The Arsonist's Handbook

by L. A. Detwiler

  “Colby. He was murdered fifteen years ago. We still haven’t caught the killer. It fucking rips me up inside every single day. I know exactly what you’re going through.”

  Fifteen years. Fifteen years and they hadn’t caught the killer—and he was a cop. What chance did Pete have of getting any justice? He had only the hope he created, even if right now that felt slim, too. He couldn’t even stake out a place without getting caught.

  “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “Nothing will. Nothing will make it go away if I’m being honest. Not catching him. Not watching the asshole burn. Not spending your nights camped out watching a crime scene and waiting. Nothing.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “I do,” he said, and his voice cracked. He sniffled, but then Pete saw him stand straighter. He painted back on the mask of stoicism. Suddenly, Pete didn’t hate the man in front of him so much. He still didn’t like him, but it was something.

  “Listen. If you let it, the grief will eat you up. It’ll take you down a dark path. You’ve got to let it go. You have to let us try to do our job, but no matter what, you have to let it go. I can’t make any promises, Pete. But I can assure you that if you don’t let us do the job, it’s going to take you to a really ugly place.”

  Pete inhaled, turning to glance at the scene where the trailer once was. He exhaled out the realization that it was a dumb fucking plan. It would take a miracle for him to win at this game of cat and mouse. Still, Pete knew one thing for sure.

  Officer Bartley was a quitter.

  Pete Andrews was not.

  He was not.

  He would sit in the cold forest for a lifetime if it took that long. He wouldn’t carry around a sad picture offering therapeutic words about getting past grief. Words might be soothing, but vengeance was everything.

  Officer Bartley offered to give him a ride, but Pete motioned to the left and told him he parked a few streets over. He didn’t mention that if Officer Bartley were anything but a moron, he would’ve noticed that. Pete had lost all faith in the officers. He’d lost it days ago, though.

  Officer Bartley turned and traversed back to his car, and Pete returned to his. They separated again, the moment shared between two hurting, strong men long gone, buried in the heap of emotions they choked down daily. They trudged forward, one to shove the grief back down and pour himself into a job he felt made up for the loss; the other headed to his car carrying the heavy luggage of retaliation he sought.

  The whole way, to his car, Pete peered over his shoulder. It felt hopeless, standing in the empty forest getting caught by Officer Bartley. It felt like an insane hunt for a needle in a haystack. The bastard was good. He’d give the police that much—the arsonist wasn’t an easy catch.

  Still, something in the air, in his intuition told him he was getting closer to catching the dude. He couldn’t help but feel like he’d come so close. The air felt electric like he’d been on the verge of something. The feeling, though, made him crave another type of electricity, one he could control. One that would offer the instant gratification the long stakeout could not.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Pete

  He’d promised himself he wouldn’t end up there again. The smell of her perfume, a hint of floral and a hint of spice, symbolic of her. The sight of those silky thighs stretching for miles. The blonde hair and overdone eye makeup. This one was one of the best he’d seen. He hadn’t had her before.

  Shit. He’d promised. He shouldn’t be doing this, especially when there were more important things. She kissed his neck in the right spot, though, and he closed his eyes in submission to the feeling.

  Feeling perhaps wasn’t the right word. Arousal. Lust. Thirst for the intoxicating knowledge that he would own her, even if only for an hour.

  Fuck.

  His lips found hers, and he pulled her closer. He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed to let go. He’d been so focused on his warpath, he’d forgotten about his needs.

  He’d vowed he wouldn’t do this—but why? Anna hadn’t been his for some time. And he was a different man now. He was a man who knew what he wanted and got it. He’d, in some ways, found that fiery man who had succumbed to the drudgery and ball-clenching dullness of normal life.

  He shoved her onto the dingy motel coverlet, the one he’d seen all those times he’d given into the need to feel aroused. He held her down, letting her cry out. The sleazy motel might be disgusting, even filthier than the one he was calling home as of late, but it was far enough on the outskirts of town to be discreet.

