The 13th Hour

CHAPTER 7

4:03 P.M.

THE WHITE COLONIAL HOUSE on Maple Avenue was just one of several homes owned by Shamus Hennicot, who, for the past thirty years, had summered with his family at their home on Martha’s Vineyard. The house had traditionally remained vacant during July and August but for Julia Quinn, who would stop by upon request to attend to any matters concerning Hennicot’s art collection and charitable contributions.

Unofficially known as Washington House, Hennicot’s home had been built at the beginning of the twentieth century, long after George Washington could ever have slept there. While it was considered a historic landmark of the town, a home from the hamlet’s infancy, in actuality, it retained only two exterior walls from its original design.

At the time of its construction in 1901, at just over ten thousand square feet, it was the largest house in all of the county. What was once the centerpiece of the quaint town of Byram Hills had, like the town surrounding it, become lost in a myriad of development over the last century. But unlike many of the neighboring homes and buildings that had been torn down for the sake of progress, Washington House had adapted with the times. With the advent of cars, garages were added. It had been the first home in town with hot and cold running water. The sixties brought air-conditioning and insulated, double-paned windows. The interior was in a constant flux, walls built, removed, expanded; rooms added, subtracted, combined; modern kitchens designed, starting with 1930s dishwashers and moving on to present-day Sub-Zero refrigerators and Viking stoves.

Wireless broadband, satellite television, energy-efficient heating, and multiroom entertainment systems were installed, all of which saw little use by the elderly Shamus Hennicot and his family.

But its greatest modification, one not known by the town planning board, or by the utility companies, or by any local contractor, was the elaborate renovation of the lower level, fondly referred to by the family as Dante’s Vault-reinforced concrete walls, a half-inch steel ceiling and floor, all covered in a dark walnut sheathing of coffered ceilings, wainscoting, and ornamental trim. It was an elegant vault of enormous proportions, giving an aesthetically pleasing English Manor feel to a fortress that was thought to be impenetrable.

The securing of the basement was the brainchild of Shamus Hennicot. While he was considered the most benevolent and charitable of a long line of misers, making frequent anonymous gifts and loans from his father’s art collection, it was he who had thought there were some things too tempting to modern man, things that needed to be hidden away for reasons that only he could explain.

Nick parked his Audi at the back of the house, grabbed his flashlight off the seat, and used Julia’s keys and pass card to open the heavy steel fire door in the back. Once in the small vestibule, he used the magna-card to gain access to the magnetically sealed inner door. All the lights were out, the batteries on the emergency lights having died out hours ago, while the basics of the security system remained operational with a twenty-four-battery backup continuing to operate the pass system and locks.

Nick made the once-over of the first floor, the afternoon light more than sufficient to see by. It had all the trappings of a modern home: living room, dining room, kitchen, family room while in a separate wing was a library, billiard room, and music room.

Nick bypassed the upper level and, using the encrypted pass card, opened a large, heavy cellar door, its whitewashed wood veneer covering a three-inch steel core, that led to a dark set of stairs. Nick flipped on his flashlight, surprised to see the expensive green fleur-de-lis wallpaper and thickly carpeted stairs. Nick headed down the fifteen steps, arriving at another door. But this one was different, made of brushed steel and lacking doorknobs and hinges. He pulled out the oddly shaped key from Julia’s purse. She had told him of the eight-sided key and explained the security system earlier-or later, depending on which time line he was riding on.

Octagonal in shape, the key could be inserted eight different ways, with only one providing access. Each face was labeled with a letter that corresponded to a rotating specific date of the year. If the key was inserted the wrong way twice you would be locked out for twenty-four hours. But even worse, the door behind you would seal shut, trapping you until someone arrived. The entire basement was truly worthy of being called a safe.

Nick punched in Julia’s Social Security number on the keypad below the card reader, swiped the magna-card three times, and inserted the key with the D side up as Julia had mentioned. Finally, with a turn of the key, the door silently swung open.

Nick was greeted by a table-case display in the center of a large museum-like lobby, the beam of his flashlight refracting off its clear surface, its glass top conspicuously violated by a large perfect circle cut out of its center. The case, no doubt once the repository for some of the antique weapons Julia had described to him, was empty.

What struck him as odd was the picture of water lilies on the near wall. There was no question whose hand had rendered it. With its visible brush strokes and blurred images of flowers upon the water, the piece had a strong impressionist flavor. And while its beauty was beyond compare, it stood out like an albatross as it stared down upon the broken glass. For while the antique weapons snatched from this level were of staggering value, they no way near approached the value of one of Claude Monet’s finest pieces, a work whose sister had recently sold for $80 million.

