The Arsonist's Handbook

by L. A. Detwiler

  His sweating hands molded to the wheel as his foot shook. His head was spinning wildly, everything a blur. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. Fuck, he was going to blow it from drinking too much. He should’ve known. The hooded figure, Pete’s sought after treasure, kept glancing back. Guilty. He was guilty.

  The figure turned left, cutting through houses. Teeth clenching, Pete sped up down the alleyway, trying to keep the car moving straight as fast as he could. He couldn’t lose him. He needed to catch him on the road so he could run him down.

  His foot slammed heavy on the gas. He whipped the wheel left, trying to fly back to the front of the street. The tires screeched as he flew around the turn and then toward the straightaway. He focused on getting to the arsonist and mowing him down, when something went very wrong.

  I’ll get him now, Pete thought. But before he completed his mission, it all faded to black.

  ***

  “I’ll get him,” Pete murmured as his heavy eyelids opened, lights shining in them. A volatile scene greeted him when he came to. Smoke pumped from the front of his car. A burning smell assaulted his nose. Officers and radios chirped around him. An ambulance. Some random people mulled about. His aching head still felt blurry.

  “Mr. Andrews, can you hear me?” A familiar voice. Officer Bartley.

  “Get him. You have to get him. He went that way,” Pete uttered as he strained to rise from his seat.

  “Stay put,” the voice barked. His head throbbed, but he needed to get him. Didn’t the idiots see?

  It was too late, though. It all went black once more.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Pete

  “It wasn’t my fault, Anna,” he reiterated in the passenger seat as Anna drove in icy silence, a dark void impassable between them. Pete peered out the window in shame. The stubble on his chin reminded him of the mess he was in. He hated that Anna had to see him like that, but he’d had no choice. There was no one else to call.

  After he’d been checked out of the hospital, he’d spent two days in jail. It was infuriating. He’d told the officers over and over what he’d seen, that the arsonist walked the fucking streets casing places. Couldn’t they see? he had to do something. It was a shitshow, though. His life was a shitshow.

  He didn’t care about the driver’s license suspension or the jail time, though. He didn’t care about his record. He cared that for two days, he sat in a dingy cell, chilly and constricting, while the fucker walked in the open air, free to commit more crimes. He’d been so close.

  “You can’t keep this up, Pete. I can’t deal with this,” Anna said as she sped through town.

  “Pleases, listen. I found him. It was him. I know it. I found the bastard who killed our son. I was going to—”

  The car paused at a Stop sign. Exhaling, she put the car in park and turned to look directly at Pete. He didn’t see the reverence in her eyes, though. He saw the cold stare, patient yet firm, of a woman scorned, of a woman on the edge. Danger detonated in her eyes.

  “Listen to me. I’m done with this. I’m done, Pete. If you want to ruin your whole life and get drunk and almost kill yourself, I can’t be a part of this. Our son is dead. And it rips me up inside,” she shrieked, her eyes leaking with uncontrollable tears. Heart aching, he reached across the way for her, but she snapped back like he was a plague victim. He sucked in the stuffy air and yanked his hand back, too. “But we can’t change it. And you aren’t helping things. Don’t you see? Let the police do their work. I’m grieving, too. But you don’t see me getting arrested and fucking things up worse. When did you become such a fuck up? You’re not the man I married.”

  Her words stung, clinging to his chest like a barbed wire tuxedo. The boy inside emerged, the fuck-up, according to his mama. The isolating sorrow that had marred most of his childhood bit into his flesh again.

  Jaw clenched, he opened the car door.

  “Pete, wait,” Anna called, but it was too late.

  She was dead to him. He was dead to himself, in truth. He skulked toward the motel, his feet too weary to make the trek, but his heart too dead to let Anna drive him. He could do it on his own. He always had, after all.

  Rule 7: Always have a plan B

  Like all of life, fires are unpredictable. And so are the police.

  You must always have an exit strategy or two. You must always have a plan B. Nothing ever goes as you think it will.

