violation of the laws of physics could alter it. For fate was the most powerful force in nature.
And in that moment, Nick knew 213 passengers had perished. Julia was dead, lying in the midst of the charred wreckage of Flight 502.
NICK PULLED THE watch from his pocket: 11:55.
Julia was dead. She was dead over and over again. He thought he was trapped in a time-warped hell, having to endure Julia’s death in every hour in a new way.
And this time it wasn’t at the hand of Dance. It was his fault and his fault alone, pulling her out of harm’s way only to push her onto that flight. He had taken the scythe out of Dance’s hands and killed her himself in his misguided arrogance.
All he strived for, everything he had done, everything he thought he was tasked to do, was wrong. The singular action that was to alter fate now was not killing her assassin, it was not killing Dance. It was the plane, everything tied back there now.
Nick grabbed the Colt Peacemaker from the bushes. He ran to the body of Ethan Dance and tore through his pockets; he found the dead cop’s cell phone, flipped it open, and memorized the phone number of his last call. He stood, threw down the phone, and broke into an all-out sprint, racing for Dance’s car. Racing to the body of Shannon.
He still had time.
CHAPTER 1
10:00 A.M.
ALL WAS RIGHT IN the world, at least for the moment. The lights were on, planes weren’t falling from the sky, robberies hadn’t occurred, and Julia was safe and alive. Smiles were still worn on the faces of the shoppers, people went about their routines in anticipation of another fun-filled summer weekend.
No one was aware of what was coming, no one knew the terrible turn life would take in an hour and fifty minutes except Nick. He had glimpsed the world of Byram Hills and knew how time would unfold from now until nightfall. But he had an ability that the men of fiction and history did not possess. Fate lay in his hands, he could change the future, by his actions he could change the course of time.
JULIA STOOD IN the back of The Right Thing, staring at frames. She had no idea how big a sonogram picture was and had no idea what size frame to buy. She grabbed a set of three, each a different size, and figured she’d just make it work. She raced to the book section, grabbed her favorite Dr. Seuss book, Fox in Sox, and on her way to the checkout counter, grabbed a roll of teddy bear wrapping paper.
She was bursting with anticipation as her friend, Angela, checked her out. It was an excitement like that she felt as a little girl on Christmas, a feeling that Santa would make her dreams come true. But the excitement she was feeling now was not in receiving but in giving, the giving and sharing of life, providing Nick with the ultimate expression of their love, the gift of a child.
She got back into her car and turned out of the parking lot heading for the airport. Though check-in and security were brief at Westchester Airport, she wanted to give herself plenty of time for once, instead of having to rush, instead of having to make a mad dash for the gate.
As she entered Route 684, her cell phone rang.
“Hey, Jo,” Julia said as she saw the caller ID and hit the speakerphone.
“I’m so sorry about this,” Julia’s secretary, Jo Whalen, said. “Mr. Isles and Mr. Lerner are in court and, of course, there’s another
Julia laughed. “The kids are five and seven.”
“Maybe their parents can look into the future, I don’t know. Mr. Lerner wants you to handle the conference call in their absence.”
“You’re kidding? When?”
“Now. Mr. Lerner prefaced his call by saying the $12 million in billables on the Collier account should be worth taking a later flight for.”
“Let me turn around,” Julia said, crestfallen, feeling as if Christmas had been canceled.
“I don’t think so,” Jo snapped at her. “I’ve got the call set up, I can patch you in. You’ll straighten out this lucky sperm club trust in plenty of time and make your flight.”
Julia smiled. No one was better than Jo. “I’m going to pull over so I don’t lose signal. Why don’t you patch them all in?”
“Have a safe flight, honey.”
“Thanks, you’re the best.”
“Okay, everyone,” Jo said. “I have Julia Quinn for you.”
“Good morning,” Julia said as she pulled to the side of the road. Jo was so good, she had saved her and kept her life orderly for the tenth time today.
With the unexpected delay, she’d just have to do her usual run for the gate, but she’d still make her flight. She looked at the teddy bear wrapping paper sticking out of the bag and smiled, Nick was going to be so surprised.
“So, I understand there is some concern on the matter of the children’s trusts,” Julia said out loud as she leaned back in her car seat. “Well, let’s see what we can do to protect their future.”
