He saw the Chinese man moving slowly toward Roger Mallone. Roger was frozen with fear; he did not even back away as the man approached. The Chinese man smiled, a gentle smile, and moved one hand on Roger’s neck. Justin could see the pain in Roger’s eyes. He didn’t make a sound, just began to sag, and Justin did the only thing he could think of; he grabbed a brass floor lamp and swung it at the back of the Chinese man’s knees. The man staggered and let go of Roger, who still had not moved, but Justin could see he was still alive. And now the Chinese man’s legs were steady, and as he took one step toward Justin, his left hand jabbed at Justin’s heart. Justin moved, diving backward, so he didn’t take the hit full on, but it still felt as if the man’s fist had penetrated his chest and grabbed his heart and squeezed. Justin saw the look of disbelief and terror on his father’s face as the Chinese man was moving toward him now. Jonathan had no chance to escape—there was nowhere to go—and so Justin was moving again, despite the pain, and this time he grabbed the man from behind, used his heft to pick him up and heave him, the whole time screaming at his father and Roger, “Go! Go! Go! Get out!” The man landed on his feet, near the kitchen, and Justin didn’t give him a moment to breathe. He charged headfirst and barreled into the smaller man, as they both were swept into the kitchen, slamming into the refrigerator and caroming off a cabinet. Justin shook his head to clear it and that was a mistake, a big mistake. The Chinese man’s hand snaked toward him again in that one instant and caught him in the cheek, and Justin tumbled backward. He braced himself against the counter, clawed at a drawer, managed to yank it open, and had time to pull out a butcher knife. But it was in his hand for a second at most because the Chinese man’s leg whirled again, and Justin’s wrist felt as if it had been broken in two, and the knife was clattering along the kitchen floor.
“I kill you,” the Chinese man said just as quietly and calmly as before. “I kill them. You stop. No fight more. Less pain.”
“Fuck you,” Justin spat. “Less pain,” he gasped. “You like torturing people. Fuck you, less pain.” He realized blood was pouring from a gash on his face. But he charged again, and for a moment his weight advantage seemed to mean something because he could feel the smaller man toppling backward, but it didn’t last long. Justin felt another pain in his neck, this one almost paralyzing, and then he felt himself being propelled backward again. He banged into the stove, put his hand behind him to try to prop himself up, and now he felt a searing pain in his right hand, only the man was nowhere near him. What the hell was this pain? And Justin realized that, yet again, he’d left the burner on high, and he’d just scorched the hell out of his palm. He thought, Goddamm it to hell, fucking goddamn hell, and he was all set to charge again—he was going to charge until he was dead—but suddenly he stopped. He stood up and sucked air back into his lungs. This can work, he thought.
“Is good,” the man said softly, seeing the way Justin had thought better about continuing the brawl. “Fight no help you. I kill men. Come back for you. No touch knife. It be bad for you.”
The Chinese man turned toward the living room, and Justin thought, Is it possible he’s telling the truth, that he doesn’t like pain, doesn’t like torture? And, if so—if he’s not the one who likes it—who does? And hoping he knew the answer, he said, “Where’s your girlfriend? You’re gonna need her help to kill me, you motherfucker.”
The man turned slowly back toward Justin. “How you know her?” He stared at Justin curiously, then shook his head dismissively. “You no know her.”
“How do I know her?” Justin could hear how fast his breath was coming. “I fucked her.”
The man didn’t smile. Justin didn’t think he could smile. Didn’t think he had any range of emotion in him. But there was something on his face that showed amusement. As if Justin’s last-ditch attempt to rattle was, if nothing else, entertaining. “You liar. You crazy.”
“I fucked her in this house,” Justin said. “Right here. On that table.”
The Chinese man didn’t smile now, didn’t frown, didn’t look amused or any different at all now. He was back to his robot persona. Justin’s words had no apparent effect on him at all.
“You no know her. You no see her.”
“No? Think I no see her?” Justin managed to say. The pain in his chest made it harder and harder to speak. And harder and harder to breathe. The burn on his hand was also beginning to throb as waves of heat seemed to be shooting up his arm. But he began to describe the woman he’d seen by Wanda’s car, in as much detail as he could remember. He described her eyes and her hair and the clothes she was wearing. He described her skin and even her shoes. All the information he’d e-mailed Billy DiPezio, who’d asked him to put together a detailed description. “You want me to describe her pussy?” Justin spat. “Want me to tell you how I fucked her?”
