the 13th Hour (40 page)

"I don't think so," Jo snapped at her. "I've got the call set up, I can patch you in. You'll straighten out this lucky sperm club trust in plenty of time and make your flight."

Julia smiled. No one was better than Jo. "I'm going to pull over so I don't lose signal. Why don't you patch them all in?"

"Have a safe flight, honey."

"Thanks, you're the best."

"Okay, everyone," Jo said. "I have Julia Quinn for you."

"Good morning," Julia said as she pulled to the side of the road. Jo was so good, she had saved her and kept her life orderly for the tenth time today.

With the unexpected delay, she'd just have to do her usual run for the gate, but she'd still make her flight. She looked at the teddy bear wrapping paper sticking out of the bag and smiled, Nick was going to be so surprised.

"So, I understand there is some concern on the matter of the children's trusts," Julia said out loud as she leaned back in her car seat. "Well, let's see what we can do to protect their future."

B
OB
S
HANNON WALKED
out of the bagel store, his bottle of Gatorade already half gone. He ate his bagel as fast as he could, trying to finish it before he got into the Mustang. He hated crumbs, and the poppy seed bagel had a tendency to make its presence felt weeks after it had been eaten, as the seeds permeated every nook and cranny.

With his last bite, he arrived at his car. Brushing himself off, he hopped in just as his cell phone vibrated with an incoming text message.

He looked at his phone, not recognizing the number. Another message came in, and then another, and another. He paged through his phone and found the incoming messages to actually be five pictures. He clicked on the first one but was interrupted by an incoming call from the same number.

"Detective Shannon," he said as he answered.

"Did you look at the pictures yet?" the caller asked.

"Who is this?"

"I'm at the private air terminal at Westchester Airport. I'm driving a blue Audi. And detective, trust no one, especially your partner."

The line went dead.

Shannon stared at his phone as if it was somehow pulling a prank on him. He looked again at the number but didn't recognize it, so he pulled up the first picture.

It was a shot of a green Taurus. Dance's piece of junk. Shannon at first hadn't understood why he drove it. Though it had the souped-up 350 V-8 police engine, it still looked like a banged-up vehicle that someone had left at the side of the road. But as Shannon learned, Dance spent a good deal of time down county and in the Bronx, moonlighting in less-than-legal side jobs, and had chosen a car that would never be noticed, that would never call attention to itself, as a black Shelby Cobra Mustang would.

Shannon thumbed through to the next picture. It was from the rear of Dance's car, the trunk sitting wide open. Shannon chuckled, he was being goofed on. The pictures looked like those various-angle photos you saw of used cars in the back of magazines, but he could never imagine who would buy Dance's car.

But as he clicked on the third picture, he realized this was no game. It was a much closer shot of Dance's trunk, and it was filled with what looked like treasure. Swords of gold, bejeweled daggers, several ornate guns, and sitting among it all was a black velvet bag, its mouth wide open, the diamonds inside sparkling in the sunlight.

Shannon grew suddenly serious. If this was a joke, someone had gone too far. But as he clicked to the next picture on his phone he knew that the situation went much farther.

The rear door on the right side hung open. The passenger was belted in, sitting in a pool of blood that seemed to cover his entire torso. Shannon looked closer but could not make out the face. But no matter, he knew he was looking at a corpse, he was looking at a murder scene.

He finally clicked to the final shot, a shot that sent his mind spinning, a shot that nearly seized his heart. It was a much closer image, this time through the left rear passenger door of the Taurus. The face could be seen plain as day. It was pale, almost blue from bleeding out. The mouth hung open, slack-jawed. The eyes were lifeless, dry, and without any sign of a soul.

Shannon looked up, suddenly feeling a rush of paranoia such as he had never known. He looked back down at his cell phone, thinking he might have been seeing things.

But there was no doubt, Bob Shannon was looking at himself.

