the 13th Hour (33 page)

D
ANCE SLIPPED THE
jail key in the slot, opened the heavy barred door, and stepped inside the cell, pulling it closed behind him as he stuffed the key in his pocket. He carried the small wicker basket of Nick's belongings and stared down at him as he sat in the middle of the confined space in a metal folding chair staring at the beaten-up clock on the wall.

He waved the basket before Nick's eyes. There was Paul Dreyfus's wallet, his own wallet, his cell phone, his keys, all of which he ignored, choosing to stare at the wall, but then his eyes were inexorably pulled toward the gold watch lying there, its appearance belying its power. And it was all he cared about, not the jail key in Dance's pocket that could free him from these confines, not his keys, so he could drive away. All that mattered right now was getting the watch back into his possession.

And Dance pulled the basket away, a taunting reminder that Dance controlled the moment.

"Some nice watch you have," Dance said as he pulled it from the basket. He rolled it about in his hands, running his thumb over the golden case, about the winding stem on top. He thumbed it open, staring at the old English face. "An antique. Was it your dad's, maybe your grandfather's? Big sentimental value to it?
Fugit inreparabile tempus,"
he said, reading the inscription. "I bet it would probably crush you if you lost it, huh?" Dance deposited it in his right jacket pocket.

The two envelopes in Nick's jacket pocket felt as if they were on fire. If Dance was to find them, to see the
Wall Street Journal
page, to read the letter explaining the watch . . . Marcus's words ran in his ear, ". . . in the wrong hands . . ." Nick knew there were no worse hands then Ethan Dance's.

Dance reached back into the basket and lifted up the silver St. Christopher medal. "I know if someone stole something of mine, something I held dear, something that was given to me by mother . . . well, I would be angry, to say the least."

Dance slipped the small wicker basket through the bars, laying it on the floor. He turned around and stood over Nick.

"Where did you get this?" Dance said as he dangled the St. Christopher medal in Nick's face, swinging it back and forth like a pendulum. "Were you in my locker? Was it Dreyfus? How the hell did you get in there?"

Nick remained silent as he watched Dance's eyes lose focus.

"I got this for graduation," Dance said as he turned it over and read the worn engraving. "
Miracles do happen.
My mom had that engraved because my father said it would be a miracle if I graduated, it would be a miracle if I amounted to anything. She always called me her miracle kid."

For the briefest of moments, Nick thought he saw a twinkle of humanity in Dance's eyes as he slipped the chain over his neck, the medal falling against his chest, lying oddly upon his shirt and tie, as if it was an award bestowed by royalty for service above and beyond the call of duty.

"I take it off at work because I never want to lose it. It's just about the only thing I hold dear in this world. I'm not sentimental about much, but its meaning to me is something you couldn't understand. You know, I should kill you for stealing it."

Dance reached into his pocket and pulled something out, clutching it tightly in his hand. "You're going to tell me what the hell is going on. Where did you get that medal?"

Nick didn't answer.

Dance looked at his right fist, the one clutching whatever it was he had pulled from his pocket, and without a second thought, drew it back and unloaded it into Nick's face, knocking him out of his chair.

"You better start talking," he said as he stood over Nick.

Nick rolled about the floor in pain, his right brow split open, blood boiling up, but he shut his senses down, his eyes fixed on the clock on the wall: 12:56.

"How did you do it? What kind of trick are you trying to play with me?"

And with that, Dance hit him again. The blow glanced off the side of Nick's head; Dance's aim was off from his anger.

Nick watched Dance pace around the small cell. He stopped and looked out through the bars before turning back.

Dance crouched over Nick and held his fist before Nick's face. The seconds ticked by as the two stared at each other, and then Dance opened his fist, palm-side down, and let the chain fall out of his hand, holding the dangling medal between his fingers, the medal swinging and spinning about in the air.

The St. Christopher medal hung there, a medal identical to the one that hung about Dance's neck, identical in every way. Not in the sense that it was identical to the one Shannon had, that he had also gotten when he graduated St. Christopher in Brooklyn. This medal was a carbon copy of the religious piece draped upon Dance's shirt and tie. Every nick, every scratch, the slight indentations from life. Everything was a spot-on match, and as it hung before Nick's eyes, it spun about and Nick could plainly see the engraving,
Miracles do happen.

"How the hell did you do this? Is this some kind of sick joke to mess with my head? It's something you and Dreyfus cooked up, isn't it?" Paranoia laced his every word. "You thought that you could play me, with some twisted kind of magic?

"Well, Nicholas Quinn, Shannon was going to let you go, but I know who you really are and what you have been doing."

Nick glared Dance.

"You're working with the Dreyfus brothers, aren't you? Helping them to screw me." Dance paused, a grin forming on his lips. "You should know, your buddy, Sam Dreyfus, is dead. He's dead because he knew I was going to kill him and he ran off like a coward clutching the prize he stole from us. I couldn't have dreamed up a better death for that twisted fuck. His brother, Paul? No doubt he was involved in trying to double-cross us, too. I'll take care of him right after I deal with you. And your wife." Dance paused. "I know who your wife is. I know she's Hennicot's attorney and she's got the security video of the robbery in her office. Maybe I'll kill her in front of you; I'd take pleasure in that."

And with those words, Nick snapped. Everything that had happened--seeing Julia dead, her face torn apart by the gun blast; her living in peril; Marcus's death; his own frustration at chasing shadows, living in a microcosm of time separate from the world, knowing the future and struggling to figure out how to change it; and now this son of a bitch pulling him from his destiny as Julia had been pulled from the plane crash--all seemed a cruel mockery, letting him get so close, but killing him before he could save her from what fate had in store for her.

