Richard Doetsch - The 13th Hour

He had not used anything he knew of the future to change the past. This was like a game, a game he was playing very poorly, running around relying on chance-met strangers for help. He had to effect change and he had to effect it now. Time was ticking down; the time to save Julia was running out.

He picked up the wet wallet he had plucked off the corpse and slipped it in the pocket of his blazer.

He would no longer passively let things play out by chance. He had a plan now.

He was going to see Paul Dreyfus.

NICK PARKED HIS car just outside the roadblock at the crash site, right behind the blue Chevy Impala, the car that would carry Julia’s killer, the car he would chase down hours from now, forcing it off the road and into a tree.

He walked briskly toward Private McManus, the same National Guardsman who had stopped him from entering when he came and met Shannon.

“May I help you?” the young man said.

“I’m bringing evidence concerning the plane crash to Captain Delia.” Nick held up the wet wallet without stopping.

The young guard didn’t question Nick’s authoritative tone or manner and nodded as he passed.

NICK STOOD LOOKING at the crash site. Firemen were rolling up their hoses, not yet able to sit on the running boards of their trucks for a rest. Family members were being bused to the locker building to be close to the remains of their loved ones, to hear any updates on the cause of the crash or even, possibly, word of a miracle survivor.

The devastation was like nothing Nick had ever experienced. Though he had seen it an hour earlier in his time, he had not grown accustomed to the sight. The tragedy was on a grand scale. But for the tail of the plane, he couldn’t see any piece of debris larger than a door. He looked at the hundreds of volunteers assisting the emergency crews, helping the grieving families. It was humanity at its best and life at its worst.

And somewhere in here, among the sea of people, was Paul Dreyfus.

Nick pulled out Dreyfus’s still-wet wallet, found one of his business cards, and dialed the cell phone number on it.

“Hello,” a deep voice answered.

“Mr. Dreyfus?” Nick asked, looking around at the sea of volunteers.

“Yes.”

Nick looked among the crowd by the locker, by the situation tents. “My name is Nick Quinn.”

“Yes,” Dreyfus said, with no emotion, no formality.

Nick scanned the field, surrounded by miles of police tape, and finally saw him, cell phone to his ear, standing in the open field of death. Nick hung up and headed straight for the man, never taking his eye off him.

Dreyfus was heavier than Nick had thought, a man who had once been built like a rock. His weight had shifted about but he still appeared strong. His gray hair was neatly parted, unlike the mussed, drifting locks Nick had seen on his corpse at the bottom of the Kensico Reservoir.

The man wore rubber surgical gloves, his shirtsleeves rolled up as he lifted sheet after sheet, examining the bodies underneath.

“Mr. Dreyfus?” Nick said on approach.

Dreyfus didn’t stop looking under the white sheets, as if Nick was a nuisance.

“My name is Nick Quinn,” he said as he extended his hand.

Dreyfus ignored it. Nick was unsure if it was because of the gloves or out of rudeness.

“You flew up here today?” Nick asked.

“I’m supposed to know you?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this-” Nick paused, unsure how to proceed.

“I don’t have time for mind games; get to the point.”

“They’re going to kill you,” Nick blurted out.

“Who?” Dreyfus didn’t look up from his task, as if he didn’t hear or didn’t care.

“Your partners.”

“Partners?” Dreyfus asked, finally looking up. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Nick grabbed the man by the shoulders, spinning him around to get his attention. “Then they are going to kill my wife.”

The man’s face softened for an instant. “Then I suggest you go protect her instead of harassing me.”

“Do you know Ethan Dance?” Nick pressed him.

“Are you a cop?”

“He’s going to drill you in the eye and the mouth. He’s got a mean right hook.” Nick rubbed his lip. “Then he’s going to tie a heavy iron plate to your ankles and drop you into a lake.”

“Are you trying to scare me?”

“Yeah, I am,” Nick said in earnest.

“After seeing all this,” Dreyfus waved his gloved hand around, “you’ll excuse me if I ignore you. I’ve got bigger issues to deal with.”

Dreyfus glared at Nick before walking off. Nick stood there a moment, not sure how to crack the man, how to get him to talk.

Nick caught up to Dreyfus, walking beside him along the charred ground, every step avoiding pieces of what had once been an AS 300 jetliner. Dreyfus would pause before a white sheet, bowing his head as if in reverence, and then slowly lifting it by its corner.

Hastily brought in from Northern Westchester Hospital, the sheets were serving a purpose they were never designed for. While Nick knew they covered bodies, he hadn’t realized what was actually under the sea of white cloth that dotted the hellish landscape. There were no people lying in elegant repose. The bodies were broken, dismembered, burned beyond recognition. Some sheets covered torsos, others limbs, visions Nick had never borne witness to, sights that turned his stomach and wrenched his heart. How Dreyfus could search, how he could look at each face was something Nick couldn’t understand.

“What are you doing here?” Nick asked.

“I was an army medic, Vietnam. I thought I’d never see anything like this again.”

“You think coming here,” Nick said, “volunteering will clear your soul?”

“You have no idea what you are talking about. I’m going to tell you once, get away from me before I call the cops over.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to do that.” Nick paused. “What are you hoping for, redemption?”

Dreyfus stopped, turning to Nick with a mix of anger and pain in his eyes. “I’m hoping to find my brother.”

Nick stared at the man, so sure of a darker side, only to be floored by the fact that Dreyfus’s brother had been on the plane.

“I’m sorry,” Nick said. “I didn’t realize.”

“Now, will you let me be?”

“There was a robbery this morning of Washington House, the Hennicots’ place. You did the security.” Nick reluctantly pressed on. “They stole a bunch of diamonds and swords, some daggers and guns. They’re covering their tracks and I know for a fact they are coming for you. You need to get out of here. I’ll help you do that, but you’ve got to tell me who was involved in the theft. I need to know every name to save my wife.”

Dreyfus finally looked at Nick with different eyes, sympathetic eyes. “I’m sorry about your wife.” And his sympathy slipped away. “But she’s still alive. That’s more than I can say for my brother. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Dreyfus leaned down and lifted another sheet.

“Mr. Dreyfus?” a voice called from behind them.

“Great, now who are you?”

“I’m Detective Ethan Dance.”

Nick turned to see four uniformed police standing beside Dance.

“You need to come with us.” Dance took him by an arm as one of the uniformed cops took the other. Nick quickly looked at the patrolmen, checking whether any of them were the police officer he had seen bound, floating dead in the bottom of the Kensico Reservoir, but none had red hair and all four were far from skinny.

Nick felt the gun at the small of his back but knew if he drew it he’d be either dead or in handcuffs.

“Let him go,” Nick called out, not knowing why.

“Who the hell are you?” Dance said.