The Arsonist's Handbook
Page 13
“You need to take care of yourself,” she said, and he took it as a good sign that at least she cared enough to instruct him to do so. She reached out and patted his shoulder. He reached for her hand, capturing it. She pulled back.
“I have to get back to work,” she replied. The iciness was back. The wall was there.
“Anna, wait,” he said, following her as her heels clicked on the dingy orange and yellow tile floor. “How are you doing?”
She turned to him, standing tall and proud. Her chin jutted out in a silent protest to his words.
“I’m surviving, Pete. Barely. But I’m surviving.”
“I’m still working on it, you know. Getting him.”
“I don’t want to talk about this now. I have to go,” she replied, rushing to the counter. Other customers eyed them. Some did a doubletake, probably recognizing their faces from all the pictures plastered in the media. All the arsons didn’t detract attention from them because their fire was the only one that resulted in a newborn’s death—not something the news was likely to let go of anytime soon. They had become notorious in a town with little news, a town on edge. There was no escaping it.
“Take care,” he said to her as he turned and left, resigning himself to the fact she was still gone. He hadn’t expected anything more.
She glanced up as she handed cash over at the register. “You too. I mean it. Get some sleep. Let the police handle it.”
If only it were so simple, he thought as he returned to his car to get ready for his shift on the streets. There were some things, he supposed, only a father could understand.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Pete
Pete sat in the empty parking lot by the Elmwood Post Office, staring at the group of boys. Judging from their size, they were about eighteen—and prime suspects. He gripped the steering wheel as he studied them, his blood pressure rising at the thought one of them had done it.
They stood huddled in the alley, hoods up and backpacks with them. One of the four hoodlums smoked, the other ones kicking at the ground. They stood around like they were waiting for something. It was midnight. There was nothing to wait for. Pete’s gut told him they were guilty. That was all the more he needed.
He got out of his car, walking swiftly toward them. The four stopped talking turning to look at him. The one smoking grinned, cracking some joke.
Pete was on him so fast, the others didn’t even react. He pinned him against the brick wall of the building, his hands gripping his neck in a fastidious display of strength Pete didn’t even know he possessed. Fueled by anger and suspicion, he barked in the kid’s face as the others backed up.
“Did you fucking do it?” Pete growled in his face.
“W-what? Dude, chill,” one of the other kids said, reaching toward Pete. Pete tossed the one in his hands to the ground and went to the other one, punching him and shoving him into the wall. It felt good to get out some pent-up anger.
“What the fuck?” the third one said, backing up.
“You think it’s funny to set fucking fires? You think it’s funny that you killed my son?” Pete threw the new target of his frustration on the ground, kicking him in the ribs. Now that he was close, he realized how scrawny they all were. Probably not even eighteen. That made him angrier.
“We didn’t do anything, seriously.” The one who had felt Pete’s wrath first whimpered from the ground.
Pete turned his attention back to the one on the ground. His backpack sat beside the building. Pete snatched it and rifled through it. His eyes looked for the items that would iterate the story.
He uncovered some cigarettes, a few magazines, and some video games.
And then, at the bottom, the shining evidence. Pete’s stomach clenched at the sight of the lighter.
“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Pete bellowed, flickering the lighter in the kid’s face. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”
By this time, the other three had taken off, abandoning their so-called friend. The kid scrambled away, putting his hands up.
“I’m not. I swear. I didn’t do anything,” the kid said. Pete flicked the lighter again, the flame warm by his fingers. He could end it right there. He could show the kid a lesson.
But then he heard the siren. The other assholes must’ve called the police. Shit. He couldn’t finish what he’d started now without getting caught.
For a moment, he stared at the kid and thought about it anyway. But the kid had pissed himself. He was too scrawny, too easily shaken to be the one. Pete threw the lighter down, dashed to his car, and slipped down the main street. He left the kid scamper away.
