The Arsonist's Handbook

by L. A. Detwiler

  “Well it’s your fucking job,” Pete replied, ripping at his hair. A thought came to his mind then. “Did he kill someone? Did anyone die?”

  “No, not this time,” Officer Bartley answered. Pete felt relieved. But he also felt jealousy. No other deaths. No people had lost loved ones to the twisted game. Why Tanner? Why did it have to be his son?

  “Listen, I’ll keep you posted. But we do believe it’s connected. The calling card was left again. It looks like the perpetrator is expanding.”

  “Which isn’t good, is it?”

  “It’s going to make things tougher, for sure. But Pete, we’re still on the case. Okay? We’re still keeping an eye out, and we have all hands on deck. We’ve been working with the precincts in the vicinity and in the towns nearby. We’re doing a press conference today. We’re hoping to lure him in. And we’re working with a criminal psychologist now to try to map out any patterns we might be overlooking, to figure out what makes this one tick.”

  Pete nodded. “I’m keeping an eye out. I’ll expand my search radius starting tonight.”

  “Pete, you need to let us do our job. This person’s dangerous. We don’t need you getting in the middle.” Officer Bartley sneered at him, and Pete wanted to knock the look off his face.

  “Are you fucking kidding? You think I don’t know he’s dangerous?” Pete stepped forward.

  Officer Bartley backed up, one hand instinctively going to his gun. “Pete, calm down. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down.” Pete moved forward, getting closer to Officer Bartley’s face.

  “Step back,” he ordered.

  Pete never was one to listen to orders. He stood his ground.

  “Step back, Mr. Andrews, or I’m going to have to put cuffs on you.”

  “Fuck you. Fuck you and your whole team. I wouldn’t have to get involved if you’d do your job. Do your goddamn job. Do you hear me? Do your job.” Pete knew he was out of control. But he couldn’t rein it in. Weeks of hurt and anguish molded themselves into a ball of resentment Pete hurled at the officer.

  In some ways, it felt good to feel Officer Bartley tackle him to the ground. It was a relief to feel the cold metal on his wrists, to feel the ache in his shoulders as his arms were pulled at an odd angle. It was relieving to feel something other than hatred and anger and sadness for the death of his son he would never get back.

  A son he might never get the chance to avenge, Pete realized. He was even fucking failing at that.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Pete

  The burning wreckage of the house brought back all sorts of horrid memories for Pete. Not like he’d forgotten, of course. No time could erase the pain he felt.

  He imagined the house was once a beautiful fortress of safety and family. Now, it was a pile of embers and ash, like his own home. He stifled a sob and walked bravely up to the caution tape. A few cars surrounded the scene. The emergency now over and the firefighters gone, it was an oddly serene time. He hadn’t remembered this part of his fire. He’d been too wrapped up in grief and preoccupied with answering questions, with the Carettas, with Anna.

  He inhaled, hands in his pockets, as he stood at the caution tape.

  “This is a crime scene, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” a voice ordered. He turned to see an unfamiliar face. He wore the uniform and the face of the investigator. Pete turned to see the Forensic Unit car in the street.

  “I’m Pete Andrews. My house was burned to the ground in Elmwood. I came to see if you’ve found any connections.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Andrews, both for your loss and for the fact I can’t share any information. This is an ongoing investigation.”

  “One that I’m involved in. I want to know if this is the same guy, if there are any connections between the people who live here and me. I thought maybe—”

  “Sir, I’m sorry. You need to leave us to do our job.”

  Pete stared at the stoic man and thought about choking him. He talked himself down, though. It wouldn’t be a good thing to be handcuffed twice in the same week. Officer Bartley had let him off with a warning after hauling his ass to the station and making a spectacle out of it. He’d been lucky. He couldn’t mess up his chance to do his work again.

  Still, rage surged as Pete eyed the cocky detective. In his button-up shirt and his shiny shoes, the asshole looked like he was strolling about a carnival instead of investigating a life-or-death situation. If he’d done his job right, this wouldn’t have happened. Tanner wouldn’t have died. None of it would’ve happened Anger bubbled within him as he considered his options. Pete turned to examine the surroundings and calm himself. Across the street, an elderly woman swept her porch stoop. Pete’s mind lit up with a new idea.

  “Thanks,” he forced himself to say as he dashed across the road.

  “Excuse me, Ma’am,” Pete offered. “Hi, I’m Mr. Andrews from Elmwood. I don’t know if you heard, but I’m...”

  “Of course. I’ve seen the news. You poor dear. I’m so sorry,” she murmured, her voice breathy and shaky. “Can I get you some tea?”

  “No, thank you. I’m wondering, though, if you could tell me more about who lives there. Where they are, who they are. I’m trying to help the police do some digging. I want to find this person.” He turned to gesture toward the ashy rubble, the scene inciting another wave of sadness.

  “Well, it’s a single mother who lives there. Her name is Beth Ann Janson. She’s a doctor, rarely home. Thank goodness she wasn’t home last night, and her little boy was staying with his dad. The house was empty.”

  “Do you know where I can find her?”

