The doctor looked out the window, ending the conversation, becoming lost in what could only be horrible thoughts about what he was heading off to see.

Without another word, Julia started the Lexus, drove out of the driveway, and headed back to Byram Hills.

NICK SAT IN his leather office chair behind the desk in his library. He was soaked, heaving for breath, his mind a jumble in its disorientation. He had thought himself dead as his mind went blank on the bottom of the lake, his last thought that he had failed Julia.

Calming himself, he looked at the wallet clutched in his hand. It was calfskin leather, black, Gucci. He had taken it from the pocket of the dead man on the bottom of the Kensico Reservoir. He opened it, finding it filled with hundred-dollar bills. There was a black American Express Card and a Gold Visa, but he bypassed it all, finding the driver’s license, the object of his search, right on top.

But identifying the dead man was not a eureka moment; it instead created more questions than Nick had had an hour earlier. He reread the license once more: 10 Merion Drive, Haverford, Pennsylvania. Born May 28, 1952. Five feet ten inches tall, brown eyes, the organ donation box checked. Paul Dreyfus, the owner of the security company that did the installation on Shamus Hennicot’s building, was dead, drowned, his body at the bottom of the Kensico Reservoir.

Nick ran upstairs and tore off his wet clothes, quickly throwing on another pair of jeans and a white shirt. He grabbed another dark blazer from the closet and emptied out the pockets of his drenched pants and jacket. He found Marcus’s letter to Marcus, along with the letter from the gray-haired man he’d received in the interrogation room, the ink on the exterior envelopes only slightly running. He picked up the watch and flicked open the watch cover. The timepiece was well crafted and watertight, seemingly unaffected by its submersion, as the second hand swept past twelve to read 2:05. His phone was another matter, shorted out. He was actually glad it was ruined, as that had erased Julia’s death image from the world. He grabbed his wallet and keys, the St. Christopher medal, Dreyfus’s wallet, and the letters and tucked it all in his pockets.

He ran downstairs, back to the library, and opened the safe. He let out a wide grin as he found his gun sitting there along with a supply of cartridges. This wasn’t some kind of magic. It hadn’t leaped here through time from Dance’s car. As it was now 2:05, it simply had not yet left the safe.

Nick grabbed it, along with several cartridges, and tucked it in his waistband, at the small of his back. He moved the stack of papers on his desk aside and found his personal cell phone sitting there dry as a bone, ready for use. He momentarily laughed, but the humor quickly faded as he became angry with himself. He had almost died, and in so doing, he would have taken Julia along with him. He had been foolish and arrogant, thinking he could simply ride backward in time and easily save Julia.

He had not used anything he knew of the future to change the past. This was like a game, a game he was playing very poorly, running around relying on chance-met strangers for help. He had to effect change and he had to effect it now. Time was ticking down; the time to save Julia was running out.

He picked up the wet wallet he had plucked off the corpse and slipped it in the pocket of his blazer.

He would no longer passively let things play out by chance. He had a plan now.

He was going to see Paul Dreyfus.

NICK PARKED HIS car just outside the roadblock at the crash site, right behind the blue Chevy Impala, the car that would carry Julia’s killer, the car he would chase down hours from now, forcing it off the road and into a tree.

He walked briskly toward Private McManus, the same National Guardsman who had stopped him from entering when he came and met Shannon.

“May I help you?” the young man said.

“I’m bringing evidence concerning the plane crash to Captain Delia.” Nick held up the wet wallet without stopping.

The young guard didn’t question Nick’s authoritative tone or manner and nodded as he passed.

NICK STOOD LOOKING at the crash site. Firemen were rolling up their hoses, not yet able to sit on the running boards of their trucks for a rest. Family members were being bused to the locker building to be close to the remains of their loved ones, to hear any updates on the cause of the crash or even, possibly, word of a miracle survivor.

The devastation was like nothing Nick had ever experienced. Though he had seen it an hour earlier in his time, he had not grown accustomed to the sight. The tragedy was on a grand scale. But for the tail of the plane, he couldn’t see any piece of debris larger than a door. He looked at the hundreds of volunteers assisting the emergency crews, helping the grieving families. It was humanity at its best and life at its worst.

And somewhere in here, among the sea of people, was Paul Dreyfus.

Nick pulled out Dreyfus’s still-wet wallet, found one of his business cards, and dialed the cell phone number on it.

“Hello,” a deep voice answered.

“Mr. Dreyfus?” Nick asked, looking around at the sea of volunteers.

“Yes.”

Nick looked among the crowd by the locker, by the situation tents. “My name is Nick Quinn.”

“Yes,” Dreyfus said, with no emotion, no formality.

Nick scanned the field, surrounded by miles of police tape, and finally saw him, cell phone to his ear, standing in the open field of death. Nick hung up and headed straight for the man, never taking his eye off him.

Dreyfus was heavier than Nick had thought, a man who had once been built like a rock. His weight had shifted about but he still appeared strong. His gray hair was neatly parted, unlike the mussed, drifting locks Nick had seen on his corpse at the bottom of the Kensico Reservoir.

The man wore rubber surgical gloves, his shirtsleeves rolled up as he lifted sheet after sheet, examining the bodies underneath.

“Mr. Dreyfus?” Nick said on approach.

Dreyfus didn’t stop looking under the white sheets, as if Nick was a nuisance.

“My name is Nick Quinn,” he said as he extended his hand.

Dreyfus ignored it. Nick was unsure if it was because of the gloves or out of rudeness.

“You flew up here today?” Nick asked.

“I’m supposed to know you?”

“I don’t know how to tell you this-” Nick paused, unsure how to proceed.

“I don’t have time for mind games; get to the point.”

“They’re going to kill you,” Nick blurted out.

“Who?” Dreyfus didn’t look up from his task, as if he didn’t hear or didn’t care.

“Your partners.”

“Partners?” Dreyfus asked, finally looking up. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Nick grabbed the man by the shoulders, spinning him around to get his attention. “Then they are going to kill my wife.”

The man’s face softened for an instant. “Then I suggest you go protect her instead of harassing me.”

“Do you know Ethan Dance?” Nick pressed him.

“Are you a cop?”

“He’s going to drill you in the eye and the mouth. He’s got a mean right hook.” Nick rubbed his lip. “Then he’s going to tie a heavy iron plate to your ankles and drop you into a lake.”

“Are you trying to scare me?”

“Yeah, I am,” Nick said in earnest.

“After seeing all this,” Dreyfus waved his gloved hand around, “you’ll excuse me if I ignore you. I’ve got bigger issues to deal with.”

Dreyfus glared at Nick before walking off. Nick stood there a moment, not sure how to crack the man, how to get him to talk.

Nick caught up to Dreyfus, walking beside him along the charred ground, every step avoiding pieces of what had once been an AS 300 jetliner. Dreyfus would pause before a white sheet, bowing his head as if in reverence, and then slowly lifting it by its corner.