Richard Doetsch - The 13th Hour

He pulled out his cell phone and dialed McManus, glad that he had taken the young private’s phone number. He looked at the sheet of paper from Dreyfus with the names of the other cops on it.

“Hey, Private McManus.” Nick said as the call went through. “It’s Nick Quinn.”

“Yes?”

“There are three other cops involved with Dance: Randall, Arilio, and Brinehart. Tell your commanding officer to pick them up. Again, the names are Randall, Arilio, and Brinehart.”

“Mr. Quinn, to be honest with you, Mr. McManus is no longer of this world.” Nick recognized Dance’s voice.

“Where are you? Are you home?” Dance paused. “Understand something, I’m coming for you, I will find you, and when I do, I’m going to snap your neck.”

“You listen to me-” Nick began, but was quickly interrupted.

“No!” Dance exploded. “You listen to me. Your wife? Julia? Can you picture her dead? Can you do that?”

Nick froze in shock. He tried not to conjure up the image that he knew so well but couldn’t avoid it.

“A bullet to the head,” Dance continued, “or how about a knife, drawn across her belly so she can watch her insides spill out?

“My men are already looking for her, and when they find her-well, why don’t you just let your imagination run wild on that?”

1 P.M.

NICK RAN ACROSS THE side yard straight to Marcus’s house. He barged through the unlocked front door without bothering to knock, raced through the foyer, and tore open the pocket doors to the library where he knew Marcus was working.

“Well, good afternoon to you,” Marcus said, unfazed by Nick’s abrupt entrance. He sat behind his large desk, his three computers humming.

Nick pulled the envelope from his pocket and laid it before Marcus.

“What’s this?” Marcus stared down at the water streaked letter, curious, finally recognizing his own handwriting.

“Before you open it, I need to ask for your help.”

“Why do you always say that? Just sit down and ask.”

Nick reluctantly sat in the wingback chair across from Marcus.

“I’ve got three minutes to convince you of the impossible. What’s in that letter is absolutely true; you wrote it at my insistence.”

“What are you-”

Nick held up his hand. “Before you say anything, know that I would never deceive or manipulate you. Know that I’m totally sane.”

Marcus stared at him in all seriousness before finally picking up the letter and tearing it open. “You’re an idiot,” he said, half in jest.

“Dear Me,” Marcus read. The words were water blotched but legible, and most important, recognizable as his own. “ I know this sounds crazy. Oh, that is rich. When did I write this?” he looked up at Nick, his eyes slowly squinting with confusion.

“Just read it,” Nick said quickly.

Marcus’s reading fell off into silence.

Dear Me,

I know this sounds crazy but I’m writing to myself. You

(meaning me) know this is my handwriting as no one could

possibly duplicate our chicken scratch except Uncle Emmett, but

seeing he’s dead…

As hard as this is to believe, Nick is standing before you

asking for your help, asking you to help save Julia.

MARCUS BRIEFLY LOOKED up at Nick, before casting his eyes back at the letter.

Somehow Nick knows the future without question. Now

before you start thinking he’s crazy or you’re crazy for writing

this, I will prove to you the validity of my-our words.

You don’t know this yet, but Jason Cereta is dead. You won’t

know this until after three o’clock when his wife calls the office

in tears. Jason hopped on the flight out of Westchester this

morning and was killed in the crash. He was going to Boston to

speak with Reiner Hertz about opening discussions for the

purchase of his Halix Ski Company. Remember that you never

mentioned your desire to purchase Reiner’s company to anyone

but Jason, never told anyone including Nick about how you

loved their skis and particularly the Swiss spokesmodels they

hired each year. I loved their black and orange design since I

was little when Dad bought me a pair for Christmas against

Mom’s wishes and taught me at Hunter Mountain on that

blizzard of a day, it was December 27, and Mom was especially

pissed because we didn’t get home until after midnight. Anyway,

Jason was a good kid, thought he was doing something that

would make you-us-me happy while advancing his career. May

he rest in peace.

Nick is standing before you now asking for your help to save

Julia. Suffice it to say, I have seen the future and what Nick had

to do to convince me of the truth was the most shocking,

horrible thing I have ever seen. They are coming to kill Julia

and if you don’t help him, she will die.

You already feel guilty about losing Dad without ever

reconciling with him. Know this, the future is coming and if

you don’t help Nick, Julia will be dead before the sun sets and

the fault and guilt will lie squarely on your shoulders if you

don’t do what he asks.

With sincerest imploring,

Me-which is you, Marcus Bennett

MARCUS STARED AT his signature, at the raised corporate seal that he hadn’t removed from his desk in weeks. He reached back into the envelope and pulled out the online Wall Street Journal headline page and quickly scanned it.

A whole minute went by before he looked up at Nick.

Without a word he picked up his phone and dialed.

“Helen? It’s me. I need to speak to Jason right away.”

Marcus listened.

“What do you mean he’s not in,” Marcus yelled into the phone. “Don’t tell me that. Give me his assistant.”

There was a five-second pause.

“Christine, it’s Marcus, where’s Jason?”

RACING DOWN SUNRISE Drive in Marcus’s Bentley Continental GTC convertible, Nick was glad not to be driving for once today. Glad to have an ally he could trust implicitly. Nick had called and found Julia at the gas station just north of town in the village of Bedford. With all of the stations and pumps in town closed, she had driven the five miles to fill her nearly empty tank before heading to pick up a doctor who was needed to help with the recovery effort.

With a quiver in her voice, Julia had told him of getting off Flight 502 before it left. He told her not to move, to get into her car and wait for him there.

“I can’t believe Jason is dead.” Marcus shook his head. “I had no idea he was going up to Boston.”

“I’m sorry,” Nick said.

They fell silent.

“I’m pretty convincing.” Marcus finally broke the moment, alluding to his letter as he cut through the ghost town of Byram Hills.

“Thank God.” Nick nodded, looking at Washington House as they drove past.

“This whole thing is too incredible. But you’ve got tell me what’s going on.”

It took Nick five minutes to bring Marcus up to speed, about his near scrapes with death, about Dance and Dreyfus and Julia and the mahogany box.

Nick pulled out the gold pocket watch and opened it, holding it out for Marcus to see.

“Put it away,” Marcus said.

“You don’t want to see it?”

“Sometimes in life there are some things we shouldn’t see, some things we shouldn’t know.”

As they headed up Route 22 past Sullivan Field, they both fell into silence. Flames licked the sky as heavy black smoke filled the air, blotting out the sun. It was 1:15, fire departments from Banksville, Bedford, Mount Kisco, Pleasantville, and five other jurisdictions supplemented the Byram Hills volunteers who had been fighting the raging conflagration for over an hour now, in a battle that would have no winners.