The 13th Hour, page 6
Nick looked at his home with fresh eyes, searching for anything out of the ordinary, anything out of place or missing, anything that would provide a clue to why Julia was murdered.
He opened the pocket doors to his library and shined the Maglite around. Far smaller than Marcus’s, more like a den, it was filled with the evidence of Nick and Julia’s life together. If this single room were to survive a nuclear blast and were to be found intact five hundred years from now, an archeologist could draw an amazingly accurate picture of the lives of Nick and Julia Quinn. Their history was laid bare by the locked cabinet filled with trophies and medals from swimming, hockey, and lacrosse that they were too embarrassed to display but too nostalgic to part with; by the shelves of pictures and keepsakes, photos from their prom, graduation, and wedding, with dramatically different hairstyles but unchanged smiles; and by the dozens of pictures of their travels and family holidays. But mostly there were the goofy photos, the just-for-fun, what-the-hell pictures of snowball fights, carnival photo booth silliness, and ice-cream-covered faces that showed them unguarded and at their most natural.
Nick turned to his mahogany desk, moving aside the letters and files stacked to the side, and found his personal cell phone still in its charger. He picked it up and tucked it in his pocket. He had taken to carrying two phones: one personal and one for business, choosing to keep the two worlds separate. Having spent the day working from home, he’d left the personal cell in its charger and was thankful that he had done so as the police had taken his business phone along with his wallet and wristwatch when they brought him into the precinct on suspicion of Julia’s murder.
Nick crouched and opened the cabinet behind his desk, shining his flashlight at the small green safe behind the stack of books. There was not a scratch on it, no evidence of a breach.
He headed out of the library and, with the bright beam leading the way, went down the stairs to the lower level. The unfinished basement was his favorite part of the house. A makeshift gym with a treadmill, an elliptical trainer, a stationary bike, and racks of free weights, this was the area that not only kept their bodies tuned but, likewise, their minds. A place to relieve stress, whether by hitting the heavy or speed bags or just by pumping iron, it was a room that was the ultimate detoxification sanctuary. Nick’s flashlight bounced off the old dressing-room mirror that lay against the wall, refracting about the space, at the dance bar affixed to the wall, the mats on the floor. He could still smell the faint odor of Julia’s perfume from her last workout.
The remainder of the cavernous, concrete space would one day become a playroom, maybe a home theater, but that was years from now. For the time being, it would exist as a storage room with boxes of Christmas decorations, forgotten wedding gifts, and unsorted junk lining the gray walls.
Making his way up the basement stairs, Nick continued to the second floor, quickly passing what would one day be the nursery, past the three unused bedrooms, and arrived at his and Julia’s bedroom.
The cream-colored room with its tray ceiling had an enormous four-poster bed that faced an unlit fireplace teeming with cut flowers for the summer. Nick checked Julia’s side table, its small drawers, but nothing was out of the ordinary, nothing was hurriedly ruffled or out of place. He checked her walk-in closet, checked his own and the cabinet hidden behind his tie rack, but again, nothing was disturbed. Both their bathrooms were as they’d left them in the morning, towels, toothbrushes, and toiletries in their respective spots. The unused sitting room still had a slight sheen of dust and pollen from the flowers in the fireplace, offering no evidence of an intruder. The French doors to the small terrace were locked, just as he’d left them this morning after Julia surprised him with breakfast.
As Nick walked from room to room looking for anything that might help point him in the direction of Julia’s killer, he realized that they had built a perfect home, every room finished and paid for, the envy of many, but it was missing the most important thing. They had dedicated themselves to work, to money, spending their time on acquiring life and things, but had left out the most important part. While they loved each other, never being selfish, they had no legacy, no children to fill the home they had created. With bedrooms lying in wait, it was always one more year and then we will have it all. Now, Nick was beginning to realize they were always counting on that one more year, but who was to say if it would ever come. All that planning, all that money, and now…
They had forgone what Nick knew to be the most important thing, and now it was too late, unless he could somehow find a clue to her death and stop it before it happened.
Nick took a last look at the bedroom, really the only area of the upstairs they used. It had not been ransacked; nothing was disturbed. If whoever killed Julia came for something, it wasn’t up here.
Heading back downstairs, Nick opened and stepped through his front door. He walked past the open garage bay doors, glanced in at his eight-cylinder Audi, and continued into the driveway proper. Julia’s Lexus SUV was right where she left it. Nick quickly checked it, finding the doors open and the keys in the ignition, a sight that was a confirmation that this was no random act, no snatch-and-grab robbery. Her fifty-thousand-dollar car wouldn’t be left behind by even the dimmest thief.
He walked to the end of his cobblestone driveway, stood between the two stone entrance pillars, and looked down at the skid marks where Julia’s assailant had torn out of the driveway. Nick was smart, and thought he could piece her murder together in time to save her, but he wasn’t an educated detective. The width of the rubber skid meant nothing to him, it didn’t tell him anything about the type of car or about its driver, or give him some great aha moment as in some TV show.
He looked around their cul-de-sac and down the road, one of the wealthiest sections of Byram Hills, with streets filled with million dollar minimansions, perfect lawns and gardens, all tended by massive crews of gardeners, all except Nick and Julia’s home. Nick cut his own grass, planted his own flowers, tilled his own gardens. He enjoyed riding the tractor, cutting the lawn, digging holes. Their house had been Julia’s favorite since she was a child, riding by it on her bike. It had been her fantasy home, and Nick had helped her realize that fantasy.
As he walked back up the drive, looking at their house, he thought of all of the upgrades that had been done by his own hand; the addition built with the help of his friends; the painting done on weekends by him and Julia. Some of his best memories were of the time spent together building their home, laughing at the mistakes and imperfections, the paint fights and hammered fingers. It was the simple things, as clichéd as it sounded, the peaceful times of being alone with no distractions, eating pizza on the floor, that he cherished most.
Nick walked through the garage and glanced at his dirty car. He was not one for car washes; he preferred his Audi to be a bit on the dirty side in the hope that as it sat on the streets of the city, it would not be noticed amongst the shiny BMWs and Mercedes, blending in and being avoided by the car thieves of the world. It was a practice he had adhered to, much to Julia’s annoyance, but it had proven successful to date, so he wasn’t about to change. With the accumulation of dust and pollen atop the dark blue metal surface, the handprint was clearly visible on the car’s trunk lid, and there was no question it was not his, not Julia’s. It was larger, meatier, and out of place.
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.
MARCUS 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.
NICK 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…
***
IT 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.
NICK 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.
