Read Online the 13th Hour by Richard Doetsch - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Doetsch
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dimmest thief.
He walked to the end of his cobblestone driveway, stood between the two stone entrance pillars, and looked down at the skid marks where Julia's assailant had torn out of the driveway. Nick was smart, and thought he could piece her murder together in time to save her, but he wasn't an educated detective. The width of the rubber skid meant nothing to him, it didn't tell him anything about the type of car or about its driver, or give him some great aha moment as in some TV show.
He looked around their cul-de-sac and down the road, one of the wealthiest sections of Byram Hills, with streets filled with million dollar minimansions, perfect lawns and gardens, all tended by massive crews of gardeners, all except Nick and Julia's home. Nick cut his own grass, planted his own flowers, tilled his own gardens. He enjoyed riding the tractor, cutting the lawn, digging holes. Their house had been Julia's favorite since she was a child, riding by it on her bike. It had been her fantasy home, and Nick had helped her realize that fantasy.
As he walked back up the drive, looking at their house, he thought of all of the upgrades that had been done by his own hand; the addition built with the help of his friends; the painting done on weekends by him and Julia. Some of his best memories were of the time spent together building their home, laughing at the mistakes and imperfections, the paint fights and hammered fingers. It was the simple things, as cliched as it sounded, the peaceful times of being alone with no distractions, eating pizza on the floor, that he cherished most.
Nick walked through the garage and glanced at his dirty car. He was not one for car washes; he preferred his Audi to be a bit on the dirty side in the hope that as it sat on the streets of the city, it would not be noticed amongst the shiny BMWs and Mercedes, blending in and being avoided by the car thieves of the world. It was a practice he had adhered to, much to Julia's annoyance, but it had proven successful to date, so he wasn't about to change. With the accumulation of dust and pollen atop the dark blue metal surface, the handprint was clearly visible on the car's trunk lid, and there was no question it was not his, not Julia's. It was larger, meatier, and out of place.
Nick pulled his key fob from his pocket and hit the button, remotely releasing the hatch. As the trunk lid rose he could see the usual mess: his black duster purchased in Wyoming, the best raincoat he had ever had; jumper cables, a med kit, two coils of rope, all in the event of emergency. There were his hockey skates and pads from the adult league that he and Marcus played in, two boxes of golf balls, an umbrella, and the one object he had not placed there. He'd seen it back in the interrogation room at the Byram Hills police station. Dance had pulled it out, questioned him about it.
Nick was looking at the murder weapon, the exotically styled 134-year-old Peacemaker, the collector's weapon that had taken Julia's life.
There was no question now. He had known it before, but had had no confirmation: He was being set up.
As he looked at the gun he knew there was nothing he could do about it. He could hide it, but it would surely be found. He didn't want to pick it up. The cops had said his fingerprints were on the gun, though he thought it to be a detective's ruse to get him to confess, as there had not been time or personnel to examine the prints, but he would not give them the satisfaction of putting the prints there himself now.
He took a cloth and, wrapping his hand, closed the trunk. Whether the gun was found was irrelevant. If he found a way to save Julia, there would be no accusation, no murder investigation, it would be a moot point. And if he didn't save her, he didn't care what happened to himself.
Nick braced himself for the next five minutes. He knew that what he was about to do would haunt his dreams for all eternity. He was going to look at Julia's body willingly and dreaded
He walked to the end of his cobblestone driveway, stood between the two stone entrance pillars, and looked down at the skid marks where Julia's assailant had torn out of the driveway. Nick was smart, and thought he could piece her murder together in time to save her, but he wasn't an educated detective. The width of the rubber skid meant nothing to him, it didn't tell him anything about the type of car or about its driver, or give him some great aha moment as in some TV show.
He looked around their cul-de-sac and down the road, one of the wealthiest sections of Byram Hills, with streets filled with million dollar minimansions, perfect lawns and gardens, all tended by massive crews of gardeners, all except Nick and Julia's home. Nick cut his own grass, planted his own flowers, tilled his own gardens. He enjoyed riding the tractor, cutting the lawn, digging holes. Their house had been Julia's favorite since she was a child, riding by it on her bike. It had been her fantasy home, and Nick had helped her realize that fantasy.
As he walked back up the drive, looking at their house, he thought of all of the upgrades that had been done by his own hand; the addition built with the help of his friends; the painting done on weekends by him and Julia. Some of his best memories were of the time spent together building their home, laughing at the mistakes and imperfections, the paint fights and hammered fingers. It was the simple things, as cliched as it sounded, the peaceful times of being alone with no distractions, eating pizza on the floor, that he cherished most.
Nick walked through the garage and glanced at his dirty car. He was not one for car washes; he preferred his Audi to be a bit on the dirty side in the hope that as it sat on the streets of the city, it would not be noticed amongst the shiny BMWs and Mercedes, blending in and being avoided by the car thieves of the world. It was a practice he had adhered to, much to Julia's annoyance, but it had proven successful to date, so he wasn't about to change. With the accumulation of dust and pollen atop the dark blue metal surface, the handprint was clearly visible on the car's trunk lid, and there was no question it was not his, not Julia's. It was larger, meatier, and out of place.
Nick pulled his key fob from his pocket and hit the button, remotely releasing the hatch. As the trunk lid rose he could see the usual mess: his black duster purchased in Wyoming, the best raincoat he had ever had; jumper cables, a med kit, two coils of rope, all in the event of emergency. There were his hockey skates and pads from the adult league that he and Marcus played in, two boxes of golf balls, an umbrella, and the one object he had not placed there. He'd seen it back in the interrogation room at the Byram Hills police station. Dance had pulled it out, questioned him about it.
Nick was looking at the murder weapon, the exotically styled 134-year-old Peacemaker, the collector's weapon that had taken Julia's life.
There was no question now. He had known it before, but had had no confirmation: He was being set up.
As he looked at the gun he knew there was nothing he could do about it. He could hide it, but it would surely be found. He didn't want to pick it up. The cops had said his fingerprints were on the gun, though he thought it to be a detective's ruse to get him to confess, as there had not been time or personnel to examine the prints, but he would not give them the satisfaction of putting the prints there himself now.
He took a cloth and, wrapping his hand, closed the trunk. Whether the gun was found was irrelevant. If he found a way to save Julia, there would be no accusation, no murder investigation, it would be a moot point. And if he didn't save her, he didn't care what happened to himself.
Nick braced himself for the next five minutes. He knew that what he was about to do would haunt his dreams for all eternity. He was going to look at Julia's body willingly and dreaded
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