The Arsonist's Handbook

by L. A. Detwiler

  For a moment, he saw a flash, a dark memory of haunting familiarity. But no. It wasn’t. It was bad luck, a mere coincidence, that his life had been upturned by some bastard. It couldn’t be tied to that.

  The investigators left, telling him they’d return after doing some more work. They’d keep him updated.

  Pete didn’t want an update. He didn’t need it, either. He sat at the table, fists clenched as he thought about the sociopath on the loose, the plotting arsonist wreaking havoc on the town. And, for the first time in the hellish twenty-four hours that had passed, Pete knew what he would do. He knew how he would make it right.

  Chapter Twelve

  Pete

  He’d never thought about how he’d do it. How he’d kill himself. When you were a man with laser-focus like he’d been, you didn’t have time for such luxurious, senseless considerations. His head was always buried in schemes and wondering what would be next.

  Now, though, the man with unwavering clarity about his next moves was lost. It seemed like the possibilities surrounding him were endless. He could wait until the Carettas left and nose around for a gun. Certainly, the man was armed—he’d been a Vietnam vet, from what Pete had heard. There was also the car in the garage. A sock in the tailpipe or some shit like that from the movies. He instinctively grabbed at his throat though; the thought of choking to death didn’t sound appealing. He didn’t think he’d have the strength to stay locked in the car long enough to do the deed.

  A stab wound. Was he courageous enough? Or overdosing on pills Mrs. Caretta had stowed away?

  Sitting on the bed in the guest room, Pete rubbed his head, his stomach queasy from the worry. He shook his head, wondering how it had come to this. A little over a day ago, he thought the worst thing was that his wife didn’t love him anymore. What an idiot he’d been.

  After a long while, he settled.

  The bathtub. Razorblades. He’d never been terrified of blood, had even considered the medical field at one point. That would be the way to go. And in the bathtub, it would leave the least amount of mess for the Carettas. He felt shitty about doing that to them, but it couldn’t be helped.

  He thought he should write a note, but what would he say? Sitting there looking out the window, it suddenly seemed impossible to boil it all down to a few lines on a piece of paper. It made him more nauseous to think about all he hadn’t accomplished. He remembered that cocky, smug teenager he’d once been who thought he’d travel the world, indulge in champagne, and bask in the unwavering ray of fame. Now, he was a sad, middle-aged man who had lost it all. Shit. Life was shit.

  It would be better this way. He’d slip away, leaving Anna to move on from the mess. He would be a blip on the radar of her life, a stopping off point. Maybe with time, she’d move on from the sadness of Tanner, from him, and find new happiness. She did deserve it, nagging aside. She was a good woman. Funny how it took a disaster for him to realize and admit that. He’d been so blinded by—what? Arrogance? A craving for something more?

  As he walked to the bathroom, he thought about how the need for more had always driven his life. He needed more money, so he’d moved to a company he didn’t particularly like just so he could earn a higher salary. He needed to feel more valued, so he spent his night in that motel. There was always something more he wanted. Now, though, he needed nothing. At least, he needed nothing the sad excuse for a world could offer him. Tanner wouldn’t be coming back, and there was no way to make up for his death. He needed to be swallowed by the vast unknown of nothingness, to disappear into the blackness where he could stop reminding himself to breathe.

  He sank into the cold ceramic after undressing. He didn’t dare look at himself in the frosty mirror steamed from the hot bath, knowing he would lose the nerve if he saw his eyes. Saw the life he would extinguish. It was a march to the gallows but in an anticlimactic, undramatic fashion that seemed both lackluster and too much somehow.

  He’d made the water as hot as possible. After all, it didn’t matter if skin was burned and blotchy when it would be void of life soon, anyway. He liked to think the heat of the tub would keep his lifeless body warmed a little longer. That comforted him. After undressing, he slipped into the water, the shock of the heat rousing him to awareness. He realized he’d been trying to stay numb. Now, his mind danced with fear over what was about to happen.

