“I’m going to think both you and I are crazy when I read this,” Marcus said as he handed the letter to Nick, who slipped it in the inside pocket of his sport coat.

“As long as it’s convincing, I don’t care what you think.”

Nick looked at his watch: 4:59.

“I need you to get Julia out of here,” Nick said. “Promise me, you’ll take care of her.”

“Hey, it’s me,” Marcus said, trying to reassure him.

“And if something should happen to me…”

“If anything happens to you, I’ll raise an army to find the bastards and they’ll regret every breath they ever took.”

Nick smiled, his eyes filled with appreciation for his friend, and walked out of the library. He went across the foyer and quickly through the front door.

Marcus caught sight of Nick through the bay window walking across the long side yard to his house. He suddenly thought of something and ran out behind him, ripping open the front door. “Hey, what about…?”

But the long side yard, the expansive field between their homes, was empty.

Nick was gone as if he had vanished into thin air.

3:00 P.M.

SULLIVAN FIELD WAS A large stretch of land two miles outside the center of town. A mix of various sporting fields, it had been donated to the town by International Data Systems six years earlier in exchange for generous real estate tax incentives for their sprawling headquarters nearby. They not only provided the land but hired the architects, construction crews, and landscapers to build one of the best public sporting facilities in the state whose sole purpose was to provide a venue for the athletic endeavors, passions, and entertainment of school-age children.

There were baseball fields with dugouts and bleachers, soccer and lacrosse fields, tennis and basketball courts. There were football fields, a full track, an outdoor hockey rink that was open November through March. There was a central building with lockers, bathrooms, and a nursery for young children whose parents wanted to watch their older siblings kick, smack, or just throw a ball around.

The grass was as good as that of golf course, with a full sprinkler system throughout, while landscaping crews saw to the upkeep of lush bushes and flowers that ran about the perimeter.

The fields lay just two miles northwest of the airport and provided a perfect vantage point from which to watch the planes coming and going on their daily journeys to and from Westchester Airport.

Finding a silver lining to a tragic event, an incident involving the deaths of 212 people, would seem an impossibility, except that it was a Friday in summer. School was out. The local camp was on the other side of town. The fields were mercifully vacant as eighty tons of jet slammed into the soccer fields, cratering a hole ten feet deep, the devastation of the tumbling and twisting aircraft dragging on for half a mile through the baseball diamonds and the football fields, finally stopping a quarter mile short of the locker facilities.

Intended for far more joyous purposes, that building had become the staging area for the recovery and cleanup effort of Flight 502.

Fire trucks from all over the county formed a wagon train-like corral around the wreckage. Thousands of gallons of water steamed off the still-hot, smoldering ground. Firemen sat on the running boards of their trucks physically and emotionally exhausted from their efforts, devastated that all their actions couldn’t save a single life.

A small contingent of National Guard stood watch over the site, never having imagined their stateside service would entail such tragedy.

The plane had been torn to shreds, as if some creature had sunk its teeth into a soda can and ripped it apart. The white tail section seemed to rise out of the ground at the edge of the woods, the North East Air logo unblemished by the flames, its registration number, N95301, still legible. It was the only piece that would give any indication that the objects in this debris field had once been part of a passenger jet.

The acrid smell of death hovered in the air, the odor of burned flesh, molten metal, and scorched earth enough to induce sickness if the images hadn’t already taken one down that path. With a full load of highly flammable jet fuel, the aircraft was a fireball as it hit the ground, the heat of the initial blast scorching trees and plants a quarter mile away. The fireball rose in a great mushroom cloud visible for miles, while the black smoke darkened the sky, blotting out the sun for hours, only to be replaced by the steaming white smoke of the flames’ watery defeat. Oddly, while much of the wreckage was burned beyond recognition, some had escaped untouched

Shards of aluminum skin lay twisted about the muddy earth, luggage was open and scattered. The sight of women’s blouses and children’s sneakers laid bare the magnitude and human devastation of what had happened.

And there were the bodies, over two hundred. Men, woman, and children. None recognizable, no one whole. Hundreds of white sheets, their edges muddy and wet, dotted the area, the grim reminder of the death that lay beneath them, the death that comes without warning.

Grieving family members were held back by townsfolk and family. Shrieks of agony, of loss echoed the air, the only sound besides the hissing, steaming ground. No one spoke. Eye contact was avoided.

Nothing was moved while the NTSB examined the wreckage and secured the black boxes, the recorders of life up until the moment of death.

Small yellow flags, bar coded and numbered, were placed next to every piece of debris, cataloguing the destruction so computer models could be formulated, enabling experts to analyze the cause of the incident. While the NTSB’s combing of the debris, their meticulous reconstruction of the moments leading up to the point of the crash, was intended to solve a mystery, their directive, as always, was to prevent future occurrences, to help with the implementation of new guidelines so the particular yet-to-be-determined cause would not lead to another such event.

AS NICK DROVE toward Sullivan Fields there was no way of avoiding the sight of the crash. The access road descended into the sunken, almost valleylike field, circling the perimeter and revealing the tragedy in all of its devastation. Over one hundred ambulances lay in wait, the EMTs’ and paramedics’ job now simply being the transportation of remains to the morgue.

Cars and trucks of volunteers lined the road, intermixed with army jeeps and several off-road vehicles. People walked by on their way out with hunched shoulders and tear-streaked faces.

Nick had rounded the bend of the final corner before the entrance to the field proper when he was abruptly stopped by a National Guardsman in full army greens, an M-16 rifle slung over his back. He circled his hand in the air, indicating Nick should turn around and leave, all of which Nick ignored as he rolled down his window.

“Sir,” the Guardsman said as he approached. “Got to get out of here.”

“I need to see the police,” Nick said, talking over the younger man.

“What seems to be the problem? Maybe I could help.”

Nick looked at the young blond reservist. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, surely educated with the help of government loans that required years of service to your country in return.

“I need to see the police and I need them now.”

“You’re going to have to explain it to me,” the young and eager soldier said, clearly enjoying his first taste of authority. “You’re not allowed in there.”

Nick stuck his finger out the window, curling it toward himself, bidding the solider to come close enough so he could read the name on the left side of his chest, and spoke in a soft, even tone, “Private McManus?”