  This is especially true of the blazes set on a whim. Not that you don’t prepare—remember, you always are patient. You always make plans. You never light on impulse. Still, those fires that call out to you without rhyme or reason are dangerous. The buildings that catch your artistic eye, the ones that seem like they would be pretty to burn even though they are in a heavy traffic spot or a location that is difficult to go unnoticed—these are the challenges. I know, I know. Sometimes, you can’t turn down the call of the flame, even it is unwise. That’s why you must have an exit strategy—and then another one. That’s why you must always plan and then plan again.

  Don’t get caught with only one way out. Have several escape routes. Have alibis in place. Have cover stories you haven’t yet used but you know by heart. Look natural. Blend in. These are the rules of the arsonist who succeeds. And above all else, don’t ever get caught.

  Abide by these rules, and your fire career will be more successful than you can imagine. You will become unstoppable.

  Life is unpredictable, but people are so monotonous in their routines. Study, learn them, and you can set fire to anything.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Jameson

  For two weeks, I’ve studied the family. I researched online. The Watsons. A family of four. The daughter does ballet, judging by the newspaper article I drummed up. The boy plays soccer, and the mom’s a lawyer. The dad, an accountant, is also part of the PTA. The perfect family.

  They have a huge mastiff, wrinkled and lazy, that slobbers around at the windows. I’ve heard the kids call him Henry when he’s galloping in the front yard. He’s the kind of dog I dreamed of as a kid, but Mom always said no. She’s allergic. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have a built-in best friend, one that is there no matter what. Dogs don’t care if you’re different. They love you anyway, or so I’ve been told. Maybe my father will let me get a dog.

  I’ve been back a couple of times, cautiously of course. I stayed away after narrowly escaping from that car. I told myself I needed a new target to pick, that it was too dangerous. As the days faded, though, and I convinced myself it had been paranoia, that the car wasn’t following me, I calmed down. The news on the arsonist was nonexistent. If it had been the police tracking me, there was no sign of it. I breathed a sigh of relief and returned to my plan to set my big fire. No other place I looked at, though, was the same. No other place was as good. Sometimes the fire picks you, after all. There’s something about 312 Morrison Lane that calls to me. That picturesque house begs to be burned to the ground. And my father is watching. I know he’s waiting for my next move. This is it.

  Mom is at work tonight, and it’s Friday. The family always stays in tonight. It’s probably some sort of sweet family tradition the rich partake in. Last Friday, I saw a pizza delivery boy show up at six. Maybe it’s family game night or something. I don’t know.

  I thought about waiting until they are gone. It would be less risky. But I want them to be home. I want to make a bolder statement. Maybe it’s because my father burned down that one with the baby inside. I feel like I need it to be big, even if there’s collateral damage. I need my father to notice.

  8:42 p.m. Henry has already been outside for his nighttime pee, which happens around 8:15. People are so predictable. It’s sickening, in some ways, how easy it all is. I stand watch out back in the alley, ducked down beside their shed. The rear of the house is dark, the living room where the family spends most of their time out front. They will have time to get out, I tell myself. But with a family prominent in the community and respec
ted, the close call is sure to bring in news media. And when they find the calling card again, the Jim Beam bottle, he’ll know it was me. They have to report that eventually, right? I have to hope. I hang onto the hope our connection is strong enough even though we’ve never met.

  I set myself up to get started. The fence creates a bit of an issue, as do all of the houses. I’ve set the Jim Beam bottle beside the shed with my gloved fingers. I dig to the bottom of my backpack for the matches. I’ve decided to skip the accelerant this time. I want a slow burn. I want to watch the masterpiece take its time and dance up the walls. Also, I don’t want a huge fireball immediately. I only want to burn this one down, not all the others. I need to give the fire department a chance to get here.

  I creep to my spot in the darkness. Since I rode the bus here, I wore regular clothes, not the all-black uniform that screams suspicious. My backpack is loaded with snacks and sweatshirts to cover the matches, the empty bottle. I’ve packed light. I know the police presence has died down, but if I get caught here, it’s going to look questionable.