Nick grabbed Dance's leg, pulling him off-balance. He leaped to his feet and with a bone-crushing right hook drilled Dance in the nose, stunning him. All Nick's anger, all his rage filled his fist as he drew it back and hammered it into Dance's jaw. He continued with a rain of blows, a release of his pain and frustration. All his emotions poured out of his clenched fists as he hit the man who would end Julia's life, who would shoot her in cold blood, a devil playing God as he ripped her from this earth. Nick would kill him right here, right now, with his bare hands. Dance might have been strong, he might have been tough, but there is a point of desperation all men reach when everything they hold dear is taken from them, when what they love most is stolen away. Nick had endured Julia's death, her danger, her fear, he had left her behind in the future to die with Dance, a man who through the twisting of time, seemed to haunt his every living second.

He hit him again and again.

But Dance was tough. He blocked Nick's next punch and countered with a hard right that sent Nick staggering back. Dance jumped on him, holding him by the collar, as he rained blow after blow upon Nick's body, doubling him over, knocking the wind out of him. Nick could feel a rib crack, the pain excruciating as he struggled to breathe as Dance's attack raged on.

Nick's awareness was slipping, consciousness drifting in and out, but a single image filled his mind. The golden timepiece. Without the watch, he would be trapped in this time line, continuing forward with his and Julia's fate set on a course of death, a death he knew for himself was only moments away. And Julia would be dying all the sooner, alone, with nothing but questions swirling in her mind.

Nick could barely see through the blood that ran down into his eyes, he could barely make out the clock on the wall, but his vision was just clear enough to see the time: 12:59, the second hand sweeping up toward the top of the hour.

And then Nick thought of Julia, of everything she meant to him. He thought of her gentle touch, her lips as she woke him this morning, of her hope-filled eyes and her blonde hair as it fell upon him as they made love. He thought of her heart and her passion. He thought of her as she swam too fast at the age of fifteen, gasping as he pulled her from the pool but never complaining. She was his life, everything he cared about, everything he lived for.

With a last bit of strength, reaching into what was left of him, Nick hit Dance in the nose, continuing his momentum, driving the detective up against the bars of the jail cell, his adrenaline-infused muscles pinning him there.

And in a final moment of clarity, as the clock struck one, Nick reached into Dance's jacket and pulled the watch from his pocket.

CHAPTER
2

11:00
A.M

J
ULIA
Q
UINN PULLED INTO
the short-term parking at Westchester Airport. She grabbed her purse off the seat and raced for the terminal. Held up by an unexpected conference call that had lasted over forty-five minutes, she was behind schedule and afraid she'd miss her flight.

She had made the appointment with Dr. Colverhome on Monday and cleared her Friday afternoon schedule to indulge in a little bit of future mommyhood excitement.

She left the three frames on the seat of her car. They were of different sizes and designs. She had grabbed them from The Right Thing in Byram Hills on her way to the airport this morning, as she was unsure exactly how big a sonogram picture actually was. She was excited about giving it to Nick tonight, surprising him with the news. She had teddy bear wrapping paper and a copy of Dr. Seuss's
Fox in Sox
, her favorite from childhood, something she'd loved to hear her dad read, a tradition she was looking forward to Nick's continuing with their child.

Though the scientific, in utero image of their child would betiny, it would be the first picture to define them as a true family, a picture they would place on a bookshelf in the library among all their crazy vacation pictures from around the country.

She checked her watch: 11:01. With the flight scheduled to hit the air at 11:16, she just might make it. As this was a small regional airport, ticket lines were short and security checks were rarely congested.

With her boarding pass validated, she flew through security and was relieved to see that boarding had just started. She felt an overwhelming excitement. She was bursting to call Nick, to tell him what she was doing, to tell him about the baby, but her patience won out. She wanted to see the surprise on his face, she wanted to feel his arms wrap her with the same joy she had felt when she learned of the life within her.

Nick was unaware of her schedule, unaware of her flying today, which made her feel a bit guilty. He had no love of air travel, always insisting on knowing her flight plans when she flew and that she call him upon landing. But she was afraid it would lead to too many questions, her answers being transparent lies to a man who could read her face like a clock.

They had parted on a sour note just a few hours ago. He was angry about having to dine out with friends he didn't much care for, and while she returned his anger, she was laughing on the inside, knowing it was all a ploy, knowing that it would make the surprise all the sweeter.

Her heart still skipped a beat when she thought of Nick. That feeling still arose in her stomach, as it had the moment she first saw him standing poolside in his bathing suit sixteen years ago. And while Nick had no idea where she was, she knew his routine as if it was her own. He was working from home, he'd probably be sitting in his leather chair in the library toiling away for the next eight hours, forgetting to eat or even look up, losing all track of time.

* * *

N
ICK SAT IN
his Audi, the Sig-Sauer in his hand, checking the safety and slamming in the clip before tucking it in his waistband at the small of his back. He had driven through the bustling town of Byram Hills, in the midst of its late-morning summer routine--mothers with strollers heading for an early lunch at the Country Kitchen; day laborers getting the first pie of the day from Broadway Pizza; landscapers filling their trucks with foliage at Mariani's Garden Market; real estate brokers sipping coffee outside their offices while chatting about their latest listings as fathers ran into the local bank to grab cash for the long weekend at the shore.

Intersecting lives, hand waves and kisses, smiles and hugs, a town linked by its commonality of existence--lives that would be changed forever in less than one hour.

Nick turned into the Byram Hills Police Department. After all of his ideas, all of his brainstorming, he went back to the simplest of solutions. Nick wasn't some superhero, he had never been in the military, and he had no illusions that he was some skilled crime fighter. He couldn't arrive on the scene, guns blazing, killing everyone involved in the theft and think he could succeed, let alone live--and who knew the consequences? He was simply a man trying to save his wife.