The Arsonist's Handbook

by L. A. Detwiler

  The good for nothing asshole was getting away with murder—and he was getting away with his crimes over and over again. He taunted them, toying with their emotions. Look at me, he bragged every time he set a fire. You’re looking right at me, but you’ll never catch me.

  Who could it be? Who could it fucking be?

  He sank into the couch, inhaling the mothball scent as his mind hopped over possibilities. It could be someone he knew, someone he didn’t expect. Who would do that to him?

  He’d considered Maria. She claimed it had been a crazy situation, that she didn’t have time to get Tanner out. What if she was actually jealous? He’d danced over the possibilities, piecing together a sensical story. He fit the puzzle together. But there was one problem—Maria was still institutionalized. Grief and terror plagued her so intensely, they locked her away for her safety; he’d driven to her parents’ house across town and heard the anguish in their voices as they told the details.

  He’d mentally examined each of his neighbors, his co-workers, Anna’s friends. He considered the possibility Anna had a lover who was jealous, who wanted rid of him and Tanner. He’d dug around in their bank statements, logged into Anna’s social media—she really should make her passwords more intricate. No proof of her transgressions existed if she did have any. He’d listed her on the vision board with a question mark, though. He certainly knew marriages were big enough for more than two people sometimes. Anything seemed possible.

  He thought about the prostitutes he’d slept with, especially the one. He dismissed the preposterous idea. They didn’t know where he lived or even his real name. Besides, most arsonists were men, statistically speaking. Even the officers accidentally referred to the perpetrator as a male when they weren’t paying attention.

  He leaned back on the sofa, the television still blaring. Sometimes, he wished he’d ended it in the Carettas’ bathtub. Getting revenge was harder than he’d thought it would be. It didn’t matter how smart he was or how hard he worked. His devotion to the cause didn’t move him closer to answers. It would seemingly take a stroke of luck or a quick break to get him the vengeance he wanted—and deserved.

  Nevertheless, Pete clung to hope he’d be at the right place at the right moment and catch him. Until then, he would peruse the streets, study the trespassers, and await the moment to strike. He had to have faith in the universe he would get his chance. To consider otherwise was simply unthinkable. He plopped his head back and shut his eyes in the hopes of cathcing a few moments of sleep.

  A pounding at the motel door, though, startled him out of the haze of oncoming sleep. A small piece of him prayed Officer Bartley came to tell him the search was over. Still, a caught arsonist would lead to a new wrench in his plan. He didn’t think breaking into the station or the jail to exact his revenge would be any easier than tracking down an elusive arsonist in a town the size of Elmwood.

  He rose from the couch to answer the door, his fate resting outside of his grasp yet again.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Pete

  “Why didn’t you tell me my grandson was dead?”

  Pete leaped back, first in reaction to the words, and then at the sight of the ghost of a woman he thought, no hoped, he’d never see again. She’d aged so much, had leathered over the years from copious amounts of sun and a limitless number of cigarettes. The Florida weather—did she still live there? That was ten years ago—hadn’t treated her well. Rosiness did not glow in her cheeks.

  She barged past him and stomped into the motel. A cigarette dangled from her lips. Some things didn’t change. When he thought of his mother, he always smelled cigarettes tinged with sorrow.

  “Who told you?” he asked, frozen in place and hating how the woman still incited fear in him. He stood taller, both to let her know he was in control and, deep down, to make sure she knew he hadn’t forgotten what she’d taught him.

  Men are strong. Men don’t cry. Men don’t fucking cry.

  Boys don’t cry, either.

  Chin, up pussy.

  Boys don’t fucking cry.

  Be strong or the world will eat you up.

  The only person you can depend on is your fucking self

  The words of the woman who was supposed to show him unconditional love rang out in his head. He felt fear and sorrow well up in him, but he stood tall. She shouldn’t be there. He didn’t want her there—not then, not now, not ever. He’d learned her lessons, and then he ran away with them to his own life. His strength certainly had its roots in her words, but Pete had come to understand he had applied them in a way to be successful.