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 che
st 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.
It turned out that her two-hour estimate was off—they were back in East End Harbor in a little over an hour. Justin took twelve stitches in his cheek and four stitches to close a small gash over his left eye. He did have a broken rib, and the doctor in the emergency room wrapped him in a bandage that left him feeling mummified. Burn ointment was lathered on his hand and that was wrapped also. He was given a solid dose of painkillers and told to take them whenever he needed them. Justin didn’t speak much during his treatment. He answered the doctors’ questions with one- or two-word answers, and Reggie made it clear that the doctors were not to ask too many questions.
When they arrived back at Justin’s house, both Justin and Reggie were surprised to find out it wasn’t yet 8 p.m.
“I think the plane should take you both back tonight,” she said to Jonathan Westwood. “I called the pilot from the hospital. He’s waiting at the airport. Gary or Mike can take you.”
They were all surprised when Justin said, “We’re going with them.”
She turned to him and said, “Jay, that’s not a good idea.”
“Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. And if you don’t want to go, that’s fine. But I’m going up there now.” She said nothing, simply tilted her head—that was the way she asked the question—and he said, “I think I’m beginning to understand what’s going on. And if I’m right, we need to see Lenny Rube. In person. I don’t think he’ll be taking my calls.”
Jonathan started to argue, to say that they could all go up the next morning, but Justin waved him off. Looking at Reggie, he said, “We can see him and come straight back. But we need to see him tonight.”
She looked at Jonathan and shrugged.
Ten minutes later they were on their way to the East Hampton Airport.
The airplane ride was short and relatively quiet. Roger had recovered enough to go over some of the fine points of the various stock deals he’d uncovered. Talking about it seemed to help him regain his strength. Reggie was hearing most of this for the first time, but she caught on quickly—asked a few questions for clarification, mostly kept quiet and absorbed what she was listening to.
When they landed in Providence and were disembarking, Jonathan handed the pilot a thousand dollars and asked him how long he could wait to take Justin and Reggie back that night. The pilot said, “As long as you’d like, Mr. Westwood.”
On the ground, Justin touched his father on the shoulder, said, “I’m sorry you had to see that tonight. I’m sorry you had to be there. I would never have put you in danger like that if I had known.”
Jonathan only said, “Thank you for saving our lives.” And then: “I love you.”
They smiled at each other. When Roger shook Justin’s hand he, too, said, “Thank you.” Then he did his best to grin and said, “I’m hittin’ your dad up for one major bonus.”
Jonathan had arranged for two cars. One for him and Roger. One for Justin and Reggie. Justin and Reggie’s car took them about thirty minutes from the airport, into an area of Providence called College Hill. It was a clean, suburban-looking neighborhood with expensive, colonial-style houses.
“Looks like a place where wealthy businessmen should live,” Reggie said as the car pulled into a gated driveway.
“They do,” Justin said solemnly. “You’re about to meet one of the wealthiest.”
“How do you know where he lives?” Reggie asked.
; “Every cop in Rhode Island knows where Lenny Rube lives,” he said. “They’ve all been here for dinner.”
The driver stopped at the intercom before the gate and dialed up to the house. When a man’s voice at the other end said, “Who is it?” Justin leaned over and said his name. There was a fairly long silence, then a woman’s voice said, “We’re having a dinner party, Mr. Westwood. I’m afraid this isn’t a good time. We’re just starting our dessert.”
“Is this Mrs. Rubenelli?” he asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“Ask your husband if he’d rather talk to me in private right now or if he’d like me to drag him out of your dinner party by his hair and arrest him in front of all your guests.”
There was another silence. Then the gate slowly began to open. The car drove up the long driveway, dropped them off in front of the house, and Justin asked the driver to please wait. He said they wouldn’t be long.
They were ushered into the Rubenelli house—the parlor was nearly as big as Justin’s house in East End—and asked to wait in a den off to the right. As they were led to the smaller room, they could make out the dining room and a large table with perhaps twelve guests seated around it. There was lots of laughter and good cheer emanating from the room. Justin was willing to wait exactly five minutes before going into the dining room and putting a damper on all the fun. But with thirty seconds to go, Leonardo Rubenelli joined them in the den.
Hades Page 31