  “I don’t dear, sorry. I did hear, though, that she was pretty shaken by the whole scene. I think I heard she was going to go to New York and stay with her family for a little while. I’m so sorry.”

  “Shit,” Pete murmured, staring back at the scene. “You didn’t happen to see anything, did you?”

  “I wish I did. I already talked to the police today. I haven’t seen anything suspicious at all. It happened so fast though. It was one big whoosh of fire. I’m the one who called 911.” She beamed at the statement, but Pete simply felt his stomach fall.

  “Here,” he said, rummaging in his pocket for his wallet. He pulled out faded, bent business card he had stowed in there, one of only a few left. It had once been a glossy card he thought he’d need. He’d thought he was going somewhere then, thought he would need business cards. It was laughable now. “If you see her, will you tell her to give me a call? I’m trying to piece together information and sort this all out.”

  “I will,” she said, extending a hand. “But you take care of yourself, Dear. Let the police do their work. A man who lost his son needs time to grieve, you know.”

  Pete stared into the old soul’s eyes, wondering what loss she’d seen in all her years. He didn’t have time or the strength to hear any more sorrow. He turned to stare at the rubble, the investigators and an officer talking on the front lawn.

  He’d got away with another fire. The bastard had done it again, and no one could catch him to make him pay. How many more places would burn until Pete saw justice?

  The yearning for retaliation burned heavily in his throat, in his chest, in every fiber of his being. He trudged back to his car, weary from the exchanges.

  The Boy

  “Be strong or the world will eat you up,” she said to the boy, now thirteen, as he cried over a broken heart. It was the closest thing to tenderness she’d ever offered him. It did little to soothe his cracking soul.

  Becky had told him she’d love him forever. He believed her. For the first time since Rambo died, he felt like maybe his heart could open again to someone. She said she liked the way he was strong, the way he protected her. He puffed up his chest and vowed to do anything for her. He felt like a real man with her on his arm. Things were perfect, and he was envisioning a life outside of his mother’s trailer. He pictured Becky traveling the
world with him and his band. They would be high rollers, and his humble past would be a story people liked to hear.

  But before he knew it, the whole thing had cracked open. She’d gone off with his friend, Chuck, and said he wasn’t good enough after all. She liked Chuck better.

  “You’re not cute enough,” she’d said. But all he’d heard was, “You’re not enough.” In a mind twisted by the world, harsh circumstances, and his mother’s critical expectations, the words clung to him like a dryer sheet statically attached to clothes. It flapped on his back, noticeable with every single step. He felt like the whole world could see it, was pointing and laughing at the kid from the trailer court who was never going to be good enough.

  It hurt. He didn’t want it to. Boys didn’t cry, after all. But the world without Becky seemed pointless, gray, and dark. He’d cried himself to sleep. He’d cried himself awake. He’d cried until his body ached and he felt feverish, certain he’d wallow in depression for the rest of his life.

  She came into the room and found him, a heap underneath the comforter. He’d quickly wiped away his tears, but his puffy eyes certainly gave him away.

  That was when she spewed the phrase, a new mantra for him to memorize.

  “Be strong or the world will eat you up,” she’d barked, and he’d sat up in bed. “Now get your shit. It’s time for school. You can’t miss another day. It’s time to get on with it.”

  He knew you didn’t argue with her ever, especially after you’d shown weakness. He pulled himself out of bed. Just like that, he got on with it.

  “Love fucking sucks anyway,” she murmured on her way out of his room.

  And from that day on, the boy learned that love came second. Maybe even third. Strength and hard work came first. If he wanted to be someone worthy, he didn’t have time for the mushy stuff. He didn’t have time for women who could, at any moment, stomp on his heart. He reaffirmed in his mind he needed to be someone worthy of his mother’s love. Because if he could earn that, there would be nothing to stop him.

  That day, he became the kind of boy who stomped on girl’s hearts before they could stomp on his. And even when he grew up and realized how fucked up his mother was, a piece of that stuck to him. Because once a heart is molded into a certain belief, it’s really, really hard to change it. Even if the best kind of woman comes along.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Jameson

  “Some say the world will end in fire.”

  As I sit with my mother for a rare occurrence—dinner together—the Robert Frost poem rolls through my head. Maybe it’s because it feels like the world is ending. I’d been asleep, distracted by monumentally pointless things. By a girl of all things. And while I was sleep-walking through my days and growing sloppy, he was working. Always working. I had missed it.

  The police presence is heightened now in all of the towns surrounding Elmwood. I noticed it last night when I was wandering about, examining potential targets. It’s going to be harder now for him. It’s going to be harder now for me to get his attention. What if he’s already moved on? At some point, he won’t be able to wait around any longer. He’ll have to travel far away if he doesn’t want to get caught. He’ll have run out of territory, out of ground here. I wish I knew where he was before. I’ve done my research at the archives in the library. The last set of fires around here was right around the time he left us. Then, it went bone dry. Was he traveling the world? Did he ever think of coming back? I need to work fast before he’s off to brighter lands and new dreams. I may never get the chance again. The urgency pulses in my veins.

