the 13th Hour (6 page)

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.

N
ICK AND
J
ULIA'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.

N
ICK 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.

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 as you have found yourself in the exact location where
you were at eight o'clock this evening.

In life there are moments that are impossible to grasp, to
come to terms with: the injustice at the death of the innocent,
the inexplicable agony and confusion at the loss of those we love,
the impossible cruelty of fate.

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

One simple selfish act can reverberate through time, through
life, robbing a stranger of existence. A loved one could meet her
death from the repercussions of a moment or an event she may
never know or understand. Yet if this one moment didn't occur,
if it could be found, could be taken back, the lives it touched
could be changed, could be altered and that one life saved.

You are now standing in a room, in an instant that seems
torn from your memory, a victim of magic, of some divine
intervention, but I assure you it is neither.

You are in the very room you were in during the eight
o'clock hour this evening, living that hour once again. But this
time you are free to do as you wish, turn left where before you
turned right, say yes where before you said no. No one will
know the difference, nor will anyone else experience this
phenomenon. You are on your own to choose direction as you see
fit, to alter the future you have experienced.