“Look, I know you’re glad to see me,” Nick said. “But your eyes are dancing with something else. Did you fall in love again?”

“You won’t believe this,” Marcus said, glad he could let out the building head of steam within him. “This young guy, Jason Cereta-”

“Cereta?” Julia asked, dumbstruck at hearing the name. “Blond guy, twenties?”

“You know him?”

“We flew to Boston together this morning.”

“Really? Small world,” Marcus said, trying to continue his story. “At any rate, he called a few minutes ago. Sharp as a tack, crafty as the devil, charming as all hell, kind of like a younger version of myself with hair.” Marcus ran his hand over his bald head. “Just not as handsome.

“He ran off on his own to Boston today,” Marcus continued, “and put my dream deal of owning Halifax Skis together. I’ll have to hire a whole new team to deal with this coup but it will be worth it.”

“Marcus, you need to do me a favor,” Nick said, sitting up in the bed. “I know a guy. Just got his MBA, he’s in the National Guard.”

“Military guy, I like that.”

“He’s already had enough death in his life. You need to hire him.”

“Without an interview?” Marcus said in surprise. “What’s his name?”

“McManus. Private McManus.”

“What a perfect military name his mother gave him. Does private have any other first name?”

“Smartass. It’s Neil.”

Marcus rubbed the back of his head. “It gives me such a headache taking chances on new guys, but if you say so, he’s as good as hired.”

The heavy pine door to the room swung open, and an incredibly old man entered. He walked with a long dark mahogany cane, the head of which was a carved elephant’s head, the walking stick supporting his slow, shuffling gate. His hair was white, his pale skin wrinkled, seeming two sizes too large for his skeleton. But the eyes… The eyes were sharp and focused.

He was accompanied by Zachariah Nash, who wore his crisp doubled-breasted blazer and white, pleated linen pants. Nick recognized Nash full well as the man who had given him the watch, who had set him on his journey.

“Nick,” Julia said, pointing at the older man, “this is Shamus Hennicot.”

“Nicholas,” Hennicot said with a bow of the head. “I’m so glad to see you alive. And I would like you to formally meet my attaché, Zachariah Nash.”

Nash tilted his head to Nick, as if he were meeting him for the first time. Shamus turned briefly to Paul Dreyfus and gave a subtle nod of recognition.

“Julia?” Nick took a deep breath and licked his lips. “Do you think maybe you could get me a Coke or something?”

“Of course.” Julia smiled. She turned to Shamus and Zachariah with eyebrows raised in question.

“Nothing for us, dear.” Shamus said.

“I can’t believe you came down for this,” Julia said. “It means so much to me.”

“I understand you flew with my wife, today,” Shamus said with a warm smile. “Pleasant flight, I hope.”

Julia appeared confused.

“Petite, gray-haired, talks a lot…” Shamus prodded her.

“Katherine? That was your wife?” Julia asked in surprise.

“She spoke so highly of you,” Shamus said warmly.

“I had no idea…” Julia replied with confusion.

“Which makes your charm all the more special.”

“I’m a bit hungry myself,” Marcus said to Julia as he walked across the room and opened the door. “I’ll go with you.”

Alone with Dreyfus, Nash, and Nick, Shamus pulled a chair over and took a seat right next to Nick’s bed.

“You have an amazing wife, Nicholas, you’re very lucky.”

“I know,” Nick said.

“And she is even more lucky to have someone like you,” Shamus continued. “Only a man whose heart is filled with such love would not abuse the power that you hold in your hand.”

Nick finally opened his fist to reveal the watch that Dreyfus had placed there.

“Julia’s death, my wife’s death, were all my fault,” Shamus said with regret. “Sadly, time has robbed me of my youth. If I were a younger man, I would never have tasked you, burdened you with such an impossible journey.

“I’m too frail, too weak, to endure the leaps and machinations of time. My mind no longer has the clarity of thought to step backward and place the world back on its proper axis.”

“But wait,” Nick said in confusion. “Did the plane crash occur?”

“No,” Shamus said.

“The burglary?”

“No. Ethan Dance disappeared into the limo of a man named Rukaj, and he hasn’t been heard from since. Detective Shannon arrested Horace Randall and John Arilio on a multitude of charges after they held him and Nash hostage at the airport this morning.”

“What about Sam?” Nick asked as he looked at Paul Dreyfus.

“Sam has gone away for a bit,” Shamus explained, “to think things through. Paul wanted him arrested, but I wasn’t about to see his brother go to jail. The two other cops already have Internal Affairs issues, their karma is catching up to them. But I thought Sam deserved another try at this thing called life.”

“If nothing occurred,” Nick paused, “then how come you remember everything?”

“I don’t,” Shamus said matter-of-factly.

“How do you know then?” Nick asked.

Shamus held up the letter that Zachariah had given Nick back in the interrogation room and pointed at the small strange lettering along the bottom. The lettering he never could fathom.

“It’s an ancient offshoot of Gaelic, I wrote that part myself-to myself, actually, the way you had your friend Marcus do it. We think alike, you and I,” Shamus said with a smile. “I explained to myself about Julia’s death, about my wife’s death, the plane crash, the robbery, and how they were all intertwined around this box.” Shamus patted the mahogany box on the table.

“I specifically noted why I had sent Zachariah to you and my intentions, knowing your love for your wife.”

Shamus pulled out the printout from the Wall Street Journal, the crash of Flight 502 in the center photo. “But seeing this, seeing the wreckage of the jet my wife and your wife were on, hearing what you said to Paul about Julia’s murder, about the robbery, filled in the rest of the details.”

Nick turned to Zachariah. “What do you remember?”

Zachariah simply smiled. “Just your bravery at the airport.”

Nick turned to Dreyfus. “What about you?”

Dreyfus took the printout of the Wall Street Journal from Shamus. “Once I saw you had this page eight hours early, I knew what was in your possession. And I knew that if you had it, if you were riding time backward, then it was given to you by Shamus.”

“With the thought of power,” Shamus said, “men’s hearts darken, with the vision of wealth, morals and values crumble, but that all becomes secondary to love.”

Hennicot pulled out a key. It was octagonal, created by Paul Dreyfus for his exclusive use. Dreyfus pulled out an identical one, as did Nash. Each inserted his respective key into the locks on the three sides of the wooden case that sat on the table next to the bed and turned.

Hennicot lifted the lid to reveal a velvet core that filled the interior almost to the rim. Within its center was a single three-inch circular recess, the exact size of the gold watch.

And it all became clear.

“It was found by my grandfather,” Shamus said. “Stolen, I believe, from a man in Venice, Italy, who had stolen it himself from the Martinots in France. It was how grandfather made all of his money, slipping back and forth through time, manipulating fate. His empire was built upon it. An empire whose growth continued with my father. Both were men of greed who lusted for power without grasping the consequences of their actions.

“When it was passed down to me on my father’s deathbed, I promised myself that I would never fall prey to the lust that had consumed them. I made it my goal to use it only to do good in the world. But I soon learned that good intentions could lead to disastrous consequences, so I tucked it away, refusing to make use of its abilities. Instead, I made it my purpose to distribute the billions acquired by my forefathers, acquired without regard to the end results of their actions, or the effect their travels had on the world.