The Arsonist's Handbook

by L. A. Detwiler

  “Wait, Jameson,” a voice calls from behind me. We are wedged between the buildings in the narrow alleyway. I inhale deeply, the smell of coffee wafting up my nose from the building next door. I think about running away, but I stay frozen in place. I turn to look at this girl I don’t know at all but thought I wanted to. It’s too late now. It’s been tainted already. I’ve seen the truth.

  Even this girl, the one with edgy words and a smoldering look in her eye for the weird kid—even she is from a different world. I thought somehow, in the black hoodie and the I-don’t-care attitude, I recognized a piece of myself. I was wrong. So wrong. She is from a place where love flows freely, and connection is a given. She is from a different universe than I’ll ever be privy to, ever deserve. The truth stings.

  “Wait, where are you going?” she asks, huffing a bit from the jaunt to catch me. I face her but don’t move toward her.

  “I’m fucked up,” I reply. I don’t add anything else to it, figuring this is enough. Besides, there’s nothing else I can say. It’s impossible to explain the whole truth.

  She pauses for a long moment. I figure this will be it. She’ll realize she made a mistake thinking there was something to the weird kid in class. I’ll be some bump in her story, some idiosyncratic detour in her high school journey.

  What she says surprises me, though, and a tiny flicker reawakens in me. Maybe she could’ve been good for me. In another life, in another time, with another boy who isn’t tied up in family loyalty. Because when she looks at me with her downturned red lips and her serious eyes, she utters three words that stick in me the whole way home.

  “We all are,” she says. She doesn’t beg me to stay or slather on some deep monologue. She offers me a wink, and then her footsteps echo on the pavement as she spins on her heel. The soft drizzle sets the ambiance for the moment in a dreary, poetic way. I’m tempted to stay put, to watch her leave for the symbolism of it. I don’t. I turn back around, my eyes focused on the road ahead and my journey home alone.

  At least there’s time to think, to plan, to sort it out. In my heart, I know being an artsy chic’s sidekick isn’t my destiny. I was made for my own version of greatness, and I won’t let anything get in the way. My gallery is private. And even though there’s no corner, he will be there eventually. Not openly. Not for everyone to gawk at and to hear explanations of my work. But he’ll be there. In some ways, he already is. Still, as I slink home, I realize with greatness comes great loneliness. I wonder if he ever gets tired of being on his own.

  No, I realize. Because after so many years of plodding down your own path by yourself, you get used to it. The shock of cold raindrops wears off after a while. The overpowering scent of cologne assuages after you’re around someone long enough. The human spirit can adapt to anything, which is a beautiful gift in its own right.

  Loneliness isn’t the thing to be feared, I’ve come to learn.

  Being lost in your own skin is where the true horror lies. Cursed is the man who doesn’t know who he is, no matter how evil or frightening reality looks. So, I march forward to, in the words of Whitman, seek and find.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Jameson

  “You’re off work again?” I ask as Mom brushes her hair in her room, the door open.

  She turns and looks at me, but her face is softened. With the way the last remnants of light are shining through her bedroom window, she shimmers beautifully. I’ve never thought about Mom being beautiful, but looking at her with an objective, artist’s eye, I realize she is. I think about grabbing my sketchbook to capture the moment. The moment passes instead.

  “You’re one to talk,” she replies, but her voice is uncharacteristically jovial. She’s in a good mood, dressed in jeans and a simple black shirt that makes her hair pop. She’s wearing minimal makeup and her lace-up boots.

  “I know. I know. I’ve been busy.”

  “Wandering the streets and chasing after redheaded girls, huh?”

  I blink at her.

  She shrugs. “People talk.”

  “Sorry. I know I need to help out more,” I reply.

  She looks back at her reflection, still brushing her hair. She pauses for a moment. Hands in my pockets, I stare on.

  “I’ve done my best for you, Jameson. I know it doesn’t feel like it. I know I’m not always there like I should be. But I’m doing my best. No one’s perfect.”