  I’ve prepared a Plan B, though, an excuse. Ashley’s mother. She lives a few blocks from here. I’ll say I was trying to find her, to hook up. I hate using her as an alibi, but it’s the only option I’ve got.

  Not that I’ll get caught. I know I’ve planned well. But as the handbook says, you always have an exit strategy. And another one. I’ve got my bases covered. I inhale, taking one last look at the house. I’ve already sketched the before picture. Now it’s time to make the after.

  I creep between the houses and get ready. I have to move fast. I throw the brick through the window onto the back porch. It breaks, no problem. I light the rag in the bottle and toss it through as well, and then I make my getaway. I don’t have a lot of time. I run and grab my bag, and then beeline through the alley, making my turn onto the main street. I wait for the mayhem to strike. I wait for the moment I can blend in with the group. I toss my backpack into the garbage can in front of a house down the way, burying it under some loose trash. And then I walk on, hands in my pockets as I see the smoke rising.

  By the time I’m “passing through” on the sidewalk, no one notices me. The family is on the front lawn at this point yelling and shrieking. Flames are leaping up the back, smoke rising. Neighbors explode from their homes at the smell of smoke and the sound of the shrieks. I walk on casually, hood down and eyes forward as I saunter down the other side of the street. I look to count. All four. Four bodies in the front yard. Someone’s calling the fire department.

  A thought strikes me. A thought that sends rage and sorrow through my stomach as I watch it all.

  The dog. Where is the dog?

  I’m getting closer now, but no one notices. I listen in. The little boy shrieks for his dog. The mom holds him back. Neighbors are gathering all around, people emerging from all parts of the street to watch, to pull the kids back.

  The dog. They didn’t get the dog. The mom shouts at the dad. He shouts, “Fuck the dog.”

  Collateral damage is expected. I hear my father’s words. Collateral damage.

  The dog.

  Fuck.

  Before I can stop myself, my legs are moving fast. I’m running to the front door, past the staring onlookers. I’m running as fast as I can toward the flames, my sanctuary, while everyone else backs away.

  I’m going to die. I’m going to get caught. Fuck.

  But I can’t stop my legs, and I can’t turn back around.

  The dog didn’t deserve this family. He didn’t. I dash inside the front door to my ultimate doom, either way. I’m a goner.

  ***

  I’m a choking, coughing mess on the lawn. My lungs heave for oxygen they can’t seem to find. The fire wasn’t so magnificent from the inside. I’m gasping for air and my body aches, but all I can think about is the beauty of the fire will be forever tainted by this. The crowd gathers around me as I hear the firetruck pull up. The children scream in ecstasy as the dog runs out to greet them. I made it out. I got him out.

  But now, I’m caught. There is no backup plan or plan B for this one.

  My father will be so disappointed. I stay still as I hear the crowd rush around me, barking orders and trying to figure out what to do with the stranger who is half-dead on the grass. I surrender to my closing eyelids as two people grab me on either side.

  ***

  “That’s enough, officer. He’s answered all of your questions over and over. He needs his rest.” My mother scoots the officers out of the room. I’ve been talking to them for hours, going over every detail, answering questions about what I was doing in the town. I didn’t have to tell myself to stay calm—the exhaustion from everything and the meds they have me on have me feeling subdued.

  I explained over and over how I’d come to town to go to Ashley’s Mom’s house, to see if I could find her there. I’d thought she was there on weekends. I explained how no, I didn’t see anyone escaping from the scene. I went over the details of hearing the kids talk about their dog and a moment of bravery took over.

  I explain and explain until I almost believe the story is true. I almost forget what role I’ve played, convinced like the news media, the family, and even seemingly the officers that I am wearing a hero’s cape. I saved the day. We believe the stories we’re told over and over again, after all.

