Chapter Forty-Seven
Pete
Pete paced in his motel room. He knew it. He should’ve trusted his gut and not the boneheaded officers who told him he was crazy. He had been right all along. That kid from Mansfield. He did it. He was it.
He thought about going to the police. That would be the citizen-like thing to do. Of course, the morons probably would explain it away again, noting that a sixteen-year-old couldn’t possibly be responsible for all of the disasters, for his son’s death. They would say the boy was at the right place at the right time to save the dog.
Pete knew better.
When he’d seen the story on the news, he’d almost dropped his glass of whiskey that he’d gotten from the sketchy guy next door for a hefty price. He blinked, staring at the school picture of the boy. It had been dark that night, and he’d had a hood up. But when the newscaster said the boy was from Mansfield, it all clicked. It had to be him.
To be sure, he’d taken the bus to Mansfield, to 113 Everly Drive. And sure enough, there was a camera crew set up outside the house to laud the “hero,” as they were calling him.
Pete called him something else.
The kid did have balls, though, still rummaging around Elmwood after what he’d done. And running into the fire he certainly set to save the dog. The kid was an unskilled lunatic. It was even more infuriating that the police hadn’t nabbed him yet.
Then again, it was a good thing. Because if the police had him, Pete wouldn’t be able to exact the revenge the kid deserved. He stayed awake last night thinking of the possibilities. What would bring the most pain? What would scare the kid the most? What was the perfect justice for a kid who murdered your son?
That was all that weighed on him now—the need for revenge. The unwavering hunger for justice that could only be found through sinister means. Handcuffs and courtrooms would not suffice. He needed more than a judge who would let the bastard off on a technicality or send him to juvie for a few years and then let him go free.
The fucker deserved to die.
Pete had to play it just right, though. He had to time it perfectly. He would have to watch and wait for the moment that would be his. Nothing else mattered to him. Not Anna, not what would happen to him if he got caught. Nothing but justice served.
And since the police were lauding the arsonist as a hero, Pete would do what he’d planned all along; he would take care of it himself. He would do what he had to do.
Men didn’t fucking cry. They got revenge. Mama had taught him well.
Rule 8: The arsonist walks alone.
Unlike some paths of crime, we arsonists walk alone, the forgotten and misunderstood. Serial killers intrigue everyone. Strangulation, stabbing, torture—these are the crimes that thrill and get all the attention. The arsonist, though, by nature is underappreciated. People don’t realize how dangerous we are until they are the in our burning masterpieces. Our art goes underappreciated, and our crimes don’t get lauded as they deserve.
We are the ones who creep along the edges of night. If we perform well, we walk amongst the others during the day and no one thinks twice about us. Our handiwork is sometimes attributed to an accident, to a mistake, to an act of God. We don’t always get the credit we long for.
Being an arsonist means you will walk life alone in many ways. You will be underappreciated in your daytime life, too, for no one will understand your power. This power sets you apart, in truth. You will find yourself disconnected from the weaklings around you. You will find yourself walking a path on the outskirts of society. Even your significant other, your lover, or whomever you connect with won’t quite get you. They will sense something is amiss, different. They will perceive your aloofness as coldness. They won’t know how hot you burn. They never could understand.
And so, at night, you will walk the deserted path alone. You will carry your torch into great unknowns and bask in the glow of your work by yourself. No one will perceive your passion, your greatest skill, your achievements. No one will be there to witness it with you. You will work alone. You will bask in the joy alone. You will forever feel alone.
Loneliness, though, can be solace in itself. You will not have to look to others for satisfaction. Even serial killers depend on a trusting stranger, a susceptible victim, and the transparencies of human nature.
You, arsonist, only need to depend on yourself and the flame.
The flame hasn’t let me down, yet, either.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Jameson
“I don’t know why they’re focusing on this damn fire so much. It’s a copycat. Even the news said the calling card was different,” Mom announces as she watches the television beside me. I’m home now and feeling mostly back to normal from the experience. There’s been one problem—it’s been days since the fire, and he hasn’t come yet.
I tell myself it’s because Mom hasn’t returned to work. He’s probably been watching from a distance, his habit. He’s been waiting for the right moment. That must be it. Because surely, he’s seen the news and knows what happened. Surely, he will come.
Mom continues on about the copycat and how sloppy the work is. I’ve never seen her so stressed out.
“Mom, are you okay?” I ask. I know she’s pissed at me for being out in Elmwood. She’s also upset because she feels like the police are watching us now. If only she knew the truth. If only she knew everything—then she’d really be stressed.
“Of course, not. We’re in the middle of this whole fucking circus now thanks to you. Why couldn’t you leave it alone, Jameson? You don’t even know what trouble you’ve caused. You don’t even know.” Tears are welling in her eyes, but she wipes them away.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, alarmed by how upset she is.
For a long moment, she looks at me, her lip quivering. A couple of times, she opens her mouth as if to speak. I think we are finally going to connect, finally going to understand what’s going on. She will mention my father, and I will tell her everything. We will sort through this crazy, complicated life together.
