Free the 13th Hour by Richard Doetsch Page A

the terra-cotta tile. It usually hung on a coat hook, the same place that Julia placed it every day when she came into the house. She had a habit of misplacing things, so, with a gentle persuasion, Nick had gotten her in the habit of putting it in the exact same spot every day, something she had done for over a year now, day in, day out without fail.
Nick pulled out his pen and used it to sort through her things: her eyeliner and honey rose lipstick, the menu from David Chen's Chinese restaurant, a birthday card from The Right Thing, her laminated ID from work. A set of keys and a security pass for one of her clients. But three obvious things were absent, things that should never be missing, the things she, like most people, accessed constantly: her wallet, her cell phone, and her personal data assistant, her PDA, made by Palm. A storage device not only for email, phone numbers, and appointments, but also for word, data, and picture files. It was, in point of fact, a small portable computer, an electronic lifeline to her office and personal life.
And then it happened. As much as he had tried to avoid it, he looked at her face, at what was left of the beauty that he often gazed upon while she slept, the eyes that he looked into when he held her, the same eyes that revealed her soul. Her face on the left side was gone, chewed up by the blast of the gun. His eyes rose up to the white rear wall where pieces of her skull were embedded with the bullet in the broken wainscoting, a cascade of blood flowing down like a waterfall.
The bile rose quickly in his throat, his head began to spin, he retched in agony, but it all paled next to the pain in his heart. He felt as if it was being torn from his chest. He couldn't breathe; he could no longer think straight.
And a cry emanated from his soul, rising up through his heart, roaring out through his broken mind. It filled the room, filled the house. It was primal, the world hearing his agony, a cry to heaven, a cry to God of rage and suffering and anger at the evil that had snatched his wife from this life.
He fought what he had do next. It was something no grieving man or woman should ever be called upon to endure. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, hating himself for what he was about to do. He flicked it open and thumbed the camera button. And with tears rolling down his face, he held it up, both hands necessary to still his quavering nerves. He pointed it at Julia's lifeless body upon the floor, and snapped a picture.
He collapsed to his knees, overcome with grief, too weak to stand. He leaned back against the wall, his body shaking. It all came pouring out. The impossibility of the task before him, the ridiculous hope he placed in a stranger's written word and timepiece. Julia was dead, there was no question about that, she lay before him mangled and lifeless. There were no miracles, no gods to wave their hand and bring her back. There was simply the fact before him of her dead body, and he was sitting across from her having failed her, powerless, helpless, chasing the impossible.
He didn't know how long he had sat there, lost in pain, his head spinning, trying to right himself, to find a reason to live, when all at once Marcus stood above him. Nick looked up through distant eyes that seemed even more broken than Julia's, confused about where Marcus had come from. Marcus extended his oversized hand, helping Nick to his feet, and then . . .
* * *
    I T HIT HIM harder than a shovel to the face. The world grew instantly black. What little air there was, was like an iceberg in his lungs. An empty silence filled his ears.
And suddenly, Nick was alone in the kitchen, standing before the fridge, a cold can of Coke in his hand.
He couldn't remember getting up or walking in, though he remembered Marcus leaning down, offering his hand with total sympathy.
Nick's breath was heavy, coming in great gasps, his skin tingled, he was disoriented from seeing Julia's shattered face,