the 13th Hour (30 page)

N
ICK AND
M
ARCUS
sat ten feet apart, facing each other in a dimly lit room, the sole light coming from the wash under the steel bay door. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs, their feet secured to the legs of the chair.

"You all right?" Nick said.

"No, dammit. I'm pissed and my back hurts. And I'm going to break the jaw of that bastard who hit me," Marcus shouted as he turned his head back and forth, trying to work out the kinks. "Do you have any idea where we are?"

Nick looked around the room, at the large open space. There were crates along the wall, a single desk in the corner. The power was out, as it was everywhere else in Byram Hills.

"In a dark room," Nick said, trying to calm his friend.

"Smartass."

"It's a warehouse."

"No shit?" Marcus said facetiously. "Where the hell is everybody?"

"Everyone is over at the plane crash or home."

"You know how much money I give to the police retirement fund each year?" Marcus looked down at his wrinkled shirt, his torn pants. "That's over. They ruined a perfectly good shirt and pants."

Nick looked at the clock on the wall. 1:50.

"Stop looking at that clock," Marcus said. "Time's not going to slow down."

Nick had less than ten minutes to get himself and Marcus out of here before he slipped back in time again, leaving Marcus alone and at the mercy of Dance.

Nick fought to keep the guilt out, the feeling of what he was putting his best friend through. He had set out to save Julia, but had inadvertently put his friend in mortal danger. Nick refused to have Marcus's blood on his hands, and as soon as he had the chance he would free them, but he had to think quickly, as there was little likelihood they would survive if left in their current state.

Dance walked through a side door, slamming it behind him with a loud, jarring crash. He quietly walked into the room, circling his two captives. Finally stopping in front of Nick, he leaned into his face and whispered in his ear, "Where's your wife, Nicholas?"

Nick stared at him, rage boiling in his eyes.

"Why do I bother asking you?" Dance turned to Marcus. "Where is she? Who else knows about the robbery?"

Marcus smiled a taunting smile, a Cheshire Cat smile, one he used often in toying with his business adversaries during negotiations.

"Listen to me, did you hear me?" Dance yelled, suddenly riled up. "Where is she? Who else knows about the robbery?"

Dance drew back his fist and unloaded it into Marcus's nose, breaking it for the fourth time in his life. The blood ran down his lip, dripping on his white shirt and blue Hermes tie.

"Now," Marcus said in a whisper, unaffected by the sucker punch. "You listen to me, you coward. Free my hands and hit me, let's see how tough you really are."

Dance pile-drived the side of Marcus's face in answer.

"Tell me where she is," Dance yelled at Nick as he pulled a gun, aiming at him, the moment hanging in the air. "Recognize your gun?"

And Dance spun around, smashing the pistol against Marcus's head before jamming the barrel up under his chin.

"Tell me where your wife is, or he dies," Dance said to Nick. This wasn't just a threat, Nick could see Dance's eyes confirming the truth in his words.

Nick stared at Marcus, his heart breaking as he was forced to choose one life over another.

Marcus looked at Nick, subtly shaking his head, and smiled. It was a warm half--smile, the kind he gave him after Nick had let the puck slip by into the goal, after he had missed a match-winning putt. It was the everything-will-be-okay-because-we're-friends smile, the one they shared every time one of Marcus's wives left him.

"You do it, so help me God, I'll kill you," Nick said with hate.

"That will be a pretty neat trick," Dance said. "Seeing I'm going to kill you next."

"You mother f--" Nick struggled violently in his chair, the veins on his neck distended, his shoulders and arms uselessly shaking.

"Nick," Marcus said softly.

"You listen to me, you piece of shit," Nick yelled at Dance, ignoring his friend.

"Julia is safe," Marcus said, continuing his words in a softly spoken plea.

"I'll rip your heart out!" Nick screamed at Dance, violently shaking his chair in frustration.

"Nick," Marcus whispered, finally getting his attention, calming his friend, his soft words contrary to his character. "Julia is safe. Know that, take comfort in that. Don't worry about me."

And the door slowly opened. A heavyset man, a man Nick recognized, stood in the doorway. It was the accomplice to Julia's murder, the gray-haired man who had stood at his front door ringing the bell, distracting him from protecting Julia as she was killed.

"Perfect," Dance said, relief in his voice.

And he pulled the trigger. The sound of the gun shattered the moment. Marcus's head exploded backward in a rain of blood before falling forward against his chest.

Nick couldn't pull his eyes from his dead friend, the sound of the bullet's report echoing in his ear, only to be replaced by a blood-curdling scream coming from the doorway.

And as Nick turned his head, all hope was lost, everything he had tried to do was for naught. His best friend was dead, he was powerless, and Dance would get away with it all.

For standing in the doorway, screaming in fear, with terror-filled eyes, was the last person he thought he'd see.

And his heart broke as he saw Julia helplessly standing there.

And his world went black.

CHAPTER
3

N
OON

N
ICK FELL TO THE
floor of his library, howling in agony at his best friend's death, at leaving Julia behind to die once again.

It was no longer just about saving her from her death at 6:40
P.M.
It was about saving her at 1:00 from the future he had just created for her, in which he left her alone to perish at the hands of Dance. It was about changing the future he had created for Marcus, his best friend who helped him without question, who believed him when he spoke of impossible scenarios and gold watches, who gave his life to save Julia's, a sacrifice that had proved in vain.

Nick had been playing God and was now reaping the consequences.

