The Arsonist's Handbook

by L. A. Detwiler

  I feel sorry for my mother. She will perhaps never understand. She’s lived her life in the shade of a man who left and as a shield for a son she wanted better for. I think for the first time what it would do to her if she knew the truth, if she knew what I’m becoming. For a moment, I think it might be enough to pull me back to her. I could resist the man from the shadows for the very real woman crying in my arms.

  The tide’s too strong, though, and my father’s buoy is so close I can almost touch it. I love my mother, but I need him more. I need to be myself more than I need the safety in her arms. And so I pull back, step back and study the woman who is no longer capable of being my shield for I am unwilling to be protected any longer.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Pete

  “I heard there was a boy picked up.” The words tumbled from his mouth at the officer who sipped his coffee like there wasn’t an emergency going on.

  “Who told you that?” he asked from across the desk, wearing the arrogance that made Pete more pissed off than he already was.

  “I have my sources,” Pete replied. He didn’t tell the officers he rarely slept anymore, or how he was constantly studying the scenes in Elmwood. Driving around the neighborhood endlessly. Cruising around the town one over just in case the bastard moved locales. Parking in empty lots and patrolling on foot like a vigilante on a mission. Hiding in forested parks and watching for signs. He knew it was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, that he needed better methods. However, he also knew he couldn’t sit at the dingy motel and pretend all was okay. He couldn’t twiddle his thumbs while his son’s murderer walked free, while the police sipped coffee instead of trying to get the guy. He had to do something.

  He’d been so busy staking out Elmwood and the neighboring towns, studying the patterns of the arsonist’s work and looking for connections, he hadn’t slept for a couple of days. He was certain his bloodshot eyes and stubble told the officer that, judging by the way he suspiciously studied him from across the desk. He’d planned on getting a few hours after his patrol last night, but then he’d seen the kid. He’d watched the officer load him into the car.

  He’d followed them to the house.

  113 Everly Drive, Mansfield. A town over.

  The asshole had his hood up and a backpack. He’d been strolling through the town. Pete had been watching from a distance, ready to pounce at the first sign. But the officer had beat him. He’d spent the night casing the place, waiting to see if the boy remerged. The dilapidated house, though, had remained quiet. Perhaps it had been a teenage boy roaming. Still, Pete couldn’t shake the feeling of suspicion. He’d spent the whole night up, waiting to see if there were any clues. Finally, when the sun rose and it was too conspicuous to stay parked on the street, he sped to the station, ready to ask questions. If the officers weren’t going to take the investigation seriously on their own, Pete would ensure they did.

  The officer sighed. “Mr. Andrews, it was a lost kid. I questioned him myself before driving him home. He is only sixteen. This work isn’t some haphazard teenager playing with fire. It’s a serial arsonist, someone with experience. But trust me when I tell you we’re exploring all avenues.”

  “And have you found anything yet?” Pete asked pointedly.

  “You’ll be the first to know, I promise. Now go get some rest. I’ll call you when we have more.”

  Pete stood for a moment looking down a precipice. He knew he could take a step, utter words, shout what he felt. Nevertheless, he also knew there’d be no going back. It wasn’t wise to make the police his enemy. Besides, he didn’t need to depend on them. He was on the case. He was capable. He would find the bastard who killed his son and bring him to justice—with or without their help.

  Driving back to the motel, he thought in all reality, it would be better if the police backed off. The son-of-a-bitch didn’t deserve the justice system’s protections, a fair trial. He didn’t deserve to be treated with the kid gloves the police were known for. No, the delinquent who killed his son deserved torture. He deserved the kind of justice that could only be brought on from a father who was in the throughs of sheer, utter anguish.

  Pete craved sleep, his body shutting down on all cylinders. Still, the image of Tanner’s chubby cheeks followed by the horrific images his imagination created of the boy’s final moments incited Pete to step on the accelerator. He needed to rest a little bit and then get back to his patrol of Elmwood by dark. He needed to watch and wait, to be on the lookout for the bastard. If the police were right and it was a serial arsonist, the asshole would come back. He had to come back. If there was any sort of judicious being overlooking the whole damned rat race, the arsonist would come back, and Pete would execute his sense of retribution.

