The blue Chevy Impala sat just behind the small plane, its trunk open, as Paul Dreyfus removed his briefcase and a small duffel, laying them upon the ground. He was neatly dressed in gray slacks and a blue tie, his sport coat hung on the open door of the Impala, his gray hair combed as if he were off to Sunday mass.

Nick had watched him for several minutes moving around his plane, talking on his cell phone, when up the single-lane drive came a dark green, waxed and polished BMW. The car drove across the nearly vacant lot and parked on the other side, right next to where Dreyfus was waiting.

A man in a crisp blue shirt and pleated pants emerged from the car and warmly greeted Dreyfus with a two-fisted handshake. There was a polished, regal air about the man. He looked to be in his late fifties, his strong shoulders and narrow waist evidence that he was more than fit, his dark perfect hair flecked with gray that dominated his temples.

The two engaged in an animated conversation full of hand gestures and head nods, until finally, the regal man popped his trunk. Dreyfus crouched and unzipped the black duffel. With a great deal of effort he withdrew an object, carried it over to the BMW, and placed it inside the trunk, closing the lid.

Nick’s heart ran cold as he instantly recognized the mahogany box. There was no mistaking the two-by-two foot dark wood case, its three silver keyholes glistening in the midmorning sun.

And then the man in the blue shirt turned, the sun hitting his profile, and the last twelve hours of Nick’s life were turned inside out, sending his mind reeling, for he realized who he was looking at.

It was the European, the man who had showed up in the interrogation room, who had given him the watch, who had set him on this journey to save his wife. Yet here he was taking delivery of the mahogany box Sam Dreyfus was supposed to steal one hour from now, the box that created the impetus for so much violence and death, for Julia’s torturous demise on two separate occasions, the box whose theft and possession would ultimately precipitate the crash of Flight 502.

Nick’s mind filled with confusion at the alliance of Paul Dreyfus and the European. He had never formed a connection, never thought he had been sent on his journey for anything but Julia. He thought of the box as simply the goal of thieves, the prize sought by Sam Dreyfus. He’d never truly pondered its contents or worth, dismissing it as the precious secrets of an old man. But now…

It was inextricably linked to Julia’s death, to the crash of Flight 502, a wooden box whose contents were sought by too many.

He had never expected to see the mahogany box here already, thinking it still in the safe in Hennicot’s basement, which, in his mind, meant only one thing: The true thieves were standing before him on the other side of the parking lot.

Nick leaped from his car and broke into an all-out sprint across the blacktop lot. The European caught sight of Nick’s frantic approach, quickly got into his car, and pulled out. Nick sprinted across the fifty-yard-wide lot, past Dreyfus, running alongside the moving car as it headed for the exit, pounding the driver’s-side window. The man briefly looked at Nick before hitting the gas and leaving him in a cloud of dust where he finally slowed to a halt to watch the man’s escape.

But then fate had finally intervened on his behalf: Up ahead by the entrance gate, the black Mustang pulled into the single-lane driveway of the parking lot, the blue and red lights within its black front grill staccato-flashing. With a loud chirp the siren sounded as the muscle car skidded to a sideways stop, blocking the BMW’s exit.

Shannon jumped from his car, holding his hand up, stopping the European man’s exit, and pulled the gun from his holster.

“Please step out of the vehicle,” Shannon yelled.

But the man was already complying.

“Did you send those photos?” Shannon continued shouting.

The European stared at him in confusion.

“I sent them,” Nick said as he ran toward Shannon, coming to a stop beside him. Paul Dreyfus came jogging up, winded, and exchanging angry glances with his blue-shirted associate.

“What kind of sick joke do you think you’re playing?” Shannon said through gritted teeth.

“I assure you, Detective,” Nick said, “this is no joke.”

“Where did you get them?”

“You have to bear with me,” Nick said, his hands raised in a pleading fashion. “In the trunk of that car is a stolen mahogany box that belongs to Shamus Hennicot, the owner of Washington House in Byram Hills.”

Shannon stared at Nick for a moment before turning his attention to the man standing next to his BMW. “Do you mind opening your trunk?”

Without a word, the man hit the button on his key fob, releasing the hood. Shannon walked around and saw the clean trunk, empty but for a single two-by-two dark wooden box.

“Okay, so he has a box in his trunk,” Shannon said. “What the hell is it?”

“My name is Paul Dreyfus,” Dreyfus said, approaching Shannon. He held out his wallet, displaying his driver’s license. “I work for Shamus Hennicot; my firm handles the security systems for Mr. Hennicot, including Washington House.”

Shannon took and read Dreyfus’s license, matching the face to the picture on the license. He turned to the other man. “And you are?”

“Zachariah Nash. I am Mr. Hennicot’s personal assistant, I oversee his estate.”

“And you are who?” Shannon finally asked Nick, his temper rising with the confused situation.

Nick was speechless at the revelation that the European, Nash, the one who had given him the watch, worked for Hennicot.

“Do either of you know this man?” Shannon asked, alluding to Nick.

“No,” Dreyfus said.

Nash shook his head.

“My name is Nicholas Quinn.” Nick regained his composure and focus and turned to Dreyfus. “An hour from now, your brother steals Shamus Hennicot’s collection of weapons, diamonds, and that box.”

Dreyfus, Nash, and Shannon stared at Nick, exchanging glances as if they were in a shared dream with a madman.

“Not this box,” Dreyfus said softly, taking a step toward Nick as if entertaining his crazy notion.

“That’s the box Sam steals from Hennicot’s safe,” Nick said. “I’m sure of it.”

“The box in the safe at Washington House,” Dreyfus continued, with an almost bedside manner, “it’s a duplicate, an empty prototype.”

“What?” Nick’s eyes filled with anger.

“My brother will not get his hands on this box or what’s inside it, I assure you.”

“Why didn’t you just tell him you already stole it?” Nick said, his voice straining, his words making no sense in this hour before the robbery had even occurred.

“Excuse me?” Paul Dreyfus said. “I didn’t steal this.”

“The box in the safe was a decoy, then?” Nick asked, already knowing the answer.

“Who are you?” Dreyfus’s face became overwhelmed with confusion.

Nick’s mind was teetering on the brink of a nervous breakdown. He had formulated a plan, one that he thought was nearly foolproof, but now, with the revelation that Dreyfus and Nash were working together, that the box in the safe was a fake…

Nick stared back, not knowing how far to go, how far to push the issue before his last ounce of credibility was lost.

“Two hundred and twelve people die on Flight 502 later this morning. My wife dies on that flight because of your brother, because he was after whatever is in that box. Why didn’t you just tell him it was empty?” Nick could no longer separate the future from the past.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Paul Dreyfus asked.

“I’m sorry,” Shannon said to Dreyfus. He looked at Nick as if he was an outpatient from an asylum. “Mr. Quinn, why don’t you come with me?”

Shannon took Nick’s arm.

“I’m not crazy,” Nick erupted, tearing his arm away from Shannon, approaching Dreyfus. “Has anyone seen Hennicot’s weapon collection? You did his security, you designed the system to protect everything? Has his weapons collection ever been made public?”