  Or at least he had been a success. He shrugged the thought off, staring at the woman he called Mama so many years but now called a stranger.

  “Anna called. Didn’t know who else to bring over. Said you were losing your fucking mind, needed some sense talked into you.”

  Anna. How could she? He had told her the stories. She knew why his mother wasn’t at their wedding or a part of their lives. He hadn’t kept in touch with her after high school when she’d left for Florida without him. When he’d moved in with a great aunt to make ends meet, to get through college. She knew why he shoved his mother to the past, along with his whole fucked up family. He wouldn’t let them drag him down.

  Yet Anna betrayed him. Why? How could she possibly think calling his horrible mother would solve anything? A part of him wanted to be flattered and hopeful Anna had gone through the trouble. Anger assaulted him, though, at the prospect she had called this horrible woman behind his back. He trusted Anna; apparently, he shouldn’t.

  “So what’s the deal? You look like shit, Pete. You really do,” she murmured, the cigarette clinging between her lips like a lifeline.

  “My fucking son just died, Mother.”

  “That’s shitty.”

  “That’s shitty?” he asked, belligerence palpable in his voice as he stormed across the room at the frail woman. She wore too baggy of a sweatshirt and too tight of pants, he found his mind note even as he fought the urge to choke her. He felt no connection to her, through blood or loyalty. She was nothing to him. He thrived despite her bullshit. He’d grown up to be a strong, fierce man, not because of her, he’d realized. Without her. “That’s all you can say? Get the fuck out. I don’t want or need you here.”

  “I came to set you straight, Pete. Anna said you’re losing your mind, that you’re hellbent on vengeance. She’s worried about you. Yeah, it’s shitty your son died, but you have to get over it. You can’t sit in this motel for the rest of your life.”

  “Why not? You sat in that trailer for years, didn’t you? Letting me starve most nights while you went out. You spent most of your life doing nothing but making me miserable.”

  His jaw stung at the slap of her hand, still powerful despite her age.

  “Don’t talk to me like that, boy. I didn’t raise you to be an asshole.”

  Pete put his hand to his chin, fire in his eyes. He thought about swinging back, about grabbing his pocketknife and stabbing the woman right there. Anyone who knew what she’d been like when he was young wouldn’t blame him. She’d abused him verbally, emotionally, physically. It was a miracle he’d survived into adulthood at all with her clutching the reins of his life. Still, despite the hatred she fueled, he maintained a semblance of morality and honor. Even he realized what an immense injustice it would be to physically retaliate. He was better than that, than her. He’d sworn to himself he would never be a parent like she was. He clenched his fists but refrained because, in his heart, he still wanted to be better—and more than that, he’d never get the chance to find the arsonist if he hurt her. Pete knew his anger usurped his reason, he wouldn’t stop until she was dead. And finding the arsonist ranked higher on his priority list than settling a family score that could never be leveled out.

  “You’re right. I wasted most of my life. But your father left. He wasn’t dead. Your son’s not coming back. What did I tell you? The world’s not fair. You have to be
strong or it will eat you up. You look back and think I was an unloving bitch to you. Maybe I was. Hell, I never claimed to be perfect or even good. Still, can’t you see, Pete? Don’t you understand now? I was preparing you for this all along. I was toughening you up. You have fire in your eyes, that strength I wanted to cultivate. You aren’t some pissant wuss like your father who left his family. You’re a real man. You’ll fight for what’s right, won’t you?”

  Pete stared at the woman, unreluctantly spotting a comparable quality in her eyes. A common fire. An understanding he craved for most of his life.