  He would keep an eye on the boy from Mansfield just in case. But the officers were probably right. Some dumbass kid wasn’t capable of pulling off a crime like this.

  His car drove on. How far should he go? Three hours away? Four? He had a pocket full of cash. He wasn’t an idiot, after all. He had always been intellectual. Now, he would use those smarts for something new. He would pave a new path for himself, marked by revenge and established with acute blindness to the laws of morality.

  Pete, in truth, didn’t know what was moral anymore. Nor did he care. All he wanted was to feel the fire of anger suffocate in him, to get out his hatred. He wanted to show Anna that he was loyal to the family, that he was capable of setting it right. Heroes didn’t wait for someone to do their dirty work. He drove on, taking a deep breath and making a mental list of what he would need. He would be prepared when the moment came. He always was.

  The Boy

  When he was eleven, the boy got a dog.

  It followed him home from school one day, its ribs out and its fur a mangey mess. Rumor had it that it belonged to Mr. Hollands down the street, the town drunk who was in the county jail more often than not. Regardless, Rambo, as the boy decided to name him, followed him home one late autumn day.

  Mama refused to let him keep it, swearing up and down that the mangey fleabag was another mouth to feed that she didn’t need. He begged and pleaded with her, swearing he’d take on the responsibility himself. She finally settled on giving the creature a box out back as long as the boy paid for its food and taught it some manners. He had never been happier.

  Rambo and the boy spent the next few weeks playing in the autumn air, digging holes in the backyard, and pretending to be hunters—the mutt was far from a tracker, but the boy decided to try. Suddenly, the boy didn’t need Mama’s approval so badly because he had it in that dog. He had someone to run home to after school, someone who loved him unconditionally. Someone to make him feel special without caring if he was tough. Someone to see him.

  And when things were hard and the kids were mean, the boy would cry into Rambo’s fur. The dog didn’t tell him to toughen up. It simply licked away his tears like a true friend. Rambo quickly became the boy’s soft spot.

  Mama realized that, making snide comments about the dog being a pussy for being so attached. She noted how Rambo was the boy’s biggest vulnerability in a four-legged package. And Mama didn’t like the boy to be vulnerable.

  She said it was an accident, that the dog got loose that fateful day in early winter. She said the car hadn’t seen him, had run right over him. She said she’d run out to try to save him, but it was too late. Life happened like that, she had said. Get used to it, she had ordered.

  The boy didn’t hear any of it, didn’t stop to wonder who would’ve run over the dog since they lived on a back road with no through traffic. He didn’t stop to examine the perfect tire tracks on Rambo’s back—Mama had left the mangled body on the front lawn for the boy to see. He didn’t wonder how Mama had seen it all happen, had been home at the window at the right moment.

  He simply crumpled into the fresh-fallen snow, staring at the lifeless body of his only true friend, his loving companion. His heart felt like jagged glass cutting through his skin. He
wanted to rip it out himself and feed it to the wolves. He wanted to snuggle up to the lifeless dog and lay there in the cold until his heart stopped beating, too.

  He’d never felt pain so surging, so wicked. Not even when his father left or when Mama put out a cigarette on his chest and made him look at her without crying. None of the horrid words Mama shouted at him, the slaps, or the kicks could ever sting as much as seeing his only beloved friend dead in the snow. The loss was incredible and unwavering. He let the tears fall despite everything Mama had taught him. He couldn’t hold them back.

  “Get up,” she ordered, kicking the boy as he lay crying at the dog’s side. “Get the fuck up.”

  He continued to wail, the realization that once he got up and walked away, his bond with Rambo was gone forever. He had no choice. Mama yanked him to his feet.

  “Dry your tears. Now.”

  He didn’t move. He didn’t care if she beat him. The pain would be less than this.

