Beyond Reason

Chapter 4

Conclusion

Justin was starting to bread the veal for the parm when the phone rang. Damnit.

It was seven o'clock.

Wiping his hands he managed to get to it just before the machine picked up.

"What the fuck are you doing there? Didn't you get my message?"

"Why hello, Brian, my day was fine-thank you for asking. And yours?"

"Justin, get out of there."

"I just started dinner-where are you anyway? I haven't put the pasta in to cook yet, but I thought that you'd be home…"

"Get your ass out of there, go over to Daphne's or Deb's or your mother's but get out."

"…What's going on-Brian?"

"I'll call you when I'm done here, turn your cel on, I'll pick you up."

"The battery is dead…"

"Get out. Now. Fuck dinner. Just get out. Go over to Daphne's I'll get you there in a couple of hours."

"Has there been a threat or something?"

"Just leave now. I'll tell you later. Justin-please."

He heard the fear, the urgency. He'd never heard that from Brian before, ever. "OK, I'll just finish…"

"Now."

"OK. I will. What's going…?"

"I'll tell you when I see you." Brian was in the restaurant; Leo Brown was coming back from the bathroom, walking towards the table. "I have to go, but you wait till I pick you up from Daphne's." He put the cel in his pocket.

"Everything alright, Brian? You look like there's a problem."

"Everything's fine, Leo. Oh good, the food is here."

The dinner was endless, days, months passed between the salad and the damn cheesecake. It was eternity.

Leo looked at the boards with the paste-ups of the new campaign and liked them. Well, he didn't actually like them really, they were risqué and sexual and suggestive but they would boost his sales and they both knew that. He was pleased. He OK'd the work.

Shaking hands out on the sidewalk, the men parted, Leo back to his hotel and Brian to the garage to get his car. They had scheduled a conference call for early the next week to go over any changes but everything looked to be pretty much in order. The ads would be placed, the accounts was safe.

Brian pulled out of the parking garage at about quarter to nine, calling Carl to let him know that he might be a few minutes late. Daphne's apartment was out if the way, but he'd be at the loft as soon as he could get there. They agreed to make it nine-thirty or quarter of ten. By the way, the kid, that frat kid-his story checked out. Some caretaker had seen him in Punxy and he had bought groceries and gas. They had the receipts. He had admitted trying to talk to Justin, but he was cleared of the arson suspicion. They were looking at another guy now, some waiter who had been turned down for admission to the PIFA program a year or so ago. He seemed like the main lead at this point and there was some pretty good circumstantial evidence linking him to the arson and the deaths of the two students.

Carl told Brian they expected to arrest the guy in the morning, no problem.

Good. Great.

Ten minutes later he pulled up in front of Daphne's building and pulled out his cel.

"Hello?"

"Put Justin on-in fact, just tell him I'm out front."

"Brian? Hi. Justin isn't here. Was he coming over?"

What?

"He's not there? Did he call you?"

She sounded slightly confused. "I haven't heard from Justin in like three or four days. He had that big project he wanted to finish and he was working extra shifts at the diner-is something wrong?"

"No, I just thought he said he was going to see you today. I probably misheard him."

Like Brian would ever make a mistake like that concerning Justin. "Did you guys have a fight or something?"

"No, we're good."

"Do you want me to call around?"

"It's fine. Later."

"Brian…?" He'd hung up.

Fuck.

He dialed the loft.

"I'm not here right now, leave a message."

Fuck.

"Justin? Justin?…Pick up… Answer the goddamned phone, Justin…."

Fuck.

He turned the car into a u-ie and headed over to Forbes.

He hit every red light.

There was construction.

It took forever.

Twenty minutes later he was in his regular parking spot. The corner of Fourth and Tremont. Top floor.

He'd said that to a hundred tricks but no one lately.

The last time was when he'd said it to-to-he'd said it to some guy.

The waiter, a month or so ago when he and Justin had gone out for brunch. That was the last time, the day they learned that PIFA had burned down.

Corner of Fourth and Tremont at four o'clock. Or was it three? Whatever. Glancing up he saw that the lights were on in the loft.

He took the stairs two at a time, the elevator would have taken six years.

Jesus.

The door was open, all the lights on.

It was quiet, the only sound being the rattle of the lid on the stove. The water in the pot was in a hard boil and splashing out a little, hissing when it hit the hot burner.

One of the bar stools was knocked over.