  He hadn’t found razor blades in the cupboard when he’d decided. Instead, the kitchen shears sad on the edge of the table looking incongruent with the gravity of the scene. It would’ve only been worse if they were kid scissors. He could hear his co-workers now, talking about how he ended it all with meat shears. It seemed undignified, which made him happy. He didn’t deserve decorum. After all, that was what this was all about.

  He traced his fingers over the blade of the scissors. He needed to get on with it. The pain wouldn’t get any easier. He deserved this. But as his fingers traced the metal, he realized he was stalling. Waiting for the Carettas to come home, to suspect foul play, to bust in. He was waiting for the movie scene to play out where the protagonist was saved in the nick of time.

  He exhaled at his stupidity and weakness. He wasn’t even strong enough, brave enough to fucking off himself. He was a failure. A fucking failure in every sense of the word.

  Leaning his bed back and staring at the ceiling, he hadn’t completely abandoned the plan. He thought maybe the nerve would come. Staring at the ceiling, though, images came flooding in. Thoughts of Tanner in his tiny baby bath for the first time, Pete terrified the water was too hot for his delicate skin. Anna laughing as Tanner peed all over them both, the giddiness of exhausted parents echoing in the kitchen too loudly, their delirious natures instigating their sense of humor. Tears welled as he thought of all the moments that had flittered away too quickly, and all the moments that no longer would be.

  Losing Tanner would be his undoing. He should end it all here. Nothing better awaited him. Still, as he stared on, a seedling of an idea took shape and pounded into the back of his head. A tiny voice whispered he did have something to do yet. It wasn’t fair to end it yet when he had work to be done.

  He had a father’s duty to carry out. He had a responsibility, one he must take care of before he went. There would be time for tailpipes and razor blades and pills if he so chose—which he certainly would. The iron ball of grief anchored him in the pits of despair. He could scarcely breathe without gasping these days. Still, he didn’t have the luxury of ending it yet. He still needed to earn something—honor. Family honor. Loyalty. He needed to make them all proud, just like he always wanted. He needed to man up—and men protected their family, even if meant just protecting their honor. He hadn’t been there to save Tanner, but he could avenge him. At the very least, he could do that.

  After the water cooled and he drained the tub, he stroked the scissors one last time, knowing they would have to wait. He had a father’s final mission to carry out.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jameson

  They haven’t caught him yet.

  A huge part of me is relieved, of course. I don’t want my father to go to jail. Still, another part of me is saddened each time I turn on the news or search online and discover the Elmwood arsonist is still on the loose. Mostly, I’m worried he’s left town again. Maybe this was the last one, and now he’ll vanish. Off to a new town, a new life, a new string of fires to set without me. I’m terrified I’ve missed my last chance.

  Officers are now certain the recent fire in Elmwood that killed an infant is the work of an arsonist. Something about the burn pattern and also, they found a signature item at the scene—they won’t say what—that connects this fire with the others.

  I’ve been thinking about what mine would be—if I were to follow in his footsteps. I considered a sketch as my calling card, but that’s too risky. The kids at school always see me doodling. What if it tied me to it? I can’t get caught. Visitation through a jail cell isn’t what I had in mind for meeting up with my fat
her. I need something subtler. After all, as the handbook says, it’s just for me. I wonder what Dad’s is. Maybe eventually, the media will let the calling card detail out.

  School drags on the next day. I’m exhausted because I stayed up late re-reading Dad’s handbook, studying it like I’m preparing for my medical boards. In some ways, the stakes are bigger. If I mess up, I’m going to get caught. And if I get caught, Dad might get caught, too. I think for a moment what that would do to Mom, to see us both go to prison. She would be even more alone than she already is. I think about what it would be like to have another man taken away from her thanks to the pull of the flame. She’s a strong woman, but everyone has a breaking point. That might be hers.

