passenger jets took on travelers to whisk them out to all parts of the country. On the outermost bay was a white AS 300, its red and blue circular logo prominently displayed. The North East Air jet sat quietly being fueled and prepped for flight: food and drink carts were replenished, aisles were vacuumed, fresh pillows and blankets brought on in preparation for the boarding that would commence in an hour’s time. It received the temporary designation of Flight 502 with a one-hour flight time to Logan International Airport in Boston. It was the plane that would carry Julia aloft, carry so many unsuspecting passengers only two miles before it fell from the sky, plunging them all to their death in a tangled heap of flame.
Nick had fought so hard to stop the robbery, to save Julia, he’d neglected to think about the 212 on the plane who died. But now, as impossible at it seemed, Julia was among them.
It took ten hours to save Julia from her imminent death, to remove her killer from the world. Yet despite all of his effort, he had delivered her right back to the first death she had avoided, the first death she was saved from. Through his missteps he had placed her on the plane with no excuse to get off, through his poorly executed moves she had been left to experience the most horrible of deaths, a death he had feared all his life. He couldn’t imagine what had gone through her head as they crashed in midair and tumbled out of the sky.
Nick realized all moments, every tick of the watch led to now. Led to stopping the plane crash to save not only Julia but the 212 others who had needlessly died.
And though he had initially thought it was simple to stop the tumbling domino of the robbery in order for Julia to live, he knew now that the impact of his actions could have far worse results.
He wasn’t about to rely on simply taking the key for Dreyfus’s plane, or on just leaving a message for Julia to not get on Flight 502. He couldn’t call the airline or the FAA, explaining he had a premonition. He had considered an anonymous bomb threat but dismissed the idea, knowing he had to do more than prevent the plane crash in order to keep Julia alive. He also had to keep the robbery from ever happening.
He knew that every action he took had repercussions, no matter the nobleness of the intention. He had seen it with Marcus’s death, with McManus’s death, with Shannon’s, and with Julia ending up on the doomed airliner. As each moment was modified it would ripple through time, having hundreds, even thousands of effects.
If Nick made the wrong move, the wrong decision, it would reverberate through the future, and instead of stopping the plane crash, his misstep might compound the tragedy of the crash of Flight 502, perhaps sending it tumbling onto the populated town of Byram Hills or, even worse, the children’s day camp instead of the wide- open, vacant sports field.
Who was to say that fate was even reversible? Was Julia destined to die this day no matter what, whether by gunshot, plane crash, or some other means? Were the 212 passengers aboard Flight 502 meant to go down in a horrific aviation disaster despite every effort to halt the Cessna 400 from taking off?
Nick suddenly shook off the pessimistic thoughts, returning to hope, the greatest of emotions, something that could wipe away fear, could eliminate doubt, could inspire faith in even the most impossible of situations. He was here now, he had inexplicably marched back through the day, to this last of hours, to this final chance to save Julia’s life.
So with hope in his heart, Nick focused, searching for that singular action, that one deed that would change the future for everyone. Julia, Marcus, Shannon, Dreyfus, McManus, himself. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew that he would find it before the hour was up.
Nick picked up his phone again and tried Julia; for the second time he went right to voicemail.
“Julia,” Nick said. “It’s me. Do me a favor, do not get on that flight to Boston. I don’t care why you’re going, I don’t care if you get fired, do not get on that flight. I have a terrible feeling, I can’t explain it. Just do what I say. Call me when you get this.”
Nick turned his attention to the Cessna 400. Parked within a long line of small jets and planes, the white aircraft looked like a Corvette of the sky, its sleek lines, its swept-back window giving the impression of a man-made bird of prey.
The blue Chevy Impala sat just behind the small plane, its trunk open, as Paul Dreyfus removed his briefcase and a small duffel, laying them upon the ground. He was neatly dressed in gray slacks and a blue tie, his sport coat hung on the open door of the Impala, his gray hair combed as if he were off to Sunday mass.
Nick had watched him for several minutes moving around his plane, talking on his cell phone, when up the single-lane drive came a dark green, waxed and polished BMW. The car drove across the nearly vacant lot and parked on the other side, right next to where Dreyfus was waiting.
A man in a crisp blue shirt and pleated pants emerged from the car and warmly greeted Dreyfus with a two-fisted handshake. There was a polished, regal air about the man. He looked to be in his late fifties, his strong shoulders and narrow waist evidence that he was more than fit, his dark perfect hair flecked with gray that dominated his temples.
The two engaged in an animated conversation full of hand gestures and head nods, until finally, the regal man popped his trunk. Dreyfus crouched and unzipped the black duffel. With a great deal of effort he withdrew an object, carried it over to the BMW, and placed it inside the trunk, closing the lid.
Nick’s heart ran cold as he instantly recognized the mahogany box. There was no mistaking the two-by-two foot dark wood case, its three silver keyholes glistening in the midmorning sun.
