Feeding the Fire

by Amy Waeschle

  If there was something going on between them, he wasn’t sure how he and Dana would handle that, now that she had made her choice. He thought about their goodbye, which had been real.

  She was never going to wear his ring.

  How could he explain this to Jessie?

  Long ago, he’d figured out that her “What’s for dinner?” was code for “Are you staying?” A sea breeze ruffled the branches of the trees surrounding the treehouse. He closed his eyes and tried to shake the feeling that he had failed.

  He remembered the way Jessie had looked at him that morning as they had stood on the porch together. Had she known then something was wrong? Her expression shifted the longer he watched her. He tried to turn it over in his mind. She stood, fumbling with that helmet strap, her eyes had looked . . . what? Afraid?

  This is important, Dana had said in the restaurant.

  So is my life! she had replied. He examined this, turning it over. Like a snowball that grows the more you roll it along, an idea grew.

  Until it all fell into place.

  That day he’d caught Stef and Jessie at the treehouse—he’d seen two skateboards but only one helmet.

  One. Meaning that one was missing. Had it been left somewhere?

  That morning on the porch, Jessie’s helmet strap had been too loose. There was no reason for this unless the helmet belonged to someone else.

  He remembered scooping up the helmet from the weeds on the beach, thinking: someone’s missing this.

  Brody’s comment whooshed through his memory. Apparently, it’s some kid who’s been on the lam.

  Zach pushed the blanket aside and rushed to the trapdoor. As he slid down the ladder, he tried to make sense of all the ideas lighting up his brain.

  If Stef wasn’t here, where could he be?

  If Jessie’s helmet was the one he had found, was she responsible for the fires? They played like a slideshow in his mind: the dumpster, the restaurant, the boarded-up house, the boat shed, the high school bathroom.

  He thought about the girls Hoffenrichter had turned in but who Stu had cleared. Apparently, he’s trying to get a hold of the parents.

  Hold on, his brain cautioned. The helmet he’d found on the beach had to be Jessie’s. But no way could she have set that boathouse on fire by herself—he knew her. She must have been with Stef. They’d skated to the viewpoint after setting the fire, then she mistakenly left her helmet behind. Stef must have given her his—the one with the too-big straps.

  His hunch was dead-on: there had been something going on between them when he’d found them that day at the house, but it wasn’t what he’d thought.

  He’d been so quick to jump to conclusions. He’d taken one look at her expression and his mind went sideways. That energy between them, it wasn’t attraction.

  Not that kind.

  God, how could he have not seen it?

  Zach ran to his truck, which he’d parked around the back of the house so as not to spook Stef and snatched his headlamp from the glove box. It took him only a few minutes to locate the blackened mark at the back of the house where they’d been practicing.

  If only he knew what they had been practicing for.

  He jumped into his truck and drove around the house, spraying gravel as his wheels connected with the driveway. Zach slammed the gears into place, accelerating as fast as he dared, the streetlights and driveways passing in a blur. First, he would wake Jessie, see if she knew where Stef was. This could be something simple—that Stef had simply found some other place to crash and Jessie was home safe and sound. Or this could be his worst nightmare.

  He reached for his phone to call Dana’s house, noticing another missed call from Stu Green.

  Brody’s phrase came rushing back: the hair sample had a match. He’s trying to reach the parents.

  With shaking fingers, Zach opened his phone and tapped play.

  “Healy, Stu Green here, say, some things have come up with this investigation,” Stu’s voice sounded over his engine’s grind. “Mike Brewer tells me you’re connected with a kid named Evan Jarvis?”

  Zach choked on his own spit.

  “Call me back as soon as you get this,” Stu added, and the line clicked off.

  Zach sped along the highway, his frantic heart pounding blood through his tight veins, making him feel lightheaded, sick. Anybody taking his vitals right now would be convinced he was having some kind of heart attack. He imagined Brody’s worried face hovering over him in the ambulance as he started a line to deliver the meds. “Hang on, brother,” Brody would say over the sound of the sirens.

