Richard Doetsch - The 13th Hour

Shamus’s elegantly appointed private office lacked the character and feeling of frequent use, as evidenced by the absence of a single picture or memento.

Nick stood at the desk and noted an odd six-inch-square box, a red half-moon dome on top. He’d seen similar ones on the wall by the Monet and in the hallway approaching the office and had thought them to be security-related, but he now realized they had been placed by the thieves and were the devices that had disabled the cameras.

Looking to gain some understanding of Shamus, Nick shined his light about the room, at the desktop, the wall shelves filled with encyclopedias, books on philosophy and religion, Dante’s Divine Comedy , treatises on world hunger and poverty.

He turned and opened the drawers of the credenza and found an array of plaques and honoraria, medals and testimonials. But unlike the trophies Nick kept hidden away in his library, these were not for sports, but were of actual significance for deeds whose merit far outweighed hockey championships and swim races. The simple plaques were for actions whose value could not be assessed. UNICEF, the Wildlife Trust, Habitat for Humanity, Doctors Without Borders, and Environment Rescue had all seen fit to bestow their highest honors on Hennicot.

Without ever meeting the man, Nick gained more insight into his character with this one glance. This was a man embarrassed by his charity, who chose to hide away the recognition bestowed upon him.

Nick turned the flashlight on the windowless room and was about to exit when a slight crack in the wall was illuminated. He ran his hands down the darkly stained walnut and found the seam of the panel, something that shouldn’t have been accepted in this finely crafted space. Nick laid his hand upon the wall and with a gentle push, it swung inward on whisper hinges. The narrow door, without handles or knobs, revealed a small room, eight feet square. There were no finishes here, no effort to mask the concrete construction. Three simple lights, which, like all the other lights, lacked power, hung from the ceiling. Another red-domed box was affixed to the wall. The two objects in the center of the room were as cold and plain as the room itself. Built in 1948, the two Harris safes had centered flywheels and brass bar handles. They were two blocks of steel four feet high and square looking to weigh over a thousand pounds each, but the weight wasn’t the only deterrent to removing them, as they were bolted to the floor, probably sunk into the granite foundation. They were identical in appearance but for one distinction: The door of the one on the right hung conspicuously open. Its three-foot interior was covered in black felt so as not to damage whatever had once resided within. The safe lay empty, cleaned out, as the saying goes.

The antique weapons of gold and silver, their handles and bodies inlaid with jewels, were of considerable value, surely worth millions on the black market, but they were only the tip of an iceberg of wealth. An $80 million Monet hanging in plain sight, a storage room filled with artwork worthy of the finest museums-it was all passed over in favor of whatever lay in this empty Harris safe.

And while it may have been diamonds, Nick suspected it was something far greater, something that even Julia was unaware of, something that Shamus Hennicot chose to hide away in this lower-level, vaultlike museum, within this secret room behind secret walls within a four-foot steel safe.

“HEY,” MARCUS SAID as he opened his front door. He was dressed in his gray pin-striped suit, the pants perfectly creased, his shirt starched and unwrinkled, his blue Hermès tie straight and true.

“Coming to ask for a cup of sugar, or would you like some electricity?” The sound of a motor droned in the background. “I told you to install a generator.”

“I need your help,” Nick said as he walked through the door into the large marble foyer.

“Well, at least you’re finally admitting it,” Marcus said with a little smile.

“Do you have any contacts who can run a license plate?”

“Martin Scars over at DMV.” Marcus grew serious, seeing Nick was not in a playful mood. “He was always good for helping me out. My legal department’s pretty tight with him. What’s up? You get another ticket?”

Nick shook his head no, not entertaining the joke.

Marcus led the way into his library, taking a seat in one of the wingback chairs across from his desk. Nick sat in the matching one across from him.

A sadness washed over Marcus’s face as he sat back.

“You look beat up; you okay?” Nick asked.

“I just got off the phone a little while ago with my office. You’re not going to believe this. You know the guy I hired six months ago, Jason Cereta, he came to a Ranger game in March with us?” Marcus paused a moment, shaking his head. “He was on Flight 502.”

“I’m sorry,” Nick said.

“Young guy, two kids. Babies having babies. He was going up to Boston to check out another company to buy. Now he’s dead. I feel like I sent him to his death.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. You couldn’t know what was going to happen.”

“Yeah, is it? He was going to Boston to meet the owner of Halix Ski Company. I had mentioned to Jason that I’ve loved their skis since I was a kid and how much I would love to own them. Such a solid company would be a great investment, and it would be fun to test out their products-and their cute spokesmodels. He was a good kid, thought he was doing something that would make me happy while advancing his career.” Marcus paused. “May he rest in peace.”

“My condolences. But don’t be blaming yourself.”

“If someone went on a journey to make you money and died in the act, how would you feel?” Marcus said, angry at himself.

“Julia was supposed to be on that flight,” Nick said.

“You’ve got be kidding me,” Marcus said in shock, his tone shifting to compassion. “Why didn’t she get on?”

“She did.”

Marcus just stared.

“But she got off right before they left.” Nick still couldn’t get over the irony. “One of her clients was robbed. She got off to deal with it,” Nick said.

“That’s unbelievable.”

“That’s why I’m here.” Nick paused. “She got off the plane only to be murdered.”

Marcus sat up in shock.

“The robbery, the people who did it killed her.”

Marcus ran his hands over his balding head, his eyes lost, filled with shock. “Oh, Nick,” Marcus leaned forward in sympathy.

Nick held up his hand, stopping Marcus’s emotions. “Do you trust me?”

“What?” Marcus said in confusion.

“Do you trust me?”

“Do you even need to ask? What the hell is going on?”

“If I was to tell you a fantastic story, one that no one else on this earth would believe, something that defies all reason, would you still believe me?”

“If you’re trying to put one over on me-”

“If it was the key to saving Julia’s life?”

Marcus grew serious.

Nick reached into his pocket, pulled out the watch. He flipped opened the gold top, its silver interior refracting the light about the room, and handed it to Marcus.

“Fugit inreparabile tempus.” Marcus read the inscription on the inside of the watch. “Irretrievable time is flying. From the Roman poet Virgil. It’s where the phrase ‘tempus fugit’ comes from.”

Nick pulled out the letter, opened it, and handed it to Marcus. Marcus laid the watch on his desk, leaned back in his chair, and began to read.

He read it through twice before looking up.

The moment held silent as they looked at each other.

“Julia will be killed at 6:42 this evening.” Nick fought to hold back his emotions. “The only way I can save her is to find the man who did it and stop him.”