Hastily brought in from Northern Westchester Hospital, the sheets were serving a purpose they were never designed for. While Nick knew they covered bodies, he hadn’t realized what was actually under the sea of white cloth that dotted the hellish landscape. There were no people lying in elegant repose. The bodies were broken, dismembered, burned beyond recognition. Some sheets covered torsos, others limbs, visions Nick had never borne witness to, sights that turned his stomach and wrenched his heart. How Dreyfus could search, how he could look at each face was something Nick couldn’t understand.

“What are you doing here?” Nick asked.

“I was an army medic, Vietnam. I thought I’d never see anything like this again.”

“You think coming here,” Nick said, “volunteering will clear your soul?”

“You have no idea what you are talking about. I’m going to tell you once, get away from me before I call the cops over.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to do that.” Nick paused. “What are you hoping for, redemption?”

Dreyfus stopped, turning to Nick with a mix of anger and pain in his eyes. “I’m hoping to find my brother.”

Nick stared at the man, so sure of a darker side, only to be floored by the fact that Dreyfus’s brother had been on the plane.

“I’m sorry,” Nick said. “I didn’t realize.”

“Now, will you let me be?”

“There was a robbery this morning of Washington House, the Hennicots’ place. You did the security.” Nick reluctantly pressed on. “They stole a bunch of diamonds and swords, some daggers and guns. They’re covering their tracks and I know for a fact they are coming for you. You need to get out of here. I’ll help you do that, but you’ve got to tell me who was involved in the theft. I need to know every name to save my wife.”

Dreyfus finally looked at Nick with different eyes, sympathetic eyes. “I’m sorry about your wife.” And his sympathy slipped away. “But she’s still alive. That’s more than I can say for my brother. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Dreyfus leaned down and lifted another sheet.

“Mr. Dreyfus?” a voice called from behind them.

“Great, now who are you?”

“I’m Detective Ethan Dance.”

Nick turned to see four uniformed police standing beside Dance.

“You need to come with us.” Dance took him by an arm as one of the uniformed cops took the other. Nick quickly looked at the patrolmen, checking whether any of them were the police officer he had seen bound, floating dead in the bottom of the Kensico Reservoir, but none had red hair and all four were far from skinny.

Nick felt the gun at the small of his back but knew if he drew it he’d be either dead or in handcuffs.

“Let him go,” Nick called out, not knowing why.

“Who the hell are you?” Dance said.

“My God, don’t you have any compassion?” Nick said. “The guy’s looking for his brother.”

“That’s not all he’s looking for out here,” Dance said as he turned and led Dreyfus away.

NICK STARED OUT at the white-draped bodies, all of the men, women, and children, his mind puzzling over why the innocent had to die. What purpose did it serve? How many loved ones were left behind to grieve? He knew what it felt like to lose the one you love most in this world.

He wished he could stop it, take it all away. He wished he had more than five hours. If it took twelve hours to save Julia, to solve a crime, how long would it take to save 212? Could he ride time backward and tell each one not to get on the plane, could he find and stop the cause of the accident? His heart broke when he knew he couldn’t end all the suffering.

But Dreyfus had not shed any new light on the robbery before he was whisked away by Dance to what would inevitably be his death. He was searching for his brother’s body. Nick never realized, never thought there was the possibility of something other than the robbery that Dreyfus was dealing with.

And what did Dance mean, he was not just searching for his brother’s body, he was searching for something else?

Nick was actually surprised. Though Dreyfus was filled with grief, Nick felt he could actually like the man. He had served his country, he was medically trained, he’d built a huge business.

And Nick realized he didn’t have to die. He might not be able to save the passengers, but he might be able to save Paul Dreyfus, and by so doing maybe he would get some answers.

Nick knew where they were going; there was still time.

PAUL DREYFUS WAS thrown in the back of a green Taurus while Dance spoke to and dismissed his underling cops.

Dance slid into the backseat beside him, drew his gun, and pressed it into Paul’s stomach. “How’s it feel to be the brother of the murderer of over two hundred people?”

Dreyfus stared at Dance but remained silent.

“He double-crossed us. Was that your plan all along? I want to know where the box is.” Dance paused, his agitation and anger growing. “And I want to know now!”

Dreyfus wasn’t about to answer his questions. No one would get him to talk, especially not this corrupt cop.

On the Laos border in ’72, while treating what was left of Lieutenant Reese’s platoon, Paul Dreyfus had been captured by the Vietcong. He was thrown into a pit, a makeshift holding cell, and they had questioned him for five days. No food, just water. They beat him over the back with tree switches and rifle butts, but he never said a word, not even name, rank, and serial number. On the sixth day, a team of Navy SEALs liberated him but not before he had snatched a rifle off a dead Vietcong solider and shot his interrogators’ heads off.

Dreyfus hadn’t answered questions then and he wasn’t about to answer questions now.

Arriving back in the United States in ’75, Paul Dreyfus started his security company-a small shop at first. Door and window alarms for friends’ homes gave way to video surveillance for local mom and pop stores, which gave way to sophisticated corporate security designs. With a combination of luck, sweat, sleepless nights, and stressful days, Dreyfus built his company into one of the finest in the country.

Samuel Dreyfus ran a far different path than his older brother. Where Paul went to college to pursue a career in medicine, Sam dropped out of high school to pursue girls. Where Paul enlisted, Sam protested. Where Paul flew off to Vietnam, Sam ran off to Canada.

Paul, an athlete since childhood, had built his body through exercise and diet into a machine that tackled quarterbacks as a Georgia Bulldog and carried the wounded off the battlefield in Southeast Asia. Sam, on the other hand, preferred to pour chemicals in his body to find enlightenment and truth.

Forgoing a career in medicine after seeing too many battlefield wounds and too much blood, Paul Dreyfus followed a path he could never have imagined. Success provided him a Georgian colonial mansion outside Philadelphia, Ivy League educations for his two daughters, a life of luxury for Susan, his wife of thirty-five years, even his own modest boat and plane, both of which he preferred to four-wheeled vehicles. He loved flying, embracing his father’s passion at the age of fourteen. Twice a month their dad took him and Sam on little excursions around the Lehigh Valley, letting them each handle the controls, planting the seeds of a lifelong passion, imparting that feeling of flight that was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

People viewed everything in his life with envy. Everything except his brother. Back in the United States after President Carter’s amnesty for draft dodgers, Sam returned to the States thinking the world owed him a living. Or if not the world, at least his brother, Paul.

Sam might have been many things, but he was still Paul’s brother, he was still family. Draft dodging and drugs were the extent of his crimes, and they were all in his youth. Being obnoxious, rude, and self-centered were not felonious acts. If they were, Sam would have been in jail long ago.