Richard Doetsch - The 13th Hour

“My God, don’t you have any compassion?” Nick said. “The guy’s looking for his brother.”

“That’s not all he’s looking for out here,” Dance said as he turned and led Dreyfus away.

NICK STARED OUT at the white-draped bodies, all of the men, women, and children, his mind puzzling over why the innocent had to die. What purpose did it serve? How many loved ones were left behind to grieve? He knew what it felt like to lose the one you love most in this world.

He wished he could stop it, take it all away. He wished he had more than five hours. If it took twelve hours to save Julia, to solve a crime, how long would it take to save 212? Could he ride time backward and tell each one not to get on the plane, could he find and stop the cause of the accident? His heart broke when he knew he couldn’t end all the suffering.

But Dreyfus had not shed any new light on the robbery before he was whisked away by Dance to what would inevitably be his death. He was searching for his brother’s body. Nick never realized, never thought there was the possibility of something other than the robbery that Dreyfus was dealing with.

And what did Dance mean, he was not just searching for his brother’s body, he was searching for something else?

Nick was actually surprised. Though Dreyfus was filled with grief, Nick felt he could actually like the man. He had served his country, he was medically trained, he’d built a huge business.

And Nick realized he didn’t have to die. He might not be able to save the passengers, but he might be able to save Paul Dreyfus, and by so doing maybe he would get some answers.

Nick knew where they were going; there was still time.

PAUL DREYFUS WAS thrown in the back of a green Taurus while Dance spoke to and dismissed his underling cops.

Dance slid into the backseat beside him, drew his gun, and pressed it into Paul’s stomach. “How’s it feel to be the brother of the murderer of over two hundred people?”

Dreyfus stared at Dance but remained silent.

“He double-crossed us. Was that your plan all along? I want to know where the box is.” Dance paused, his agitation and anger growing. “And I want to know now!”

Dreyfus wasn’t about to answer his questions. No one would get him to talk, especially not this corrupt cop.

On the Laos border in ’72, while treating what was left of Lieutenant Reese’s platoon, Paul Dreyfus had been captured by the Vietcong. He was thrown into a pit, a makeshift holding cell, and they had questioned him for five days. No food, just water. They beat him over the back with tree switches and rifle butts, but he never said a word, not even name, rank, and serial number. On the sixth day, a team of Navy SEALs liberated him but not before he had snatched a rifle off a dead Vietcong solider and shot his interrogators’ heads off.

Dreyfus hadn’t answered questions then and he wasn’t about to answer questions now.

Arriving back in the United States in ’75, Paul Dreyfus started his security company-a small shop at first. Door and window alarms for friends’ homes gave way to video surveillance for local mom and pop stores, which gave way to sophisticated corporate security designs. With a combination of luck, sweat, sleepless nights, and stressful days, Dreyfus built his company into one of the finest in the country.

Samuel Dreyfus ran a far different path than his older brother. Where Paul went to college to pursue a career in medicine, Sam dropped out of high school to pursue girls. Where Paul enlisted, Sam protested. Where Paul flew off to Vietnam, Sam ran off to Canada.

Paul, an athlete since childhood, had built his body through exercise and diet into a machine that tackled quarterbacks as a Georgia Bulldog and carried the wounded off the battlefield in Southeast Asia. Sam, on the other hand, preferred to pour chemicals in his body to find enlightenment and truth.

Forgoing a career in medicine after seeing too many battlefield wounds and too much blood, Paul Dreyfus followed a path he could never have imagined. Success provided him a Georgian colonial mansion outside Philadelphia, Ivy League educations for his two daughters, a life of luxury for Susan, his wife of thirty-five years, even his own modest boat and plane, both of which he preferred to four-wheeled vehicles. He loved flying, embracing his father’s passion at the age of fourteen. Twice a month their dad took him and Sam on little excursions around the Lehigh Valley, letting them each handle the controls, planting the seeds of a lifelong passion, imparting that feeling of flight that was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

People viewed everything in his life with envy. Everything except his brother. Back in the United States after President Carter’s amnesty for draft dodgers, Sam returned to the States thinking the world owed him a living. Or if not the world, at least his brother, Paul.

Sam might have been many things, but he was still Paul’s brother, he was still family. Draft dodging and drugs were the extent of his crimes, and they were all in his youth. Being obnoxious, rude, and self-centered were not felonious acts. If they were, Sam would have been in jail long ago.

Paul had employed his brother off and on for the last twenty years, paying him a salary that grew to over a million dollars a year for doing absolutely nothing. He actually gave him a small piece of the firm out of sympathy, so there would be something to leave his kids. He’d hoped it would spur some pride, some drive, but like so many efforts before, it proved useless. Sam made few contributions, brought in not a single contract, and seemed uninterested in the business. It had gotten to the point that Paul was seriously considering giving up on his brother altogether.

But during the last year, Paul had seen a change. Sam was at his office by 8:00 every morning, working full days. He gradually began showing up at the main office with ideas, treating employees with respect. It took Sam Dreyfus forty-nine years, but he had finally grown up. With increasing responsibility Sam grew into the family name, trust was restored, their families reconnected. Paul proudly introduced him at presentations. He landed three major multi-million-dollar contracts in six months. Sam wasn’t just working, he was earning his keep.

But then the world spun on its head.

Paul had entered his office at 6:45 this morning to find a receipt for one of his patented octagonal keys lying on the floor. He picked it up quietly, cursing the fool who dropped it, and saw the signature on the bottom. He suddenly realized what Sam had done.

Paul was apoplectic when he found their own security system breached, the Hennicot files and plans gone. Pass codes stolen, combinations to safes and locks accessed, security cards initiated and authorized.

He tapped into Sam’s computer. Though his brother had renewed his faith and trust with his exemplary performance over the last year, Paul kept a back-door access to his files in case his brother ever had a relapse to his former self. Paul felt horrible for his lack of confidence in him, but the guilt was washed away by what he found as he opened his brother’s personal files. His heart broke as he printed out and read through Sam’s notes, as he came to terms with the extent of the betrayal.

Without a word even to his wife, Paul grabbed his emergency briefcase, filled with pass-code resets, five hundred thousand in cash, and his Smith and Wesson. He tucked the three pages he had printed off his brother’s computer inside and raced to the small airfield where he kept his Cessna 400. He paid Tony Richter, the air traffic controller he had known for twenty years, ten thousand dollars to forget he ever saw his plane take off at 7:15, asking him to say that his plane was still tucked in its garage. He didn’t want anyone to know he had left, didn’t want anyone to know he was coming, didn’t want Sam to find out what he was about to do.