When he removed himself from the scene a safe distance, Pete shut off the car and rested his head on the wheel. He exhaled and thought about what almost happened. That kid wasn’t the arsonist. He could see it in his eyes. Pete almost hurt someone innocent.
It was a slippery slope, he realized. Getting revenge could lead you down a dark path of your own. He would have to be more careful.
He had a penchant for ugliness, for behaviors that teetered on the line. He couldn’t let himself slip up, couldn’t let himself fall too far. At least not until he was sure he’d settled the score.
Then, all bets would be off. Then, he wouldn’t care what happened to him, to his soul, or the man he once was.
Chapter Thirty
Jameson
I peek over my shoulder again. I can’t shake the feeling. Someone’s been following me. Someone’s watching. This is a terrible idea. I should abort the plan. I shake my head though, knowing it’s paranoia. It’s just because I’m moving to a bigger burn. Of course I’m nervous.
I’ve decided to stick with Mansfield. I’m not ready for Elmwood yet. I need to practice close to home. I’ve got the perfect target.
Mrs. Peabody’s trailer on Lansing Lane. She’s a middle-aged woman who works at the diner. Mom hates her because she steals all the tips. She has it coming. Not that I need a reason to burn, of course. Still, I want to experiment and see what it feels like to play out some vigilante justice. I wonder if the fire does burn hotter when fueled by vengeance.
I’ve watched her place now for a few days. I know exactly what her leaving routine is and what time she comes back. I’ll strike while she’s at work. I’ve brought turpentine with me and a lighter to mix it up. And I’ve brought my calling card. Now that I’m moving to the bigger leagues, it’s time. I’m not sure it’s good enough, but it’ll have to do for now. I like the symbolism in it. I need to start having a way for Dad to trace me if he’s ever going to notice.
Under the cover of darkness, I creep up to the trailer from the woods. There are a few neighbors near this one, so it’s a little bit riskier. Still, from what I’ve seen, they rarely emerge. Game shows blare at the trailer on the left so loud I can hear them from my stakeout position. The lights in the trailer on the right snap off by seven, the elderly lady tucking in for the night early.
What if the fire spreads before the department gets here? My stomach crawls with nervousness. I’m not ready to murder someone. That’s not my aim. Still, collateral damage happens sometimes. Rule #6. I have to be willing to risk it. My father is worth it.
I creep behind the trailer, my hood up. I left the backpack in the woods. I sprinkle the turpentine around the trailer as quietly as I can. I make my trail and prep my fuse, which I’ve made it longer than normal; I haven’t used this much accelerant before. It could go wrong, deathly wrong. Still, the knowledge excites me. The prospect of death and destruction makes you appreciate the beauty of breathing a little more. I’m awakened by it.
Lighter in my right hand, I prepare to watch the flames. I set down my calling card beside the shed, in an inconspicuous spot. The investigators will find it, though, when they look closely. They won’t know what it means. But my father will, which is all that matters. I’ve been careful to wipe off all prints and to handle it with gloves. Not like my prints are in the system, but you can never be too careful.
I inhale, flick my finger in a now familiar way, and light the fuse. The accelerant does its job. The warmth heats up the air around me as I glance at the scene. Then, before too much time can pass, I make my getaway. I grab my backpack and dash through the forest. This one is a farther distance from home, so I’ve brought my bike. I hop on and ride like the wind. The smell of smoke clings to me like a fine cologne. But as I’m escaping, riding down desolate back streets, I turn my head to gawk at the sight I wasn’t expecting.
And with this simple mistake, all fades to black.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jameson
“Are you sure you don’t need a ride? A doctor?” the woman inquires as I shrug her off, trying not to look her directly in the eye. My hood is up, but my face isn’t hidden. Shit. I thought about wearing a ski mask but feared looking shady.
This road was supposed to be empty. I’ve studied it for a week, and I’ve never seen anyone on it. Of course, though, this random woman had to be on it walking her poodle at the exact moment. And I, like the incompetent idiot I am, turned to look—and then ran into the stop sign head-on.
