CHAPTER THREE: WATSON

You lost your temper, Ullman had said.

"Okay, here's your furnace," Watson said, turning on a light in the dark, musty-smelling room.

He was a beefy man with fluffy popcorn hair, white shirt, and dark green chinos.

He swung open a small square grating in the furnace's belly and he and Jack peered in together.

"This here's the pilot light."

A steady blue-white jet hissing steadily upward channeled destructive force, but the key word, Jack thought was destructive and not channeled:

if you stuck your hand in there, the barbecue would happen in three quick seconds.

Lost your temper.

(Danny, are you all right? )