She closes her mouth, though, squeezing her lips tightly shut. She turns back to the television.
“It’s complicated,” she finally murmurs.
I am defeated.
***
The next night, I’m on the couch when Mom emerges from her room with her apron in hand. “I have to get to work tonight because we need the cash. Are you going to be okay?”
I wonder what she’ll do if I say no. I think I already have an idea. But I’ll be happy to have some peace, if for no other reason than to relax into the memory, the images of the fire. Before I ran in to play hero, as Mom points out, it was magnificent. I’d done a good job.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I reply. Now that a few days have passed and I haven’t been arrested, Mom’s calmed down. She seems more relaxed as time passes and the police aren’t hovering. I understand completely because as the days pass, I’m breathing easier, too.
As Mom leaves, I think about how I’ve learned well. I’ve carried out the plan well. I got away with it, right underneath their noses.
I’ve been watching the news feverishly. Dad hasn’t been at work these past few days. Maybe he is watching, waiting, biding his time. I’m not sure. But as my hope of getting away with the fire grows, my hope of my father returning is lessening. It sickens me to think maybe he missed it all.
It hurts even more to consider maybe he saw me on the news, saw my fire, and he isn’t coming at all. What if I’ve done this all for nothing? What if he never planned on coming back for me?
It’s a truth that resonates in my bones and boils in my blood. I know disappointment at my core. I know what it’s like to be completely wrong and to wait for a faceless man who never comes. It’s like I’m a young boy again, waiting at every track meet, on every holiday, for the elusive mystery man to show up.
He never came. He might not ever come.
So what now?
It’s a question I’ve h
ad time to think about. I’ve played the fire game. I’m good at it. But if my father isn’t in the picture, is this the path I still want to pursue?
A part of me wants to put this chapter to rest, to file away the arsonist’s handbook and move on. Go to art school. Get a dog of my own. Find a life that isn’t perfect or grand but is peaceful and more. More than this isolation in a dingy trailer with a woman I call Mom but don’t think of as family.
Still, the other part of me is drawn to the feel of the flame. The possibility I could make my own path and follow my own version of life, one few dare to chase, mesmerizes me. I could use my skill to set the world ablaze quite literally, to chase down endless power and passion and excitement. There is a rush to living on the fringes and getting away with all sorts of crimes.
I want my father here.
That’s the simple truth of it. Whether I follow in his footsteps or not, this has always been about him. It’s about figuring out who I am and where I’m going. It’s about connecting with the man I’ve never known.
I am the son of an arsonist.
I am an arsonist, too.
Nevertheless, at the core, I’ll always be a boy who never knew his father, and, thus, who never knew himself.
I want a different story.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Pete
His eyes were bloodshot and his hands shaking. He gripped the steering wheel tighter. It was worth the risk to drive to Mansfield. He knew the universe had to be on his side. He wouldn’t get caught because he had bigger tasks at hand.
He’d waited for so long to find him. He’d sat watch for days, barely sleeping or eating, waiting for the right moment. It was finally time. The woman got in the car and pulled out. Pete watched from down the block. The moment had arrived.
The bastard was going to pay.
Pete waited, fighting the urge to kick in the asshole’s door and drag him out to his car in broad daylight. He didn’t care so much if he got caught. He didn’t care what price he would have to pay. But he couldn’t risk getting caught or the police showing up or a nosy neighbor meddling before Pete had the chance to get his revenge. He would wait.
An hour ticked by, Pete’s hands gripping the steering wheel. He stayed alert, watching for police, making sure no one had called the cops. People, though, were so wrapped up in their own lives, he’d realized. They didn’t observe the obvious. They didn’t spot the chilling truths. Danger could be lurking right around the corner, and they’d walk headfirst into it without even looking up from their phones.
As the sun went down, Pete readied himself. He hadn’t thought it through, but he didn’t need to. He didn’t care if he had to wrangle the bastard on the front porch step. He would find a way. A father’s love would find a way to revenge. He prepared to turn off the car and head to the door. He would knock, and then strongarm the kid to the ground. The duct tape was in his pocket. He would restrain the kid, tie him up, and drag him to his car. Then, the real plan could begin.
But the universe was on Pete’s side. The kid made it easy on him. Just as Pete was preparing to shut off the car and walk to the door, the boy emerged in all black, wearing the backpack. The fucker was going to try again. The villain cloaked in a hero’s mask was heading out to start another fire.
“Not on my watch,” Pete murmured to himself and followed the kid down the road.
Cloaked as well, Pete knew it was his time to save the day, too.
Chapter Fifty
Jameson
It will be my last chance. My last effort. I’ve decided I can’t keep clinging to a hope that might never come to be. My father’s silence has said it all. This will be my last one, and then, I will move on. Arsonist or not, it will be my path to follow. Not his.
My backpack is full. It’s risky. It’s always risky, though, I’ve decided my last one will be in Mansfield. I’m disregarding the handbook on this one. I’m going out on my own and ignoring my father’s advice to take my time, to plan, to have a plan B. But I’ve lived my whole life without him. I can’t take his words in a journal as gospel truth. I’ve walked on my own for sixteen years. I need to trust myself on this one.