Lives are set, actions irrevocable, yet Nick was playing chess, running about, moving the pieces on the board of a game already lost. He couldn't reach forward and save his friends, constantly tossed backward as if he was a character in a Greek myth with Zeus and Athena playing with his life. Only this time Zeus wore a double-breasted blue blazer and gave out mysterious watches that Einstein had never heard of.

Every ripple, every misstep of the last nine hours had led to consequences that compounded his initial situation. His life had been torn apart bit by bit.

Who can predict the paths our lives will take, what fateful detours will steer us either into or away from disaster, what unselfish deed will provoke a war.

Nick had to stop it all from happening, if he was to have any chance of putting things right, but with each step he took, each change he made, he was creating a future that was far worse than the one he had originally been faced with.

Marcus was right, he realized. The unintended consequences of our actions change not just our own future but the future of all of those around us, all those we care for.

N
ICK RACED DOWN
Sunrise Drive, pushing the Audi as hard as he could. He had grabbed his personal cell phone from his desk, having left it in Marcus's car in the future. He did likewise with his car keys, finding them in the red rooster key box in the mudroom. He had pulled the pistol from his safe and now felt its cold steel at the small of his back. He was amazed when he spun the dial left, right, left and opened the safe to see it sitting there. He had once again left it behind in the future only to find it here in the past. He tried to wrap his mind about the paradox. He thought of the consequences of pulling it from his safe so many times, each removal eliminating it from the possibility of its being there in the future. But as far as he was concerned there was no future if Julia wasn't alive.

As Nick hit town, he drove right into the center of mayhem. The sidewalks were packed, the streets were filled, traffic was jammed in gridlock, drivers standing beside their idling cars. All eyes were cast skyward at the thick black plumes of smoke, the fiery explosions that lit the dark underbelly of the jet-fuel-created clouds, their ground-shaking rumbles pouring in three seconds later.

It was as if war were being waged in Byram Hills, or as if there was a giant creature on the horizon that would reach out and swallow them whole. Panic filled the air as shopkeepers locked their doors, as parking lots emptied.

Men and women frantically dialed cell phones with shaking hands, forgetting what flights their loved ones might be on. Kids looked up in wide-eyed wonder, unaware of what they gazed upon.

Death had come to Byram Hills.

There were shouts, and screams, and gasps of awe, all directed at Sullivan Field. People raced down the sidewalk, pedestrians jumped into cars. The scream of fire engines en route filled the distance. Police cruisers raced through side streets, their chirping, intermittent wails clearing a path. All were converging on disaster.

Prayers were said, mundane problems forgotten, all concern directed toward the victims and the families left behind.

Nick inched his car forward, caught within the panicked masses. His eye was drawn to the clock on the dashboard, the sight of which made the watch in his pocket feel like a piece of lead: 12:05.

Less than three hours before time ran out.

As the traffic finally abated, Nick turned onto Maple Avenue, heading for Washington House. He flipped on his blinker but quickly flipped it off and hit the accelerator.

He had forgotten about time.

Julia's Lexus sat parked in the side lot of the building owned by Shamus Hennicot. Julia was alive somewhere inside, coming to grips with the fact that her client had been robbed, entirely unaware of the consequences the burglary would have on the future that awaited her.

He thought of running in, wrapping his arms about her, and holding on forever, but the robbery had already happened. Paranoia was already setting in on Dance and his team. Their search for witnesses, security video, and ultimately Julia had already begun.

He thought of re-enlisting Marcus in his quest, but he had already led him to death once. He thought of whisking Julia away but knew that somehow she would be found, her death inevitable, as he had seen twice already. McManus had yet to arrive on the scene and he had no idea where Paul Dreyfus was.

Nick pulled out and looked at the St. Christopher medal, pulled from the neck of Julia's killer. He had initially thought it would be the talisman that would lead them to Julia's murderer, but it had been just another piece of metal weighing down his pocket, a clue that proved useless. He had been so convinced it was Dance's, but Dance wore nothing about his neck.

He had seen Shannon in his sweat-covered tank top, but again there was nothing there. Brinehart had been killed by Dance before Julia was shot, Randall was the overweight accomplice who had distracted him at his front door. That left Arilio, whom he had yet to see, and Rukaj. It could be either of them, or even someone who had yet to be revealed to Nick. He would remain diligent but had abandoned hope in the necklace's power of identification.

Nick realized that the St. Christopher medal, the mahogany box, the gold swords and daggers, every hour, every death all pointed back to a single point of origin. All things converged on the robbery of Shamus Hennicot.

Everything, saving Julia, saving Marcus, it would all come down to preventing that singular incident, to seeing that Dance never pulled a job that he would have to cover up. But to do that, he could not impede it now, not after it happened. He would have to wait until 11:00, before they went into the building. Which would give him forty-five minutes to put the pieces together, forty-five minutes to formulate a plan for taking on a team of armed men, a team lead by Detective Ethan Dance, a man who took lives as easily as he took a breath.

* * *

T
HE
B
YRAM
H
ILLS
police officer sat in his unmarked car, his eyes fixed on the white building fifty yards ahead as he nervously drummed his fingers on the wheel. His dark-brimmed hat sat on the seat beside him. He hated that hat, how it flattened his red hair, how ridiculous it looked, wondering why the pillbox, patent-leather-brim style was still in use seventy-five years after its design when the rest of fashion lived in the present.

Nolan Brinehart had longed to be a detective since he was a child, dreaming of being one of those brilliant TV heroes who rights the wrongs, who figures out the impossible crimes from vague, inadequate clues. But he had trouble with figuring out quadratic equations and algebra, not to mention that he could barely do jigsaw puzzles as a kid.