  “I know what you’re up to. It’s not going to end well, but life doesn’t always end well, anyway. Might as well go out gun’s blazing, son. Anna brought me here to talk some sense into you. She thought maybe you needed me, needed someone to be there for you when she can’t be. It was good of her to call, I guess. But I don’t think she knows the sense I talk. So here’s all I’ll say, then I’m gone.”

  Pete blinked, both intrigued and stunned.

  “Give them hell, boy, and don’t let them see you waiver. Fight the fight you need to. Do what you have to do to feel like you set it right. And then let it rest.” She puffed on her cigarette and studied him. Then, with a nod, she turned to the door.

  She offered no reassuring hug or sweet words of empathy. It was never her style. She didn’t offer to come back or to make dinner. Hell, she didn’t even leave her number so he could call. She simply exited the motel room like an apparition. When the door shut and all quieted, he rubbed his clammy forehead to assure himself he wasn’t dreaming.

  Alone once more with her stirring words and twisted call to arms, the crying boy inside of him spilled over. Memories of the past hurt he endured crashed like waves in a hurricane. They mingled with the fresh grief of a life gone awry. He cleared his throat and let his mind dance over the random words like he’d practiced when he was young. Apple. Thread. Car Keys. Lion. His mind focused on the list he realized still etched itself inside of him. With the words, he slapped away the tear that rolled down his face.

  He needed to make Mama proud, he knew. Inside, the boy still wanted to impress her. He wanted to be seen, to be someone worthy of love, attention, and respect. So he held the tears in and manned up, just like she always wanted.

  He wasn’t a crier. He wasn’t a quitter. And he wasn’t ready to give up on the impossible goal. The fires of revenge burn hotter than the fear of failure. So, refocused, he downed the quarter bottle of bourbon sitting on the coffee table, grabbed his car keys, and headed back to work on the daunting task.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Jameson

  I glower at her house, my fingers gripping the handles of the backpack. I could make her pay. I could show her who I am. I march on, though. She is not my goal. It’s time I play for real.

  I dreamed about him again last night. The faceless man with the familiar voice strolled beside me on the pavement. He carried a torch; the heat of it warmed my face. We didn’t talk, just walking the streets in broad daylight. Two men with a mission. Two family members with a connection unbreakable. It’s time. I know it’s time for me to make the vivid dream a reality. I’ve got to take my shot.

  I amble toward the bus stop. Always take your time. Always plan carefully. The advice from the handbook reverberates. As much as I want to toss the match tonight, it must be the right time. I need to put in the prep work. The trailer court fire provided me essential , but now, I need to set the stage for the perfect dance. My father will see it and know.

  I imagine him showing up at our door, his face finally revealed. I think about what I’ll say, what we’ll do. Will he leave again? Will I go with him? I imagine the whole world as our playground, fires our works of collective art as we travel the country and experience life together. It’s so close now. I taste it in the wispy smoke of the fires I have yet to set.

  312 Morrison Lane. The house I picked at the start. It still feels right. I saunter to the bench at the bus stop, my backpack sitting beside me. I gaze out into the cold night and know I won’t move the backpack for anyone this time.

  ***

  I peek over my shoulder every few steps, my eyes scanning the surroundings. I haven’t brought any supplies other than some more teenage looking items—video games, chips, a soda. I’ve done research about the addresses and have one at the ready in case the officers ask where I’m headed. I’m prepared this time for my scope out.

  I avoid the streetlights, walking behind the lamps in the shadows. I plod toward my selected street. It isn’t as easy as the trailer court to stake out a place here with the houses closer together. There aren’t any woods to cover me. Still, I need to examine and make a plan. I turn to look behind me.

  Nothing. Still, a shiver causes me to pause. Someone is watching. Every hair on my body stands alert, and a chill ripples through me. I sense watchful eyes. I peek around nonchalantly. All the cars on the street are empty, though. I don’t hear any traffic. I glance around, waiting, watching, wondering if it’s all in my head. Nothing stirs or draws in my eye. Exhaling the breath I didn’t realize I held in, I relax my shoulders and plod on.