I creep to the end of the street and turn right, toward the forest. I’ll slink through Mansfield until I see the perfect one. I’ll take a risk, set the last fire, and then I’ll walk away. It will be the final beacon, the last literal smoke signal to my father. And if he doesn’t come after this, I will shut the door once and for all.
I will burn the arsonist’s handbook. I will walk away from the hope of meeting him. I will stand on my own two feet like I always have and know I did everything I could to find my way back to him.
I glance over my shoulder as I head into the woods. The night is clear, crystal clear, and every star is on full display. I breathe out, my exhalation creating a cloud. It’s a chilly night, the kind of night that wakes you up in the middle of a daydream. It’s the kind of night I need.
I pause as my feet crunch into the ground of the forest floor. A twig snaps from behind me somewhere. I turn and scan the area, but there is no one there. I shake the feeling someone lurks nearby and keep going.
In the middle of the forest, I’m startled by another snap of a twig. Footsteps pound the forest floor. My hands clench into fists as I whirl around to face my pursuer.
But there is no time to fight. There is no chance for me to retaliate. In the middle of the dark, dark forest, before I can even take a swing, my skull cracks from the impact.
The world dims to black, and everyone is faceless in the star-filled night.
Chapter Fifty-One
Pete
Teeth clenched and hands sweating, he gripped the glossy steering wheel as he reminded himself to drive cautiously. The kid’s muffled cries delighted him. There was no room for guilt or hesitancy in this version of Pete. There was only space for revenge and the utter delights that accompanied the knowledge that the bastard who had killed his son was about to suffer.
The smug asshole in a hoodie killed his son. The kid was barely old enough to drive. Pete wondered what his story was, but then swallowed the thought down as he switched lanes. He didn’t care what the fucker’s tale was. He didn’t care at all. Pete was, after all, no stranger to a sad story. But you didn’t let that turn you into a monster. That was no excuse to do what the kid had done.
As he took the exit off the highway to head to the spot he’d already picked out, had been thinking about for weeks, he looked up at the sky. The stars were twinkling, and the clouds were absent. It was a clear night, one that brought peace to Pete’s raging chest for the first time since—
He could have stopped him. That was the thought haranguing him as he drove onward, white-knuckled and slightly crazed, with his cargo. He could have stopped the asshole if he’d have been home. It was a fucking kid, after all.
“Shit,” he said aloud to himself, spit flying. “Stop it. It’s too late.”
And it was. There was no going back. Pete had learned that time and time again. Choices led you down a certain path. You couldn’t turn around or backtrack. You could only set your trap for the unassuming victim coming along. You could only wait for revenge.
And now it was his. He would avenge his son. He would serve justice. He would mourn for the boy he lost, but he would cry tears of joy for the fact he could set something right in the world. He would rest easier knowing that for Anna, at least, the serenity of knowing her son’s murderer was gone would keep her sane.
“Shut up,” he screamed as the boy with the duct-taped mouth kicked and wallowed in the trunk. Anger again rose in him. He should’ve slit his throat. The bastard didn’t deserve this level of ceremony. He didn’t deserve to live this long.
Pete drove on, the night’s sky and his battered thoughts his only company. He was exhausted but running on adrenaline. He’d accomplished his mission. He always accomplished what he set out to do, though. This was no surprise. He was back on the winning track.
M
onsters didn’t use the past as an excuse. His own phrase catapulted him into an existential crisis as his foot steadied on the gas. Was that what he was doing? He felt the car slow as his journey to revenge approached. A sane person would let the police handle the kid. A reasonable person would ask questions like who and why and how. A thorough, just man would give the kid a chance to speak for himself.
Pete’s foot stepped down on the accelerator, as if in subconscious response.
The time for rationality, for reasonability was gone. It had to be. This had to be done. Pete’s sanity, Anna’s life, and his son’s memory depended on it. The bastard would pay. Pete didn’t need to hear how or why. He didn’t fucking care. The asshole had set fire to his home—it was evident in his eyes, in the way he walked with that gas can, in the string of fires that had been set.
Choices had consequences—and it was Pete’s destiny, he felt, to see to it the little arsonist met his.
He drove on until the field was in sight. The perfect setting for an execution. The perfect place to watch it all burn.
The perfect place to send a smoke signal to the universe.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Jameson
The star-filled sky is beautiful in the middle of the field. In a different circumstance, this would be a magnificent scene to draw. But the situation isn’t one for an artist’s wandering mind. This is life and death. I’m not playing some game from a handbook anymore. This is new territory, and my father never prepared me for this. My trembling body and my tear-stained eyes, though, detract from it all.
I am scared. I am so fucking scared.
I look up at the man who has me in the middle of the field. His face is covered in stubble, and the moonlight shines on his dark, full head of hair. He wears a weathered look, though. How old is he? Thirty-five? Forty?
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