My brain pounds. I probably do need a doctor, but I won’t risk them asking questions or smelling the smoke on my clothes.
“No, but thanks,” I reply, still trying not to look directly at her. It’s too late. She got a clear look at me the moment she rushed over to help me up, her poodle barking at my feet. Shit.
Luckily, I don’t recognize her. I doubt she knows me. Still, when word of the fire gets out, will she connect me to it? Will she tell the police about the kid on a bike with the smoke smelling hoodie? Did she take note of the model of my bike, of the tiny scar on my cheek that sets me apart?
Fuck. I’m fucked.
I pedal as fast as I can home, my heart racing and my mind a dizzied mess. It could all be for nothing. I stow the bike in the back shed and dash inside to wash off the smoke, to throw my clothes in the washer to rid them of the smell. Only after that’s all done do I pop some pain pills for the killer headache I have. I’m all banged up, cuts on my eyebrow and scuffs on my arms. If she does go to the police, it won’t be hard for them to find the kid wrecked from the crash.
I order myself to calm down. The chances she’ll put it together are slim. I’m a harmless teenager in her mind, I tell myself. That’s all she saw.
I settle into my room, pulling out my father’s handbook for comfort. He made it through so many. How many exactly? Twenty? Thirty? It’s hard to tell. I wish he’d listed them all out. As I leaf through the pages of the relic, I realize how scared I am. It’s embarrassing to admit because judging by his words, fear never usurps my father. He is steady, wise, and calm. Terror clutches every inch of me, though, racking my body with a quivering restlessness.
Still, as I flip through the pages of the handbook, I calm my pounding heart. I could get caught, but there is some solace in the prospect.
If I do, at least I know it’ll reel my father in for sure. At least he’ll get to see the man I’m becoming. He’ll understand I tried to make him proud. I attempted to carry on our legacy.
Maybe that alone will be enough.
I hope I’m finally enough.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Pete
He’d chosen wrong.
Fuck. As he stepped on the gas and headed toward Mansfield, the police scanner site on his phone detailing the location, he cursed himself. Of course, he really couldn’t have known. This was the first fire for Mansfield. What was the erratic son of a bitch doing? The son-of-a-bitch hopped town to town like musical fucking chairs.
A thought struck Pete he deemed worth jotting down. He pulled over at the stop sign, reaching for the glovebox where he kept the notebook. What if there were more than one? Could it be a team of arsonists? The idiotic police probably hadn’t even considered the possibility.
Everything he read alleged arsonists were solitary creatures of habit. But that wasn’t a guarantee. Maybe there was a group. Or, he thought, inspiration striking him, could it be copycats?
But the calling card. The calling card hadn’t been announced for that reason. If copycats were involved, the calling card would be different.
He gunned it to the scene. Arsonists always returned. If he stayed long enough at the scene, maybe he’d find him. The officers, of course, would have something to say about that. But he’d seen what happened at his house. The first forty-eight, they were a crowd of immovable birds feasting on the carcass of his house. Then, as time passed and other duties called, they loosened their resolve to study the scene. If the arsonist was smart, which he clearly was to some degree, he’d wait until the police lost interest and hope of his return. Pete was sure of it now.
So Pete would be the one to wait. For as long as it took, he would wait.
The Boy
King of the world, he peered at his dominion. His group stood below, laughing hysterically as he pounded on his bare chest. They shouted obscenities at him. He looked out into the distance. It was beautiful, this place. Untouched by humanity. Alone. Aloof in its grandeur. He wondered what it would be like to be admired and not fucked with.
“Do it already, pussy,” Joe shouted from below.
