Shannon thumbed through to the next picture. It was from the rear of Dance’s car, the trunk sitting wide open. Shannon chuckled, he was being goofed on. The pictures looked like those various-angle photos you saw of used cars in the back of magazines, but he could never imagine who would buy Dance’s car.

But as he clicked on the third picture, he realized this was no game. It was a much closer shot of Dance’s trunk, and it was filled with what looked like treasure. Swords of gold, bejeweled daggers, several ornate guns, and sitting among it all was a black velvet bag, its mouth wide open, the diamonds inside sparkling in the sunlight.

Shannon grew suddenly serious. If this was a joke, someone had gone too far. But as he clicked to the next picture on his phone he knew that the situation went much farther.

The rear door on the right side hung open. The passenger was belted in, sitting in a pool of blood that seemed to cover his entire torso. Shannon looked closer but could not make out the face. But no matter, he knew he was looking at a corpse, he was looking at a murder scene.

He finally clicked to the final shot, a shot that sent his mind spinning, a shot that nearly seized his heart. It was a much closer image, this time through the left rear passenger door of the Taurus. The face could be seen plain as day. It was pale, almost blue from bleeding out. The mouth hung open, slack-jawed. The eyes were lifeless, dry, and without any sign of a soul.

Shannon looked up, suddenly feeling a rush of paranoia such as he had never known. He looked back down at his cell phone, thinking he might have been seeing things.

But there was no doubt, Bob Shannon was looking at himself.

NICK SAT IN his car at the private air terminal waiting for Shannon. He couldn’t afford to waste time explaining things again, so he had formulated the perfect device to get the detective’s attention.

He had run back to the Taurus before his last time shift, opened the door on Shannon’s side, reached in, and grabbed the cell phone from the detective’s waist. He read Shannon’s number, entered it into his own phone, and threw Shannon’s back in the car. He quickly circled Dance’s car, taking the five pictures he’d just sent, building them in intensity as he went, creating an invitation that Shannon would never refuse.

On the seat beside him was the Colt Peacemaker he had plucked from the bushes, its chambers emptied of the spent silver bullets. It was the same gun he had stared at nearly twelve hours ago in the interrogation room, the pistol that Dance had shot Julia with and had planted in the trunk of his car to frame him for her murder. It had become a symbol of death and greed. But now, the etchings upon its barrel and stock became prophetically personal, reflecting Nick’s own quest for justice: The gate that leads to damnation is wide-To hell you shall be gathered together-Yet ye bring wrath-Darkness which may be felt-Whoever offers violence to you, offer you the like violence to him.

The whining roar of an American Air jet shook Nick’s car like sustained thunder as it leaped off the tarmac into the crystalline blue sky. Planes and jets took off and landed with regular frequency, without incident, as the aviation business went about its morning routine.

Nick stared out through his windshield across the large expanse of tarmac at the central hub of Westchester Airport’s main terminal where six medium-sized passenger jets took on travelers to whisk them out to all parts of the country. On the outermost bay was a white AS 300, its red and blue circular logo prominently displayed. The North East Air jet sat quietly being fueled and prepped for flight: food and drink carts were replenished, aisles were vacuumed, fresh pillows and blankets brought on in preparation for the boarding that would commence in an hour’s time. It received the temporary designation of Flight 502 with a one-hour flight time to Logan International Airport in Boston. It was the plane that would carry Julia aloft, carry so many unsuspecting passengers only two miles before it fell from the sky, plunging them all to their death in a tangled heap of flame.

Nick had fought so hard to stop the robbery, to save Julia, he’d neglected to think about the 212 on the plane who died. But now, as impossible at it seemed, Julia was among them.

It took ten hours to save Julia from her imminent death, to remove her killer from the world. Yet despite all of his effort, he had delivered her right back to the first death she had avoided, the first death she was saved from. Through his missteps he had placed her on the plane with no excuse to get off, through his poorly executed moves she had been left to experience the most horrible of deaths, a death he had feared all his life. He couldn’t imagine what had gone through her head as they crashed in midair and tumbled out of the sky.

Nick realized all moments, every tick of the watch led to now. Led to stopping the plane crash to save not only Julia but the 212 others who had needlessly died.

And though he had initially thought it was simple to stop the tumbling domino of the robbery in order for Julia to live, he knew now that the impact of his actions could have far worse results.

He wasn’t about to rely on simply taking the key for Dreyfus’s plane, or on just leaving a message for Julia to not get on Flight 502. He couldn’t call the airline or the FAA, explaining he had a premonition. He had considered an anonymous bomb threat but dismissed the idea, knowing he had to do more than prevent the plane crash in order to keep Julia alive. He also had to keep the robbery from ever happening.

He knew that every action he took had repercussions, no matter the nobleness of the intention. He had seen it with Marcus’s death, with McManus’s death, with Shannon’s, and with Julia ending up on the doomed airliner. As each moment was modified it would ripple through time, having hundreds, even thousands of effects.

If Nick made the wrong move, the wrong decision, it would reverberate through the future, and instead of stopping the plane crash, his misstep might compound the tragedy of the crash of Flight 502, perhaps sending it tumbling onto the populated town of Byram Hills or, even worse, the children’s day camp instead of the wide-open, vacant sports field.

Who was to say that fate was even reversible? Was Julia destined to die this day no matter what, whether by gunshot, plane crash, or some other means? Were the 212 passengers aboard Flight 502 meant to go down in a horrific aviation disaster despite every effort to halt the Cessna 400 from taking off?

Nick suddenly shook off the pessimistic thoughts, returning to hope, the greatest of emotions, something that could wipe away fear, could eliminate doubt, could inspire faith in even the most impossible of situations. He was here now, he had inexplicably marched back through the day, to this last of hours, to this final chance to save Julia’s life.

So with hope in his heart, Nick focused, searching for that singular action, that one deed that would change the future for everyone. Julia, Marcus, Shannon, Dreyfus, McManus, himself. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew that he would find it before the hour was up.

Nick picked up his phone again and tried Julia; for the second time he went right to voicemail.

“Julia,” Nick said. “It’s me. Do me a favor, do not get on that flight to Boston. I don’t care why you’re going, I don’t care if you get fired, do not get on that flight. I have a terrible feeling, I can’t explain it. Just do what I say. Call me when you get this.”

Nick turned his attention to the Cessna 400. Parked within a long line of small jets and planes, the white aircraft looked like a Corvette of the sky, its sleek lines, its swept-back window giving the impression of a man-made bird of prey.