  Zach called Dana’s house phone, listening to the dull tone blare into his ear. “Pick up!” he shouted.

  After the answering service beeped, he hung up and dropped the phone into the cup holder. He turned down empty streets, his mind going crazy.

  They had Evan’s hair? Evan was setting these fires? No. Evan was in the wind, thousands of miles away.

  Zach tried to step back and put all the facts on the table. Could the helmet originally have been Evan’s, with his hair still caught in the dial? The hairs had looked longer than he remembered Evan’s being, even when he had grown it out some, but that could be it.

  Evan had a record, but he’d never been involved in a serious crime, so there was no reason why they’d have his DNA.

  Then, he remembered the blood sample Dana gave to the NamUs directory, a service that helped find missing persons and solve crimes by maintaining a database used by law enforcement all over the country. Dana had done so willingly, even with the knowledge that someday, they may call her with devastating news.

  Dana’s DNA sample would match Evan’s, and Jessie’s. Stu went for Evan—of course—the kid had a history. Nobody would believe a thirteen-year-old girl would be setting fires.

  A tearing pain of anguish ripped through him.

  He had been so blind. Jessie and Stef had formed a bond that went deeper than a casual friendship.

  How he wished it had been puppy love like he had first assumed.

  Zach pushed the accelerator down, dreading what he would find at Dana’s house.

  The idea of Jessie lighting a fire to destroy something made him feel desperate, out of control. Where had he gone wrong? His little sidekick, so willing to help him with the house, indulging in movies together, begging for him to skate with her—where had she gone?

  With a roar that broke the silence, he remembered her standing there in her warrior attire as Joan of Arc, her fierce stare fixed on some location far away. Was that what this was about? Her fighting against something? He thought back to the day at the house a few weeks ago, when she had asked him about being an addict, about Evan and what he was doing. Had it already started then?

  Dana’s obsession with Evan was part of this too. When was the last time she and Jessie had spent any real time together? He realized that he hadn’t seen Dana hug Jessie or touch her lately. He felt guilty of this too—but he had taken her lead. When she no longer jumped into his arms for a hug, he stopped pulling her into headlocks, tickling her, even hugging her goodnight. Dana’s decision to go to Alaska anyway had been a blow. Why hadn’t he seen what this was doing to Jessie?

  But Zach was not free of blame either. After Dana refused to give up the pills, he had abandoned them in the middle of the night, no explanation, no plan. He remembered Jessie’s desperate eyes watching him from the window as he started his truck and drove away.

  See what happens when you leave her? Jessie had said.

  How powerless she must feel, he realized.

  Setting fires took on a whole new context in that situation.

  He sped down the highway, racing through a yellow light, not caring if the police came after him.

  Please be home, Zach begged. I promise I’ll never leave you again.

  “Jessie’s gone,” Zach said into his cell phone, his voice catching. He had busted into the house, calling her name only to find her bed empty.

  T
he world started to close down on him. No! He forced his mind to stay in the game. Where would they be? If they were setting a fire, where would they choose?

  For an instant, he was back in time, waking up to find Travis gone. Jumping out of bed, his mind searching for clues as to what had caught Travis’s attention this time. If he hurried he could stop him, if he was too late then he could protect him.

  Mike Brewer’s voice snapped him back to attention. “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “About ten o’clock. She went to bed,” he said. Just hearing Mike’s voice was helping to focus his mind.

  “Any idea where she could be?”

  His mind flicked through a slideshow of abandoned barns, vacant homes, construction sites. Travis would go for the vacant home. Every time they moved he’d find a new one. Zach took a deep breath. “You remember that kid, the one we fixed up at that domestic?”

  “In The Grove?”

  “Yeah,” Zach said. “They’ve . . . been hanging out. Yesterday I find out that he’s been sleeping in my treehouse.”

  “Like his own private bunkhouse or something?”