  “I know,” I reply. It’s a moment of naked vulnerability between us, one we’ve rarely experienced. I want to ask what’s going on with her. She’s in an uncharacteristic mood tonight. Still, I don’t like her prying. I respect her privacy the same.

  “I’m going out again tonight,” she says, turning to look at me.

  “Okay.”

  “There’s dinner in the fridge. I got your favorite.”

  “So, I’m still grounded?” I ask, curious.

  “Of course you are. Why do you think I got you dinner? Don’t wait up for me though,” she replies. She sets the brush down and puts her hands on her dresser, eyeing herself in the mirror. She gives a slight nod, exhales, and then grabs her keys.

  “Bye,” I say, offering a pathetic wave.

  “Bye, Jameson. Stay safe.” She flies out the door and is gone, into the world that is all her own. I wonder sometimes if she wishes it could always be like that. What kind of person would she be if she didn’t ever have to return home to the world of responsibilities? It seems like these days, she’s drifting farther and farther away from it all. I can’t blame her. Being rooted to someone isn’t always a good thing.

  I eat the burger she’s left in the fridge from my favorite fast food joint. After enough time has passed to ensure she isn’t coming back for a forgotten item, I load up my backpack, grab my own set of keys, and head out.

  ***

  Parties have never been my scene. The few I’ve been invited to, mostly by fellow artsy students who mistakenly assume I’m one of the cool art geeks at first glance, have ended with me awkwardly standing by the punch bowl looking at my phone to seem busy. This one is no exception.

  When Ashley invited me to the party on Woodrow Lane, I was so surprised she was still speaking to me after the art gallery incident, I found myself saying yes. Later, I scolded myself for being practically under the girl’s elusive spell. Something about that redhead, though. Maybe it’s her love for art, the way she sees the world. I can relate. Maybe it’s that she, too, is a bit detached from the standard crowd. Our upbringings are different and I know she will never completely understand me. She’s the closest I’ll probably ever get, though to solace in this frigid place.

  So here I am at some party with too many people getting drunk off wine coolers and some kind of toxic looking punch. The base-infused music blares, and girls fling themselves all over drooling guys. I’d rather be home with my newfound hobby. I’d rather be just about anywhere.

  “Isn’t it fun?” Ashley asks, swaying to the music. She’s about five drinks in, which is four too many. I’m sensing she’s not usually in the party scene, either.

  “Yeah, it’s great,” I say, my gaze darting about the room.

  “Come on, dance with me,” she orders, pulling on my shirt.

  “I didn’t know you were much of a dancer,” I reply shyly. I most certainly am not.

  “Loosen up, Jameson. This loner vibe is too stuffy. Come on. Let your walls down already,” she says. I smile at her. I know it’s the booze talking, but sometimes alcohol brings out the truth. I want to let the walls down. I want to invite her in. I want to know what it’s like to have someone in the world who wants to be with you, who knows you and doesn’t run away.

  But looking at her as she begs me to loosen up, I realize even this artsy chick with a penchant for swearing in class and making odd sculptures isn’t the girl who would understand me. I look around at the sea of people gyrating to the music and know—I’m not them. I’m not supposed to be one of them. None of them would understand me, would have my back
.

  I am alone. Always alone.

  Suddenly, I’m crawling out of my skin with the need to get out of there. Anxiety surfaces in my chest, constricting my lungs and airways. It’s hot, and I’m sweating. My body aches with the need to be out of the congested room. I want to be home in my space and not in someone else’s.

  “I’m sorry, Ashley. I have to go.”

  “Again?” she asks, and this time, the look on her face tells me there won’t be a poetic scene in the rain.

  I shrug off her touch in response.

  “Jameson,” she yells in desperation, and I can see on her drunken face this is the last straw. If I walk out the door, she’s not giving me another chance. She’s gone for good. I know what that’s like. I’ve endured the disappearing act before.

  I turn and leave, realizing arson isn’t the only thing I inherited from my father.

  I’m getting good at a lot of his tricks.