  It had been such a close call that one time. For a moment, a flash of that one’s face flickered in his mind’s eye. He shoved it down as he bit the new prey’s neck, her chest, making her cry out in passion and, more likely pain.

  He liked to hurt them.

  He liked the knowledge his money could buy him anything with them. It felt good to have a person under your command, even if it was at a price.

  He could blame his mother. The sick bitch had caught him masturbating one morning when he was sixteen. He’d expected the infamous talk but should’ve known better. That wasn’t her style. Instead, she’d thrown him into the car, driving him to the edge of their town to the Motel Nine. She’d made a few phone calls and arranged for it all, handing him a hundred bucks and demanding a thank you for her kindness. Then, she’d sped away and left his sexual depravity to be fixed by a woman who went by the name of Scarlet with too short of legs and huge breasts.

  He was hooked. What sixteen-year-old wouldn’t be?

  He’d managed to suppress his appetite in his twenties, the cost of college demanding his money be used elsewhere. He’d told himself it was something of his past when he got married, convinced himself all men tried it sometimes. It didn’t make him a monster or abnormal.

  But as he felt his power weaken, as he sensed Anna pulling away, his sexual urges combined with his love to dominate. And he knew he had to do something. This wasn’t Motel Nine, and this one went by the name of Cloey. Still, Pete could blame his mother because she’d taught him how to satiate his needs. She hadn’t instructed him, though, on how to deal with his unquenchable want to exert his strength.

  Her moaning made him want to cum, but he held it back. In the throes of passion, he reached down, squeezing her neck. Harder, harder. Her moans turned to sputtering chokes, and he thrust faster. He watched the vein in her forehead bulge, and he savored the energy of her life in his hands. She choked and shoved at him, but he didn’t stop. He looked into her eyes and saw fear, familiar as he’d seen it in several others’ eyes.

  He pulled back, loosening his grip and letting her relax. He saw the fear change to understanding. He always made sure to pull back at the right moment so they wouldn’t even think about it when it was done. They would chalk up their fears to paranoia. He would leave them a big tip, and they wouldn’t blacklist him from the business. Anyone could swallow down fear if you paid them enough.

  He never let it get out of control, he reminded himself as he rolled off of her and laid on his back, staring at the cheap ceiling. He wasn’t a monster. He wasn’t a sadist or a freak. He was an alpha who liked them to know it. He never let it get out of hand.

  Never.

  Never since that one time. He pictured her, the blood pouring from her nose. Her eerily still body sending both shock and awe through him. He’d liked the way she looked in the bed, motionless and naked. He liked the thought of the bruises that would certainly form from the power of his striking hand.

  After he’d left a pile of money on her naked body, he’d left. But as the blissful escapism of the night turned into the reality of the day and the rational, levelheaded Pete returned, worry established itself. Had he gone too far? He’d banged her up good. What if she turned him in? What if somehow he hadn’t been careful enough and he got caught? He’d spent time worrying about whether she’d go to the police or some shit.

  He laughed a little to hims
elf. Foolish, he’d been then. Clueless. Of course, a prostitute wouldn’t go to the police, not for something like a sex ritual that got out of control.

  He snapped back to the present when this one turned to him.

  “I know you from somewhere,” she whispered.

  He turned to eye her, disbelief shattering the moment. There had to be an unspoken rule of prostitutes. You never admitted to knowing the client, did you?

  “I don’t think so,” Pete replied, swiftly getting up from the bed.

  “Yes, I do,” she reiterated, rising to her elbows. She smirked at him before standing, too, and strutting her nakedness in front of him. He scrutinized her body now that the lust faded into the dirty motel carpet.

  “Sorry, but no.”

  “You’re the one from the news. Shit, man. I’m sorry. Your son—that was awful.”