No one was there.

He walked through into the main area.

Nothing.

The dining area.

Nothing.

The bedroom.

Nothing.

Just all the lights blazing, the lights over the bed were on. The closet door was opened.

The bathroom door was closed.

He tried to push it opened, but something was blocking the door. It was something g heavy.

He managed to force it a few inches, looking through the opening.

Oh God.

Oh no.

Justin was on the floor, lying on his back, one hand still trying to loosen the wire around his neck, digging into his skin, a thin line of still wet blood visible. He pushed harder, the door opened enough for him to get inside.

No pulse.

His lips were blue.

No heartbeat.

His skin was gray.

The skin was cooling on the cold tiles.

Oh Jesus.

He was dead.

Brian put his hand along Justin's jaw in a caress but he was dead. He didn't smile back, he didn't turn to kiss Brian's palm like he always would.

He was dead.

No.

He was.

He was dead. He'd been murdered.

He had to call someone-no Carl would be there any minute. He'd do it. He'd take care of it.

Brian was cold and some part of his brain registered that he was in shock. He didn't care.

Justin was dead.

He stood up, suddenly remembering the boiling water. Stepping around Justin, careful not to bump him, Brian turned off the stove, not remembering walking to the kitchen.

He was numb.

He heard the door slide shut, slamming closed. He knew who was there. He didn't even have to turn around to see. He knew. He had remembered on the way home. Brad. Corner of Tremont and fourth. The fucking waiter.

He was nothing.

He was a bug.

Justin was dead.

"Good, you're finally home."

He turned to face Brad and saw the knife he held casually in his right hand.

The fight he knew he'd probably lose began.

He knew, in some corner of his mind that he should be able to take the guy-he was bigger, stronger, probably faster and in better shape. He should be able to do this.

If he lost he'd be killed.

Justin had been killed.

The man-Brad-didn't say anything. He calmly walked over to Brian, over to the stove as Brian put his hand on the pot handle. Tightening his grip he threw the water. Most of it landed on the floor but enough spilled out, hitting Brad from the waist down.

The man screamed, hurt, enraged and lunged both away from the water and towards Brian at the same time, knife in hand. The first slice caught his right arm, opening it, forcing him to drop the cooking pot.

The second slice hit Brian across the chest, shallow and long. The third was the return swing of the knife and cut across his abs. Brian backed away, around the counter, circling, throwing the remaining bar stools in Brad's way, slowing him.

Brian noticed that his blood was being sprayed around as he threw the chairs, the blood pumping out of the cuts and landing on the floor and the furniture. There seemed to be a lot of blood.

He tried to open the main door, but his injured arm didn't have the strength to pull and by the time he got his other hand in place to pull the knife was in the back of his right shoulder and then in his right side.

He spun again, trying for some kind of cover, angry, knowing that he should be able to take this guy, knowing that any other time he'd win this.

Not this time.

Not tonight.

He was surprised that it didn't hurt more.

Justin was dead up in the bathroom.

He had somehow found himself on the far side of the white couch and he watched with interest as the red blotches dripped and sprayed on the white.

It was pretty, really.

It occurred to him that it should be noisier when you're being murdered but all he could hear was their hard breathing and the sounds of them moving around, the sounds of furniture being overturned.

He tried to keep the couch between him and the knife, but it was hard. He couldn't move as fast as he'd like and Justin was dead and…he moved to the right as the man opposite him moved in the same direction, meeting at the end of the couch.

He felt the fingers grab his hair, pull his head back and felt the knife point at his throat, tried to pull away and felt the blade in his neck, around to the front, cutting.

He did get away or maybe he was released, tried to cross over to the phone to get help.

The man-Brad-slid the door closed behind him as he left.

Carl said he'd be there.

He fell, saw how much blood there was and heard a voice from a hundred years ago, "How are you ever going to keep a cleaning lady?"

He wouldn't, that's how. She'd be out of a job.

He noted, without interest, how much he was bleeding. The floor was a mess.

The phone. It was too hard to push the buttons. He'd never noticed how hard it was to push the buttons on the phone.

Down on the street Carl Horvath and his partner pulled up in their unmarked car, parking down the block and watched as a man in jeans and a white shirt with some pattern on it-it was hard to tell what at this distance in the dark-came out of Kinney's building and walked the other way, disappearing around the corner.

The lights were on up on the top floor, they were waiting for him.

The end.

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