Going through the lower level, he found conference rooms, art restoration labs, humidity-controlled storage spaces filled with hundreds of crates with addresses to and from the world’s finest museums: the Smithsonian, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Louvre, the Vatican. Crates of all shapes and sizes containing who knew what.

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.”

Marcus sat there in total shock, watching his friend’s nervous breakdown.

Nick pulled out his cell phone, opened it, and pulled up the picture of Julia dead on the floor. He had regretted taking it, thinking of it as a violation of her dignity, of her soul. It felt as if he was pulling the trigger of the murder weapon, but he also knew it would be the easiest way to convince Marcus. He averted his eyes as he passed the phone to his friend.

Marcus looked at the picture, unaware of what he was seeing…

And then realized exactly what he was looking at. “What the hell?”

Nick said nothing.

Marcus looked more closely at the picture, grief and nausea overcoming him in seconds. His breathing quickened, seeing what was left of Julia’s face filling the screen of the cell phone.

“What have you done?” Marcus exploded at Nick.

Nick said nothing, his own eyes filled with heartache.

Without thought, Marcus charged out of the room, tore open the front door of his house, and ran across the open expanse of lawn as fast as he could toward Nick’s house.

But he suddenly stopped in his tracks, coming to a standstill so abruptly he almost fell over.

“You always go for a run in a suit there, Marcus,” Julia called out, her blond hair caught in a summer breeze.

She was standing in her driveway, the rear door of her black Lexus open, pulling out a canvas bag.

Marcus leaned forward, hands on his knees, panting hard as he caught his breath, not comprehending what he was seeing.

“Julia,” he said through heaving breaths. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Julia said with a laugh. She put down her bag and walked toward Marcus. “Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Nick said…”

“He’s with you?” Julia looked toward Marcus’s house. “He rushed out of here so quickly, is he scaring you?”

Marcus stood up as Julia arrived at his side. He looked at her as if he were seeing a ghost. The image on Nick’s phone was so disturbing, so real, that as he looked upon her now, the memory of it chilled his spine despite the eighty-eight-degree temperature.

“You look like shit, Marcus.” Julia said half in jest. “Can I get you anything?”

Marcus shook his head.

“Okay, then can you please explain why you were running over here so quickly?”

“It’s…” Marcus was at a loss for words, unable to speak of what he had just seen on the cell phone screen two minutes earlier.

“You heard about my near death?”

Marcus was in shock, confused about what she was referring to.

“I still can’t get over all of those people… dead. The plane just falling out of the sky.” Melancholy filled her voice. “I’m so lucky to be alive. I’m tasting every breath, I’ll never take life for granted again. It makes you believe in fate, Marcus. I almost died today.”

MARCUS STEPPED BACK into his library looking as if he had just been punched in the gut. He stood there a moment, trying to regain his composure.

“Is this some kind of sick joke?” Marcus said, his chest swelling in anger as he yelled. “Don’t screw with me.”

Nick sat in the leather chair staring at his friend and shook his head. “I would never joke around with something like this.”

Marcus collapsed into the high-back wing chair by his desk, emotionally exhausted. He looked around the room for two minutes; Nick could see his mind working. Marcus closed his eyes and put his head back.

“You’re asking a lot. This an awfully big leap of faith, Nick.”

“I know,” Nick said quietly. His eyes pleaded with his friend. “I’m sorry to involve you, but you’re the one person I trust, the one person I know who wouldn’t think I was insane for telling this story.”

“Do you see me in the future?”

“Yeah, a few hours from now.” Nick nodded. “You’re right by my side; you’re my advocate when they try to say I’m the one who killed Julia.”

“My God.” Marcus placed his hands over his temples and squeezed as if he was keeping his head from exploding. “This is insane.”

“I know.” Nick nodded.

“How does it work?”

“I can’t explain it,” Nick said quietly. “And this could all be some nightmare, but I know she dies if I don’t find her killer.”

“And what will you do when you find him?”

“I don’t care about the consequences.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Marcus said.

“You know exactly what I’m going to do.”

“And if there is more than one?”

Nick stared at him. “I’ll kill them all.”

Marcus walked over to his brass-rail bar, grabbed two Tiffany crystal glasses off the shelf and poured two Johnny Walker Blue Label scotches. He walked back and handed one to Nick. “I don’t know about you, but I need something to calm my mind, to keep me from slipping into confusion.”