  When I get there, I glance at the front of the house again. It’s well-lit and beautiful. I would love to see the place burning from here, the flames lapping up the perfect door and the shutters. It’s too risky, though. There is too much of an audience from the front street. I probably could pull it off in the dark. I’ve learned people aren’t observant. Still, the back is a better choice. I walk down the block to cut left and see if there is an alley.

  I’m marching on, still warily glancing over my shoulder, when I notice it.

  The car down the street. It’s running with its lights off. I glance from my peripherals and see someone hunched down but still visible. My heart beats crazily. I tell myself not to look. I examine the car, take in every detail. Has it been there the whole time? Questions and fears swirl inside of me. My veins are bursting, every molecule in my body at attention.

  It could be him.

  This could be the moment.

  He could’ve been casing out the place, too. What if we both picked the same place? What if I’m fifteen feet from my father?

  The possibility compels me to turn and look with wistful eyes. Through the darkness, though, and the glare of lights, I can’t see him. He’s still the faceless man in my dreams. Just in case, I direct my feet forward, although my gait has slowed. My heart pounds insanely hard. I might collapse.

  The car pulls out of its spot and drives down the street in the opposite direction. I shake my head at my stupidity. I must’ve imagined it all. I walk on. I turn left toward the alley, happy to note it’s darker back here. I’m walking halfway down the block when I hear tires on gravel. I turn to see the lights of the car are still off. It’s coming my way, following me. My heart races again. Shit. I’m going to have to keep walking. It could be an undercover cop watching me. Shit. I decide to head down the alley and make a right. But then I’ll look like I’m lost and wandering for sure. Maybe I could dart in a backyard, and then cut through and make a run for it through alleys and yards. I’ll have to come back. There’s no sense in rushing it.

  The car speeds up, though. I keep walking. It’s getting closer now. I decide to make a left into a yard and run up between houses, hoping I don’t trigger any motion lights. I make it back to the front of the street, near my target house. I beeline toward the bus stop, my footsteps quickening.

  The engine revs. I spin around to see the same car, lights off, coming for me. It’s coming for me. Fuck. Adrenaline kicks in, and I dash for my life.

  My father’s depending on me.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Pete

  He was parked on Morrison in the dark. He’d been methodically working his way through streets in different sections of town. Pete knew the arsonist hadn’t hit this corner of town yet, so it seemed like a decent post. As good as any. The row of houses reminded him of his street, the way
they were picturesque and close together. It seemed like a street he would set fire to if he were an arsonist. But who could tell? The bourbon sat on the passenger seat, keeping him company and shoving down the depression growing in him at the monumental task before him. He needed to get lucky tonight. He needed a stroke of something to keep him going.

  He was crouched down, lights off as he’d seen in the movies. He studied the street for activity. He wished he could understand what the guy was after so he could bait him. It would be easier to set a trap. He was thinking about the logistics of it when it happened.

  His heart pounded as he saw someone, hood up, backpack, walking at night. The person in black stopped in front of a house. What would someone be doing at night on this street? Hands in his pockets—it looked like a male—he stumbled onward after a long moment. Pete sat up straighter, ignoring his need to be invisible. It was go-time. Finally go-time.

  He thought of the backpack in the trunk. He didn’t want to risk the fucker getting away when he caught him. He was prepared for war.

  And it looked like it was time. The person stopped when he got close to the car, and for a moment, they locked eyes. Pete knew all he needed to.

  He started driving, but with nowhere to turn around, he cruised to the end of the street. He swerved right and then gassed it down the next street. He drove in a square hurriedly so he could get behind the dickhead. He didn’t want to kill him on the spot. That was too easy of a death. But if he could injure the bastard and toss him in his car, he’d be free to move him somewhere to complete his work in private. Slow and steady, he could carry out his plan. He could get his answers and then get the answers his bereft soul needed through physical action.