And now he saw it. The flicker in the man's eyes. The first touch of genuine human emotion.
Anger.
Jealousy.
Fury.
And that's when Justin screamed, screamed so hard he thought he broke another rib. "Dad! Get the hell out of here! Go now!" And it distracted the man, just for a moment-no longer than that, he was too good to ever get distracted for more than a moment-but that was the moment Justin needed. He grabbed for the thermos and flung it, and the man had to move, to duck, and that took only another moment, but it was enough because Justin charged. He saw the man raise his arms, knowing he could easily fend off any blow, only Justin didn't try to hit him or throw him; he didn't do anything but grab the man, get him in a bear hug, and pull him close. He felt a knee come up and strike his thigh and a short jab into his broken rib, but he didn't feel pain anymore, didn't feel a thing; he just kept thinking, I can do this, don't let go, I can do this, and instead of fighting back, he just shoved the man toward the stove, never letting go, never relaxing his grip. He felt the man's head butt, a crack right into his forehead; but he didn't let go, just held on tighter, and the man didn't realize what was about to happen, didn't have any sense of urgency, and then Justin spun him and slammed him down on the stove. The Chinese man got his hand in front of him, was ready to use it to propel himself backward and immediately attack, but he yanked the hand away in surprise-he couldn't stop that instinct-as the burner seared his palm, and then Justin was on his back, pushing him forward with all his might, holding him down with all his weight, the man's face flat against the hot burner. And the man fought back as if he were a wild animal, kicked and squirmed and tried desperately to buck Justin off, but Justin wouldn't back off. He heard the man make a sound, not a scream, because he couldn't scream now-his lips were melting. Justin pushed down harder, had his hands on the man's neck, on the back of his head, holding him, shoving him deeper onto the scalding-hot burner. He smelled the horrible odor of burning flesh, heard the sizzling sounds of skin being seared, but he wouldn't let go, wouldn't move back, not an inch; and the Chinese man was twitching and jerking now, like a live lobster thrown on a grill-crazy, wild gyrations-and Justin knew he couldn't hold on for much longer. And then he didn't have to, because the man wasn't moving much, wasn't moving at all anymore, couldn't move anymore; and Justin let go, flung the body across the room, and he saw the man's face, or what was left of it, which wasn't much. Just a burned and melted and charred circle of flesh. And he watched as the man's body twitched and jerked again, a fish on a hook, nerves responding to overwhelming pain; and then the movement stopped. And then everything in the kitchen was completely still except Justin, standing by the stove, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
He looked up. Saw his father standing in the doorway. Justin's gun was in his hand. Jonathan, pale and trembling, stared at the faceless man on the floor. He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a towel from the counter, held it against his son's cheek to stop the flow of blood. Justin took the gun from his father, stepped back, turned, and vomited violently. Pain surged through his chest again and his ribs. Then he straightened up, did his best to smile weakly at his father, walked slowly past him, touching him lightly on the arm as he went into the living room. He saw Roger Mallone, standing now, propped up against a corner. Roger nodded, a sign he was all right, an acknowledgment of what had just happened. Just went to the phone. He picked it up and dialed.
When Reggie answered, Justin said, "You'd better get over here. And you'd better call your boss."
She heard his tone, didn't ask what had happened, just said, "Anything else?"
And he said, "Yeah. I think an ambulance might be a good idea, too."
31
Reggie was superb from the moment she walked in the door. She took in the scene in the living room, strode past the three men, saw the body in the kitchen, said nothing about it, came back into the living room. Assessing the situation flawlessly, she touched Justin on the back, let her hand linger there for just a moment-it's all she had to do to let him know she understood what had happened and what he'd done. She made Roger sit in the easy chair and found a blanket in which to wrap him. She also poured him a stiff scotch. She did the same for Jonathan; but when she saw that he was alert and lucid, she asked him if he was up to talking, and he was. He told her, clinically and completely, what had happened. She touched his hand, knowing human contact was important sometimes, could be more comforting than any words, and had him sit down, too.
She called the East End Harbor police station, got Gary Jenkins. She identified herself and told him to get over to Justin's house immediately. Gary was surprised to hear her voice, started to ask questions, but she cut him off, told him that with his boss on suspension, this was his decision to make, and only his, so he'd better make it fast. He arrived in five minutes.
Things were wrapped up quickly.
An ambulance took the body to the Southampton Hospital morgue, and Reggie arranged for fingerprinting to take place as soon as the body arrived there. She tried to get Justin into the same ambulance, but he wouldn't budge, didn't respond at all to her gentle urging other than to shake his head once, and she didn't press him. One of the orderlies took a look at him, said, "I think you should listen to her, sir-you don't look too good," but Reggie shooed him away and said she'd get him there on her own.
Officer Jenkins called the station and, after clearing things with Reggie, he and Mike Haversham cleaned up Justin's kitchen, putting everything back in place and even mopping the floor. Haversham got violently ill when trying to clean off the front burner-he realized almost immediately what he was trying to scrape off-but Gary Jenkins took a deep breath and did the job. When he was done, he too had to rush into the bathroom.
When they were finished with the kitchen, they also straightened up the living room. Justin just sat on the couch, saying nothing. His breathing had slowed down, but it was still coming in short gasps, and when he took in too deep a breath, he winced in pain. Jonathan, too, sat quietly; he appeared calm and in control, more concerned about his son than anyone or anything else. He, too, had made one quick attempt to get Justin to go to Southampton in the ambulance, but Reggie also waved him off and he stopped pushing.
Reggie spent fifteen or twenty minutes talking quietly to Roger. She talked to him about the shock of violence and how he was right to have been afraid. She spoke soothingly and calmly, and gradually he came around. His alertness returned and he finally looked at her and said, "Thank you, I'm fine now. I just never thought… I never saw anything like… I didn't know…"
"It's all right," she told him. "No one should know about things like that. No one should see things like that."
When the house was straightened up and everything was back in order, she went over to Justin. She took his hand and said, "I want to take you to the hospital now. I know you're fine, but you have some wounds that have to be looked at. I'll call ahead so you won't have to wait, but you need to go and we should go now. Okay?"
He nodded. She helped him stand and took him out to her car. She asked Jonathan and Roger to wait at the house, asked both young cops to wait with them. She said she thought they'd be back in a couple of hours.
In the fifteen-minute ride to the hospital, she told him she'd reported everything that happened to Zach Fletcher. She said Agent Fletcher was concerned about Justin's health, said that any conversation could wait until he was up to it. He nodded. In the car she asked him if he had any idea why this had happened. He didn't answer. Didn't nod or shake his head. He made no response at all.