“Thanks,” Nick said, tilting his glass in appreciation toward Marcus. “I need to find whoever pulls that trigger,” Nick said.

“If you get her out of here, out of Byram Hills, she won’t be home when the gunmen arrives.”

“True, and I do send her away, an hour and a half from now, but that’s not going to stop them from coming for her. Julia avoided death by not being on that plane, yet she was killed later in the day. Who’s to say if I pull her away from that bullet they won’t just kill her later? That’s why I have to find the man who pulls the trigger now while I still have a way, while I still have time on my side.”

“I can barely keep this straight in my head,” Marcus said.

“Believe me, I’ve been dealing with this for hours and I still can’t get my hands around it,” Nick said. “Every move I make has repercussions, consequences on the events I already saw happen. By coming here, by telling you all of this, I’m changing the future in ways I can’t foresee.

“Three hours from now, because I’ve told you what happens, you won’t try to stop me from going into my own house to try to figure out who killed Julia; three and a half hours from now, you won’t find me with her body; in four hours you won’t lead me back here to your house, offer me scotch.” Nick held up his glass, “and be a friend.

“We sat right in this very room. You called your buddy, Mitch Shuloff, said he was the best attorney but that he’d be late. Plus he owes you a grand for the Yankee win last night.”

Marcus stared at Nick as if he had just performed a miracle. “I never told anyone that. That’s totally nuts.”

“Well, everything changes now.”

“Nick,” Marcus said, looking at his friend. “Some things don’t change. I’ll still do all that for you.”

“No,” Nick said.

“Yeah-”

“No, you won’t, you won’t be here, because I’m asking you to take Julia and get as far away from Byram Hills as you can. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

“But I thought you already did that, that she leaves an hour and change from now?”

“I did, she drove off at 5:59, but if you go with her, if she leaves with you within this hour instead of an hour and a half from now, she’ll have someone looking out for her, she’ll be that much safer.”

“You know I’d do anything for you guys.”

“I know,” Nick said, his head nod saying so much more.

“You know my buddy, Ben Taylor? I think we’ll go hang out with him. She’ll be in pretty good shape at the home of an ex-military guy.”

“Great.”

“How will I know when everything’s safe?”

“I’ll find you.”

“What if I don’t hear from you?”

“Then go to the police, because I’ll be dead.”

NICK QUICKLY BROUGHT Marcus up to speed, telling him everything that had happened to him in each hour, and telling him what information he had gathered, from the St. Christopher medal, to the blue Impala, to the flying bullets at Julia’s office, to what he had just seen in Hennicot’s place.

“Let me ask you a question,” Marcus said. “On the bottom of the letter, there was that strange writing…”

Nick pulled out the letter and looked at the bottom:

“I’m not sure what it says,” Nick said.

“I’ve never seen that language before.”

“Neither have I, but I don’t have time to worry about it.”

“What ultimately happens to you?” Marcus asked.

“They arrest me for her murder.”

“My God, this is insane.”

“That’s what you say when they come to arrest me right here.” Nick pointed at the library.

“You’re arrested?” Marcus asked in disbelief. “Here?”

“You nearly knocked out the cops trying to stop them.” Nick smiled. “I never thanked you for that.”

“You’re welcome,” Marcus said with confusion. “I think-this is nuts.”

“They kick in your door.”

“What door?” Marcus asked through gritted teeth.

“Two doors, actually,” Nick said apologetically. “Front and library.”

“Dammit. They’re both expensive.”

“But you’ll be happy to know the Yankees beat the Red Sox again.”

“Ooh, that’s another thousand Mitch owes me. I should give him a call now, offer him double or nothing.”

“They win off a Jeter grand slam in the bottom of the ninth, six to five.”

“Oh, I’m definitely calling him.”

Nick smiled but it faded as he handed a sheet of paper to Marcus. “I’ve got the license plate of the car driven by her killer.”

“Nick,” Marcus said, trying to be a voice of reason in an illogical situation. “Give it to the police.”

“For a murder that hasn’t happened?”

“You can’t screw around with this. Call them.”

“I already did; they weren’t very helpful.” Nick took a deep breath. “Every cop in town is at the crash site. No one is going to deal with this before she is killed.”

“You should show them the picture on your phone.”

“They’d lock me up as crazy and then she’d still die.”

