"Blisters all over."

"You've got serious burns."

"Damn straight."

"Does he take you to a doctor?"

"Not him. My mom does."

"Your mom?"

"To the ER. She tells 'em I was playing around the radiator. They bandage me up."

"What do you say about playing by the radiator?"

"I don't say shit."

"Nobody asks you?"

"Nobody cares."

"If they had asked"

"I'd tell them, yeah, I was playing around. I'm a stupid kid. I hurt myself like kids do."

"Who are you protecting? Your dad?"

"Fuck him."

"Your mom?"

"Fuck her, too. She married the asshole."

"Who, then?"

"I don't know. I guess amp;"

"Yes?"

"You don't squeal. Not on family. Even when they treat you like shit. And anyway amp;"

"Yes?"

"I did shoplift the goddamn magazine."

"So you had it coming?"

"I don't know."

"Does your hand heal okay?"

"Pretty much. Thumb's a little fucked up. Nerve damage, maybe."

She let him rest for a minute or two. His breathing, which had grown rapid and shallow, slowed and deepened as he relaxed. She thought about what he'd told her and what it might mean. An idea occurred to her.

"Can we go to one more place?" she asked.

"What the hell." A smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Might as well rack up some frequent-flyer miles amp;"

"You have a lot of tattoos, Justin."

"Ain't they pretty?"

"Some look professional."

"They are."

"Where'd you get them done?"

"Wild Ink."

"Where's that?"

"Hollywood. Ernesto works there. Ernesto's a fuckin' artist."

"Then that's where we'll go. We're in that tattoo parlor. You're in the chair, and Ernesto is working on you."

"Okay."

"Needle in your flesh. How does it feel?"

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Hurts."

"Hurts how? In what way?"

"Burns."

"Tell me what you're feeling right now."

"Needle going in. Hot wire in my skin. And amp;"

"Yes?"

"And I like it."

"Do you?"

"I like to feel the burn."

"Is that why you're at the tattoo parlor?"

"Yeah. Don't even want another goddamn tattoo. All I want is amp;"

"What?"

"The pain."

"Why do you want pain, Justin?"

"Makes me feel amp;"

"How does it make you feel?"

"Strong."

"Why?"

" 'Cause I can take it."

"Why do you have to take it?"

A slow shrug of his shoulders. "That's life."

"Life is pain?"

"Shit, yeah."

"Is that the way life should be?"

"It's the way it is."

"Is it fair? Or unfair?"

"It's life. Fair ain't got nothing to do with it."

"Your father mistreated you, Justin."

"I guess."

"He abused you."

"He fucked with me, yeah. So what? Everybody fucks with everybody."

"You were only a kid."

"So?"

"Is it wrong to hurt a kid?"

"I know where you're going, Doc. Fuck you."

She'd lost him.

She had hoped to make him see that his violence against teenage girls was, in part, a reaction to his own father's violence against him. It was the kind of insight that could be accepted more readily when the mind's defenses were lowered in the MBI trance. But he wouldn't go there. He wasn't ready.

"All right, Justin. Back to the beach. Rest a minute."

She wrote up her notes, using a pen with a built-in flashlight because she didn't want to turn on the room lights until he was out of his trance. After a short time she told him that he would be waking up. She powered down the MBI appliance, then checked the record of the session. Time: nineteen minutes. MBI at 80 percent motor threshold, 60 percent of the coils engaged.

Behind her, she heard Gray stir.

"How are you feeling?" she asked without turning.

"Woozy. What'd I say?"

"What do you remember?"

"I can never get a straight answer from you, can I, Doc?"

She saved the record of the session to a CD. "We talked about your father. He used to punish you. Burned your hand."

"Fuck, yeah. That's right."

He seemed to be shifting in his chair, unusually restless. Maybe the memory had disturbed him more than he'd let on.

She ejected the CD from the tray and slipped it into a plastic case. "What he did to you was wrong. He hurt youand ever since, you've been hurting others and yourself."

She labeled the disk, using her flashlight pen.

"That's the way I like it," he said.

"Is it, Justin?"

"Yeah, Doc. It's what I live for."

Something in his voice made her swivel in her chair, turning toward him, and then there was a solid smack against the side of her heada dazzle of light and delayed pain, and with curious detachment she had time to think that he was loose, he'd freed himself.

Another blow stunned her. She toppled backward off the chair onto the carpet, knowing she had to scream for help, but before she could, he pressed his hand over her mouth, and in the light of the flashlight pen she could see his face.

One last impact, his fist against her temple, a new eruption of brightness, and then a high humming wave carried her away.

Robin had no idea how long she'd been out, a minute or an hour. When her eyes opened, she saw Gray leaning over her, a knife in his hand.

"Justin amp;"

"Hey, Doc. You banged your head something fierce."

"You're amp; out of the amp;"

"Straps? Well, yeah. Thanks to my buddy here." The knife flashed. It was long and shiny and looked like one of those knives used by assassins. What was the name? A stiletto.

And now it was held inches from her throat, and even in the dim light of the computer console she could see its leading edge slick with blood.

He read her thoughts. "Don't worry. Not gonna cut ya."

"No?" The word was thin and faint and distant.

"Just need your cooperation for a minute. Roll over."

"What?"

"On your belly."

She was frozen. She couldn't move.

Gray grabbed her shoulder, shoved her onto her side, and she remembered the deputy in the waiting room. She wanted to scream, but only a hoarse whisper escaped her throat. "Help amp;"

"He can't hear you, Doc. Believe me." She remembered the blood on the knife. "Just roll over and quit making things so friggin' difficult."

He flopped her on her belly, and she felt his hands on her back. She tensed up, her entire body rigid. Then he was stripping off the beige suit jacket she'd worn today.

"Got it. Thanks for your assistance."

She craned her neck, staring up at him as he shrugged on the jacket and buttoned it. The fit was tight across his wide shoulders, but the fabric didn't tear.

"Need something to hide my jailhouse rags," he said by way of explanation. "Already got the lower extremities covered."

For the first time she noticed that he was wearing a blue cap on his head and blue pants over his jumpsuit. Items from the deputy's uniform.

As he fastened the last button, it occurred to her that both of his hands were free, which meant he wasn't carrying the knife. Her gaze cut to the floor and there it was, a foot away, within reach if she dared to try for it amp;

Too late. He snatched it up again.

"Interested in this?" He squatted, resting a knee on the small of her back, and drew the weapon close to her face. "Pretty, ain't it? A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Or so they tell me."

It was close now, so close she could see that it was not a stiletto, not a knife at all. It was a flathead screwdriver. The blood on it was glossy, dripping.

"Christ, I get pissed off at you sometimes," Gray said.

"You do?" She kept her tone neutral.

"The way you run me through my fucking paces, a rat in a maze. That's all I ever was to you. A lab rat."