  Once they leave, my mother turns to look at me. I think maybe she, too, will smile with respect for the savior of the town. Instead, she stalks over and crouches so close to my face, I smell her garlic breath, hot and relentless on my face.

  “What the hell have you done?” she asks, practically frothing at the mouth. “Look at the mess you’ve brought on us.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask, confused. Does she know? Has she seen through me?

  “You’ve brought the police down around us, all around us from playing the hero. Now they’ll be watching us.”

  “Mom, I answered their questions. I saved that dog. No one is going to be blaming me,” I murmur, trying to convince myself as well.

  “Don’t you know how anything works? Of course they’re going to keep an eye on us. Now we’re tied to the case and all the other ones, to the suspicion. Fuck, Jameson. You’ve fucked it all up.”

  I stare at her, the worry painted in the lines around her eyes. I want to bring up Dad, ask if that’s what she’s worried about. I want to scream and tell her good, I hope Dad sees the news, sees me saving that dog, and comes back for me. I wanted to get his attention. When he hears my name on the news, he’ll know. He’ll have to know.

  I settle back into my pillow, tuning out my mother’s angry words as she carries on. She’s losing me. She knows it. I have nothing to say, though, in my defense. I don’t want to hurt her any more than I have, than I will.

  He won’t come here. I am certain he is still being careful. But when I get home, that’s when my boyhood dream will come true. That’s when I’ll finally hear the knock on the door I’ve been awaiting for so long. He’ll sweep in and know: we are the same.

  Mom finally leaves, and I’m drifting off to sleep when the nurse lightly knocks.

  “Jameson?” she asks, and I half-open my eyes. “Are you up for another visitor?”

  My eyes open the whole way. I blink away the sleep and nod at her, too shocked to say anything. Maybe I was wrong.

  Maybe he thinks I’m worth the risk.

  I listen to the footsteps echo and wait to see the face that’s been blank for too long.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Jameson

  The faceless man I was hoping for turns out to be a red haired girl wearing a black beanie and a scowl. Hands in her pockets, she parades across the room and slinks into the seat beside my hospital bed. I study her in hesitant silence, wondering if she knows what has happened and what lie I’ve told. I wait for her to speak, to break the silence.

  “What the hell are you up to?” she whispers, a mischievous look in her eyes.

  “What?�
�� I ask, knowing what this visit is about but trying to play it cool.

  “Telling the officers you were in Elmwood to see me? What the hell?”

  So she knows. Shit.

  “I was, though. I’ve missed you. I’m sorry about how we left things.”

  She smirks and shakes her head. “You’re right. I don’t know you. I didn’t realize who you are. Shit, Jameson. I’m not an idiot. I know what you were doing there.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat, figuring out how I’m going to handle this now.

  “Ashely, I’m sorry. I just…”

  “Save it. I know you’re not the innocent, quiet kid you pretend to be. You walked away when I told you about my family. Yet, here you are, caught up in worse stuff than what we’re involved in. You’re messed up.”

  I exhale. This could all be over. I thought the cover with Ashley would be my saving grace. It might be what unravels the whole thing. I turn to look out the hospital window. After a long moment of agony in which I wonder what happens next, she smirks.

  She touches my shoulder. “Don’t stress. I told them your story was legit.”

  I turn back. “Why?”

  She shrugs. “Because I think it’s good to have someone who owes you a favor, especially with the kind of work my family business is.”

  Her smile is soft, her lips chapped. There is a twinkle in her eye at this realization, and my stomach sinks. There’s nothing to be done, though. I do owe her.

  “So do I get to hear more details? You know, it’s kind of sexy that you have such a badass side to you.”

  “Not really badass. Didn’t you hear? I’m a hero,” I say, smirking.

  She laughs at that. “Oh, if they only knew,” she says. “No hero is as golden as they seem I know that from experience.”

  She gets up and leaves then. I watch her go, thinking about how in a different world, we would be good together. In a life where I wasn’t consumed by fire and my father, we could be so good together, Bonnie and Clyde in a world full of faux heroes.