  “You’re quieter than usual tonight,” Mom observes. I look across the table at her. She’s wearing her red lipstick, the one she saves for special occasions. It looks harsh on her. I think about replying that I’m always quiet, that if she knew me at all, she’d know that.

  Instead, I shovel in another mouthful of mac and cheese. She made it for dinner for us. She took a day off from the bank, said she needed a break. She was out late last night with whoever has caught her eye this time. I heard her come in during the early hours of the morning. Still, even though she’s probably gotten little sleep, she looks alive. He must be someone special.

  I wonder how they were together, her and my father. I open my mouth, close it. And then I go all in.

  “Did you love him?” I ask, the words barely a whisper.

  “Who?” she asks, a stony look coming over her face.

  “Dad.”

  She sets her fork down. A fire lights in her eyes, but this isn’t a beautiful sight to behold. This is a venomous fire, a viper’s unrelenting cry for war.

  “What the hell made you ask about him?” Her look is suspicious, and suddenly there’s even more distance between us.

  I shrug. “I just wondered is all.”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Why didn’t you look for him, then? When he left?”

  She exhales. “You don’t know anything about it. Leave it alone, Jameson. Leave it in the past. I fucking have.”

  She stands and takes the rest of her plate to the trash, scraping off the congealed cheese.

  “I think he’s back, you know,” I murmur, then chastise myself. There’s such a thing as saying too much.

  She whirls on her heel, her face reddened. “What?” Her eyes are narrowed slits, the snake eyeing its victim.

  “Just a hunch,” I reply, retreating from the bravery I felt.

  “You know nothing about him.”

  Her words are an icy dagger in my heart. She used to be right. I stare at her defiantly, though. I know more than she could ever imagine.

  I think about speaking up and arguing with her. I think about telling her if I don’t know much about him, it’s her fault. What kind of a mother keeps a father a secret from his son? I want to scream at her for keeping so many secrets. I have a right to know, I want to demand. I have a right to fucking know. Instead, I sit like the silent boy I am, the good boy I’ve been all these years. I quiet the newfound rebel rising within. There will be time later.

  She stomps to the living room to watch television without uttering another word. She stews across the room, the tension palpable in the air between us. The case is closed, as it always has been. The news is talking about arson. She turns the television up. I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling. My questions coupled with this—it won’t be good.

  “I’m going for a drive,” she murmurs after shutting off the television and tossing the remote onto the coffee table. “I need some time alone.” And as usual, she’s out the door without a second thought for the child she’s done wrong all these years.

  I pick at the remaining macaroni on my plate. This isn’t what I wanted. I hoped Mom would finally open up, that I could hear something about the man who is still a mystery.

  But it works out in my favor anyway. I leave, too, my backpack of supplies in hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Pete

  The decision feels like some sort of twisted game show. Behind the one door was Elmwood. Behind the other, Riverville. Would the arsonist return to the original stomping ground? Or was Riverville the new locale?

  Pete tapped on the steering wheel and debated. He needed to think more like the bastard. Goddamn. Pete was a smart man. He couldn’t be outsmarted by the psycho. He glanced at the gas gauge and realized he would need to fill up again. Wandering the streets, staking out the neighborhood was becoming an expensive job especially when he was without an income. He didn’t care, though.

  Driving to the mini mart down the street, he stopped at the pump. He mentally calculated how long it would take to do a loop of Riverville and then return to Elmwood. Or perhaps tonight would be better spent doing more research on the fire victims, seeing if there was a connection? The residents of the one arson had a daughter in a dance school in Mansfield. So did the first one. But what was Pete’s connection? It was worth considering at least.

  He was turning to look at the pump when hi
s eye caught a flash of blonde hair going into the convenience store. His heart beat wildly as he yanked out the pump and hurriedly capped the gas tank. He rushed inside.

  The bells announced his entrance, but she didn’t turn to look. She was wearing the tan raincoat, the one she’d surprised him with at the diner one day on his lunch break. After their meal, she led him back to the car where she whispered she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He’d wondered the whole lunch why she hadn’t taken it off—and why she had smiled so coyly at him over their burgers and fries. They’d driven like two teenagers to a spot in the back of the state park. He’d called in sick for the rest of the afternoon, and they’d made love like two ravenous teenagers in the car. Over and over again.

  He inhaled at the memories, the pain subsiding as he stepped toward her. She was reaching for a tea from the cooler, her favorite flavor. He reached out and held the door. She looked at him through the frosty glass. She looked better. There were still bags under her eyes, but her plump lips wore her signature red color. She wore jewelry and dress clothes as if she’d come from the office. Her lips didn’t budge into a smile or a frown. The apathy on her face was perhaps worse than anything at all.

  “Hi,” he whispered as she slowly backed out of the door.

  “Hi,” she replied, her eyes dancing over his face. “Pete, you look terrible.”

  Not the words he wanted to hear. But he knew it was true. He’d been living on a diet of beer and potato chips. He only showered every couple of days when he could barely stand himself in the car. Most days, he slept a few hours and that was it. His body felt like it was run over by a bus, but he couldn’t tell if it was from grief or physical wear and tear.

  He smiled at her. “That good, huh?” he teased. It had been their signature saying to each other a lifetime ago. She didn’t smile.