And then the man in the blue shirt turned, the sun hitting his profile, and the last twelve hours of Nick’s life were turned inside out, sending his mind reeling, for he realized who he was looking at.
It was the European, the man who had showed up in the interrogation room, who had given him the watch, who had set him on this journey to save his wife. Yet here he was taking delivery of the mahogany box Sam Dreyfus was supposed to steal one hour from now, the box that created the impetus for so much violence and death, for Julia’s torturous demise on two separate occasions, the box whose theft and possession would ultimately precipitate the crash of Flight 502.
Nick’s mind filled with confusion at the alliance of Paul Dreyfus and the European. He had never formed a connection, never thought he had been sent on his journey for anything but Julia. He thought of the box as simply the goal of thieves, the prize sought by Sam Dreyfus. He’d never truly pondered its contents or worth, dismissing it as the precious secrets of an old man. But now…
It was inextricably linked to Julia’s death, to the crash of Flight 502, a wooden box whose contents were sought by too many.
He had never expected to see the mahogany box here already, thinking it still in the safe in Hennicot’s basement, which, in his mind, meant only one thing: The true thieves were standing before him on the other side of the parking lot.
Nick leaped from his car and broke into an all-out sprint across the blacktop lot. The European caught sight of Nick’s frantic approach, quickly got into his car, and pulled out. Nick sprinted across the fifty-yard-wide lot, past Dreyfus, running alongside the moving car as it headed for the exit, pounding the driver’s-side window. The man briefly looked at Nick before hitting the gas and leaving him in a cloud of dust where he finally slowed to a halt to watch the man’s escape.
But then fate had finally intervened on his behalf: Up ahead by the entrance gate, the black Mustang pulled into the single-lane driveway of the parking lot, the blue and red lights within its black front grill staccato-flashing. With a loud chirp the siren sounded as the muscle car skidded to a sideways stop, blocking the BMW’s exit.
Shannon jumped from his car, holding his hand up, stopping the European man’s exit, and pulled the gun from his holster.
“Please step out of the vehicle,” Shannon yelled.
But the man was already complying.
“Did you send those photos?” Shannon continued shouting.
The European stared at him in confusion.
“I sent them,” Nick said as he ran toward Shannon, coming to a stop beside him. Paul Dreyfus came jogging up, winded, and exchanging angry glances with his blue-shirted associate.
“What kind of sick joke do you think you’re playing?” Shannon said through gritted teeth.
“I assure you, Detective,” Nick said, “this is no joke.”
“Where did you get them?”
“You have to bear with me,” Nick said, his hands raised in a pleading fashion. “In the trunk of that car is a stolen mahogany box that belongs to Shamus Hennicot, the owner of Washington House in Byram Hills.”
Shannon stared at Nick for a moment before turning his attention to the man standing next to his BMW. “Do you mind opening your trunk?”
Without a word, the man hit the button on his key fob, releasing the hood. Shannon walked around and saw the clean trunk, empty but for a single two-by-two dark wooden box.
“Okay, so he has a box in his trunk,” Shannon said. “What the hell is it?”
“My name is Paul Dreyfus,” Dreyfus said, approaching Shannon. He held out his wallet, displaying his driver’s license. “I work for Shamus Hennicot; my firm handles the security systems for Mr. Hennicot, including Washington House.”
Shannon took and read Dreyfus’s license, matching the face to the picture on the license. He turned to the other man. “And you are?”
“Zachariah Nash. I am Mr. Hennicot’s personal assistant, I oversee his estate.”
“And you are who?” Shannon finally asked Nick, his temper rising with the confused situation.
Nick was speechless at the revelation that the European, Nash, the one who had given him the watch, worked for Hennicot.
“Do either of you know this man?” Shannon asked, alluding to Nick.
“No,” Dreyfus said.
Nash shook his head.
“My name is Nicholas Quinn.” Nick regained his composure and focus and turned to Dreyfus. “An hour from now, your brother steals Shamus Hennicot’s collection of weapons, diamonds, and that box.”
Dreyfus, Nash, and Shannon stared at Nick, exchanging glances as if they were in a shared dream with a madman.
“Not this box,” Dreyfus said softly, taking a step toward Nick as if entertaining his crazy notion.
“That’s the box Sam steals from Hennicot’s safe,” Nick said. “I’m sure of it.”
“The box in the safe at Washington House,” Dreyfus continued, with an almost bedside manner, “it’s a duplicate, an empty prototype.”
“What?” Nick’s eyes filled with anger.
“My brother will not get his hands on this box or what’s inside it, I assure you.”
“Why didn’t you just tell him you already stole it?” Nick said, his voice straining, his words making no sense in this hour before the robbery had even occurred.
“Excuse me?” Paul Dreyfus said. “I didn’t steal this.”