  “I think he’s keeping a low profile. Jessie’s helping him.” Zach exhaled a ragged breath. “I think the two of them might be responsible for some of these fires.”

  “Shit, Zach. Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure,” Zach replied, his heart racing.

  “Have you checked the trailer?”

  “No,” Zach said, moving towards the door. “Why would they be there?” he asked, then his teeth clamped shut. What had Stef said that time in his room? You could kill that son of a bitch.

  “You said the wife’s in the hospital, right?” Zach asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Zach put himself in Stef’s shoes, and knew what he’d do.

  “I’ll meet you there,” Mike said.

  But Zach was already out the door.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Jessie

  Suddenly, Stef yanked her forcefully to the floor just as she heard a slurred voice growl, “What the fuck’re you . . . ?” followed by a thundering roar.

  Stef shoved her with his foot to get her under the bed.

  What happened next was something Jessie had never heard in real life. Bodies crashing. Grunts, scuffling feet. The flashlight thudded to the floor. Someone was slammed into a wall so hard the floor shook. Cries of anguish, pain. She watched feet shuffle and advance, she saw Stef hit the ground, then charge. Beneath the bed with the dust and grimy threads from the box spring tickling her skin, she felt paralyzed. What would she do if Stef didn’t win the fight? Should she go out there and try to help him?

  “Where is she?” Stef’s dad’s booming voice cried out.

  Jessie stifled a gasp—how do you know I’m here?

  “Someplace you can’t get to her anymore!” Stef shouted. And then she realized—Stef’s mom.

  A series of what must have been punches filled the space, each with a cry of pain—Stef’s. She wanted to cover her ears and hide but the idea of what Stef’s dad was doing and that he might not stop kept her listening, hoping. What could she do?

  Then, she heard a sound that stopped her heart. Choking.

  “No one steals from me,” the deep, slurred voice said.

  She could hear Stef writhing, hitting, his choking sounds intensifying.

  The realization that Stef was going to die pulled her into action. The rough carpet scratched at her bare hands and stuck to her knees as she slithered out. Stef’s dad had him against the wall, his back to her.

  Then she saw it: the gun. Tucked into the back of his dad’s pants.

  A glimmer lit up in Stef’s eyes when he saw her but she didn’t stop to try to understand it—was it hope? fear? Without thinking, Jessie grabbed the flashlight and gripped the end, hard, with both hands. A feeling of sickening desperation filled her. Oh God, I am really doing this.

  Her feet moved closer. Stef’s legs were thrashing, his hands scrabbling at his dad’s face and his hands, which were squeezing his neck. Stef’s dad was breathing hard, his arm muscles rippling. A sick wheezing sound from Stef’s throat told her that she didn’t have much time.

  Jessie drew the flashlight back, locked her grip, and swung with everything she had. Stef’s dad must have heard the movement because he turned. The flashlight caught him in his left side, just below his shoulder. He cried out, and must have loosened his grip enough on Stef because he fell to the floor.

  But then Stef’s dad had her by the hair. Gasping at the sharp pain, she swung the flashlight again but was too close to him and it landed without power. He plucked it from her hand and raised it over her.

  Jessie flinched, closed her eyes, but the blow didn’t come. She opened her eyes to see Stef’s limp form, crumpled against the wall, and a cruel grin stretching across the man’s face.

  “You’re his little bitch, huh?” he growled. “‘Bout time he got some pussy.” He spun her around and grasped her wrists behind her back, squeezing them until she yelped in pain. Jessie shot a kick backwards but it sent her toppling forward. His grasp on her arms behind her saved her from falling, but hitched them higher. She cried out sharply, her eyes watering. Then she felt the blow from the flashlight hit her in the thigh. A white-hot burst of pain erupted from deep inside her flesh, spreading outward into her hip and knee. She crumpled, gasping.

  “My boy learned long ago that what belongs to him, belongs to me,” he said, shuffling her towards the end of the bed.

