the 13th Hour by Richard Doetsch Read Free Book Online Page A

said.
"No, I'm Robert Shannon, he's Dance," Shannon pointed to his partner as they all headed into the kitchen.
"Sorry." Marcus turned to Dance. "Did I see you at the Jersey Shore?"
"No." Dance glared at him and shook his head, suspiciously. "Why?"
"I thought maybe--"
"I hate the Jersey Shore," Dance snapped as he walked into the mud room.
Marcus watched as Dance walked to Julia's encased body. He pulled off his latex gloves, bent down, and helped Shannon and the white-haired coroner lift the black bag up onto the gurney.
Marcus looked once again at Shannon and Dance's clothes. They were exactly as Nick had described them, but Nick had probably seen them through the window, maybe forgetting that he had looked. In his fragile mental state who was to say that his mind wasn't retreating into its own reality?
Marcus felt an overwhelming confusion rush through him as he stared at the black bag containing Julia's body, still coming to grips with the fact she was dead. But what took Marcus's breath away, what compounded the effect of everything that had happened, was the moment when his eye was drawn back to Dance, now pushing the gurney out through the door, his eyes drawn to the detective's right hand . . .
. . . to his right ring finger
. . . where it was missing below the second knuckle.
    N ICK HAD NOT moved from the couch in Marcus's library. He had read the letter three times over, his thoughts bathed in a crippling confusion. All logic seemed absent from the European man's written words, but equally absent from Nick's own mind--how had he gotten here and how was it remotely possible? Nick wasn't a superstitious man; he wasn't prone to believe in the supernatural, myths, legends, UFOs. He didn't believe in lucky pennies, rabbit's feet, bad luck, or broken mirrors. But he would gladly embrace it all, preaching the merits of each, if it would bring Julia back.
He stood and walked about the library in a half-aware state looking at the pictures on the shelves. There was no consistency to Marcus's past, no stability. Several frames contained pictures of Sheila, several older shots were obviously cropped, excising a former spouse, and two frames were altogether empty. His eyes finally fell on a picture of himself and Julia arm in arm with Marcus prominently displayed on the center shelf. They were all smiling. Nick couldn't recall if it had been taken by Blythe or Dana of the discarded housewife crowd but he didn't care. It was of a joyous time, a time before murder and plane crashes, when happiness had seemed eternal.
Nick finally pulled himself away from the photo, in fear of being overcome with grief again, and looked out the window. His fear began to arise anew as he saw Detectives Shannon and Dance emerge from his house, helping the white-haired coroner push the gurney with the black bag containing Julia into the coroner's truck.
Marcus stood in the driveway, his head hung in sorrow as she was loaded in and the door was closed. The two detectives turned to Marcus and the three began a slow march across the large side yard.
Nick thought about running, but had no idea where he would run to, wondering if his fate was sealed no matter how fast or far he ran. He pulled the watch from his pocket and flipped it open, reading the time, 8:55, and became momentarily lost in the timepiece.
He pulled the letter from his pocket once again, rereading the impossible words, slowly, deliberately, digesting them as if he were reading the bible.
Dear Nick,
I hope the fog is lifting from your mind though I'm sure it is
now being replaced by an even greater confusion as to what is
going on as you have found yourself in the exact location where
you were at eight o'clock this evening.
In life there are moments that are impossible to grasp, to
come to terms with: the injustice at the death of the innocent,
the inexplicable agony and confusion at the loss of those we love,
the impossible cruelty of fate.
    N ICK COULDN'T HELP looking out the window