BOB SHANNON WALKED out of the bagel store, his bottle of Gatorade already half gone. He ate his bagel as fast as he could, trying to finish it before he got into the Mustang. He hated crumbs, and the poppy seed bagel had a tendency to make its presence felt weeks after it had been eaten, as the seeds permeated every nook and cranny.
With his last bite, he arrived at his car. Brushing himself off, he hopped in just as his cell phone vibrated with an incoming text message.
He looked at his phone, not recognizing the number. Another message came in, and then another, and another. He paged through his phone and found the incoming messages to actually be five pictures. He clicked on the first one but was interrupted by an incoming call from the same number.
“Detective Shannon,” he said as he answered.
“Did you look at the pictures yet?” the caller asked.
“Who is this?”
“I’m at the private air terminal at Westchester Airport. I’m driving a blue Audi. And detective, trust no one, especially your partner.”
The line went dead.
Shannon stared at his phone as if it was somehow pulling a prank on him. He looked again at the number but didn’t recognize it, so he pulled up the first picture.
It was a shot of a green Taurus. Dance’s piece of junk. Shannon at first hadn’t understood why he drove it. Though it had the souped-up 350 V-8 police engine, it still looked like a banged-up vehicle that someone had left at the side of the road. But as Shannon learned, Dance spent a good deal of time down county and in the Bronx, moonlighting in less-than-legal side jobs, and had chosen a car that would never be noticed, that would never call attention to itself, as a black Shelby Cobra Mustang would.
Shannon thumbed through to the next picture. It was from the rear of Dance’s car, the trunk sitting wide open. Shannon chuckled, he was being goofed on. The pictures looked like those various-angle photos you saw of used cars in the back of magazines, but he could never imagine who would buy Dance’s car.
But as he clicked on the third picture, he realized this was no game. It was a much closer shot of Dance’s trunk, and it was filled with what looked like treasure. Swords of gold, bejeweled daggers, several ornate guns, and sitting among it all was a black velvet bag, its mouth wide open, the diamonds inside sparkling in the sunlight.
Shannon grew suddenly serious. If this was a joke, someone had gone too far. But as he clicked to the next picture on his phone he knew that the situation went much farther.
The rear door on the right side hung open. The passenger was belted in, sitting in a pool of blood that seemed to cover his entire torso. Shannon looked closer but could not make out the face. But no matter, he knew he was looking at a corpse, he was looking at a murder scene.
He finally clicked to the final shot, a shot that sent his mind spinning, a shot that nearly seized his heart. It was a much closer image, this time through the left rear passenger door of the Taurus. The face could be seen plain as day. It was pale, almost blue from bleeding out. The mouth hung open, slack-jawed. The eyes were lifeless, dry, and without any sign of a soul.
Shannon looked up, suddenly feeling a rush of paranoia such as he had never known. He looked back down at his cell phone, thinking he might have been seeing things.
But there was no doubt, Bob Shannon was looking at himself.
NICK SAT IN his car at the private air terminal waiting for Shannon. He couldn’t afford to waste time explaining things again, so he had formulated the perfect device to get the detective’s attention.
He had run back to the Taurus before his last time shift, opened the door on Shannon’s side, reached in, and grabbed the cell phone from the detective’s waist. He read Shannon’s number, entered it into his own phone, and threw Shannon’s back in the car. He quickly circled Dance’s car, taking the five pictures he’d just sent, building them in intensity as he went, creating an invitation that Shannon would never refuse.
On the seat beside him was the Colt Peacemaker he had plucked from the bushes, its chambers emptied of the spent silver bullets. It was the same gun he had stared at nearly twelve hours ago in the interrogation room, the pistol that Dance had shot Julia with and had planted in the trunk of his car to frame him for her murder. It had become a symbol of death and greed. But now, the etchings upon its barrel and stock became prophetically personal, reflecting Nick’s own quest for justice: The gate that leads to damnation is wide-To hell you shall be gathered together-Yet ye bring wrath-Darkness which may be felt-Whoever offers violence to you, offer you the like violence to him.
The whining roar of an American Air jet shook Nick’s car like sustained thunder as it leaped off the tarmac into the crystalline blue sky. Planes and jets took off and landed with regular frequency, without incident, as the aviation business went about its morning routine.
Nick stared out through his windshield across the large expanse of tarmac at the central hub of Westchester Airport’s main terminal where six medium-sized
