the 13th Hour (9 page)

Nick pulled his key fob from his pocket and hit the button, remotely releasing the hatch. As the trunk lid rose he could see the usual mess: his black duster purchased in Wyoming, the best raincoat he had ever had; jumper cables, a med kit, two coils of rope, all in the event of emergency. There were his hockey skates and pads from the adult league that he and Marcus played in, two boxes of golf balls, an umbrella, and the one object he had not placed there. He'd seen it back in the interrogation room at the Byram Hills police station. Dance had pulled it out, questioned him about it.

Nick was looking at the murder weapon, the exotically styled 134-year-old Peacemaker, the collector's weapon that had taken Julia's life.

There was no question now. He had known it before, but had had no confirmation: He was being set up.

As he looked at the gun he knew there was nothing he could do about it. He could hide it, but it would surely be found. He didn't want to pick it up. The cops had said his fingerprints were on the gun, though he thought it to be a detective's ruse to get him to confess, as there had not been time or personnel to examine the prints, but he would not give them the satisfaction of putting the prints there himself now.

He took a cloth and, wrapping his hand, closed the trunk. Whether the gun was found was irrelevant. If he found a way to save Julia, there would be no accusation, no murder investigation, it would be a moot point. And if he didn't save her, he didn't care what happened to himself.

Nick braced himself for the next five minutes. He knew that what he was about to do would haunt his dreams for all eternity. He was going to look at Julia's body willingly and dreaded what he would see.

M
ARCUS SAT ON
his front steps, his heart breaking, as he stared over at Nick's home. He watched his friend walk up and down his driveway after spending over a half hour in the house. Seeming to wander aimlessly, looking about the neighborhood as if he would happen upon Julia's killer, Nick looked to be chasing ghosts.

There had been an odd look to Nick's eyes when he had rejoined him on the front steps after calling the police. While they looked sad and troubled, they were not filled with the agony he had first seen when he found him sitting with her. There was such heart-rending grief in his face, such an inhuman cry of pain in his voice when he found Nick huddled with Julia's body. It was a sight that Marcus would never shake, a sight that would invade his thoughts till he passed from this earth.

But as Nick walked away from Marcus, heading toward his house, insisting on investigating a murder he could not possibly solve, Marcus's concern for his friend shifted.

There was something in Nick's eyes, something he couldn't identify, it almost appeared to be hope, an emotion completely contrary to a moment in which one's future had been lost, in which the woman one loved had been so violently snatched from among the living.

To Marcus there was only one explanation, only one thing that would cause all the agony to vanish from his eyes.

As he watched Nick step through his garage, on a course to see Julia's shattered body, he knew Nick was no longer in possession of his judgment.

Nick's mind had retreated to a false reality,

Nick's sanity had slipped away.

N
ICK WALKED THROUGH
the door from the garage and entered the mudroom. Whitewashed wainscoting covered the walls, and the floor was of earth-toned Spanish terra-cotta tile. The room was designed with nooks for shoes, racks for coats, and storage closets, all in wait for their family yet to come. They had debated family size since the day they fell in love: Nick wanted two boys and girl, Julia preferred a Brady Bunch mix of three boys, three girls.

As part of their life-planning playbook, they had both gone to the doctor a year earlier to confirm there would be no unseen hurdles to Julia's getting pregnant when the time came. The doctor had actually laughed at the preciseness of their approach to life, telling them not to worry, that their reproductive systems wouldn't fail them. He assured them that when they were ready, if they knew what they were doing, and practiced enough, they would be pregnant in no time.

As Nick stepped around the corner, he saw Julia's Tory Burch shoe protruding at the bottom of the rear stairs. Slowly approaching, he ran his eyes up along her long, lithe leg, up past the black skirt she had worn to work that morning. As he moved closer, his eyes continued their slow travel up her body along the white shirt that was no longer white. The front was flecked with red, as if she had been caught in a rainstorm of blood, the shoulders were crimson, the silk blouse having wicked blood from the puddle of blood she was lying in. Nick stared at the red halo that circled Julia. He had never imagined there was that much blood in a body.

But his eyes halted at her shoulders, his vision mercifully obscured by the lowest step. Nick avoided her face; he couldn't bear to look at what was left of his wife, of the person that was his better half. As shallow as it sounded, he couldn't help thinking that when you destroyed the face you destroyed the person, robbing her of her identity, of her true self. He kept his head tilted down, averting his eyes as he scanned the ground looking for something, anything that would provide a clue to who committed this violation, this act of horror.

He was fighting his emotions, trying desperately to dissociate himself from the moment, trying to keep his mind from collapsing, trying to look at the room, at "the body," with an analytical eye.

Julia's purse lay wide open on the floor next to her, its contents strewn about the terra-cotta tile. It usually hung on a coat hook, the same place that Julia placed it every day when she came into the house. She had a habit of misplacing things, so, with a gentle persuasion, Nick had gotten her in the habit of putting it in the exact same spot every day, something she had done for over a year now, day in, day out without fail.

Nick pulled out his pen and used it to sort through her things: her eyeliner and honey rose lipstick, the menu from David Chen's Chinese restaurant, a birthday card from The Right Thing, her laminated ID from work. A set of keys and a security pass for one of her clients. But three obvious things were absent, things that should never be missing, the things she, like most people, accessed constantly: her wallet, her cell phone, and her personal data assistant, her PDA, made by Palm. A storage device not only for email, phone numbers, and appointments, but also for word, data, and picture files. It was, in point of fact, a small portable computer, an electronic lifeline to her office and personal life.