  Before he could determine if her sugary sweetness or a tart, mocking tone marked her words, he attacked her. His fingers acted as if of their own volition, and he couldn’t stop himself from squeezing and choking her.

  “Shut the fuck up, you bitch,” he spewed.

  True horror seized her, writing itself all over her flushed features. He squeezed harder. But after a moment, he noticed the deathly pallor of her face and loosened his grip.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, backing away, crouching on the bed. His hands trembled from the adrenaline and from the realization of the angry emotions pulsing through him. What was wrong with him? What was he doing? His hands quaked harder, but he inhaled, ran his fingers through his hair, and stood once more. He was in control—except when he wasn’t.

  “Here,” he said, thrusting a wad of cash at her, twice what they agreed on. That would shut her up and make up for what he’d done. Not that she hadn’t deserved it.

  And not that he wouldn’t have enjoyed feeling her neck bones break. He thought about what it would be like. He thought of the one on the bed, lifeless for a moment. How would it feel to kill her?

  He shook his head as she hurriedly shrugged into her clothes and left. She slammed the door and didn’t look back.

  It was okay. He stopped himself. It was all fine. He couldn’t get distracted now. That wasn’t the path he was on. He was on the righteous path to justice. He wasn’t a villain. He wasn’t distractable. He was focused on the mission.

  After a while, he returned to his newest home. He considered patrolling the streets as had become his weary custom, but his body ached. His mind was numb. He decided to scarf down a microwave dinner in front of the television for a half-hour before going back out. He needed to check out the news for updates. He wanted to get information about what the police were airing about the arsonist. He almost choked to death on his Salisbury steak when the newscaster said it. Eating was no longer important. He thrust the steaming tray aside, staring at the television.

  He’d missed it again. It was like the arsonist was toying with him at this point.

  Because yet again, while he fucked a random stranger, the arsonist struck.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Jameson

  I leaned back, my feet touching the sky as they had in my youth. Mom used to push me so hard, her fingernails grated into my skin. But the rush of seeing my toes graze the clouds, the stars, the night sky. It exhilarated me.

  It is even more of a rush, though, when you’re tripped out on God knows what and your mind is free.

  Ashley offered me pills after kissing me. I took them. I liked them. My mind suddenly is both foggy and clear. I feel no worries about what almost happened. I am light as a feather falling from a shooting star.

  Ashley swings with me, right in stride, at the park a few blocks over from her house. For a moment, we are two teenagers on the outskirts of something tangible between our hearts. Love? Lust? A mutual connection from our oddities and messed-up lives? For a moment, all I know is we are in sync, and it feels good to belong with someone.

  “You should try drawing sometime after taking those pills. You should see the awesome art that I do on them.”

  I swing my legs harder, thinking about the other kinds of art I do. How beautiful it could be. My lips form the words.

  I’m an arsonist.

  The phrase toys with my tongue, flits over my lips like a song in a bird’s beak. It longs to echo along with the screeching of the swing’s chains.

  I’m. Screech. An. Screech. Arsonist. Screech.

  I. Screech. Love. Screech. You. Screech.

  So many secrets hidden in the screeches, in the night air, in the cloak hiding who I am. But Ashley makes me consider abandoning it.

  We swing for a long while. When we finally stop, my calves on fire, she turns to me.

  “You could get in on it, you know. If you’re looking to make some extra cash.”

  I turn to study her, the blackness of the night shrouding those eyes I drown in. With the murkiness between us and my cloudy brain, I don’t see what I usually do when I look at her.

  “What?” I ask, mentally tracing our conversation and wondering if I should know what she’s talking about.

  “You know. The stuff. Dad’s looking for some more runners. You’d be good at it. You could fly under the radar. You’re good at blending in”

  I blink, but my head is still foggy. Is that what this has been about? All of this? She’s been looking for a fucking drug mule. I let the swing slow as I stare at her. She looks at me expectantly, her face pale and glowing in the moonlight. I study her puffy lips that I kissed, an unfamiliar emotion surging though my body as she held onto me.

