the 13th Hour by Richard Doetsch Page A

to the wrecked Impala, his back rising in deep wounded breaths. The man's dark hair, caked in blood, poked out from underneath a New York Mets baseball cap, his left arm broken from the car crash, cantilevered out at an odd angle. He gripped his now-useless nine-millimeter pistol in his right hand, as his left leg extended out bullet-shattered and bloody.
Nick slowly knelt beside him. He reached out and grabbed him by the back collar of his shirt, catching a silver chain between his fingers, the holy medal of St. Christopher now dangling from his clenched fist.
Nick did everything he could to restrain himself from killing the man, breathing a sigh of relief with the first completed step toward saving Julia. And for the moment he felt hope rise up. Against all logic, he knew that he just might be able to bring Julia back.
Nick tilted the killer's head toward him, to finally lay eyes on the man who had just killed his wife . . .
But before his face came into view, before he could identify Julia's assassin . . .
Nick's world went black.
    CHAPTER 8
    5:00 P.M.
N ICK STOOD IN HIS library, heaving, out of breath, swirling his tongue about in his mouth to rid it of the metallic taste. He felt the chill, more pronounced this time due to his sweat-covered body. His pants and shirt were muddy and torn from the accident and from crawling around on the ground. His hands shook from the adrenaline still coursing through his system. With a white-knuckled grip, he still held tight to his pistol. And . . .
He still held tight to the St. Christopher medal. Like the other inanimate objects in his possession, the gold watch, his cell phone, his clothes, it had leaped back with him, still dangling from his clenched fist. He held it up, looking at its chipped surface, the engraved message on the back ironically seeming to call to him. Miracles do happen.
An overwhelming frustration rose up in Nick as he realized how close he had been. He had literally held Julia's killer in his hand, but his hesitation had cost him. He had never seen his face, never learned his identity . . .
But as he looked again at the silver medal, he realized that he did have a piece of him, and more important, he did remember the license plate: Z8JP9.
Nick looked again at his condition, his clothes, his banged-up face, and bolted out of his library, through the living room, across the foyer, and up the stairs. He couldn't let Julia see him like this.
"Nick?" Julia called out from the kitchen. "Are you done with all your work?"
"Just going to take a quick shower," he called out as he continued his sprint to their bedroom, happy to hear her voice once again.
"Wait, I haven't seen you all day," she yelled.
Without a response, Nick went straight to his bathroom and shut the door, stripping out of his clothes and turning on the water, thankful that there was hot water in the tank before the power went out. He opened the shutters to let some light in and looked out the window. Against all logic, he saw Julia's Lexus, which he had taken out of the driveway and rammed into the blue Chevy, destroying the front end of the Japanese SUV. It sat in the driveway, its black waxed finish without even a scratch.
Unfortunately, he realized as he turned, looked into the mirror, and saw the damage, that wasn't the case for him.
He had two small burns above his left eyebrow from the airbag, along with a cut on his right cheek. The small scrapes, dirt, and grime made him appear as if he had just emerged from battle, which was how his body actually felt.
He hid his pistol underneath the stack of dark-blue towels and hopped into the shower. He was suddenly aware of his host of injuries as the hot water hit his raw skin. His body felt far worse than after a hockey game full of major checking and fights. As he chased Julia's killer, as he rolled from the car and became pinned by the gunfire, he had felt not a moment of fear for his safety. He had never been so determined, never fought harder in his