the 13th Hour (22 page)

N
ICK STOOD LOOKING
at the crash site. Firemen were rolling up their hoses, not yet able to sit on the running boards of their trucks for a rest. Family members were being bused to the locker building to be close to the remains of their loved ones, to hear any updates on the cause of the crash or even, possibly, word of a miracle survivor.

The devastation was like nothing Nick had ever experienced. Though he had seen it an hour earlier in his time, he had not grown accustomed to the sight. The tragedy was on a grand scale. But for the tail of the plane, he couldn't see any piece of debris larger than a door. He looked at the hundreds of volunteers assisting the emergency crews, helping the grieving families. It was humanity at its best and life at its worst.

And somewhere in here, among the sea of people, was Paul Dreyfus.

Nick pulled out Dreyfus's still-wet wallet, found one of his business cards, and dialed the cell phone number on it.

"Hello," a deep voice answered.

"Mr. Dreyfus?" Nick asked, looking around at the sea of volunteers.

"Yes."

Nick looked among the crowd by the locker, by the situation tents. "My name is Nick Quinn."

"Yes," Dreyfus said, with no emotion, no formality.

Nick scanned the field, surrounded by miles of police tape, and finally saw him, cell phone to his ear, standing in the open field of death. Nick hung up and headed straight for the man, never taking his eye off him.

Dreyfus was heavier than Nick had thought, a man who had once been built like a rock. His weight had shifted about but he still appeared strong. His gray hair was neatly parted, unlike the mussed, drifting locks Nick had seen on his corpse at the bottom of the Kensico Reservoir.

The man wore rubber surgical gloves, his shirtsleeves rolled up as he lifted sheet after sheet, examining the bodies underneath.

"Mr. Dreyfus?" Nick said on approach.

Dreyfus didn't stop looking under the white sheets, as if Nick was a nuisance.

"My name is Nick Quinn," he said as he extended his hand.

Dreyfus ignored it. Nick was unsure if it was because of the gloves or out of rudeness.

"You flew up here today?" Nick asked.

"I'm supposed to know you?"

"I don't know how to tell you this--" Nick paused, unsure how to proceed.

"I don't have time for mind games; get to the point."

"They're going to kill you," Nick blurted out.

"Who?" Dreyfus didn't look up from his task, as if he didn't hear or didn't care.

"Your partners."

"Partners?" Dreyfus asked, finally looking up. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

Nick grabbed the man by the shoulders, spinning him around to get his attention. "Then they are going to kill my wife."

The man's face softened for an instant. "Then I suggest you go protect her instead of harassing me."

"Do you know Ethan Dance?" Nick pressed him.

"Are you a cop?"

"He's going to drill you in the eye and the mouth. He's got a mean right hook." Nick rubbed his lip. "Then he's going to tie a heavy iron plate to your ankles and drop you into a lake."

"Are you trying to scare me?"

"Yeah, I am," Nick said in earnest.

"After seeing all this," Dreyfus waved his gloved hand around, "you'll excuse me if I ignore you. I've got bigger issues to deal with."

Dreyfus glared at Nick before walking off. Nick stood there a moment, not sure how to crack the man, how to get him to talk.

Nick caught up to Dreyfus, walking beside him along the charred ground, every step avoiding pieces of what had once been an AS 300 jetliner. Dreyfus would pause before a white sheet, bowing his head as if in reverence, and then slowly lifting it by its corner.

Hastily brought in from Northern Westchester Hospital, the sheets were serving a purpose they were never designed for. While Nick knew they covered bodies, he hadn't realized what was actually under the sea of white cloth that dotted the hellish landscape. There were no people lying in elegant repose. The bodies were broken, dismembered, burned beyond recognition. Some sheets covered torsos, others limbs, visions Nick had never borne witness to, sights that turned his stomach and wrenched his heart. How Dreyfus could search, how he could look at each face was something Nick couldn't understand.

"What are you doing here?" Nick asked.

"I was an army medic, Vietnam. I thought I'd never see anything like this again."

"You think coming here," Nick said, "volunteering will clear your soul?"

"You have no idea what you are talking about. I'm going to tell you once, get away from me before I call the cops over."

"Trust me, you don't want to do that." Nick paused. "What are you hoping for, redemption?"

Dreyfus stopped, turning to Nick with a mix of anger and pain in his eyes. "I'm hoping to find my brother."

Nick stared at the man, so sure of a darker side, only to be floored by the fact that Dreyfus's brother had been on the plane.

"I'm sorry," Nick said. "I didn't realize."

"Now, will you let me be?"

"There was a robbery this morning of Washington House, the Hennicots' place. You did the security." Nick reluctantly pressed on. "They stole a bunch of diamonds and swords, some daggers and guns. They're covering their tracks and I know for a fact they are coming for you. You need to get out of here. I'll help you do that, but you've got to tell me who was involved in the theft. I need to know every name to save my wife."

Dreyfus finally looked at Nick with different eyes, sympathetic eyes. "I'm sorry about your wife." And his sympathy slipped away. "But she's still alive. That's more than I can say for my brother. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Dreyfus leaned down and lifted another sheet.

"Mr. Dreyfus?" a voice called from behind them.

"Great, now who are you?"

"I'm Detective Ethan Dance."

Nick turned to see four uniformed police standing beside Dance.

"You need to come with us." Dance took him by an arm as one of the uniformed cops took the other. Nick quickly looked at the patrolmen, checking whether any of them were the police officer he had seen bound, floating dead in the bottom of the Kensico Reservoir, but none had red hair and all four were far from skinny.