N
ICK SAT IN
his car at the private air terminal waiting for Shannon. He couldn't afford to waste time explaining things again, so he had formulated the perfect device to get the detective's attention.

He had run back to the Taurus before his last time shift, opened the door on Shannon's side, reached in, and grabbed the cell phone from the detective's waist. He read Shannon's number, entered it into his own phone, and threw Shannon's back in the car. He quickly circled Dance's car, taking the five pictures he'd just sent, building them in intensity as he went, creating an invitation that Shannon would never refuse.

On the seat beside him was the Colt Peacemaker he had plucked from the bushes, its chambers emptied of the spent silver bullets. It was the same gun he had stared at nearly twelve hours ago in the interrogation room, the pistol that Dance had shot Julia with and had planted in the trunk of his car to frame him for her murder. It had become a symbol of death and greed. But now, the etchings upon its barrel and stock became prophetically personal, reflecting Nick's own quest for justice:
The gate that leads to damnation is wide--To hell you shall be gathered together--Yet ye bring wrath--Darkness which may be felt--Whoever offers violence to you, offer you the like violence to him
.

The whining roar of an American Air jet shook Nick's car like sustained thunder as it leaped off the tarmac into the crystalline blue sky. Planes and jets took off and landed with regular frequency, without incident, as the aviation business went about its morning routine.

Nick stared out through his windshield across the large expanse of tarmac at the central hub of Westchester Airport's main terminal where six medium-sized passenger jets took on travelers to whisk them out to all parts of the country. On the outermost bay was a white AS 300, its red and blue circular logo prominently displayed. The North East Air jet sat quietly being fueled and prepped for flight: food and drink carts were replenished, aisles were vacuumed, fresh pillows and blankets brought on in preparation for the boarding that would commence in an hour's time. It received the temporary designation of Flight 502 with a one-hour flight time to Logan International Airport in Boston. It was the plane that would carry Julia aloft, carry so many unsuspecting passengers only two miles before it fell from the sky, plunging them all to their death in a tangled heap of flame.

Nick had fought so hard to stop the robbery, to save Julia, he'd neglected to think about the 212 on the plane who died. But now, as impossible at it seemed, Julia was among them.

It took ten hours to save Julia from her imminent death, to remove her killer from the world. Yet despite all of his effort, he had delivered her right back to the first death she had avoided, the first death she was saved from. Through his missteps he had placed her on the plane with no excuse to get off, through his poorly executed moves she had been left to experience the most horrible of deaths, a death he had feared all his life. He couldn't imagine what had gone through her head as they crashed in midair and tumbled out of the sky.

Nick realized all moments, every tick of the watch led to now. Led to stopping the plane crash to save not only Julia but the 212 others who had needlessly died.

And though he had initially thought it was simple to stop the tumbling domino of the robbery in order for Julia to live, he knew now that the impact of his actions could have far worse results.

He wasn't about to rely on simply taking the key for Dreyfus's plane, or on just leaving a message for Julia to not get on Flight 502. He couldn't call the airline or the FAA, explaining he had a premonition. He had considered an anonymous bomb threat but dismissed the idea, knowing he had to do more than prevent the plane crash in order to keep Julia alive. He also had to keep the robbery from ever happening.

He knew that every action he took had repercussions, no matter the nobleness of the intention. He had seen it with Marcus's death, with McManus's death, with Shannon's, and with Julia ending up on the doomed airliner. As each moment was modified it would ripple through time, having hundreds, even thousands of effects.

If Nick made the wrong move, the wrong decision, it would reverberate through the future, and instead of stopping the plane crash, his misstep might compound the tragedy of the crash of Flight 502, perhaps sending it tumbling onto the populated town of Byram Hills or, even worse, the children's day camp instead of the wide-open, vacant sports field.

Who was to say that fate was even reversible? Was Julia destined to die this day no matter what, whether by gunshot, plane crash, or some other means? Were the 212 passengers aboard Flight 502 meant to go down in a horrific aviation disaster despite every effort to halt the Cessna 400 from taking off?