  The call of the fire is a seductive enchantress, however, whispering in the night with full limbs and a curvaceous body. No matter how badly I want to silence her voice calling to me, I can’t help but turn to her when she wants me to come. Every night, when Mom leaves, I’m out back, playing with my lighter, working on my striking pattern, teasing my eyes with the sight of the burn. I’ve tried different flicks of the wrist, played with a few types of matches that are stored in the basement. I’ve found different accelerants in the shed and tried them in small amounts out back. I’ve almost set the yard on fire, perhaps even the house alight, a few times. I’m clumsy, and that makes me mad. I need to get better. I need to work harder at it. I thought I would be a prodigy, but I’m an amateur at best.

  He would want me to be better. I know it in my bones. I remind myself that sketching took time. So will this. The problem, though, is I don’t have time on my side. I need to hurry before it’s too late and I lose my chance to meet him, to make him proud.

  I’m convinced now he’s back for one thing—me. Maybe he’s lurking in the shadows, toying with his games until I prove my worth. I need to get to it. This is my calling, too. It’s terrifying and exciting and life-changing all at the same time. I know I need to be sure. There will be no going back once I commit and dive feet first into the murky waters this life presents. Then again, I don’t think I can go back now. That flame’s an addiction, and it’s growing weightier by the day.

  The math teacher drones on and on about hypotenuse and angles, but I tune him out like I’ve learned to do. I’ve got way more important things than schoolwork to do. How many hours will the target burn if I use turpentine as my accelerant? Or should I use gasoline? How hot will the fire burn, how high and mighty will it get?

  I’m not adept enough yet to know the answers, but I’m on my way. Like a beacon in the night, my dad’s words lead me forward, step by step. The call lures me forward, and I must go. His handbook lights the way, words of wisdom to call me down the well-trodden, awaiting path.

  I know I must go.

  I’m itching to get started when I get home, but I’m devastated to see Mom in jeans and a shirt instead of her uniform. She always works on Fridays. It’s why I planned my first big trial run for tonight.

  “Aren’t you working?” I ask, ordering myself to steady my voice and look disinterested so as not to alert her.

  She glances up at me, shrugging. “Night off.”

  “Oh,” I nod, offering a weak smile to cover up the devastation in my soul. “That’s good.”

  “But sorry, I can’t hang out. I have plans tonight,” she adds, looking at me to weigh my disappointment. I tell myself to keep my face passive, to fight the grin that threatens to spread on my face.

  In truth, I’m equal parts relieved and confused. Mom never has plans. This better not be another Eric situation like when I was twelve.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not an Eric situation,” Mom replies, offering a weak grin. Paranoia digs into me as I wonder if she can read my mind. Just in case, I shove down the joy at the prospect my plans can still happen.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  “Just a friend from high school. I’ll be out late, though, so don’t wait up. You doing anything?” she asks.

  I shrug. “Just going out with a friend, too. Nothing major.”

  She doesn’t tell me to be careful or ask when I’ll be home, but then again, she never does. Instead, she stands, pats my shoulder, and heads back to her room to get ready, preoccupied with her own life. I’m not hurt. There’s always been a disconnect between us. Sometimes a mother’s love is everything—and sometimes a boy needs a father in his life instead.

  Soon enough, I might not need her, not like I used to. Soon enough, he’ll be back, and I can chase those dreams of a father’s love. But it’ll be better than I thought. There won’t be catch in the yard or baseball games. There will be something more important, more exhilarating to connect us.

  Maybe it’s good Mom has her own life to pursue now. I hope whoever is in her life, it works out. After tonight, there will be no going back.

  Once she leaves and I grab my backpack, I slink outside. The chill in the wind strikes against my cheeks, sucks into my lungs, and floods me with wild energy. I’m buzzing with it. I’m also buzzing with contentment because I finally know. I know what tonight will be: a volatile night, the kind that changes everything. I suit up and head onward into the distance beyond, my first target carefully picked and excitedly awaiting my craft. My feet plod on the pavement of the forgotten street before I duck into the woods, my way already picked out and my destiny ready.

