After a minute, his heart all but dead, he finally looked up, to see his best friend standing over them with tear-streaked eyes. Nick released her leg and rose to his feet. Marcus laid his hands upon Nick’s shoulders, holding him back from advancing toward Julia’s upper body, putting all 220 pounds of what was once muscle into keeping him from a sight that would haunt him till the end of days.
As Nick fought his best friend to get near his wife, a scream of anguish finally poured forth, filling the small room before dissolving to silent tears, the sounds of the world falling away to nothing as the reality of the moment set in.
They waited at Marcus’s house next door, silently sitting on the front steps for over an hour before they heard the sirens announcing to the neighborhood that something horrible had happened. It was a sound that would be with Nick forever, for it was the sound track to his tragic loss and the prelude to the unthinkable nightmare of accusations that were about to begin.
The gray-haired man stuck his head into the room, again. “His attorney’s here.”
“That was fast,” Dance said.
“The wealthy don’t wait,” Shannon said, speaking for the first time, as he tipped his chair forward and stood up. His eyes bore into Nick as he headed for the door.
“Let’s go.” The gray-haired man waved his hand, ushering the two policemen out.
The door closed with a loud clang behind them but reopened not thirty seconds later; Nick’s heart hadn’t even had a moment to slow.
The man walked in as if he owned the room, tall, polished, with an air of wisdom and calm that displaced some of the terror that had enveloped Nick for much of the last several hours. His hair was dark, flecked with gray, silver highlights at the temple; his eyes were sharp and focused. His face was weathered from life, character lines etching the tanned skin about his eyes and forehead. He was dressed in a double-breasted blue blazer and sharply creased linen pants, his yellow silk tie set off against a pale blue shirt, all of it combining to display a man of refinement and taste. He even smelled rich.
“They already took most of you, eh?” the man said in a deep European-sounding voice as he pulled out a metal chair and took a seat across from Nick.
Nick stared at the man, confusion filling his eyes.
“Your wallet, keys, cell phone, even your watch,” the man said, looking at the pale stripe on Nick’s bare wrist. “They slowly strip your identity, then they take away your heart, and finally your soul, until you’ll say whatever they want you to say.”
“Who are you?” Nick asked, the first words he had spoken inside the confines of these walls. “Did Mitch send you?”
“No.” The man paused, looking about the room, assessing it and Nick at the same time. “With the case they have against you, an attorney is the last thing you need. He’ll charge six hundred an hour, give you a bill for half a million, and make you feel like you owe him as you sit in your prison cell doing twenty-five to life.”
Nick stared at the elegant man, even more confused. “Mitch is on his way. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
The man nodded, exuding calm, as he laid his arms upon the table and leaned forward.
“I understand the crippling grief you must be feeling. It’s horrible that they don’t even allow you a moment of mourning before they start trying to steer you into a confession.” The man paused. “When did justice start to become about winning and losing, an us-against-them mentality, instead of the revelation and uncovering of truth?”
Nick looked the man up and down.
“Have you seen the file on you, their case?” the man said. “It’s detailed; I doubt they’ll even offer you a plea deal.”
“I didn’t kill my wife,” Nick finally said.
“I know, but that’s not how they see it. They see motive, the weapon,” the man said, casting his eyes at the gun sitting in the middle of the table. “They’re hoping for a confession to avoid the extra paperwork.”
“How do you know?”
“They’ll spend twelve hours slowly wearing you down getting you to confess to avoid the weeks of meeting with the DA for months of trial preparation.” The man paused. “You’ll be convicted, spend the rest of your days in prison, mourning the death of your wife, always wondering what really happened.”
“So, if you’re not an attorney, why are you here?”
The man’s warm eyes remained fixed on Nick as he took a deep breath, his chest expanding before finally exhaling.
“You can still save her.”
Nick stared back at the man, the words not making sense. He leaned closer for clarity. “What?”
“If you could get out of here, if you could save her, would you?”
“She’s dead,” Nick said with confusion, as if the man were unaware of the fact.
“Are you sure?” the man said, looking more closely at Nick. “Things aren’t always what they seem.”
“Are you saying my wife is alive?” Nick’s voice cracked. “How? I saw-”
The man reached into the inner breast pocket of his Ralph Lauren jacket, pulled out a sealed letter, and slid it across the table to Nick.
Nick looked at the two-way mirror.
“Don’t worry.” The man smiled. “No one is watching.”
“How do you know?”
“They’re busy with the plane crash. Two hundred and twelve dead. This town, like your life, has been turned on its head.”
Nick felt his world spinning, as if he were in that twilight between waking and sleep where the mind is peppered with incongruous images and thoughts that desperately try to coalesce into a coherent notion.
He looked down at the envelope and slid his finger under the glue flap-
“Don’t open that now.” The man laid his hand upon Nick’s.
“Why?”
“Wait until you’re out of here.” The man withdrew his hand as he leaned back in the chair.
“Out of here?”
“You’ve got twelve hours.”
Nick looked at the clock on the walclass="underline" it was 9:51. “Twelve hours for what?”
The man pulled a gold pocket watch from within his jacket and flipped it open to reveal an old-fashioned clock face. “Time is not something to waste, a particularly true statement in your case.” The man closed the watch and handed it to Nick. “Seeing you’re short one timepiece, and the pressure you’re under, you’d best hold on to that and keep an eye on the hour hand.”
“Who are you?”
“Everything you need to know is in that letter. But as I said, don’t open it until you’re out of here.”
Nick looked around the room, at the two-way glass, at the decrepit steel door. “How the hell am I supposed to get out of here?”
“You can’t save her life if you’re in here.”
“What are you saying? I don’t understand, where is she?”
The man looked at the clock on the wall as he stood up. “You better start thinking how you’re getting out; you’ve only got nine minutes.”
“Wait-”
“Good luck.” The man tapped the door twice. “Keep an eye on that watch. You have twelve hours. In the thirteenth hour all will be lost, her fate, your fate will be sealed. And she’ll have died a far worse death than you already think.”
The door opened and the man slipped out, leaving Nick sitting alone. He stared at the envelope, tempted to open it. But he quickly tucked it, along with the gold watch, into the breast pocket of his jacket, knowing that if they were found he would never know what the man was talking about.
The man had offered no other information, no name, no explanation for how Julia could be alive.
Nick had seen her body, though he had not looked upon her face, as Marcus had held him back, protecting him from her image, her beauty stolen by the gunshot that ended her life. But he had held her leg, seen the clothes she’d worn when she left for work this morning.
There was no question it was Julia. She had called to him when she’d arrived home, but she didn’t enter the library where he worked, knowing not to disturb him, knowing he was trying to finish a major acquisition analysis stemming from his week’s travels and that if he didn’t finish before they went out for dinner, he would be working the weekend.