Nick suddenly shook off the pessimistic thoughts, returning to hope, the greatest of emotions, something that could wipe away fear, could eliminate doubt, could inspire faith in even the most impossible of situations. He was here now, he had inexplicably marched back through the day, to this last of hours, to this final chance to save Julia's life.

So with hope in his heart, Nick focused, searching for that singular action, that one deed that would change the future for everyone. Julia, Marcus, Shannon, Dreyfus, McManus, himself. He didn't know what it was, but he knew that he would find it before the hour was up.

Nick picked up his phone again and tried Julia; for the second time he went right to voicemail.

"Julia," Nick said. "It's me. Do me a favor, do not get on that flight to Boston. I don't care why you're going, I don't care if you get fired, do not get on that flight. I have a terrible feeling, I can't explain it. Just do what I say. Call me when you get this."

Nick turned his attention to the Cessna 400. Parked within a long line of small jets and planes, the white aircraft looked like a Corvette of the sky, its sleek lines, its swept-back window giving the impression of a man-made bird of prey.

The blue Chevy Impala sat just behind the small plane, its trunk open, as Paul Dreyfus removed his briefcase and a small duffel, laying them upon the ground. He was neatly dressed in gray slacks and a blue tie, his sport coat hung on the open door of the Impala, his gray hair combed as if he were off to Sunday mass.

Nick had watched him for several minutes moving around his plane, talking on his cell phone, when up the single-lane drive came a dark green, waxed and polished BMW. The car drove across the nearly vacant lot and parked on the other side, right next to where Dreyfus was waiting.

A man in a crisp blue shirt and pleated pants emerged from the car and warmly greeted Dreyfus with a two-fisted handshake. There was a polished, regal air about the man. He looked to be in his late fifties, his strong shoulders and narrow waist evidence that he was more than fit, his dark perfect hair flecked with gray that dominated his temples.

The two engaged in an animated conversation full of hand gestures and head nods, until finally, the regal man popped his trunk. Dreyfus crouched and unzipped the black duffel. With a great deal of effort he withdrew an object, carried it over to the BMW, and placed it inside the trunk, closing the lid.

Nick's heart ran cold as he instantly recognized the mahogany box. There was no mistaking the two-by-two foot dark wood case, its three silver keyholes glistening in the midmorning sun.

And then the man in the blue shirt turned, the sun hitting his profile, and the last twelve hours of Nick's life were turned inside out, sending his mind reeling, for he realized who he was looking at.

It was the European, the man who had showed up in the interrogation room, who had given him the watch, who had set him on this journey to save his wife. Yet here he was taking delivery of the mahogany box Sam Dreyfus was supposed to steal one hour from now, the box that created the impetus for so much violence and death, for Julia's torturous demise on two separate occasions, the box whose theft and possession would ultimately precipitate the crash of Flight 502.

Nick's mind filled with confusion at the alliance of Paul Dreyfus and the European. He had never formed a connection, never thought he had been sent on his journey for anything but Julia. He thought of the box as simply the goal of thieves, the prize sought by Sam Dreyfus. He'd never truly pondered its contents or worth, dismissing it as the precious secrets of an old man. But now . . .

It was inextricably linked to Julia's death, to the crash of Flight 502, a wooden box whose contents were sought by too many.

He had never expected to see the mahogany box here already, thinking it still in the safe in Hennicot's basement, which, in his mind, meant only one thing: The true thieves were standing before him on the other side of the parking lot.

Nick leaped from his car and broke into an all-out sprint across the blacktop lot. The European caught sight of Nick's frantic approach, quickly got into his car, and pulled out. Nick sprinted across the fifty-yard-wide lot, past Dreyfus, running alongside the moving car as it headed for the exit, pounding the driver's-side window. The man briefly looked at Nick before hitting the gas and leaving him in a cloud of dust where he finally slowed to a halt to watch the man's escape.