  The movement caused even more pain to shoot through her thigh, like knives slicing the length of her leg. With every step they cut deeper. She tried to resist, but his chest was like a steel wall. She could hear his grunting breaths as he pushed her forward.

  A hand snaked up her torso and landed hard on her left breast. Fingers squeezed her there and she twisted away, crying out in pain, but he pulled her closer, so that the arms pinned behind her pressed into his chest. He got under her shirt and she felt his dry fingers on her skin. “No!” Jessie shrieked, and slammed her heel down on his right toe.

  Stef’s dad cursed and she tried to break free again, but then he shoved her forward, onto the bed, and bent her forward. Jessie began to thrash, pushing through the pain in her leg to shove back into him, to wrench her hands free; she lifted her knee to kick backwards but he only used this to separate her legs and shove her shoulders down, into the bed.

  No, no, no, no, no, Jessie thought as her face was forced into the grimy covers. She turned away from their sour smell. The bed sagged toward the middle, rolling her off-kilter.

  Stef! she thought, craning her neck but unable to see him from her position. Was he dead?

  If she screamed, would his dad kill her too?

  The sound of a belt buckle being undone startled her. Then, the realization of what was about to happen surfaced. She redoubled her resistance, bucking and thrashing on the covers, pulling at her arms. She could feel the man’s ragged breathing on her neck as his rough fingers slid inside the waistband of her jeans. Up close like this, she could smell his oily B.O.

  “No!” she cried, twisting hard. She got a hand free and used it to try to roll away, but he took the arm still in his grasp and bent it back, hard. Jessie yelped, the pain shooting into her shoulder and neck. She felt like he might separate her arm from her body. The front of him pressed into her back, his taut muscles pinning her against the bed. He wrenched her arm higher and she gasped.

  “The more you thrash, the harder I get,” he said into her ear, his potent breath making her stomach churn.

  He pressed her down into the bed, the motion causing another jolt of pain in her bent arm. With her free arm, she swiped backwards, trying to connect with something, anything, that might get her free.

  “Stef!” she cried. Where was he? Was he okay?

  Jessie heard her high-pitched breaths overriding the man’s grunts as he yanked her jeans and underwear down over her hips. Feeling her naked skin exposed to the air
flooded her bloodstream with raw panic. No!” Jessie cried out again, arching her body to make it harder for the jeans to come down any further, but with more tugging, she felt his hands on her bare flesh.

  “Goddamn,” he muttered, then squeezed one of her butt cheeks, the force fixing her firmly to the bed.

  Jessie kept thrashing, but he was so strong. How had this happened? A sound like an animal crying somewhere reached her ears. It took her a moment to realize that the sound was coming from her mouth. She heard the man’s belt buckle jingle loose and hit the floor with a hard thump. He tugged her pants down to her knees and stepped close, the dry, hairy skin of his thighs rubbing the backs of her legs like sandpaper. She sobbed in fear and tried one last time to swivel her body away, but he had her completely locked down—his legs pinning hers to the bed, one hand jamming her arm back, the other squeezing her butt. Please don’t let it hurt, she thought, closing her eyes as he kicked her feet apart, exposing her most private place.

  Then two things happened at once: the man grunted in surprise and she heard a chilling click.

  “Let her go,” she heard a voice say. It sounded like Stef, though different—harsher, more intense.

  Jessie tried to roll so she could see Stef’s face, but his dad was too heavy.

  “Just in time,” his dad slurred. “You can watch.”

  “No!” Stef said, but she heard the waver in his voice. “She’s just a kid. Let her go.”

  “Or what, you’ll shoot? You’ll go to jail.”

  “I don’t care! I’m not gonna let you hurt someone else!” Stef cried.

  “Do y’know what they do to little faggots like you?” he said. “You don’t stand a chance.”

  “Let her go!” Stef said.

  “No. Now give me that gun!”

  The sound of breaking glass startled her. Another shattering sound erupted from inside the house, followed by a loud whoosh.