  Pain and loss strike into me now, obliterating the memory of our moments together. I should’ve known. Suddenly, all the laughs, all the looks, her blue eyes crack into a million pieces.

  You don’t have any real friends. It’s what my mom always used to say. You have to be your own friend. You’re the only one you can count on. With the screeching of the swings halted as we both sit still beside each other, the truth reverberates through me. The phrases sing out in the night.

  I am alone again. All alone. I always have been. I always will be.

  I was a fucking idiot. A fucking idiot.

  There are no screeches to soften the blow, to interrupt the stunning veracity of the words.

  “I have to go,” I announce.

  I pause, waiting to see if she will smirk or apologize. I’m not quite ready to let the hope dissipate, to let who we’ve been together bleed into the wreckage of the night.

  She doesn’t apologize, though. She doesn’t laugh and say it was all a joke. She does nothing to assuage my melancholy.

  “Fine then, Jameson. Be like that. You’re a poser. You act all cold and tough. But deep down, you’re a pussy like the rest of them. I thought you were different. I thought you could handle it.”

  My heart cracking as I chide myself for letting someone in, I bite my lip. I’m walking away, stalking home with my hands in my pockets. I stop and turn back to her. The swing she is on sways from leftover momentum.

  The phrase dances on my tongue again. If only she knew. I don’t want her to love me anymore. I want her to fear me.

  I want them all to fear me.

  I am an arsonist’s son.

  And I’m one, too.

  The phrases delight me. They stand strong even in the haze of the drugs in my system. I imagine her face as she realizes who I am, understands who she’s been sitting beside.

  But I know what my father would say. You can’t play your cards to strangers. You can’t show your hand ever in this business. I find the courage, the strength to resist. Instead, I look at her from a distance, one that will never be bridged I know now.

  “You have no idea who I am.”

  I head home, walking the forested path back to my house and fighting the sting of betrayal. You can’t trust anyone. It’s the cold, hard truth. But you can trust the flames.

  I’m almost home when the fire whistle rings out, and my head perks up. He’s back at it. He’s done it ag
ain. Our two paths are bound to cross soon as we light the towns around us up, as our handiwork paints a masterpiece scattered about. Our domain is growing, our monuments alight.

  Our fires can be counted on. At least there’s that.

  Chapter Forty

  Pete

  The news played in the background as he leafed through the books he’d purchased online. He combed through the pages, studying cases and crimes like he could find the answers in print. His bloodshot eyes could barely focus, but he read on as if he were studying for the most crucial test of his life.

  He stood up to pace again, thinking and retracing the patterns. He walked to his vision board he’d mapped out. It wasn’t pretty like on all the crime shows he’d seen. Mostly, it had newspaper clippings and random strips of paper with ideas jotted down.

  There had to be a connection. He couldn’t accept that the bastard burned his way through the towns without rhyme or reason—because to think that meant the chances of Pete finding him were next to none.

  Back and forth, he strutted. The news talked about the weather and a winter festival coming up. Dammit, couldn’t they see there were more important things? Why wasn’t the whole damn town up in arms? It could happen to them. It had happened to him. It could happen to anyone. He knew that now, but it was too late.

  It was too late. Tanner’s face flashed and twirled in his mind like a tainted roll of film. He was starting to lose details. He could no longer remember in his mind’s eye if the dimple on Tanner’s cheek was prominent enough to spot from across the room. And the birthmark on his foot—was it pear-shaped, or more oval?

  “Shit. Shit. Shit,” he shouted, ripping at his hair as he turned from the television to face the vision board, and then turned back again.

  He let out a scream that was half battle cry, half wounded animal. He’d been running on little to no sleep. He’d been surviving on fast food, chips, and alcohol. He’d started smoking again. He’d sacrificed and gone to war—but he was losing. He was fucking losing. So were the police.