And then it happened. As much as he had tried to avoid it, he looked at her face, at what was left of the beauty that he often gazed upon while she slept, the eyes that he looked into when he held her, the same eyes that revealed her soul. Her face on the left side was gone, chewed up by the blast of the gun. His eyes rose up to the white rear wall where pieces of her skull were embedded with the bullet in the broken wainscoting, a cascade of blood flowing down like a waterfall.

The bile rose quickly in his throat, his head began to spin, he retched in agony, but it all paled next to the pain in his heart. He felt as if it was being torn from his chest. He couldn't breathe; he could no longer think straight.

And a cry emanated from his soul, rising up through his heart, roaring out through his broken mind. It filled the room, filled the house. It was primal, the world hearing his agony, a cry to heaven, a cry to God of rage and suffering and anger at the evil that had snatched his wife from this life.

He fought what he had do next. It was something no grieving man or woman should ever be called upon to endure. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, hating himself for what he was about to do. He flicked it open and thumbed the camera button. And with tears rolling down his face, he held it up, both hands necessary to still his quavering nerves. He pointed it at Julia's lifeless body upon the floor, and snapped a picture.

He collapsed to his knees, overcome with grief, too weak to stand. He leaned back against the wall, his body shaking. It all came pouring out. The impossibility of the task before him, the ridiculous hope he placed in a stranger's written word and timepiece. Julia was dead, there was no question about that, she lay before him mangled and lifeless. There were no miracles, no gods to wave their hand and bring her back. There was simply the fact before him of her dead body, and he was sitting across from her having failed her, powerless, helpless, chasing the impossible.

He didn't know how long he had sat there, lost in pain, his head spinning, trying to right himself, to find a reason to live, when all at once Marcus stood above him. Nick looked up through distant eyes that seemed even more broken than Julia's, confused about where Marcus had come from. Marcus extended his oversized hand, helping Nick to his feet, and then . . .

* * *

I
T HIT HIM
harder than a shovel to the face. The world grew instantly black. What little air there was, was like an iceberg in his lungs. An empty silence filled his ears.

And suddenly, Nick was alone in the kitchen, standing before the fridge, a cold can of Coke in his hand.

He couldn't remember getting up or walking in, though he remembered Marcus leaning down, offering his hand with total sympathy.

Nick's breath was heavy, coming in great gasps, his skin tingled, he was disoriented from seeing Julia's shattered face, her body dead upon the floor.

And just as suddenly, beyond all reason, she stepped in the room.

She looked at Nick, her eyes confused at his troubled state.

"Honey," Julia said, softly. "Are you okay?"

CHAPTER
9

6:01
P.M.

N
ICK STOOD IN THE
kitchen, unable to breathe, the words caught in his throat.

Julia came closer, not a strand of her blond hair out of place, her eyes bright, filled with life, love, and concern. Her body stood tall and confident, as if she had just stepped from an impossible dream, the coalescing of all the love and joy he had ever felt embodied in the woman before him.

"Nick?"

Without a word, he grabbed her, pulling her close, holding her as if she were about to slip away again, as if he were just being given a few moments to express his love for her before she would be ripped away for all eternity.

"Honey, what is it?" Julia asked, wrapping her arms about him in return.

He still couldn't form words.

And then she saw his tears. In all the years they had been together, she had seen him cry only twice--at the age of fifteen when he failed to qualify for nationals and three years ago at the dual funeral for his parents.

"You're really scaring me." Tears of fear, of sympathy welled in her eyes. She hugged him, trying to calm him, to reassure him. "Please tell me."

But Nick didn't know what to say. He was overwhelmed by her presence, he had been granted an impossible wish. And he couldn't possibly tell her what had happened--he corrected himself--what would happen.

"I love you," he said as he took her face in his hands. "I love you with all of my heart and soul. I'm sorry about this morning, about what I said."

"This is all about that, about not wanting to go out for dinner with the Mullers?" She gasped in an uncontrollable sob that became intermingled with laughter. "You scared me so bad, I thought," she paused catching her breath, "I thought someone had died."

Nick pulled her close. He couldn't tell her what he was going through. He kissed her, deeply and lovingly, as if he were inhaling her. And she returned the affection, gently stroking his back.

And before they knew it, they were on the floor; their clothes couldn't come off fast enough. Their passion was driven by sorrow and forgiveness for their fight earlier, for taking each other for granted. Nick loved her with all of his being, with all of the emotion he could put forth, tenderly, forcefully, loving her in thanks as if she was a gift returned from the gods.

J
ULIA LAUGHED AS
she dressed in front of Nick, who sat with dangling legs on the kitchen counter, watching her every move. And as she stepped back in her black skirt she lost her balance, catching her foot in the zipper, tearing the seam. She grabbed the center island, recovering with a burst of laughter. "I love late-day passion."

"Sorry about that." Nick smiled back as he saw the tear in her dress.

"If you'd like, you could tear them all off again."

Nick laughed, but his humor quickly fell away as his mind resumed the fear he felt for her. He jumped down off the counter, reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold watch.

"Nice watch," Julia said as she buttoned her shirt, surprised at seeing the timepiece. "A gift from your girlfriend?"

"Believe me when I say this," he said as he flipped it open, looking at the time: 6:15. "I have enough trouble handling just you."

"Do you think they'll get the power back on tonight? Not that I would ever complain."

Nick ignored her, hustling out of the room without explanation. He went to the dining room, locking the French doors that led to the rear slate terrace, drawing the curtains closed; he did the same in the living room. He checked the windows of every room, latching them before emerging into the foyer. Finally he confirmed the dead bolt on the front door.