  She grabbed his face, squeezing with all her might. The boy was suddenly the boy of all the other ages, the one who had felt his mother’s stabbing grip time and time again. And then the words came, the ones he knew by heart. She was, at least, reliable in her preaching and her mantras. In an unpredictable, cruel world, that was something, he supposed.

  “Chin, up pussy. Boys don’t fucking cry.”

  The boy wouldn’t cry again, not for many, many years. After that day, an iciness took over that chilled his tear ducts and hardened his face. His heart and his tears were left there on the snow for Rambo, for the dog who could have taught him compassion, empathy, and friendship but taught him loss instead.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jameson

  “Hey, bus stop kid. Jameson.” A female voice echoes after me down the hall. I normally would assume the person was talking to someone else, but there aren’t any other Jamesons in the school building.

  I turn to see Ashley’s signature pigtails, dark lipstick, and a subtle grin. She’s wearing a plaid mini skirt that shows off her legs in a way I can’t help but notice. I pause by a row of lockers.

  “Hey,” she says, out of breath from dashing down the hallway. “How’d things go the other night?”

  I decide to murmur okay instead of getting into the whole story. Most likely, Ashley’s the kind of girl who wouldn’t blink twice at cops being involved, at least if her reputation at school is to be believed. Still, there’s something about her that makes me want to impress her. I don’t want to risk pushing her away.

  Which is ridiculous. I know nothing about her. We spent a few minutes at a bus stop together. That’s been it. I know it’s outrageous, but there’s something about her that makes me want to be different. To be a little bit more open than usual. It’s probably the fact she’s noticed me if I’m honest.

  She noticed me. Whether it’s because of our shared bus ride the other night or not, it feels good to know someone sees me. Maybe not the real me, but that’s okay. It gets lonely being alone all the time.

  “So, um,” she says, staring at the ground now. I notice the way her alabaster skin turns a light shade of pink. She’s nervous around me, which is bizarre.

  “So, well. Okay, Ashley, fucking spit it out,” she order herself, squeezing her eyes shut. People flow around us, some stopping to stare at the two outcasts of the school engaging in conversation. I imagine some of them whispering and sniggering, but I refocus on the girl in front of me.

  “I have an art show tonight.” She says the sentence like she’s offering a proposal. She raises an eyebrow after the phrase is out, staring directly into my eyes. Her crystal blue eyes do something weird to me, stir something within. This girl could tell me the sky is falling, and I’d run for cover.

  “That’s cool,” I reply, which is admittedly not the cool thing to say. But I’ve been out of practice with this whole socialization thing.

  “And I see you drawing a lot in class, and you’re like really good.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter, somewhat embarrassed someone has seen what I’ve been drawing.

  “I thought maybe you’d want to come tonight. Like, no pressure at all. But some of my sculptures are in the show, and I don’t know, they have fancy snacks and stuff. No pressure though. Really.” Her final words are almost apologetic, and I see her sort of look down at her feet. I recognize the feeling of awkwardness because it’s the feeling I bask in most of the time.

  I blink, convinced I’m going to wake up from this sort of dreamworld I must be living in. Before I can rationalize all of the reasons this is a terrible idea—like the simple fact I have nothing to wear or no idea what to wear to an art show or that I have work to do—I find myself saying yes.

  “Okay. It’s at 555 Main Street, in the little studio by the coffee shop. It starts at seven. See you there.” She tries to hold back a grin, but it quickly morphs into a full-blown smile.

  Before I can say anything else, though, she’s whisked off into the sea of the crowd, leaving me to brew over the whole encounter and the fact I’ve been invited somewhere. To an art show specifically. It sounds like the last place I’ll fit in. Still, I can’t fight the grin that’s transforming into a smile on my face.

  I nod to myself. The work can wait for one night. Just one night.

  ***

  Technically, I’m grounded.

  But when your parental figure isn’t around to enforce the rules, does it mean anything at all? I’m riding my bike to the art gallery and pondering the facts.