Nick picked the watch up off the desk and looked at the time: 4:30. “Please, help me find who owns the car? I don’t have a lot of time.”

Marcus looked at Nick with sympathetic eyes as he picked up and dialed his phone. “Helen?” he said, and continued without waiting for her response, “I need you to pull Nancy, Jim, Kevin, George, Jean, KC, Jackie, and Steve into the conference room now. Fire drill.”

“Can I borrow your computer?” Nick whispered.

Marcus nodded as Nick sat down in front of the three screens, each filled with financial models, stock tickers, and news wires.

“Use the center one,” Marcus said he walked out of the library, the phone pressed to his ear. “This is what I need…”

Nick placed the Palm Pilot in front of the computer and sent the files via infrared to Marcus’s system. As before, six files popped up on the screen.

He quickly jumped to the second file, the multiple video images filling the screen. There was no audio, giving the footage a cheap, student-film feel. With a click of the mouse, Nick highlighted and enlarged an image, allowing him to focus entirely on the large, brushed-steel door. He fast-forwarded to the point of the door slowly opening to reveal the dark-haired man and froze the video.

He hit print and pulled the grainy but distinctive image from the printer. The man was painfully thin, dressed in a white oxford, his face gaunt, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

Nick looked hard at the printed image and back up to its original on the monitor, but couldn’t see inside the collar of the man’s shirt. Nick dug in his pocket and pulled out the St. Christopher medal, checking its length, realizing that it would hang below the man’s shirt to at least the second button.

Nick clicked play and watched the video for a few more seconds before the image turned to white snow. He fast-forwarded through twenty more minutes of the white static before the file ended.

He went on to the third file, finding images of bedrooms and living rooms, fast-forwarding, finding no movement throughout the twenty-minute snippet. On the fourth and fifth files he saw images he recognized, images of the safe, the storage facility, views of hallways and conference rooms. The images cycled from the unbroken display case where a host of elegant swords, knives, and guns had rested before they were snatched away, to Hennicot’s office, to the imposing steel safes where both doors were closed and secured. Then, starting at 11:15 on the time print, the images from both files turned to white snow.

Nick clicked on the sixth and final file, but instantly hit a roadblock. A window popped up stating File Not Recognized. He checked it again, reloading it from the Palm Pilot as Marcus came back into the room.

“It looks encrypted,” Marcus said, looking over Nick’s shoulder. “Probably an eyes-only file.”

Nick pulled out and looked at the pocket watch. Only ten minutes left in the hour. He hadn’t gleaned as much information from the files as he thought he would.

“What did you find?” Marcus asked.

“Not much.” Nick handed the printed image of the man to Marcus. “It looks like the robbery started at 11:15 on the button.”

“Okay,” Marcus said as he studied the picture. “You’ve got a face. That’s a pretty good start.”

“If I had a month, yeah. I’ve only got a few more hours.”

“You may have gotten a face but I got a bit more,” Marcus said, reading from the fax printout in his hand. “Your Chevy is a rental.”

“Shit.” Nick shook his head.

“Relax,” Marcus read through the fax as he handed Nick a picture of a square-faced man, his blond hair brushed back. Judging by the collar of his shirt and the width of his tie, it was obviously an old image, at least twenty years old. “His name is Paul Dreyfus.”

Nick compared the two images. Nowhere near the same man.

“How the hell am I supposed to use that? He can be any schmo riding around.”

“Give me a little more credit, will you? I had everyone in my office drop what they were doing and check this guy out.” Marcus continued reading. “Pretty successful guy, lives on the Main Line in Haverford, Pennsylvania. Married, two kids, pretty boring life. Doesn’t like to do much except fly his own plane.”

“He came from Philly?” Nick said, surprised.

“Get this. My guys are so thorough,” Marcus said with pride as he looked at Nick. “He flew up in his own plane today into Westchester Airport, but when we checked, there’s no record of him departing out of any airport in Philly or Jersey.”

“Maybe you missed an airport, does it really matter where he came in from?”

“We don’t know yet, Sherlock,” Marcus said with a smile. “Hertz has a contract with his firm. They delivered the vehicle to the private jet terminal at 8:35 this morning. Right to him as he exited his plane.”

“Okay,” Nick said, urging his friend on. “If he’s going to commit a robbery then why leave an obvious paper trail by renting a car?”