  It’s time. After all these forgotten years, it is time.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jameson

  I eye the shoddy shed in front of me, the darkness of the night emanating around us and cloaking us. It’s the wooden building and me, two forgotten souls in a wayward night.

  There’s not a particular reason I chose Mr. Wayford’s shed other than the fact it’s hidden in the middle of nowhere, the forest enveloping his house and the forgotten relic of a building behind it. At the end of a dead-end street, with thick shrubbery and the forest beyond, it is in the middle of an arsonist’s refuge.

  Tonight, I start my path to earning the sacred familial title. I pick up the proverbial torch my dad has carried all this time. I begin my masterpiece of destruction. For a long moment, I study the building before me, feeling the weightiness of the day in my fingers, in my heart, in every inhale of the night air.

  Mr. Wayford is the mailman, and I know he lives alone out here on Treehill Lane. When I think of his weathered face and the way his gray mustache curls into a smile when I see him, guilt assuages me. I set my backpack down with a thud behind the building, considering maybe I should turn back and abandon my plan. Mr. Wayford doesn’t deserve this, does he?

  I exhale, my fingers tapping against my leg as I consider it all. Who I am. Who I thought I was, at least. And the destiny laid out before me, brought on by that journal in the attic. It’s poetic in a twisted way, but I’ve read enough literature to know poetic is usually a synonym for tragedy. This path I’m taking is one filled with risks and dangers. Still, the itch in my fingers and the thought of the matches, of the turpentine I found in our shed that sloshes carefully in my bag, it all drives me forward. I wipe out thoughts of Mr. Wayford’s craggy face. It’s his shed, not his house. The fire crews will get here in time—he’s not far from them. It’s quite risky picking this as my first one. I’ll have to move fast to get away in time. There is little margin for error. I have to trust in my instincts and the blood, his blood, coursing through my veins. Like a vampire called to the feast in the middle of the night, I awaken. It is time.

  I sprinkle the turpentine around the shed and then step back, studying it in the darkness. I retrieve the matches from my bag, suit up with the backpack, and take a deep breath. I’ve decided to go with matches instead of the lighter. A homage to my father’s handbook.

  It’s so simple it’s almost embarrassing. The skill of it isn’t in the act, though, I suppose. It’s in the careful plotting, the escape, in the satisfaction of a job complete. I inhale, exhale, and think about how it needs to be done. How this is what will bring him to me. How this might be
what he’s waiting for. What if the flick of a wrist, the inciting of a flame is all I need to bring back the man I’ve been seeking for so long? And more importantly, what if this single act sets me on a road to who I was always meant to be? A warmth spreads in me, not from flames, but from feeling like I’m coming into my own.

  And so, I step back. Further back. I strike the match carefully, my gloved hands gripping the wooden stick tightly. I look at the flame, feel the warmth with my fingers.

  With an assured flick of the wrist, it’s done. I am like a gazelle running through the forest, my legs working at warp speed. When I’m safely away, I peer back, the fireball spreading and flaming. Smoke billows. I admire the sight, beautiful and intricate in the sea of darkness. The image is more intricate, more stunning than any of the drawings I’ve done over the years or any of the canvasses piled in my room. This is a natural beauty that can’t be charted. It flees into the night, searing itself into only my memory. It is a delicate art piece only I will appreciate. There’s something fleetingly magical about that. I continue toward my house, adrenaline and a buzz flooding through me. I feel jittery and delectably alive.

  It is only as I put significant distance between myself and the flames that I allow myself to weigh the magnitude of the night.

  I did it. I did that. My soul bursts with pride. I hope he does, too.

  Adrenaline carries me onward. I know I can’t linger. I have to make my getaway. I can’t get caught so early in the game. I’ve learned more from the handbook than that.

  Always watch from a distance.

  It’s a few minutes later when the fire whistle in town blares, but I’m safely on my way home by then. I can’t wipe the grin off my face, can’t cool the heat of excitement in my chest. I trudge on, my black boots padding along on the familiar cement of the street that suddenly feels like new territory. Everything around seems fresh in a validating way.