Nick felt the gun at the small of his back but knew if he drew it he'd be either dead or in handcuffs.

"Let him go," Nick called out, not knowing why.

"Who the hell are you?" Dance said.

"My God, don't you have any compassion?" Nick said. "The guy's looking for his brother."

"That's not all he's looking for out here," Dance said as he turned and led Dreyfus away.

N
ICK STARED OUT
at the white-draped bodies, all of the men, women, and children, his mind puzzling over why the innocent had to die. What purpose did it serve? How many loved ones were left behind to grieve? He knew what it felt like to lose the one you love most in this world.

He wished he could stop it, take it all away. He wished he had more than five hours. If it took twelve hours to save Julia, to solve a crime, how long would it take to save 212? Could he ride time backward and tell each one not to get on the plane, could he find and stop the cause of the accident? His heart broke when he knew he couldn't end all the suffering.

But Dreyfus had not shed any new light on the robbery before he was whisked away by Dance to what would inevitably be his death. He was searching for his brother's body. Nick never realized, never thought there was the possibility of something other than the robbery that Dreyfus was dealing with.

And what did Dance mean, he was not just searching for his brother's body,
he was searching for something else
?

Nick was actually surprised. Though Dreyfus was filled with grief, Nick felt he could actually like the man. He had served his country, he was medically trained, he'd built a huge business.

And Nick realized he didn't have to die. He might not be able to save the passengers, but he might be able to save Paul Dreyfus, and by so doing maybe he would get some answers.

Nick knew where they were going; there was still time.

P
AUL
D
REYFUS WAS
thrown in the back of a green Taurus while Dance spoke to and dismissed his underling cops.

Dance slid into the backseat beside him, drew his gun, and pressed it into Paul's stomach. "How's it feel to be the brother of the murderer of over two hundred people?"

Dreyfus stared at Dance but remained silent.

"He double-crossed us. Was that your plan all along? I want to know where the box is." Dance paused, his agitation and anger growing. "And I want to know now!"

Dreyfus wasn't about to answer his questions. No one would get him to talk, especially not this corrupt cop.

On the Laos border in '72, while treating what was left of Lieutenant Reese's platoon, Paul Dreyfus had been captured by the Vietcong. He was thrown into a pit, a makeshift holding cell, and they had questioned him for five days. No food, just water. They beat him over the back with tree switches and rifle butts, but he never said a word, not even name, rank, and serial number. On the sixth day, a team of Navy SEALs liberated him but not before he had snatched a rifle off a dead Vietcong solider and shot his interrogators' heads off.

Dreyfus hadn't answered questions then and he wasn't about to answer questions now.

Arriving back in the United States in '75, Paul Dreyfus started his security company--a small shop at first. Door and window alarms for friends' homes gave way to video surveillance for local mom and pop stores, which gave way to sophisticated corporate security designs. With a combination of luck, sweat, sleepless nights, and stressful days, Dreyfus built his company into one of the finest in the country.

Samuel Dreyfus ran a far different path than his older brother. Where Paul went to college to pursue a career in medicine, Sam dropped out of high school to pursue girls. Where Paul enlisted, Sam protested. Where Paul flew off to Vietnam, Sam ran off to Canada.

Paul, an athlete since childhood, had built his body through exercise and diet into a machine that tackled quarterbacks as a Georgia Bulldog and carried the wounded off the battlefield in Southeast Asia. Sam, on the other hand, preferred to pour chemicals in his body to find
enlightenment
and
truth.

Forgoing a career in medicine after seeing too many battlefield wounds and too much blood, Paul Dreyfus followed a path he could never have imagined. Success provided him a Georgian colonial mansion outside Philadelphia, Ivy League educations for his two daughters, a life of luxury for Susan, his wife of thirty-five years, even his own modest boat and plane, both of which he preferred to four-wheeled vehicles. He loved flying, embracing his father's passion at the age of fourteen. Twice a month their dad took him and Sam on little excursions around the Lehigh Valley, letting them each handle the controls, planting the seeds of a lifelong passion, imparting that feeling of flight that was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

People viewed everything in his life with envy. Everything except his brother. Back in the United States after President Carter's amnesty for draft dodgers, Sam returned to the States thinking the world owed him a living. Or if not the world, at least his brother, Paul.

Sam might have been many things, but he was still Paul's brother, he was still family. Draft dodging and drugs were the extent of his crimes, and they were all in his youth. Being obnoxious, rude, and self-centered were not felonious acts. If they were, Sam would have been in jail long ago.

Paul had employed his brother off and on for the last twenty years, paying him a salary that grew to over a million dollars a year for doing absolutely nothing. He actually gave him a small piece of the firm out of sympathy, so there would be something to leave his kids. He'd hoped it would spur some pride, some drive, but like so many efforts before, it proved useless. Sam made few contributions, brought in not a single contract, and seemed uninterested in the business. It had gotten to the point that Paul was seriously considering giving up on his brother altogether.

But during the last year, Paul had seen a change. Sam was at his office by 8:00 every morning, working full days. He gradually began showing up at the main office with ideas, treating employees with respect. It took Sam Dreyfus forty-nine years, but he had finally grown up. With increasing responsibility Sam grew into the family name, trust was restored, their families reconnected. Paul proudly introduced him at presentations. He landed three major multi-million-dollar contracts in six months. Sam wasn't just working, he was earning his keep.

But then the world spun on its head.

Paul had entered his office at 6:45 this morning to find a receipt for one of his patented octagonal keys lying on the floor. He picked it up quietly, cursing the fool who dropped it, and saw the signature on the bottom. He suddenly realized what Sam had done.