keep his anger in check. “They were as close as could be, more in love now than the day they married.”

“Were either of them emotional?”

“Not really. In fact, they’re both pretty even-tempered.” Marcus couldn’t refer to her in the past, he couldn’t get used to the fact he’d never hear her voice again.

“If that’s the case, why would he kill her?”

Marcus didn’t answer, as he thought he had misheard the question.

“Why would he do it?” Shannon continued to pressure Marcus. “Can you think of any reason, money, jealousy?”

“There is absolutely no way Nick killed her,” Marcus said. “He would never raise a hand to her, let alone shoot her.”

“Well, some things suggest otherwise,” Dance said as he held up a large clear plastic bag. Inside was a large, impossibly elegant pistol, something that looked to be owned by a king or a sheik. There was a hammered-gold plate on other side of the stock. The handle was made of ivory, inlaid with jewels. “Any idea why he would be keeping such an expensive weapon in the trunk of his car?”

Marcus stared dumbfounded at the sight. He’d never known Nick to own such a gun. “That can’t be his.”

Without a word, Dance put the plastic-encased pistol in a box and turned back to Marcus.

“Despite your doubts,” Shannon said, “I think he did it. If he has an attorney, I would suggest that you call him, because I’m going to interrogate this guy until he admits what he has done. And believe me, after a day like today, I have no time for lies.”

Marcus stared at the cop and suddenly remembered why he had come over. He looked at the detective in his too-tight shirt and jeans and thought him an asshole. He looked at his right hand but saw five fingers, five complete fingers.

“It’s Detective Dance, right?” Marcus said.

“No, I’m Robert Shannon, he’s Dance,” Shannon pointed to his partner as they all headed into the kitchen.

“Sorry.” Marcus turned to Dance. “Did I see you at the Jersey Shore?”

“No.” Dance glared at him and shook his head, suspiciously. “Why?”

“I thought maybe-”

“I hate the Jersey Shore,” Dance snapped as he walked into the mud room.

Marcus watched as Dance walked to Julia’s encased body. He pulled off his latex gloves, bent down, and helped Shannon and the white-haired coroner lift the black bag up onto the gurney.

Marcus looked once again at Shannon and Dance’s clothes. They were exactly as Nick had described them, but Nick had probably seen them through the window, maybe forgetting that he had looked. In his fragile mental state who was to say that his mind wasn’t retreating into its own reality?

Marcus felt an overwhelming confusion rush through him as he stared at the black bag containing Julia’s body, still coming to grips with the fact she was dead. But what took Marcus’s breath away, what compounded the effect of everything that had happened, was the moment when his eye was drawn back to Dance, now pushing the gurney out through the door, his eyes drawn to the detective’s right hand…

… to his right ring finger

… where it was missing below the second knuckle.

NICK HAD NOT moved from the couch in Marcus’s library. He had read the letter three times over, his thoughts bathed in a crippling confusion. All logic seemed absent from the European man’s written words, but equally absent from Nick’s own mind-how had he gotten here and how was it remotely possible? Nick wasn’t a superstitious man; he wasn’t prone to believe in the supernatural, myths, legends, UFOs. He didn’t believe in lucky pennies, rabbit’s feet, bad luck, or broken mirrors. But he would gladly embrace it all, preaching the merits of each, if it would bring Julia back.

He stood and walked about the library in a half-aware state looking at the pictures on the shelves. There was no consistency to Marcus’s past, no stability. Several frames contained pictures of Sheila, several older shots were obviously cropped, excising a former spouse, and two frames were altogether empty. His eyes finally fell on a picture of himself and Julia arm in arm with Marcus prominently displayed on the center shelf. They were all smiling. Nick couldn’t recall if it had been taken by Blythe or Dana of the discarded housewife crowd but he didn’t care. It was of a joyous time, a time before murder and plane crashes, when happiness had seemed eternal.

Nick finally pulled himself away from the photo, in fear of being overcome with grief again, and looked out the window. His fear began to arise anew as he saw Detectives Shannon and Dance emerge from his house, helping the white-haired coroner push the gurney with the black bag containing Julia into the coroner’s truck.

Marcus stood in the driveway, his head hung in sorrow as she was loaded in and the door was closed. The two detectives turned to Marcus and the three began a slow march across the large side yard.