  ***

  I don’t know why I decide to sketch her. It’s been a while since I’ve opened my sketchbook, consumed by my father’s journal and by the matches. It feels good to hold the charcoal in my hand, to let it dance over the lines in her face, in the look in her eyes. I guess I want to capture a snapshot of a memory of her when she was sort of mine. When I had someone beside me. I wonder if I’ll look back at this picture someday and regret it all. I wonder if in the distant shadows, when solitude isn’t a welcome reprieve, I’ll wish I’d been different.

  As my hand dances over the page, I wonder if maybe it isn’t too late. I could choose something different. I might have his blood coursing through my veins, but I’m not him. Not yet. I could turn back.

  Do I want to, though? What the hell do I want?

  The door opens later. The sun will come up in an hour or so by the time she comes in. She tiptoes through our house, but I hear the familiar creaks in the floorboards at the precise spots. Her keys clink on the counter. More squeaks of the wooden floor in the hallway. The shower starts up. I stay put. I don’t have the energy to face her. Even though we’re not close, she always senses when something is off with me. I don’t want to deal with her questions or her frank advice. Right now, I want to be with my drawing, thinking about this weird-ass life, and sorting out what to do next.

  ***

  I fall asleep at my desk, waking up to a smudged version of Ashley. It’s like I’m seeing her through a smoky screen. It fits. I make myself a few frozen waffles and grab some tap water. I turn on the television, thinking about how maybe today I’ll head to the library to check out a couple of books and do some job searching on their computers. But as I’m watching the newscaster talk about the weather and shoving waffles to my face, I almost choke. Right after the weather forecast, there’s the familiar image they always use for him.

  The flames.

  There’s been another fire. This time in Riverville, the town one over from Elmwood. Holy shit, he’s expanding. This one was a ranch house. The family wasn’t home this time. But investigators are already saying it’s linked to the other arsons. He must have left his calling card. I wish they’d say what it is. I wish I knew.

  I sink back into the sofa, swallowing the bite of waffle as I think about it all. How last night didn’t feel right. How somehow, watching the story about the fire fills me with something no redhead, no party, no one else could ever give me.

  The arsonist’s life is a desolate one, but I guess that’s okay. Because there’s a comfort in that, of always being on the outskirts, of not needing anyone to get your fill.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Pete

  Maybe it was desperation to solve the crime. He didn’t know how the hell officers, investigators spent years on a case. He was fucking done with it already. He wanted answers and justice. But he would drive himself to madness if he had to. He wouldn’t give up like the officers did.

  His lack of sleep coupled with anger over days of dead ends led him to the house in Mansfield. As he parked down the street with his lights off, he knew it was a dumbass thing to do. It wasn’t like the teenager could’ve done all of the fires. What kid was that good? If it had been just one, maybe. But not a string of arsons. Kids weren’t that smart.

  Still, he needed to do something, and it was the closest thing to a lead he had. The officer had been suspicious, having stopped the kid that night in Elmwood not far from Pete’s old house. Old house. That stung.

  So, sick of aimlessly driving the empty streets of Elmwood looking for an arsonist who had yet to show his face again, Pete found his car heading to the house in Mansfield, seeing if there was something behind the creepy teenager who had lurked in his town. Pete’s trunk was full of the supplies, just in case. He was ready. And when he found the bastard, when he knew he had the right guy—there would be hell to pay. Pete practically salivated at the thought.

  He’d tried calling Anna as he sat at the end of the street. He hadn’t heard from her in days—no weeks now. It hurt to have her fade away like Tanner. In some ways, it was like he was grieving a second death. She didn’t answer, of course. He knew she wouldn’t. So he sat in his car alone, barely able to even see the dilapidated house. Fuck. He was terrible at all of it. But he had to keep at it. He wouldn’t quit. Pete Andrews was an asshole, a conceited prick, and a whole lot of other awful things. He was not, however, a quitter. He would stake out place after place until there were no corners of the town, of the county, of the state unturned. He would live in the shadows for as long as it took.