“One piece at a time, okay?” Marcus said. “He works for DSG, he’s known as the security guru to the wealthy. Next to Michael St. Pierre at Secure Systems, he’s thought to be the best security system designer in the business. He’s the CEO, the owner actually, along with his brother Sam. They’re the top security company in the country. He is Dreyfus Security Group.”

“It was an inside job,” Nick said matter-of-factly.

“From what my people can find, he’s got over fifty million in various assets around the globe. He’s worth a hell of a lot. My bet is he probably made his money with sticky fingers or selling pass codes.”

“No, wouldn’t work,” Nick said. “If word gets out that even one of his security systems failed-you said he’s the chief designer and the CEO-he’d be out of business and under investigation in a heartbeat.”

“True, but the fact that he is here on the day of the robbery…?”

“On the face of it, he’s the inside guy, but there are others, and he is not the murderer.”

“When my people initially looked for Dreyfus, the name came up as being on the 8:30 out of Philly.”

“You said he got his car at 8:35. That doesn’t make sense,” Nick said.

“I know, but this is what makes things even odder. The Dreyfus on the plane was Sam Dreyfus, his brother. The flight got into Westchester at 10:10 this morning.”

“Brothers working together.”

“So one brother preps everything, picks up the other, they do the job and spend the next several hours erasing their tracks-”

“And killing Julia,” Nick somberly added.

“I’ll bet you the two thousand dollars that Mitch owes me that they were going to fly out of here tonight after killing her. But that’s not going to happen. Is it?” Marcus said with a smile. “’Cause Julia is going to be fine, she’s going to live.”

“Thanks,” Nick said.

“Don’t say thanks. It’s a fact.” Marcus nodded strongly. “You know, you’ve got the names of the Dreyfus brothers, you’ve got a picture of one of them, you’ve got a picture of one of the thieves who broke into Hennicot’s place. If I were you, I’d go to the police with it. Tell them about the robbery, tell them you’re sure they’re after Julia, let them start an investigation while you look separately.”

Nick smiled. “Do me a favor?”

“Another favor? Boy are you going to owe me.”

“Write yourself a note.”

“What, why?”

“Because I still need your help.”

“I’m not going to stop helping you. I’m not going to give up on you.”

“I know.” Nick smiled, glad to have a friend in Marcus. “But when I see you again, it will be a few hours earlier, you won’t remember any of this. And I can’t go through the hell of convincing you again.”

“This is nuts.” Marcus quickly reached into his desk and pulled out a sheet of his personal stationery.

“Be sure to write things only you would know.” Nick said. “If it’s something I know about you, or something obvious, you won’t be convinced.”

“Dear Me,” Marcus said with half a chuckle before growing serious. He wrote quickly, finishing in less than two minutes. He signed the letter, reached into his desk drawer, and pulled out a corporate seal. He slipped it over his signature, squeezing the handle and embossing the quickly written note.

“The raised seal on my signature is my personal seal,” Marcus said. “No one has it. I only use it on corporate documents and only over my signature to verify its validity in transactions. There is only one such seal in existence.”

Marcus folded the note, pulled out an envelope, and slipped it inside.

“Wait a minute,” Marcus said as he spun around to his computer. He clicked on the Internet and pulled up the Wall Street Journal home page. The main headline was all about the crash of Flight 502, and next to it was the financial information on the daily closing numbers for the DOW, the S &P 500, the Russell Index, and the ten-year Treasury, while below were the latest financial headlines. He quickly hit print, grabbed the printout and stuffed it into the envelope.

“If I’m going to tell myself about the future, I might as well give some proof that has profit potential,” Marcus said with a smile as he sealed the envelope and quickly addressed it to himself.

“I’m going to think both you and I are crazy when I read this,” Marcus said as he handed the letter to Nick, who slipped it in the inside pocket of his sport coat.

“As long as it’s convincing, I don’t care what you think.”

Nick looked at his watch: 4:59.

“I need you to get Julia out of here,” Nick said. “Promise me, you’ll take care of her.”

“Hey, it’s me,” Marcus said, trying to reassure him.

“And if something should happen to me…”

“If anything happens to you, I’ll raise an army to find the bastards and they’ll regret every breath they ever took.”

Nick smiled, his eyes filled with appreciation for his friend, and walked out of the library. He went across the foyer and quickly through the front door.

Marcus caught sight of Nick through the bay window walking across the long side yard to his house. He suddenly thought of something and ran out behind him, ripping open the front door. “Hey, what about…?”

But the long side yard, the expansive field between their homes, was empty.

Nick was gone as if he had vanished into thin air.