Nick thought about running, but had no idea where he would run to, wondering if his fate was sealed no matter how fast or far he ran. He pulled the watch from his pocket and flipped it open, reading the time, 8:55, and became momentarily lost in the timepiece.

He pulled the letter from his pocket once again, rereading the impossible words, slowly, deliberately, digesting them as if he were reading the bible.

NICK COULDN’T HELP looking out the window toward the coroner’s truck where Julia’s body lay in a cold, black bag.

OFTEN WHEN FACED with impossible odds, when the future is darkest, a man discards logic and turns to faith, to prayer, to the mystical, convincing himself that a higher power will intervene in his favor. It happens in matters of a desperate heart, in business, even in war, when he is up against an enemy. A soldier will pray to God for victory, often not realizing that his adversary is also praying for deliverance, and in all likelihood to the same God. A man will wish on a star for love, throw a penny into a well with confidence that it will deliver the winning lottery ticket, or rub rabbits’ feet so his favorite team will win the Super Bowl.

And so in that manner, Nick began to believe in the watch in his hand, in the written words of the stranger-though he was at a loss to know what language appeared at the bottom of the note. He believed that somehow, if he fought hard enough, he could stop Julia’s killer, he could save her. If he could just hold out until 9:00, he would be able to confirm whether that hope was hollow, whether his faith was misplaced and he was doomed to relive his harrowing experience in the interrogation room all over again. As silly, as impossible as it sounded, it was all that he had to hold on to.

With a sudden focus, he raced out of the library and across the marble two story foyer to the front door. Throwing the dead bolt, he hurried to the French doors in the living and dining rooms that led to the rear slate terrace, locking them in succession. He locked the side and garage doors and hurried back into the library, closing the heavy mahogany door, locking it tight. He was thankful that Marcus had put a dead bolt on the library door, odd for an interior door, but not odd for a room that contained a Gerome and two Norman Rockwells.

Nick looked again at the watch: 8:58.

And he heard them arrive, pounding on the locked front door.

Nick went to the bay window and closed the slatted wood shutters, flipping them down, sealing any point of vision into the room.

He heard the front door being kicked open with an earthquake-like rumble, and Marcus’s enraged voice suddenly filling the cavernous marble foyer, no doubt angered at the damage and the situation.

A knock sounded on the library door.

“Nick,” Marcus’s muffled voice came from the other side. “It’s me. I put a call in to Mitch, he’ll meet us down at the station. But these guys, they want you to go with them… and they say now.”

Nick remained silent, staring at the room, staring at the watch in the palm of his hand: 8:59.

“Listen, I’ll be right behind you,” Marcus said, enormous compassion in his voice. “You’ve got my word, we’ll get this all sorted out.”

Nick remained focused on the watch.

“Nick,” Marcus said through the door, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I believe you, I believe you-”

“Enough is enough,” Shannon ’s voice interrupted. “Open this door now, Quinn.”

Nick sat there, staring at the pocket watch, the second hand sweeping at a pace that seemed impossibly slow. Thirty seconds gone, thirty to go.

“Nick, please, I don’t have my keys, and these assholes already destroyed my front door.”

Nick continued to stare at the watch as if it would somehow deliver him from the moment, as if it were sacred and would reveal the truths of the hereafter.

“Get out of the way,” Shannon yelled at Marcus. “You’ve got five seconds, Quinn.”

And as Nick remained focused on the ticking watch, the door exploded open, splintered into toothpicks as Shannon ’s foot destroyed both lock and mahogany with an explosive kick. His gun was drawn and held before him as he burst into the room. Dance, also armed, came right behind him.

“On the ground,” the overzealous detective screamed.

Nick tucked the watch into his pocket just as Shannon grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him to the Persian rug on the floor.

“Dammit all,” Marcus shouted as he grabbed Shannon by the shoulder, pulling him off Nick. “Leave him alone.”

Shannon spun about and snapped a punch, catching Marcus in the jaw. Without even flinching, Marcus poured his 220 pounds into his fist as it landed square on Shannon ’s nose, exploding it into a crimson mess.

But Nick had tuned them out, he tuned them all out. His mind was closed off, focused on the watch in his pocket as he counted down the seconds until 9:00 in his head.

And as the mayhem continued around him, as Marcus screamed and pile-drived Shannon, Nick continued counting.

Three…

Two…

One…