Richard Doetsch - The 13th Hour

Julia poked her head into the aisle, looking up and down the narrow walkway, through the glass doors that separated the train cars, but saw nothing. Praying this was strictly train business and not her business, hoping it was just a coincidence, she sat back in her seat. There was no announcement from the conductor, no information offered on their status, the ticket taker didn’t show his face, and no one seemed to care, except for Julia.

And with a gasp, the doors slid open. The other two passengers looked up from their reading but quickly went back to their own thoughts, burying their heads in books and newspapers, unconcerned with what was going on.

This was not a coincidence. Julia crouched in her seat and pulled out her cell phone. Panic such as she had never known flowed through her. She wanted to run-she could outrun almost anyone-but had no idea in what direction to flee.

She speed-dialed Nick, her words, her plea for help ready to explode from her lips. His cell phone rang. And rang again and again before finally going to voicemail.

And then he was there, standing over her, an older man with a bad haircut, horn-rimmed glasses, heavyset, and breathing hard. He held a photo in his meaty hand, glanced at it, and then back to her.

“Hello, Julia Quinn.”

NICK TURNED ON and read from Julia’s PDA. While he couldn’t open the video files, the documents were properly formatted for viewing. He read the inventory of what Hennicot had stored away in numerous crates at Washington House: Monets, Picassos, Renoirs, and Gordon Greens. Some of the finest works of art the world had known from all periods, distant past to the present. The antiques and sculptures were many and varied.

Nick read through the inventory three times, each time astounded by the collection, which rivaled those of the finest museums. But as he read it through, there was no mention of any mahogany box. He sorted the file by year, by type, by location in the lower level, but time and again found no mention of it.

“What weighs twenty-five pounds, can be contained in a two-foot-by-two-foot mahogany box, and bears a value of untold millions?”

Marcus shook his head as he drove through the back roads of Byram Hills, heading toward town. “A few gold bars weigh that but don’t come close in value. Twenty-five pounds of diamonds, now that has to be in the hundreds of millions.”

“I suppose.”

“What are you looking for?”

“It’s what Sam Dreyfus took; it’s why everything in their little robbery went bad.”

“Nothing is worth dying over. Except maybe love. If you felt strongly enough about someone.”

“I don’t think anyone ever really intends to die for what they want, for their cause. Somewhere in their mind they think they’ll survive.”

“Well, if it was in that plane, it’s probably nothing but vapor now. Who cares?” Marcus pressed on. “How are we going to get this guy Dance?”

“With bait,” Nick said as he held up the PDA.

“And what do we do with him once he’s trapped, how do you know the whole police department isn’t bad?”

“I think I know someone I can trust.” Nick opened his cell phone and dialed.

THE TWO CARS faced each other, the green Taurus and the blue Bentley. They were parked in the middle of the Byram Hills High School parking lot, a wide-open expanse with a single half-mile driveway acting as the only entrance and exit. With no school in session and the plane crash a mile down the road, the school was deserted like the rest of the town.

“Who are you?” Dance said as he stepped from the green Ford.

Nick stared at him, holding back his anger and rage at the soul within this man, a man who would try to kill him in the future, who would kill Private McManus and Paul Dreyfus, who would be the catalyst for Julia’s death.

“Are you alone?” Nick asked.

“Yeah, even though you’re not,” Dance said as he looked at Marcus standing against his Bentley.

Nick held up the PDA. “You know what this is?”

Dance said nothing.

“It’s a copy, one of several that contains footage of you and your friends breaking into Washington House.” Nick had actually not seen any footage of Dance or anyone other than someone he had yet to identify, but Dance didn’t know that. “Sam really screwed up.”

“Who?” Dance feigned ignorance.

“You remember, Sam, the one who brought you in to help, who you pretty much turned on? The same Sam Dreyfus who is dead along with two hundred others in Sullivan Field.”

“If that’s a PDA,” Dance said, “then it probably belongs to Julia Quinn.”

Nick hated poker, as he tried to mask the hate from his face.

“Maybe I have something to trade for it.” Dance smiled. “Maybe I have her.”

Nick was relieved, knowing Julia was on the train to New York, knowing that he had the upper hand.

“Or maybe you committed the robbery?” Dance pressed on.

“What?”

“Do you know it’s a felony to bribe a police officer?”

“Nice try.”

With his back to the access road, Dance didn’t see the green jeep coming down the road behind him. The army vehicle drove past Dance and came to a stop. Private McManus stepped out of the driver’s seat followed by three young, green-fatigue-dressed Guardsman with pistols at their sides and rifles slung over their shoulders.

Nick was glad to see the young private alive and hoped that maybe now he would stay that way. “I’m Nick Quinn, the one who called.”

“I don’t know what we can do for you, Mr. Quinn. This isn’t part of our mandate, we are supposed to be working the crash site.”

“This won’t take long.”

“How do you know me?” McManus asked. “I don’t recall meeting.”

“Colonel Wells gave me your cell phone number,” Nick said, knowing soldiers rarely ask questions when their CO’s name is invoked. Nick wasn’t about to mention that the young private would give him his number in the future, a future that was currently dim for McManus, a future that would include his death before the afternoon was over. But with what Nick was doing now, he hoped to save lives, he hoped to give McManus back his future. “Top of your class in riflery, just got your MBA, you hate flipping burgers.”

McManus looked surprised that a stranger would know such things about him.

“Why don’t you just get back in your little jeep and go play army at the crash site?” Dance said through gritted teeth.

“Why don’t you watch what you say?” McManus shot back.

“You have no jurisdiction here,” Dance snarled.

“The governor would beg to differ with you on that, as would the Constitution. In times of emergency, at the discretion of the governor, we can be mobilized with primary authority granted by the governor’s decree.”

“I don’t need this weekend warrior bullshit,” Dance said, placing his hand on his gun.

McManus instantly raised and cocked his rifle, the three other Guardsmen following suit, their rifles pointed, held in the hands of men no older than twenty-two who had never been in a situation before.

“If you wish to challenge my authority,” McManus barked at the older policeman, “I suggest you do it by calling your commanding officer, because I can promise you, with the course you are choosing by drawing that gun, you’ll never get to hear the answer, which is, I overrule you.”

“You’re interfering with my investigation,” Dance said, as he stared at the four rifle barrels aimed at him.

“We’ll sort all that out when you remove your hand from your gun.”

“We’ll see,” Dance said as he looked over the shoulder of McManus. “Maybe we’ll sort it out by different means.”