  Mom was pissed over the police situation and grounded me for two months. Still, she’s out again tonight. She didn’t wear her work uniform, so who knows where she was going. We aren’t talking much these days, even less than usual.

  I toss my bike in the alleyway behind the gallery, straighten up the collar on my black shirt, the one I wore to my great aunt’s funeral, and smooth out my nicest pair of jeans—which still have a bit of a hole in the knee.

  As I open the door and the bells tinkle, I notice everyone in the gallery turns to stare at me. Several kids from the school are showcased here. They station themselves beside paintings, drawings, and sculptures. Everyone is clad in too nice of clothes for our town. They all hush and study me as I stalk in before they quickly return to their own worlds. I parade to the back of the gallery, eyeing Ashley. She is perched by a large, smooth sculpture that is unsightly in the middle of sweet watercolors and acrylic paintings. It’s a curvy figure that seems to be an abstract woman—or a bowling pin with a face. I’m not sure. But as I step forward and Ashley shyly waves, I nod.

  “It looks awesome,” I reply, even though sculpture has never been my thing. I’ve always been into drawing, loved capturing moments and ideas in simple lines with my graphite and charcoal. Still, Ashley beams. She’s got the artist’s paradoxical pride and shyness at the same time. She looks like she wants to broadcast her work to the world while simultaneously hiding it under her bed. Suddenly, though, my eyes aren’t drawn to her work. They’re on her. The flared black dress she wears is tied tightly at the top and contrasts beautifully with her red pigtails. I peruse her as part of the scene and think about how she looks like she’s part of her artwork. I like that.

  “Oh, Mom, Dad, meet Jameson. He’s the artist I told you about,” she announces, and I turn to see two people with cups of punch. I don’t know what I expected for Ashley’s parents, but these two figures are not it. Her dad’s shirt is buttoned to the top so it looks like it’s choking him. His tie is gray with little swirls on it, and the few sprigs of hair he has on his head billow in the air conditioning. Her mom wears a turtleneck in a beigey oatmeal color that leans toward the color of shit in certain lighting. Paired with her brown pants and brown scarf, she is a palette of bland. They stand strait-laced and tall, their faces so serious it looks like they’re heading to the hospital for heart surgery instead of enjoying themselves at their daughter’s art show. I imagine they play elevator music around their homes for fun and go to the opera for a wil
d night out. In short, the apple fell far, very far, from this family tree.

  “Hi,” I offer, extending my sweaty palm toward her dad. He stares for a long time and I debate whether or not to withdraw my hand. He finally shoots me a weak shake and nods, mumbling something at me that sounds like a mix between “hello” and “who are you?” I nod stupidly and then turn to her mom, who has already shyly turned away to stare at the napkin on the floor.

  Ashley touches my shoulder. “Thanks for coming. It means a lot.”

  I nod at her. It’s nice to have somewhere you’re expected to be. To have someone waiting for you. I let my guard down a little as Ashley goes over her vision for the piece and tells me about sending her dad to the art supply store at midnight one time to get her more clay. I listen as she gabs on and on. But the whole time, my attention shifts. I’m not looking at the girl who may or may not like me, who I can definitely feel a flicker of something for.

  I’m looking at them.

  Her parents. She looks nothing like them. She is a different breed than they expected or wanted. Still, I see it on their faces. Pride. Love. Unconditional Acceptance.

  I see them standing in her corner, figuratively and literally, as she goes on and on about the bowling pin woman. I see them nod and hang onto every word. I glance around and see the kids, parents, and families in their corners. I edge to the center of the room, standing aloof and alone. There is no corner for me to stand in. There is no one to stand there. Tears threaten to sting my eyes. I shove them down.

  “I’m sorry. I have to go,” I say to Ashley once she’s finished her speech to me and turned to the owner of the gallery. Others around us stare as I shove my hands in my pockets and dash to the door. I fly through the bell-dinging door, turn snuggly around the building to find my bike and go home.