“I told you he wouldn’t,” Roderic answered. How far up was he? He had no idea. But Dead Man’s Bluff wasn’t a place many stood atop. Local legend had it that two boys died there in the late 1800s after jumping. The lake was shallow if you landed in the wrong spot, hidden rocks halting your fall. If you didn’t jump out far enough, the name was self-explanatory.
His bandmates had been joking about it at the party the night before. Call it an unwavering sense of pride in the boy or call it false bravado from a night of drinking. Call it stupidity if you must. But he’d made a bet, and even though it seemed foolish and reckless now that the morning light was shining, he wasn’t one to back down. He was a lot of bad things according to his Mama. He wasn’t a quitter, though. And he wasn’t one to fade into oblivion.
He took a deep breath and looked down. He could die. What would they say of him? His Mama probably wouldn’t even hold a funeral. He would be the dumb kid who leaped from the forbidden bluff, who ended his life too soon for a pointless dare. He would be the lead singer from a nobody band, the kid from the trailer court who everyone thought would amount to nothing. The thought pissed him off. He wouldn’t let that happen.
He would be someone to remember, a town legend.
They’d look at his life and talk about how he beat the odds. How he got out of his Mama’s drunken grasp to be someone with a reputation the town would hang their pathetic hats on. With that, he inhaled, took a running start, and jumped as if his life depended on it. The free-falling feeling reminded him of what he’d known all along.
***
“You idiotic asshole. Next time you try to kill yourself, do it when you’re on your own insurance or at least succeed,” she barked into his ear. He blinked, beeping sounds and bright lights around him. The ceiling was unfamiliar yet somehow familiar, too. It took the boy back to another time, another accident. He tried to reach up but couldn’t. His whole body ached. There were tubes and wires everywhere. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find any words. His throat burned.
“Don’t. I don’t want to hear your dumbass excuses. You know the whole town is talking about this, right? About how this is my fault for not being a decent mother. They’re all saying how lucky you are. Shit. Lucky all right. Lucky I wasn’t the one who saw you jump from the cliff. Because I wouldn’t have pulled you out.”
The cliff. The jump. It was hazy, but the slamming feeling, the sensation something wasn’t right at the bottom as he landed. It was fuzzily coming back.
He must’ve landed wrong.
The boys must’ve had to pull him out. But he’d lived. A tiny piece of him wanted to smile. He would be a legend now. The boy who jumped but survived. He would be a local hero. He would command respect.
His Mama rambled on about money and bills. He didn’t expect anything more from her. She was who she was. She’d raised him to be brave and strong. He owed her some respect for that, even though he knew now at sixteen their relationship wasn’t normal. She wasn’t a good Mama in a lot of ways. But he didn’t need a good Mama. He would do fine without her.
She yelled at him some more, but then the doctor came in. He talked prognosis and luck and all sorts of things the boy couldn’t focus on. Mama straightened up with a witness in a room, painting on the motherly love scene. But when the white coat left, she snapped back to her true self.
“You know Officer Bud said there might be charges pressed. You were on private property. You could get fined for trespassing. Honestly, this world. You can’t even try to kill yourself without getting fined.”
“I-I wasn’t,” he croaked, his voice scratchy and his words hard to understand. “I w-wasn’t trying.”
“Come on, boy. Do you think I was born yesterday? You were out there alone. The guy fishing saw you fall. He yanked you out or you would’ve been a goner right there. You’re lucky, they say. I don’t know.”
Confusion swept over him. “T-the boys. They were there,” he said.
His Mama eyed him, blinking. “No one was there. The fisherman said he pulled you out alone.”
The boy blinked. It couldn’t be right. They were his bandmates, his friends. Certainly, they would have pulled him out if things went awry, even if it meant risking getting into trouble. They’d all been drinking that morning, too. But that wouldn’t matter. They wouldn’t abandon him.
Mama laughed a little. “Oh, son. Haven’t I taught you anything? People are out for themselves, no matter what. I thought you’d learned that by now. Stupid boy. Still thinking impressing people is the same as having them on your side.”