  After a long moment, Pete’s eyes snapped back to attention. Movement in the driveway. The beat-up red car was leaving, backing out of the driveway. He should’ve got binoculars during his stock-up trip. He’d have to get some the next day. They’d seemed unnecessary, but now he wished he had a pair. The car left. One person in it from what he could tell. He waited for a while longer.

  Jackpot.

  The kid emerged. He pedaled his bike, heading out of town. Pete noticed the backpack on him. The fucker was headed somewhere. And Pete was going to find out where.

  ***

  Pete tailed him from a discrete distance. Like so many teenagers, so many people really, the kid was oblivious. Finally, the kid stopped at an art gallery. Pete pulled to the curb to watch him. After fumbling in the alley, he emerged and went to the front entrance. He was dressed respectably. He certainly didn’t look like the kind of kid to set blazes. He was an art geek. Pete rolled his eyes, heading back to Elmwood. Another dead end. Another fucking waste of time.

  He was getting more and more frustrated as the days passed and no one, not the police, not him, got any closer to answers. So what? Was Tanner’s murderer going to get away with it? Live his life out setting more fires?

  Pete slammed his fist on the door at the red light as he headed back to town, his knuckles stinging. He needed to figure out a better plan. Could he lure the arsonist in? With what? He’d already studied the patterns to the houses burned. He researched the victims, even tracked a few down and asked them questions.

  No patterns were running through them that he could detect, no similarities that he could spot. It was all at random, which made it that much harder. It pissed Pete off even more, if it was possible, to know his son was just some random dart thrown on a fucked-up map by some sociopath. If the team of forensic officers couldn’t even figure it out, how the hell was he supposed to? He was failing again. Always fucking failing in life, always coming up short.

  He exhaled, driving back to the motel in Elmwood. He needed a shower. He needed some sleep. He needed answers. He settled on the first two for the night, drifting off on the worn motel sofa as soon as he plopped down on the worn fabric.

  He dreamed of Tanner as he always did.

  He woke with a start in the morning at the sound of a pounding on the door.

  Tanner was dead, he realized as he stood up. Sadness took hold as it always did. He shoved down the tears. Crying didn’t solve anything. He clenched his jaw.

  Tanner was al
ways his first thought, the only thought that kept him going in the morning. The only thing that drove him in the impossible task.

  He marched to the door, flung it open, and squinted at the sight before him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Pete

  “I promised to keep you in the loop. I can’t tell you much. But I wanted you to hear it from me,” Officer Bartley announced. Pete motioned him inside the room, ignoring the embarrassing amount of garbage and beer bottles strewn about. He wasn’t worried about keeping up appearances at the moment. He was worried about the answers.

  “Did you catch him?” Pete asked, hating the desperation in his voice but needing to know all the same.

  “No. But there was another fire.”

  “What?” Pete bellowed, floored. His head was spinning, and his stomach clenched. He squeezed his fists shut as he stared at the officer, desperately needing details. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t fucking be. While he’d been out driving around, the bastard had struck again—how? How could that have happened?

  “Where?”

  “Riverville this time.”

  Riverville was one town over. The arsonist was expanding his ground. Pete’s head whirled with calculations of how his search radius would have to expand. The impossible task seemed even more gargantuan.

  “How did you miss this? How?” Anger surged in his blood—anger at himself, at the officer, at the world. His life had fallen apart, and justice was out of grasp. Pete couldn’t stand to be in his skin any longer, couldn’t stand the pain. The agony surged in his skin, and he wanted nothing more than to fall into a cold, wet snow and let himself freeze over.

  Officer Bartley raised a hand, a pen stuck between his fingers. “It’s not so simple, Pete. You know that. We’re dealing with someone very skilled at this. Probably has been doing this sort of thing for years. It isn’t easy tracking someone like this. It’s so random at this point, his targets. It makes it difficult to predict where he’ll be next. We haven’t given up, but it’s difficult.”